Who The Hell Do You Think You Are?

Did you ever have one of those days when you just don’t feel like yourself? Just kinda “off”? Today was a day like that for me.

It all started with a Christmas gift from my daughter, The Queen of English. She does a lot of genealogy for our family and has been looking for our roots to be attached to Kings, Queens, Presidents, Founding Fathers, heroes and other top-of-the-line ancestors. Bossman’s side of the family have been the primary over-achievers with relatives being involved in the Salem witch hunt and representing the witches instead of the torch holders. Others fought in the Civil War, more were Sultans or something boring like that. Family lore told a story about being related to the Queen of Luxembourg. It’s hard to follow an act like that one and my side of the family didn’t try.

I have close family who were raised in Germany, with a great-uncle whose claim-to-fame was working on the Hydrogen Bomb. Sorta a shaky bright spot. Both my parents were born from fathers who were either a milkman or a mailman. I believe they liked to be moving at all times and also enjoyed taking care of and yakking up people. German and Irish is what we all wore proudly, with the exception of when I was a kid in the 50’s and early 60’s when other kids called me a Nazi. That was not nice. I was not a Nazi. It was the era when we hid under desks and buried our heads in hallways for Bomb Shelter drills. I was no Nazi.

The Irish side, I wore proudly. Always wore green, because that was the color of my eyes. “Loud mouth Irishman!” is what my German grandmother called my Irish grandfather whom she was married to. HA!

My ancestors were bartenders, tavern owners and cooks. I was pretty happy about that because I love the idea of all those jobs. The brightest spot was my mother’s German-born, great grandfather who started Doring’s Military Marching Band. They were “tooters” in the Civil War and played at four presidential inaugurations: Lincoln, Grant, Garfield and Cleveland. My side of the family was suddenly looking pretty good. All those Germans and Irishmen were making me proud.

Today the Christmas gift from daughter came back from Ancestry.com. My DNA test. Let me just share with you, you may not be who you think you are. Just sayin’…

Those scoundrel Scandinavians infiltrated central and southern Europe along with the British Isles centuries ago. I’m carrying all the pillaging and battling they did centuries ago! What’s very interesting, as well, is the fact that I have 9% of me that nobody can figure out. The vote from my daughter and husband is that 9% is definitely Alien. Well, I must go and phone home now and then figure out how to act more Scandinavian. Pickled herring, anyone?

Lazy-Assed Downton Abbey Writers

I don’t rant often but tonight’s Season Finale of Downton Abbey had me ranting before the blood even dried in you-know-who’s ear!

This ending is the job of LADAW! Lazy-Assed Downton Abbey Writers.

“WHY? WHY? WHY?” I screamed! “Can no new parent live to be happy?”

LADAW are a great form of birth-control. The Grantham family is definitely going to die off one way or the other. Either LADAW will kill them off, or the lack of offspring because of a death threat to the parents, will dry the Grantham lineage to a powder and “Poof!” off they’ll be floating on a damp spring morning breeze.

Angry Writers. There is nothing better, or worse, than an Angry Writer. I know – because I am one.

So, you Lazy-Assed Downton Abbey Writers, do your job. Steal an idea from Bobby Ewing and Dallas. We won’t care. Bring our guy back. It’s a dream, that’s all, it’s only a dream.

Four In a Can

Picture it.

January 29th, Williamson County, Tennessee, weather-folk warning us of possible severe weather that might contain tornadoes. Of course, they won’t show up until the middle of the night when we’re all sleeping with one ear open.

And so it begins…

Before we head to bed, the three of us, Bossman (hubs), The Queen of English (daughter) and Me (me),  get our medications together, our cell phones with power cords, ID’s and our USB sticks for the computers. Two sticks contain portions of novels being written by The Queen and Me and Bossman’s  twelve sticks have all the less important stuff-like passwords for banking and that sorta crap.

We put all these things into a canvas bag, set it on the table we have to pass on the way to the garage and head to bed, knowing that we are probably going to be startled from sleep when The Man starts squawking at us  from the top of our dresser. The Man lives in the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration box which is also known as the: NOAA Weather Radio that saves life and limb if you turn it on and have it programmed correctly.

Tick-tock – tick-tock – tock- tick (just wanted to see if you were paying attention) Squawk!!! 3:10AM – Tornado Warning for Williamson County and blah-blah-blah counties, which were all south and west of us. Screwed.

Stumbling, falling into my bathrobe, looking for slippers, stuffing underwear and a bra into my pocket, Bossman does the Zombie click to the remote to see Lisa on Channel 4 with red boxes all around our house. That’s what you see when there are sirens going off, a terror-terrier dog barking out in the dining room and a mobility-challenged daughter breaking records for getting out to The Can in the garage.

Bossman, who had taken Ambien about four hours prior to the sirens, was struggling to put his Red Cross raincoat on, grab the canvas bag with all the meds and sticks and find his way to the tornado shelter which looks very similar to the one in the picture upper right. He had cleared a path through the garage earlier in the day when the weather was looking pretty dicey. Saws, wood, clamps and other bookcase building stuff was blocking the way to the steel bunker.

All four inside, door bolted, tv on to watch the storm head right for us, little chairs for not-so-little butts, maniac barking dog, zombie husband, Queen who needed the fan blowing, Me who continued my week-long bout of coughing and freezing, dog being fed stinky, dead-duck treats, Queen hiding face in sweater, giving me a death stare saying, “Do you have to be touching me?” “Hello, we’re in a giant tuna can, Yes, I need to be touching you.” I thought it, but I was too sick to say it out loud.

Four days later – okay, it only felt like four days – thirty minutes later, we were allowed to get back to our beds and finish sleeping. In the morning straight line winds and an EF1 tornado had passed through our area. Red Cross friends were called out at four AM and then again at nine to find shelter for people who had massive damage from fallen trees. We were very lucky, once again.

That “Can” has given us many hours of security during tornado seasons in Tennessee. We keep heavy soled shoes, water, First Aide, toiletries, important papers in a safe box, $$, dog food, dog bed, leash… the dang dog has more stuff than we do.