Murder She Wrote

One of my friends is fond of saying, "There are only two kinds of friends, the kind who will help you move and the kind who will help you move a body."


I also say there are two kinds of friends: the kind that invite you over to dinner or to visit and the kind who call only when they need something. The latter type can be so irritating it's tempting to consider strangulation.


Maybe that's why I enjoy watching a good murder mystery at the end of the day, that and being a mom. In addition to our five kids, I have three infamous kids. Their names are: I Don't Know, I Didn't Do It and Not Me. And if I ever catch them ... as I was saying, I enjoy a program where the bad guy or gal is apprehended, the trial is loaded with suspense and the penalty is swift and harsh. I can then go to bed feeling vindicated, believing that truth and goodness will always prevail and that our justice system works.


Until the phone rings at 1 a.m.!


Throwing back the covers I stumble out of bed.


My first thought, "Ohmygosh, I hope nobody died."


After tripping over the dog I feel slightly less compassionate. "Somebody better have died or I'm killing the party on the other end of line."


"Hello? What? Eee-o-w, sounds gruesome. Was anyone else hurt? I'll be there as soon as I can. No, Kenny's at work for another week. It's fine. I can handle it."


I hang up the phone and realize that I'm insane. I also realize I need help.


Who do you call? Ghostbusters? Wrong movie.


I need to snatch a live body, preferably someone we've invited to dinner recently, someone with a strong back. I also need to get Patrick out of bed, "Get up honey, Mommie needs your help ... wear your old jeans."


What else do I need?


Tarp check.


Garbage can check.


Ax check.


COFFEE!


I need coffee ---check.


I'm thinking slightly more clearly now ...


I gather rope, a tarp; the first aid kit and flares are already in the truck check.


What else? Flashlight, spare batteries, knife sharpener, cookbook check.


Knife, knife ... where the heck did Ken stash the knife?


I dial the only friend in my Rolodex who is likely to own a good knife.


Trying to sound sweet, I manage to con my accomplice into helping me, "Hello, hello? Were you sleeping? Awesome! That means you aren't busy right now. Listen, I need a favor. Are you up to it? Really? OK. I'll meet you on the K-Beach side of Bridge Access.


"No Ken's at work, but I'll be driving his truck (no way I want blood all over my white truck too O.J.) And could you bring your best hunting knife?"


When my partner in crime arrived at the road-kill scene he burst out into his characteristic bearish laughter, "You had me going for a while, I wasn't sure what you killed or if you realized hunting seasons over."


Although our friend is an expert hunter and all around outdoorsman, he'd never before slew a moose. So, being the seasoned Alaska woman that I am, I thought back to my first butchering experience. I did what I had to do; I gave orders to the one and a half men at my disposal.


"Someone hand me that Joy of Cooking book on the front seat."


I glanced at the diagram on butchering a cow, and then went straight for the jugular. That really brought back memories, as I thought back to my first kill.


"Did I ever tell you about the time Ken left me alone in a remote cabin for six weeks! With no shells for the rifle and four little kids to feed? Had to go hunting with a gaff hook and a skiff."


I was on a roll telling about my adventures.


"Then there was the time I employed a Skilsaw to quickly cut up a huge rack of ribs. Dang. It took lots of scrubbing to get the bone chips off the ceiling."


I eviscerated and decapitated the roadside victim, and continued the butchering until the hindquarters were free.


We worked as a team to hoist the hindquarters into the truck.


Next I told the story about how Ken shot a moose way-way back in the woods and our now grown kids Jeanene and Alex went along to help out.


"The bugs were vicious, but Jeanene was a real sport. Not Alex. He moaned, and he whined, and with every step he complained. Finally I lost it and took off in a dead run after him, with a huge front quarter on my back no less, good thing I had some weight slowing me down ..."


I stopped cutting for a moment and wiped the bloody knife across my jeans. Pausing for effect, I let out a cackle of maniacal laughter. "No telling what would've happened if I caught him ..."


My one half-man stood very still as his eyes glazed over with a terrified, deer-in-the-headlights look.


When it came time to split the front quarter, I completely forgot what to do next. Not wanting to mess up my cookbook with sticky fingerprints I sort of winged it from there. I straddled that old cow as my crew pulled on opposing hoofs to hold her open. Gripping the ax tightly, I came down hard right down the center of the backbone. Crack! Blood splattered everywhere.


I threw a chunk of carnage in the trashcan and asked Pat in a macabre tone, " Did I ever tell you about the time your brother stole the deer jerky from the smoker and tried to deny it?"


In the end, it all turned out well. We shared the meat and we plan on inviting friends and family over for turkey and a moose roast this Thanksgiving. I told Ken he now has a license to grill.


As far as I Don't Know, I Didn't Do It and Not Me, well, I haven't seen hide nor hair of them for some time. I think the little rascals have newfound respect any wo-mom who can wield an ax or a gaff hook with such accuracy ...


*Currently I am running a mouse trapline in my garage and by the way, Alex, my oldest son, turned out to be a great kid. He is surrently serving on the John C. Stennis.Go Navy.


Grounds for Divorce # 7, 500:  Not putting the huting stuff up so wife can get her hands on a knife when she needs one........

Dough-Girl Strikes Again

Since I started this crazy bit of rantingblog:

I’ve dis-clothesed some of the more ratty colorful attire my girlfriends and I lounge about the house in. I have spoke candidly regarding the poopies intestinal disruptions and the dire consequences of a product aptly titled, “Go Lightly.”
I’ve told all when it comes to what we ladies eat, drink do when we have a chance to hang out for a while.
I’ve shared openly that I'm what my husband affectionately calls "domestically challenged.” I’ve made many specific factual references to fact that my cookies could easily be mistaken for (and used) as hockey pucks and I’ve spilled the beans about the “F’ word. (farts)
People who I don’t even know (and many I do know) are well aware that my motto is, “If it can't be fixed with 10-pound test fishing line (it matches anything), duct tape, a staple gun, hot glue, a hanger or a welding torch, it simply cannot be fixed. And yes, it’s also public knowledge that carpooling makes me nauseous and I only resort to clipping coupons if it's for frozen pizza rolls.
I have shared that I sometimes suffer from –um,um,um, oh yes, temporary insanity memory loss (?) and I c-r-i-n-g-e- can’t always remember peoples names…I’ve fessed up that I am a bitch not an overly cheerful zippie-do-da morning person, that I have the directional abilities of a gnat and that my house always, yes I do mean, a-l-w-a-y-s, has that ship-wrecked  “lived in” appeal.
Once I even let it all hang out and shared that I felt fat and that I was am (in the most clinical definition) chub-i. Then I ranted went on for a bit about how I was happier when I was delusional in denial and sincerely believed that weighing within 25 15 pounds of the estimate on my driver's license (provided that I grew three inches and had my left leg and thigh plastered to the bathroom counter and my hair was dry) that I was OK.
However, I’m still trying to suck up for having told the entire world, - about my hub buying that big red air compressor as well as a few other choice odd-servations I found amusing about being (and staying) married.
Thus far, I have publicly aired my dirty laundry, rambled about booggers, kids, dogs, deteriorating eyesight, dust, worry and death.
Recently, I have even stooped to admitting that I am not only a party animal, but a compulsive, obsessive list-making bag lady (among other things) as well as a romantic, nostalgic and sometimes-(often)- outspoken sentimentalist.
In fact, every time I sit down to write something flattering, witty and generally ego boosting, I end up letting the proverbial cat (or possibly something more embarrassing) out of the bag-
If that’s not bad enough, I’ve offered unsolicited parenting advise including, How to Say “No” to a Teenager. I’ve told the tooth, the whole tooth and nothing but the tooth when it comes to children attempting to put the blame their parents and I’ve even gone as far as to talk about—*gasp*—political correctness and --*gasp*-- *gasp*--my personal beliefs.
On the blog I have been even more open than that and I am continually and deeply touched by my blog-pals.
I do the same thing write similar, yet tamer,  ramblings in my regular newspaper--Yet, they continue to let me write.(the even pay me--amazing) 
A few bloggers cotinue to read and many take the time to write back. (Thanks for that by the way.)
Why?
I have absolutely no idea – other than it is fun to hear back from folks that tell me that they laugh and cry and care about the similar pedestrian stuff. Both by blog coment and in all the local major social gathering areas the grocery store.
Isn’t it amazing how hard we try to make ourselves look good? Yet, it seems that people to warm up and relate to us when we let our hair down and be our plain old selves?
Speaking of hair down, usually wear it that way. I tried putting it up recently, I think it makes my cheeks look fat. Honestly, I’m not wanting to give anyone any ideas about a new nick-name for me, however, I’m feeling a little like, Dough Girl, the puffy-faced queen of the all you can eat buffet. Really, what’s with that? What? Did all my fat cells suddenly decide to have a meeting and congregate slightly below my under eye circles thereby pulling my cheeks, and everything attached to them toward my navel? Do they even make jowl-minimizing makeup? And wrinkles. I don’t even want to talk about them,or I'm afraid the'll revolt and multiply. When I was younger, I thought getting old(er) would be depressing, but it’s not. I’m going to keep my chin up about the whole dreadful process, in fact, I’m growing a spare…. Come to think of it, I did see a commercial for a new and improved, organic, scientifically proven facial enhancing cream that claims to lift, hydrate, even out skin tone, minimize pores, erase fine lines and fill in craters… I wonder if it is sold by the gallon? If it is, I could just pour it out on the floor and roll it in it…ya, sure, promises, promises…Ugh!
Until next time …remember, whenever you feel like life is slapping you down, turn the other cheek--**