Wingnut FM2 Viper's blog: "The Wingnut said--What?"

Time Freezes

It was a cold Camp Lejeune evening Friday, November 15, 1985 that I last spoke to my mother and sister.

“Momma, we are going to have another baby,” I had announced over the phone. She shared the news around the house until my little sister, then 9 years old, came to the phone jumping up and down.

“I get to be an aunt again?” She asked me and squealed like young girls do after such news.

“Yes, you do.” We did our thing, and said good bye as always with “I love you” before signing off. A regular family phone call to share exciting family news.

I don’t remember much about the next day. I think we had just finished breakfast. My 13 month old daughter was wearing the same dress she wore on her first birthday, a blue polka dot thing. I don’t remember what my husband (now my ex) wore that day. I had on a red t-shirt & flannel button down with a pair of cammie pants that he’d picked up somewhere. My daughter and I were playing our “What’s this? Que es esto?” game she was pointing at my nose saying “noooo” when the phone rang at 10 something that morning.

“Yes sir.” My husband looked at me with an expression I’d never seen, and when he had hung up the phone, walked to me, made sure I sat down, and took my hand.

“There was an accident” . . . he struggled to say it.

“Your mother and sister . . .”

Time landed in a big ice cube where world crashed in one second as my husband shared the news of their deaths.

“K Mommy….K Mommy,” was all I remember hearing for as I held my daughter, who in turn, patted my shoulder as I nearly squeezed the breath from her.

As a sailor, my husband was able to give information to my father about contacting the Red Cross so that he could arrange for emergency leave and a loan to get us home for the final arrangements. They were able to transport us home the next morning.

Arriving home, I was able to gain some sense of “things will be fine now, more or less.” I saw that my room had been transformed for my sister. I sat on my old bed as I remembered how she would enter each morning to be with me until I got out of bed. I removed choking hazards from a baby’s reach and set my daughter in there to play. In the “music room” I tinkered on Momma’s old piano. She had played it from long before my birth. I learned Middle C on it in 2^nd grade. I started to play a tune repeatedly until my fingers remembered it all. I let the melody wash over me as I thought of my mother hearing me play it during my last visit home from college. Then I remembered the days of practicing, struggling over notes.

“You’re rushing again,” she said often, and I’d growl under my breath, start over, and rush again.

At church Sunday nights, it was a tradition to sing favorite hymns requested from the congregation, but since my mother was the main pianist, everyone struggled the day after her death. We made it through “Victory in Jesus” and others, but when it came to the second verse in “Because He Lives” I fell apart and had to leave. My sister would not grow up, how could they sing those words?

Daddy allowed my brother and I to make arrangements for the funeral. Afterward I went through Momma’s things and set bags of things aside that weren’t needed anymore. I handled Thanksgiving like a crazy matron of the house, setting Momma’s guest towels in the bathrooms, and setting out the good dishes just as she would for our Thanksgiving meal even though the church family insisted on preparing everything and bringing it to us. For two weeks we had eaten casseroles and vegetable dishes made in every concoction. I’m sure baby number two learned about the wonders of rice and macaroni variations during that time in my 2^nd trimester tummy as I dined on Texas family tragedy support cuisine.

I stayed with Daddy through Christmas. Every night he held my daughter in his lap as they watched the news together. By the time I left for North Carolina at the end of December, I had nearly returned to normal, except for days like today.

Today I weep, mourn and grieve. But I remember a mother who loved me more than anything in this world. Our last words were not an argument, but “I love you.” I mark today as an important. I don’t get to visit her grave states away, but I do get to say thank you for a mom that shared her music, her philosophy on life, and her faith with me—a mom who, for all her faults, never gave up on me.

Everyone who knew my mom loved her. Everyone. She was a precious lady with a sweet heart that truly loved people. All people. Without conditions. She loved children. She would love your child just as much as she loved me. Regardless.

Some days I still get angry at my mom for dying, and for taking my sister with her. But then I remember that I prayed seven years for a little sister (from age 5 to 12), and that I was blessed to share 9 ½ years with a wonderful little sister. I gave her a niece she loved. She died as a happy child, even if I couldn’t protect her when I felt I should have. It hurts, but it happens, and we don’t get to choose when or how.

I have learned that there are worse things than growing up in a loving family with a mom stuck in past tradition and courtesy, than only having classical music available at home, than having to call to ask permission before I leave one person’s house to go to another, and make sure their mom spoke to my mom. I was very blessed to have such a mom. I wouldn’t trade her or my life for any other.

Thank you, Mom. Hugs Little Sis. I miss you.

Two best friends watch the rock salt

Melt the ice as the electric crank turns.

The dessert begins to freeze,

The motor burns until

It makes the water drip.

We can’t wait to dip a scoop

Of strawberry, cherry, or peach.

We talk Aunt Emily into

Giving us three scoops each.

Two best friends watch the rock salt.

We discuss many things:

The important stuff you do

When you live the life of a teen.

We can’t wait to try a scoop

Before we toss the Frisbee awhile.

We try to talk Aunt Emily out of

Taking our pictures, but we smile.

Two faces watch the rock salt

Melt the ice; keep their kids in tow.

We tell them how it makes ice melt

And makes dessert just so.

We can wait to dip a scoop--

Time marches more forcefully here.

Aunt Emily rests behind the trees.

We pour the rock salt. We melt the ice.

We observe tradition in tears.

Copyright, 2002 by ana mae vara

I'm posting this because I need to commemorate my family. TIME marches on regardless of what we choose. The circle of life gives no choice whether we live and die. Our choice is how we live. I've been so blessed to have a loving pair of parents, loving grandparents, loving spouse and wonderful children. Many friends. I have no reason to gripe about not getting my share of blessing. Whether you have what you want or not, take this month to reflect on what you DO have that is good. What you have that is beautiful. What you cherish. Be thankful for it. You never know when it will be taken from you.

One little flower

From one little boy

Brought tremendous joy

Today.

Two hugs, two kisses, and

A beautiful bouquet

Of dandelions grace the room

Again.

Simple gifts, given in love

From earnest hearts.

Wilted trophies sit in the window

Still.

Precious gifts from

Precious children

Remind me how blessed I

Am.

(c) May 2000 "ana mae vara"

The two of us:  mother and daughter—

One rocking the other,

And I grew.

The two of us:  mother and teenager—

Arguing at each other,

But I knew.

The two of us:  mother and daughter—

Comforting each other.

Then she died.  It was too true.

Now a mother and two daughters I see.

Can I pass to them all that she passed to me?

(c) January 1993 "ana mae vara"

Momma had to be the most patient person in the whole world. She made the “mistake” of telling my brother and I that we were loved and precious. She made a point to tell me I could have a hug anytime I wanted just for the asking.

So I did. Constantly. I determined that I would take any measure necessary to prove or disprove what she said. In fact, my favorite manner to test her was to wait until Momma had her arms elbow deep in dishwater apply her famous “elbow grease” to a pan.

“Momma, I need a hug.”

Momma would calmly rinse her hands, dry them, and give me a right proper hug—the best kind—and even kissed the top of my head. I’d go somewhere in the house and wait a few minutes.

“Momma, I need a hug.”

“But I just gave you one.”

“I really need another one.”

“Okay, let me dry my hands.”

The second, third, fourth, and every subsequent hug thereafter was just as meaningful to her as the first. I couldn’t ruffle her feathers no matter how hard I tried. I could get her to sigh, breathe deep, and maybe cause her to mutter in her thoughts about how trying such a child might be, but I could never get her to deny me a hug, or to give up on me. She would still tell me how precious I was to her, how much she loved me, and that she was thankful to have a little girl.

Then I became a hug. I determined from the first step my daughter made that I would not be like my mom—I didn’t have the patience or determination to do so and I would not let them take advantage of me the way I had taken advantage of her.

At one time or another I’ve told each of my four kids that I love them very much, they are precious to me, and I’m very thankful to have them. But I also told them about what I did to my mom, and that as much as I loved them, they could wait until I got to a stopping point with whatever I was doing and they would have all the hugs they wanted.

Don’t worry, I believe each of my children has found a different way to make sure what I tell them is true. I won’t try to guess what each of them tried, but seeing my own traits in them quite assures me that they tested me. Did I pass? Maybe, but I do know this---there are worse things than stopping fifty times in the middle of washing the same pan because your child says,

“I need a hug, Mom.” 

(c) January 30, 2009

Everyone on FUBAR has their own thing they do, whether it is FUMAFIA, FULOUNGING, FUGAMES, FUBLINGS, FUFLIRTING or FU on YOU! I am a FU-HELPER.

WHY? Because I truly enjoy watching others succeed. I love being a part of it. I like to know that I was a part of it. It motivates me to help the next person succeed also. In FUBAR that means LEVEL!

If you are lvl 19, I check your buzz and your points. If you have your other requirements, if you are online, and if your buzz is down, I will top your buzz to 100% and knock on your shoutbox to say, HEY YOU CAN LEVEL NOW! Then I will wait for you to level and send you a big pimpin gift to cover that requirement for level 21. I do it for every lvl 19 and 20 I come across without thinking. It is like brushing your teeth in the morning.

The next group I really try to help is the Level 30 group. They need to be added to 25 families. I will send friend request with a note to SB me when they accept. Then I offer my network of helpers. I send links via SB to my helpers who have room in their families at that time. I add you to my list of “needs temp fam adds” until you level up. I mark the date you level so I can contact everyone that added you to pull you. You don’t want to deny help to the next person do you?

Level 37 folks need the same as lvl 30, except they have to be added to 100 families. I do the same deal, plus I remind them to use a different ability every day. I want to help you level, but I don’t want you to clog up the works forever. My families get FULL!

Finally there is my team of helpers. I think I will call them Wingy’s Angels because they are my angels who come through for me so that I can help you level if you are in this group. I now have 30 angels. Ten of them are FULL. I need more angels so that we can help more people. PM or SB me to join that list.

Why do I do this when the Dharq Army is there doing the same thing? I do this because we do NOT do the same thing. I find people who need and connect them to those who have. I coach them, encourage them, get to know them, and become friends with them. No strings beyond reminding them to do what they need to do to level.

After I run out of room and have you connected to everyone in my group, I refer you to Dharq’s Army if your other requirements are met. First you have to read their blog and understand how their rules work. I am not in Dharq’s Army. I will refer you to Dharq’s Army when I can no longer help you.

What is my reward?

YOUR success is my success each time I help you. That is the only reward I need. A thank you is icing. Blingies are fun decorations that last, but I don’t need them. I just want to see you level. Move up. Then help me level the person behind you if you have room in your family. The feeling you get when it works is the best on all of FUBAR.

Thank you to WINGY’s ANGELS for helping me. Thank you to my friends who refer those who need. I love all of you the FUBAR love and send hugs to each of you.

MUAH!

“Wingy”

For Best Results:  Always keep an out of order sign which you will affix to the door of any given facility, should you need the privacy.

Do you have a problem finding the facilities until you really need to use them? Do you suddenly discover every tourist in your town lined up at the same facility you just chose to use? Do you wish you knew exactly where the closest NOT “out of order” facility was located at any given moment, should you need to avail yourself of its appliances? Search no more, my friend.  I, your ever increasingly wise advisor will enlighten you about the secrets of discerning the closest facility to your present location, wherever that may be.  Of course, you must obey certain rules without fail.  This goes without saying, I’m sure.  Naturally you, astute reader that you are, can see the wisdom of always following my guidelines, so I know you will memorize each one. (refer to the rules below)

Disaster at the Mall?

Suppose for a moment that you just finished the Big Super King Maximum Thirst Quencher from your favorite convenience mart and now your gut sloshes with 3 liters of flat soda while you cruise the local mall parking garage for a parking spot. By the time you slammed on the last speed bump, debarked the final pot hole (only there because you need to “use it”), and swerved into a semi-legal space, the lower half of your body has threatened to go on strike until you relieve yourself of chronic sodus loggius.

You precariously waddle up and down the various flights of stairs that lead to the entrance indicated by the flashing sign.  Most parking garage entrances lead to department stores.  However, YOUR entrance is near the back of the mall opposite the store with the restroom.  You might find a facility in the mall proper, but it probably is either out of order or severely overcrowded.  Your best chance is to find the nearest department store.

Step One:  

Look for the neon information blue print or refer to your unabridged notebook. (see rule #1.)  Once you are in the mall, look for the mid-class department store.  However, if the department store only has one or two floors, forget it.  Mall policy dictates that facilities may only be located in departments stores with at least three floors, preferably six.  This is so that you have to float the elevator to the restroom and conserve energy.

Note to self: bring the unabridged notebook.

Step Two:

Once you find a mid-class department store with at least three floors, you are ready to find the elevator/escalator.  Every mall has a rule that mid-class department stores locate their facilities at the back of the floor located furthest from the most obvious entrance.  Of course, if you entered the store from a third floor entrance, you will have to take the stairs, escalator, or elevator up one or two more floors. 

Note to self:  Update unabridged notebook.

Step 3:

Now that you found the correct floor, you must solve the puzzle, work the maze, and find the end of the line.  Your path will probably take you left from the elevator or escalator, and around the ties.  Now turn left again.  Follow the carpet along the shoe department.  Turn right.  Walk past the furniture and circle the refrigerators (keeping to your right) until you see the parts department.  If you wend your way thru the parts department, catalog, and layaway, you will see another flight of stairs. Walk up the flight of stairs while holding your knees together, keeping your fingers crossed, and reciting self-control mantras.  Wasn’t that a breeze?  Now look at the stream of people and walk along until you get to the end of the line. You are there.  The end of the line to the facilities!

Note to self:  Bring gas mask and extermination equipment.

Step 4:

Hold it tight until you get to the front of the line unless you have a handy trick ready from your reading and memorization of my handy rules for “getting there first” (see rules below).

Note to self: Bring extra “disposables”

Rules for finding the facilities and getting there first.

My Momma was the best cook in Alamogordo, New Mexico. I’m not just sayin’ that. I’m saying we always took extra to every potluck regardless of who was going or how many people were gonna be there. Unless we got there so late that everyone had already stuff themselves (like that ever happened if they knew Momma was bringing something), we took home empty stuff. I got to enjoy nary a bite of those scrumptious leftovers because there were no leftovers to be scrumptious so I could enjoy them. That just isn’t fair, you know. The doctor’s family gets the worst medical care and the dentist has no teeth. Ok, that may be fine for them, but I gotta eat too! After all, I was a growin’ kid. My momma even said so.

“You are growing just like a little weed!” she would say.

My mother invented new ways to enjoy your broccoli, carrots, beans, or whatever it might be. Not only did you enjoy eating them, if it was a potluck, you would enjoy looking at them as you approached the table. Momma’s potluck dishes were works of visual and gastronomic art. Masterpieces even. That was my Momma. A real good cook!

So now this one day, we had some big potluck to attend. This potluck was so big Momma had to make THREE big scrumptious pumpkin pies. And the shindig was so bloomin’ important that she had to make them way in advance because she was also sewing something up to wear to it. That meant this thing was a super important place.

So there I was with nothing to do. Even as a child—okay, especially as a child—I needed to always have something to do. Don’t let me be sittin’ alone in a kitchen with those adorable picture perfect looking pies...

Oh look! There is something sticking up out of the filling in this one. That little spot does not belong there at all. It distracted my eyes from the rest of the pie and certainly did not look uniform. More and more, that one spot drew my eye to  gaze upon it until I decided I could just fix that little spot.

Oops.

Missed. Well I just smoothed that along the crust.

Oops, that didn’t work either.

I continued to create a cute little pattern around the pie. It fixed the spot just perfect and made a nice little border to accent Momma’s perfectly pinched pie crust around the edge. Hmmm. Something was still missing. Besides, it did taste real good. After all, Momma was a very good cook. I added the final touch. Now my taste buds were really dancing and my tummy was just starting to feel a little satiated. Plus the pie was real happy now. Walmart bags had nothing on my PIE ART!

I went off to play somewhere with something truly important, like oh, making sure all my dolls were properly dressed and seated for their little dinner party with smiley face pumpkin pies. Nice and neat they were with their faces all wiped nice and tidy. In my own little world I was happy until—

“Wandah-ah-ah-ah-ah--------!”

Ut Oh…

Little Wanda with a pale NON-smiley faced expression headed back to the kitchen. There stood Momma, red faced mad with such exasperation as you can only imagine if you were to be a Momma to a sweet little kid like me. I really was good most of the time, you know. Honest. I was. When I wasn’t looking at Momma’s pumpkin pies.

The look on my face told my mother all she needed to know. No need to have a jury with 12 of my kiddling peers determine my guilt or innocence because it was written all over my face. I’m sure my face turned American red and white in turn.

No my mother was a very patient mother. It truly broke her heart to spank me. It made her cry, not crocodile tears that parents cry to make their sons feel guilty for doing such stupid stuff that son’s do. To this day, I believe my mother really wanted to believe that I would get the point before she had to spank me. I never did. I pushed her until she lost it. But then at times like this, there needed to be no more patience. She just led me straight to the spanking room and took care of business until my little tushy was beat red on the bottom to match my red face.

I don’t remember anything about the potluck that night. I don’t remember where it was or why Momma prepared so many pies. I do know that she was one pie short and I was too sore to enjoy anything for the rest of the day.

Forty years and four kids later I have learned that some things can’t be taught with simple words. I have also learned that my mother was much more patient to me than I ever could be to my own children. I thank her for it. Momma, if you are watching, I thank you for teaching me the true value of a Pumpkin Pie Smiely face.

*Note* My previous blog dedicated one day each week to “the world of IF.”

These three short entries are compiled from that blog. Take a trip to Geometry class where you were taught that, “Given x and Given y, then Theorum z. Then the trip drags you down one more “theorem” and then another. Each time, you have to take the previous theorem as fact to proceed. Hello! Enter the Wingnutted World of Geometry Logic as it pertains to just about any subject you can think of. It could be something as strange as “If shoestrings could talk” or “if walls really did have ears.” Ew that’s gross, but handy if you need a place to stash your earring.  Today’s three “IFS” are about:

• Money
• winged pigs
• the truth about potatoes

. . . In the logic of alternate realities if it were actually true.

If Money Grew On Trees

I hear my wallet crying. But there is an alternate universe somewhere that grows money trees in big green forests. In some places they grow faster than weeds---but that’s small change. If you want big bucks you have to go deep into the rain forest of the International Money Pot Jungle where the high value dollar bills grow. You will want to come prepared with gloves, a canoe, money crates and hiking boots to trek across mountains, ford streams, and of course, pick your choice of greenback. Of course, you must carefully choose which trees to pick from. The yen tree brings a different value than the pound, euro, dollar or lira trees. Naturally the more valuable greens are most difficult to find with harder to reach blooms.

Once harvested, you must keep your money fresh and crisp, because everyone knows what a pain it is to put a wimpy wrinkled dollar bill through a change machine.  Picked bills must be carefully placed onto the money crates in layers and secured for drying.  Dried money may then be packaged for shipping across multinational borders and traded for goods or stockpiled in the Federal Reserve. Of course, there is a flip side to this concept is: If money grew on trees, half the world would develop an allergy to it.

Knew there was a catch!

If Pigs Had Wings

How would the rules be different in a world where pigs had wings? Well, first of all, football goes further. You might not have to throw it at all., Instead, you just say, “Fly My Little Pork Chop” while your opponent yells, “Get down here you Slabbaham!” The field is covered in feathers by the end of the game and one team will have always smoked the other’s HamHocks.

WAIT!

Don’t forget the Olympics, also known as “The Bacon Wars.” You have to train your pig, make sure it’s fit to fly, provide the proper porcine vitamins, multi-vitamins, uber streuber vitamins, porci-roids, antibiotics, and benyporcidryl, for allergic reactions to all of the above. You might jump ahead on your investment by providing honey-glazed cinnamon pills marinated in pineapple juice so that, should your aboarable creature have a heart attack during trials, you can provide the proper funeral, followed by a luau.

Obviously, the Paparazzi will be angling for the best story, whose team mascot has the best wingspan and which coach looked most ridiculous chewing on chicken jerky. Still, the mud carpet provides some earthy quality to the overall effect of the event. Best of all, each little piggy can proudly way his team flag as he squeals “wee wee wee” all the way home.

If Potatoes Ruled the Universe

I’m sure you thought Mr.  & Mrs. Potato Head was the invention of a human genius with a strange sense of humor. This is absolutely not true, but if the real minds behind this Multi-Eye phenomenon were to come forward and state the real story, we would be on a hitlist—something about high level security clearance from what I heard. I can tell you that Mr. & Mrs. Potato Head try very hard to blend in our human world because, well, how would you infiltrate if you didn’t?

It started long ago before the Irish came to America with a sack of potatoes: renegade bulbous creatures who left their roots deep in the earth. You see, the true race of potatoes lives far underground. Delegated scouts are sent as “produce” to spy on us from just beneath the surface. That’s why they have all those eyes you know.

They actually rule us from underground. But the rebel movement, “Mashed Potatoes” is fast organizing a community effort to conquer them and take our world back once and for all. Or maybe they are some of the spies. After all, they’ve never undergone an eye-count, have they?

The plot, or should we say “gravy,” thickens!

***

Now it’s official.

The Wingnut has officially been declared

“Ain’t Right!”