Apr 1, 2018 | Cheeky Thoughts
November 1st 2007, I said goodbye to my grandmother. Actually, I said goodbye to her the night before at the nursing home—knowing she may not make it through the night. I woke up to the phone ringing early the next morning.
My mom and I had made the trip to Cape Cod to see her. The next morning when my grandfather came out of his room after answering the phone, of course, we all knew. I watched as he and my mom hugged and just like that, my life as I knew it was no more; the woman I’d heard tell me to shut up your face for 34 years was gone. And you know what — having a grandma in your life for 34 years just isn’t long enough.
Man, I loved her. She was a feisty, classy lady and to this day I miss her terribly, every day. We had nicknames for each other; I called her Bitch and she called me Slut. Even in the nursing home, the year before at Christmas, when she could barely speak; let’s just say she had no problem calling me a slut, loud enough for the world to hear. It was our thing and it was beautiful.
All her children made it in time to see her the night before; she held on until the last one could be there, that feisty bitch.
The morning she died, we all went to the nursing home to say our final goodbyes and I must have lost five pounds in tears. As we were leaving, my mom asked me to drive her around the cape and take her to the beach where she had so many fond memories with her mother. I did and it may actually be one of my favorite days ever – spending that time with my mom. The only thing I wanted was to take away her sadness, but as I took a step back, I realized she just needed to take that day to remember, mourn and honor her mom. I was lucky enough to be there and share that day with her, and in my heart of hearts, I know grandma was with us. That is a priceless moment in my life that I’ll hold onto forever. Yep, now I’m crying. Well, good. I need to lose five pounds; Grandma would agree and be the first to tell me.
I couldn’t go to her funeral, so I wrote her a letter that my sister read:
Dear Grandma,
I miss you like crazy and I really want you to know that. But I want you to know I feel you with me all the time, watching over me. I have never been so well behaved; if I keep it up, I may not need those extra prayers to get into heaven. I think about you all the time: the chocolate shakes you used to make me; the insanely long phone calls we had when I was a little girl; those disgusting roast beef on wek sandwiches you’d make (the kids would pretend to eat them but mom would let us throw them out when you weren’t looking); how, during my entire life when I was acting like a brat, you would threaten to leave your pearls to someone else if I didn’t behave; and Vince Gill. When I hear his music, I’m reminded of you. These may seem like trivial memories, but they’re mine; only mine and they make me laugh, smile, cry… and I’ll hold onto them tightly until I see you again. For now, I’ll think of you when I look in the mirror and know I got my blue eyes from you. Grandma, I’ll always love you. I’ll always miss you. I’ll always be thankful I got you for a grandmother. And I’d trade those pearls in a heartbeat for a chocolate shake with you right now. –November 15, 2007
Right after she died, I put a second set of pierced holes in my ears just so I could wear a pair of her earrings and have her always with me. I’ve worn them for seven years – they never come out; I find myself twisting them when I think of her. Today, on the seventh anniversary of her death, I’ll wear her pearl earrings and necklace, remembering those beautiful 34 years, and I’ll twist those earrings a thousand times. I think of you often. I miss and love you so very much, Grandma.
Now, shut up your face.
Originally posted November 1, 2014.
Mar 14, 2018 | Cheeky Thoughts
This morning, I fed cucumbers to my dogs. They—the cukes—were getting soft and I wasn’t going to use them but I hate to throw away veggies. So, my canine garbage disposals volunteered to take one (two?) for the team. Well, the girls are messy. I have a somewhat high level of indifference, and per Kate-brain, forgot there would be mutilated cucumber all over the floor.
My husband, let me assure you, is not messy, and for the life of him, he can’t spell indifference. It’s not allowed in an OCD brain.
He came downstairs, saw the cucumber remnants everywhere and proceeded to lecture me on the 49 disgusting insect species that would break into our home and do a little seed looting. He then closed his speech with, “If you use my vacuum cleaner to suck these up, I’m going to be upset.” Really he said “pissed,” but I’m trying not to be crass today.
My point is… he said his vacuum cleaner. That’s right. I’m not allowed to clean. I don’t do it right. I did use his vacuum cleaner once and it took me 20 minutes to find the power switch. The sad thing is, this was not the first time in my life that I couldn’t turn on a vacuum cleaner; you will never see domestic diva next to my name. It’s a foreign concept to me.
So, after his rant, I started laughing and told him that lately, every time he opens his mouth, I need a notebook.
True story… this was the conversation in my house two nights ago, before we went out for drinks:
Husband: Are you going to get ready? Maybe get dressed, fix your hair and makeup…
Me: I’m going to get dressed, yes. I’m putting my hair in a ponytail. No makeup. Are you going to be wearing makeup?
Husband: I would if you asked me.
Me: No, you wouldn’t.
Husband: It’s not socially acceptable.
Me: Guyliner can be.
Husband: Have you seen my eyes? I don’t need guyliner (*note – my husband’s eyes are the most ridiculous shade of blue you have ever seen). . Anyway, I’m more of a woman in this relationship than you. I dust and do all of the cleaning. I do the dishes. I make the bed. I do most of the laundry. I take out the trash. I do everything. And you work from home!
While his list is, in every way, sexist, I don’t have an argument because he is the one who does all of it. All of it. Oh wait, I make dinner. Every night (that we eat at home). And do the grocery shopping…daily. He eats the equivalent of what two professional football players eat, so that has to count. I walk the dogs, pay the bills… if you ask me, it’s even-steven.
You know, we have conversations like this all the time. He likes to pretend he does everything and I don’t appreciate him. I do appreciate him. Halle-freakin-lujah, I don’t have to clean. Ever. I would yell my appreciation at the top of every mountain if he asked. For now, I’ll just post it on CheekySkirt…he gave me permission. 😉
My job is done here. Ladies, my number is listed.
Jan 29, 2018 | Cheeky Thoughts
I made it 42 years without ever stepping into a police station. And let me tell you, there are many who just read that and are searching through their mental rolodexes to disprove me. Now, there was an ill-fated night at 16 when I spent the better half of an evening in the back of a state trooper car for underage drinking, which I wasn’t even participating in that night—not because I was a Milk & Cookie, but because they weren’t serving anything I liked at that particular high school party… off some back road in my small, northern New York town. Ahh, childhood.
Where was I…
Tuesday, I took the afternoon off from work and drove the 90 minutes to the Lakeland Police Department to follow up on the asshole who stole my identity, created a debit card with my information on it and spent $165 of my money at a Lakeland Walmart. Thank the big guy upstairs for the red flag because the bank immediately called me and canceled that card, right as the scum-sucking, shit-for-brains attempted to spend another $157 on that card at the same store.
I have to admit I was a little excited to see the inside of a police department and catch the action as it unfolded. But there wasn’t a cell in sight: no cage; no uniform dipping his donut into a cheap cup of joe; no prostitute passed out on a cot; no drunk and disorderly prisoner teaching me new curse words while yelling that he needed to make a call; and no stench of cheap, beer-soaked stale pee. Nothing. Just a massive, beautiful entryway with a receptionist. It looked like a medical office. I took the day off for this?
From all of the TV cop shows I’ve seen, I was not expecting any of this―nothing was as it’s portrayed in Hollywood. Weird, I know.
Anyhoo…
Earlier that day I had emailed the affidavit paperwork to the fraud department at my bank and by the time I got home from Lakeland, the money was already put back into my account. You know – on Monday morning when I went to the bank to get the paperwork, I told them that I had filed a police report and they seemed surprised; apparently not many people do it. I get that the bank is going to give you your money back, but I can’t understand why somebody would not file a police report. I want these people caught: they stole my identity and my money. I had to take a day off from work. I had to drive 90 minutes each way and hang out in the police department for quite a long time while everything was being processed. Am I the only one with so much time to waste? Speaking of which, it’s CSI time.
Dec 10, 2017 | Cheeky Thoughts
I have saggy knee caps. It’s true. I saw them this morning. They almost fold over the knees, like an elephant’s trunk. I’d like them to stop sagging. I think if they moved up a couple inches—back to where they belong—it may ease up on the bathroom scale a little, too.
I’m not complaining. Truth be told, I’m extremely lucky. While my knees suck, my face is aging well… really well. I don’t have any wrinkles. Not a one. It has nothing to do with the coconut oil baths I suffocate my pores in or the resveratrol in my cabernet. It is pure genetics – Scottish-Irish genes. Actually, I may have just made that part up. Regardless, my face is blessed, and with my landing strip of a forehead, I better not complain.
Karma is real, and she is, in fact, a bitch.
Today, I’m forty-two. Thirty twelve. A Mariano Rivera Jersey. Twice the drinking age. Eight short of fifty. Eight. Short. Of. Fifty.
Twice the drinking age. Just like that. Legal, twice. I swear it was just last weekend that we stole Christine’s peach schnapps for a Saturday afternoon buzz before finals. The years before I turned 21 seemed like five eternities – and also like they were yesterday. Every birthday, back then, just another reminder of how long it would be before I could actually walk into a store and legally buy it… all .0005 percent alcohol that was probably actually inside a Boone’s bottle.
And here I am, 21 twice. The second 21 years, a blur in time. Did I just steal that from someone? Oops. Sorry.
I’m still discovering myself… making lots of mistakes, fixing others, laughing all the time. Mostly at my husband, but that’s his own fault – he does victim well.
Here is what I can’t figure out… I continuously set myself up for failure—self-sabotage—knowing, KNOWING, that I’m making a mistake, knowing the end result is going to be bad for me. Then, with everything I have, I plow forward like it’s the best idea, anyone, ever, in the world, ever had. Or, I ignore it, like it will just go away, and that somehow it will all work out. And, plot twist, it always backfires. So, what do I do? Well, of course, I do it again. But better each time. Look, kids. Big Ben! Yes. I’ve used that one before.
I’m a smart person… just ask my mom.
So, why do I keep inflicting pain on myself…ahhh, something to do, I guess. It drives my husband crazy. He is the most responsible, level-headed person I have ever met in my life (sober, of course). He can’t for the life of him, figure out what makes me tick and why I continue to sabotage my life…not doing the things that I love to do and occasionally making myself sick on lattes. But then, I guess if he figured that out, and I figured that out, he’d be bored and I wouldn’t have anything to write about (yikes, preposition).
Originally posted December 10, 2014.
Sep 29, 2017 | Cheeky Thoughts
Coffee. Hot. Black. Naked. Overflowing.
I’ve been known to include a word or two, maybe a dissertation or three about coffee in my writings. So, my apologies, but today of all days I would be remiss if I didn’t at least do a small, teeny little ode to my favorite beverage and season. I promise it will be short… and sweet… unlike coffee. Coffee should never be sweet.
What better time of year to celebrate National Coffee Day? Late September. Autumn. Cornfield mazes. Hayrides. Down vests. Hot coffee. That smell in the air; that beautifully blended scent of crisp apple cider, smashed pumpkins, red and orange leaves crunched under your feet and hazelnut coffee beans… when they come together and mingle, stir up that oh so familiar autumn aroma. New England B&Bs… no coffee ever tasted better than when sipped at a New England bed and breakfast while sitting outside in an Adirondack chair taking in the brisk, fall air.
We don’t have true autumn here in Florida. So, if you live in my world, you make it up: overload the aromatherapy diffuser with oil blends of apple, pumpkin and cinnamon, then run the poor thing into the ground until it’s actually sputtering from exhaustion; have cheap and toxic autumn-scented candles burning at all times – they have to be the cheap, shorten your life by five years, toxic kind if you want to get the most pungent scent; turn the air conditioning on super high so you have to bundle up when you’re inside; keep the plantation blinds closed at all times so as not to be reminded it’s sunny and 90 outside – OK to open them during dark and dreary thunderstorms; and of course, while doing all of that, you must drink coffee – hot, black, naked and overflowing.
I may have a slight obsession with coffee (and apparently the word naked); that is, if thinking about coffee all day–every day, craving it, dreaming about it, constantly living in anticipation of the next cup and getting that twinkle in my eye when I head up to bed at night…because I know the first thing I’ll do when I wake up the next morning is to make coffee…isn’t the way everyone lives, then yes, maybe I’m a little obsessive. Hmmm… maybe about run-on sentences, too.
I blame my grandfather… for the naked thing. He’ll get a kick out of that. Summer of 1997 – we were having dinner at The Club Car on Nantucket. And I wanted coffee with cream. His eyes got small and beady, “You can’t put anything in your coffee! You have to enjoy the natural taste of coffee or you’re not a true coffee drinker. You have to savor the aroma and taste of the coffee itself.” I watched him take a lemon rind and twirl it along the edge of his cup of espresso. He told me it brings out the full flavor of the bean. So, of course, I did the same. That was it. I loved it and was hooked. Seventeen years later and I still think about that evening all the time. So, there you have it…the Glenn Mathiasen Rules & Regulations on Drinking Coffee.
That’s it. A promise is a promise. Short and sweet. If you haven’t already, give naked coffee a try… you never know. I promise to try and not mention coffee in a blog in the near future. And don’t let the picture scare you – naked coffee… naked Kate.
