The staircases at the college are tall and steep and spiral-ish. Why don’t I ever see anybody slide down? Is it all those cameras?

Wouldn’t you think a witch’s tit would be hot, not cold?

Why is it that when you go to bed at night, the weeds and the flowers are the same height, but when you get up the next morning day, the weeds are a foot tall and have grown a big seedpod?

Why does the grass in the “weedeater section” grow so much faster than the regular grass in the lawn?

How does it happen that I, a person who hates watermelon and all other foods that have the word “melon” in them, am so good at picking out a prime one?

Don’t you all love local similes? “Dumber than Dode Mockey.” “He could eat corn through a picket fence.” “She looks like she’s been rode hard and put up wet.” A little jewel about a brick shithouse. There’s another one Dad used to say, but I can’t remember it. Tumorless Sister? A little help here?

If all the drive-throughs in all the restaurants in the world had a device that would instantly eject any car that dared to place a ‘special order’ during rush hour, that would be an awesomely wonderful thing.

Wouldn’t it be cool if elevators had an invisible shield that refused to allow anyone who smelled like smoke, too much perfume, or just general stank, to enter?

Why do restaurants offer my favorite things only as occasional specials?

It’s almost a hundred degrees, and not one soft drink company has anything on sale. Eight bucks for Coke? I don’t think so; totally not worth it. Marsh, here I come.

It might be almost a hundred degrees, but taking your child out in public wearing only a diaper or, far worse, underpants, is just plain nasty. NASTY!

Even nastier is putting your kid in a public pool, wearing only that diaper. NASTIER.

Please notice that the positive degree of “nasty” is, indeed, “nasty. However, the comparative degree – two and only two – requires that we change the “y” to “i” and add “er.” If I were to use the superlative degree – three or more – I would still change the “y” to “i” and add “est.” This word changes in this way because it’s a little word. Bigger words add “more” or “most,” and NO WORDS use both. Why doesn’t everyone know this? I find this one of the most frustratingest things when scoring essays. Really, it’s one of the maddeningest things ever. More grosser than you can even imagine.

“Anyway” NEVER has an “s” at the end. Never. Ever. No no no no no no not ever. “Anyways” is the answer to the question, “What’s your IQ?”

My cats have been flea-and-tick-treated at the vet. Now, when a tick jumps on one of them, it immediately leaps off and onto my arm. A tick walking on top of your arm hairs is juuuust enough sensation to wake you up. About this, I have only one thing to say: “AAAAAAAAAGH!”

As I type, there is a little dainty gray cat napping on top of my computer mouse. I find this adorable, and not in the least puzzling. It’s a mouse, isn’t it?

Expensive cat food gives my cats bad breath. Cheap cat food doesn’t. Go figure.

I find myself talking to my cats and expecting them to understand and react as if they were humans. Then I catch myself, get a few giggles at my expense, and do it again.

That stack of essays isn’t going to grade itself, you know. But wouldn’t it be cool if it did?

My kids came down today and I served them Spanish hamburgers, corn on the cob, baked beans, deviled eggs, and freshly home-bought Lay’s chips. I feel bad because I didn’t bake a birthday cake for Belle, but it was almost a hundred degrees!

Which brings me back to that point about the witch’s tit. . . . .

Yul was right.

Mamacita, Scheiss Weekly

Today is Father’s Day, but it’s also my daughter’s birthday. She’s over 21, if anyone wants to ask me any questions.

She used to be the most beautiful baby girl in the universe, but not any more. She hasn’t been that for a long time.

She is, however, the most beautiful young woman in the universe. She’s strong and brave and smart and hilarious. Her sense of direction is almost perfect. Her sense of ethics and behavior are superior. She can sing like an angel. She can walk into an expensive dress shop and walk out with a $300.00 dress that she got for twelve bucks and matching $125.00 shoes that cost eight. Um, the honest way. She’s kind and caring and patient, unless she’s dealing with an idiot in which case she, sadly, takes after me. She’s the best daughter any mother could ever hope to have, even when she takes the occasional pissy fit, and even then a good margarita will fix that mood swing right up. Mommy knows how to take care of her baby girl.

I didn’t teach her to stick her head in a waterfall, but only because the subject never came up.

Happy Birthday, Princess.

My dad has been gone for several years now, but we never really ever stop missing the people we love. We recover, and get on with our lives, but the memories are still there, and aren’t we all glad they are?

Dad wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot. He and all of his brothers and their father before them were quick-tempered and easy to, as Mom used to say, “set off.” He was also funny and smart; he could sing and he valued education, HIGHLY. He would have been a success at college, but he never went. Instead, he sent four kids through college, and continued to work day after day in a factory, “so we would never have to.”

My Other Sister and I had a daddy who was playful and laughing. My two younger siblings had a daddy who was cranky and yelling. Dad’s illness began long before anybody realized it, including himself, and the personality changes were just brushed aside as part of the aging process or, possibly, his true colors. Nobody actually said “true colors,” but we all thought it.

By the time dad had had both legs amputated and was bedridden and too weak to feed himself or turn over, we all realized that the diabetes had begun to affect his mind long before it took his body.

He stayed at home and Mom took care of him. I don’t think she went anywhere for three or four years, except her runs to the grocery and drugstores while Dad was at dialysis.

My father is gone, but he still lives in my head, daily. And to that loving and playful and laughing and singing father, I want to say, “Happy Father’s Day, Daddy.”

I knew all along that mean yelling daddy wasn’t really you.

So, today, June 15, I salute my beautiful baby daughter AND the daddy I loved.

Mamacita, Scheiss Weekly