The Girls are really getting on my nerves.

For 3 or 4 months, The Girl has been saying that she will help me secure the Leander. She said it again today.

Notice how nothing has happened. I can go up that ladder, yes, I can. I am going to swear again. I am going to up that big f*cking ladder, with my steel nails and my hammer… and gloves.. of course..

A Leander is one of the most beautiful of roses. It is a climbing rose, I think an Austin, it is peach , it smells like heaven and it blooms forever.

The Constance Spry’s are also Austin’s, they are gorgeous, the smell is heaven. It blooms once a year. I will have to get that big f*cking ladder out again, and move them into place. I had many promises of help on training these roses, but, hey, I am the leader on the road of good intentions.

All that I need to do is go on that BIG ladder, tie things up and then go out of the window in my little room of my own. With a very long broom. This will work.

I am talking about roses. This is actually what I wanted to do today, given a choice.

The Girl is around 17 and a half. Since she was 15, she has been in Mickey mouse schools. I think that she is very clever, but I, of course, am biased.

Today she heard that the school that she wanted to go to no longer has the study that she wants to follow. No, I am not disappointed with you, I am disappointed with the situation. I want her in school 5 days a week.

And The Baby. I am putting her laundry away, it is- for whatever reason- mixed up with The Girl’s. Is this your’s?, I ask. And she yells at me every. single. time. If I knew the answer, I would not ask, would I ?

Why is a 10 year old yelling at me ? Being rude.

She ended up hanging her own laundry and watching a sports show with the guys.

If this continues, I will take away every appliance in her room, excepting her lights.

I am going on that ladder tomorrow…

The Boy walked with me today, to the bank. We needed more Dinars.

When we came home, we noticed that the Mourning Doves have built a very tiny nest, next to the porch, in the Constance Spry’s.

This is wonderful. Well, I think that it is wonderful.

The Boy Friend came up with a very good idea for the porch.

Once more, language leaves me at a loss. It is not chicken wire. It is stronger.

I want these stinkin’ birds to live.

While it is indeed trite, I really want these little eggs to hatch, grow and fly away.

I think that it would comfort my soul. That there is something, simple, that I can change.

I have no idea if this is the correct term for this item of clothing, for, after all, my wardrobe is early Bag Lady. One day, I will get a shopping cart.

The Boy bought this T-Shirt. It is white. It has no sleeves. It has these about 2 inch straps instead. Now I am going to sound very wicked indeed. It looks like something that any Italian Stallion could get away with. Marlon Brando. But they have to be sweating, you get the idea.

The Boy really wants to be Italian. This is not within my power.

Now he suggests that we buy one for The Father. This is actually a fun idea. They can watch The Sopranos together in their.. uh.. matching muscle shirts.

Here is what I am really thinking : I will be seeing more armpit hair then since the last time East Germany had female shot putters.

We now have a new scale. The old scale was very old, I am talking 20, 25 years old. But it was becoming a very pleasant scale- we all know how much I adore *pleasant*- When one stepped on that moldy old sucker, why, your weight was perfect.

However, I was indeed trained to observe. My clothing was not saying that I weighed 45 kilos. Nope. My clothing was saying, Mummy Dearest, you are pushing your limits. My limit is 52. Who cares.

Indeed, the old scale was off about 4.5 kilos. Everyone is jumping up and down about their sudden gain in weight.

It is a very nice looking scale. It is black ( read : will not show the dirt), very high tech looking, slim and sleek.

No one in my family has ever been overweight. Perhaps because we have always had a scale.

Or perhaps because I come from a long line of very attractive women ( I am the exception that proves the rule), with racks of pricey duds.

Oh well, the things that are passed on. I am the Bag Lady. I am very pleased that all of the Cherubs are clothes horses.

I have so many things that nobody cares about. Not really. I have all of the detritus of my parent´s life together.

Believe it or not, one of the reasons that I wanted to have children was that I could not tolerate the thought of my Mother´s teenage scrap books ending up in the rubbish. They are very 1950´s. Silver ink, I kid you not.

What are the 2 most outrageous items. Like you asked.

I have the brown leather jacket that Daddy was wearing at 15, when he met my Mother.

And it gets even worser and worser . In my little room of my own, I actually have the Bakelite telephone from my Mother´s bedroom.. she was 15…, the one that she and Daddy nattered on. Daddy salvaged it from Frenchy´s place, you know, Detroit, new moonscape.

I have so very many things. Somewhere, I have a full Japanese Kimono, layer after layer, including the cute shoes. Around 1954.

I have letters . I know what to do with these. They are all war letters, there is a place to put them. Once I can give them up.

Will all of these things ever mean so very much to someone else, and, in the end, who cares.

Ma told me a hundred times how she and Daddy met, when they were 15. It was Ash Wednesday, she was on her way to church when she bumped into Jimmy Dean.

They were married when they were 18. I came 4 years later. That is an aside. But before they got married, she had to go through the whole rigmarole of becoming a Catholic. Why was she going to church on Ash Wednesday. Perhaps she simply liked the ritual.

I always did.

As a child, I had a rock tumbler. You would put these filthy stones in it, it would rumble and rumble and rumble, and, suddenly, you had a hand full of jewels.

I suspect that a rock tumbler does not have a long life span.

Recently, I feel like I have been in a rock tumbler. I shall emerge as a stinkin´ jewel.

I will shine.

The Father just gave me one of his Valium tablets, I think it is 5mgs. My goodness, what a whopper. Because of life, in general, I usually wake up at about 4am. I simply want to sleep a whole night through, wake up at about 9, or 10 even.

Tomorrow, anyone else can take over my duties. I only have to find that recipe. And I have to water the plants.

No, I don´t. I do not have to cut the grass either. It will still be there the next day.

Tomorrow, I want to write about Daddy.

Valium is really strong stuff.

And I keep hearing Bruce, downstairs, singing Born In The USA.

No matter what I do or say, The Boy will never believe that Bruce is from Jersey. We have had this conversation so very many times. No, Bruce has to be from Harlem.

My jaw is slack (Valium is really wicked stuff), everyone on this earth knows that Bruce is a Jersey Boy. But my only son will not accept this.

Well, John Boy, suck it up. There is no where else on earth that Bruce could be from. Everyone knows this.

It is like Lennon, he could only be from Liverpool. By the way, despite the dreadful reviews, both really enjoyed Nowhere Boy.

He is back. As cantankerous as ever, but he is back. When Wicked Step Mother called me, she was simply thrilled : he was watching TV. He loathes TV, unless it is the History Channel. This means that he can see once more, can hear.

The Father asked me what time I got the call. Uh, well, you were gone, I did the shopping, so I guess at about 11 am. Oh, so that means that it was about 3am in the morning, in Texas. I haven´t a clue. I never even paused to think about it.And in the end, who cares .

I am really swearing quite a bit these days. I suppose that I am simply a bit thin skinned right now. It happens.

The Father complained tonight about how I fed the dogs. Look at those words. Who fed the dogs.

My plate is full. That is all that there is to it. In 10 minutes the brownies will be done. Everyone loves those brownies. Except me. I cannot tolerate that fake vanilla. But this is good. This is Little House On The Prairie.