Dressing the Part

I wore a dress to work today.

I know in this day and age it is in poor taste to go outside your home unclothed. I daresay it's even illegal. But I don't wear dresses anymore. Somehow down the line my work uniform became slacks and a blouse.

I continued, however, to rock the shoes.

I helped a girlfriend shop for a dress this weekend. She has a reunion coming up and obviously wanted something smashing to wear.

So a trip to the Dress Barn and 27 dresses later, she had in hand the perfect one.

I also found in my hand a perfectly fetching black and white polka dot sensation.

"Buy it!" she says.

"I don't need it!" I says.

But the kind clerk reminded us that we'd get an extra 10 dollars off the clearance price on each if we purchased both and she'd throw in a VIP discount.

So, I parted with twelve dollars and brought it home.

It was 12 bucks. Ladies, do I need to say more?

But I promised myself then and there that I would wear it.

But where? I mean really. Where would I wear it? I don't even wear skirts to church anymore.

And then it hit me that, contrary to popular belief, it wouldn't kill me to dress a little nicer for work.

So this morning I showered, shaved, put a curl in my hair, and set off to work with gams gleaming.

I swished into work with the humid air lapping against my legs like lake water.

I felt the tingle on them as the condiditoned air indoors evaporated the residue.

I remembered, that when seated at my desk, I could hike my skirt up past my knees for a little additonal ventilation and no one would be the wiser.

I fielded the expected remarks.

-Hey! Sugar! Got a job interview?

-Sug, I'm so sorry. Funeral this afternoon?

-Sugar! For God's sake cover those things up. The glare! I can't stand the glare!

But then I walked back in my door this evening after a hard day of dress wearing.

Little looked up from Halo 2 and did a double take.

"Wow, Mom! You look pretty."

Oh yeah.

I'll be doin' this here dress thing again.

Potty Mouth

We have a large ladies' room here at work.

20 stalls-10 each on either side of the handwashing stations.

So lo and behold. I go to avail myself of the facilities this morning and find myself alone in the restroom. There isn't another soul in there.

As I go about my business, I hear the bathroom door open and another lady come in.

...and use the stall right next to me.

Really?

Really?

...and it wasn't pleasant.

Why in the world would a person go into a virtually empty restroom and use the stall right next to someone when there are 19 others to choose from?

This is a serious issue, Folks.

Dusk

That great time of evening when everything goes still.

Now is the time of year when everything is green and fluffy and full of color and scent.

The fire pit was fufilling its destiny with logs ablaze. I didn't have any marshmellows or chocolate or graham crackers.

Pity.

The frogs began kickin' up a fuss down at yon pond.

A bat buzzed us. Where it came from we're still not sure.

Sadie and Fred took off down to the fence. They growled off into the timber.

Was that another dog?

Nope.

It was a coyote. He loped out across the bottoms and then made his way back into the woods.

The guys chatted and Big puffed on his first cigar.

His first good cigar.

Big Daddy decided that all of those Swisher Sweets he and a buddy had been sneaking after their school shows should be replaced by a Romeo Y Julieta once he turned 18.

You know, I like being downtown. I love the romantic notion of renting a loft and gazing out at all the folks going by. Walking down to the corner for a coffee-watching folks go by during First Friday Art Walk-from my window.

But it is just a notion.

I'm a redneck girl at heart.

And sitting on my redwook deck at dusk is just about perfect for me.

Paint Your Wicker

In preparation for graduation festivities this weekend, I persuaded Big Daddy that we needed to paint.

We painted porches.

We painted decks.

We painted furniture.

We started out with a paint sprayer.

Several hours and several choice words later, Big Daddy gave up fighting the good fight and made a mad trip to Lowe’s for rollers and pans.

During his trip, I took over the furniture-a mixture of white paint and water to cover wicker that had weathered a lot of weather.

Now I don’t suffer shoes gladly normally, but yesterday I kicked them off so I could feel the grass squishing through my toes while I slung paint.

…and I do mean slung.

I slapped my brush over and around. I splodged it into cracks and crevices. I dappled it across the backs and circled the legs.

For my trouble I had white freckles across my nose and a smattering across my arms and legs. I left white foot prints across the driveway.

While I laughed at my idiocy, I suddenly felt the earth tremble. I staggered trying to keep my balance.

It wasn’t an earthquake.

The fervency with which my Dad rolled in his grave caused the earth to tremble.

He painted for a living.

He painted inside, outside, and underside and he did it all wearing white.

Aside: the scent of baby oil make me think of him. He would slather himself in it before painting outdoors. The reasons were twofold.

1. His vanity knew no bounds and he could tan while he worked.
2. Practicality. What little paint he got on him would wash off easier with an oily undercoating.

Anyway…. I inherited none of his talent. He was appalled at my sloppiness and let me know.

But…

While he’s up and about, shaking his head in disgust, I’d love it if he would stick around for another few days to watch his oldest grandson graduate from high school.

I know Big never got to meet his Grandpa. But I have a feeling Dad knows all about him. And it sure would be nice if he rattled and rolled around a little on Sunday- as Big begins his own paint job.

…not porches or decks or furniture.

As Big picks his colors, he’s going to need help with his brushes.

Maybe with your hand guiding him, Daddy, he’ll finish without leaving footprints in the driveway.

Shopping for Zing Zang

Big Daddy and I have decided to support our local businesses here in our little township.  So when our Bloody Marys became just Marys, we went to the new Brown Derby to restock.

At nine in the evening, the parking spots in front of the store were full.  We had to park down the strip center aways-right in front of the 24 hour access gym!

I was mortified.  I got out of my car and stayed in the shadows until I could burst noisily through the hooch house doors.

I made it back to the car unseen.  

Whew!  That was a close one.

What if someone drove by and saw me parked right in front of the gym?  

My reputation would be in shreds. 

...just like that

Big is 17.

For another month or so anyway.

Tonight, for one reason or another, it was just he and me at home.

There was no Xbox, no computer games, no texting.

There we sat on the divan.  House was on the TV.

He piled the couch pillows in my lap and laid his head down so I could run my fingers through his hair.

And just like that....

He was seven.

Just like that...

He was a sleepy little guy crawling up to snuggle under my arm-slowly waking up to go to kindergarten.

Just like that...

Just like that...

So, yeah. 

For just a second he was seven.

It was nice.

A Very Brady Rastlin' Match

I've never eaten pork chops and applesauce myself.  But Peter Brady and Alice surely made it popular in the 70's.

It seems to be a dish that goes together like apple pie and cheddar cheese.

Another combination I've never eaten.

In lieu of our current economy, I can also understand why The Pony would substitute pork chops with pork rinds.

It's frugal.  

Why waste a cut of the new white meat, when you can get a bag of chicharrones at the Wal-Mart for 99 cents?

Being from Missouri, I also know about the long standing argument that centers around how to pronounce the name of our fair state.

Mizzoureeeee?  Mizzouraaahhh?

So in keeping with our highfalutin quest to sound educated and genteel, I can see why The Pony-in its infinite wisdom-would deliberately choose a more sophisticated and exotic spelling.

I can think of no other explanation.  Maybe you can.

So for tonight's entertainment, I give you...

Applesauce and Pork Rhine rastlin'.

...you can't make this shinola up.

Fiber

So Big Daddy and I were trekking through Country Mart.  

It's a jim dandy of grocery store down Hollister way.  After we visited with Prissy last Saturday, we braved the hellish winds and came down from Point Lookout to check out their wares.

Yes.  Yes it is an exciting adventure for us to mindlessly aim through a grocery store.  

A crazy life I lead,  I know.

After a spell, we stopped in the bread aisle for me to read labels.  

Now don't get your bowels in an uproar thinking I'm a good Mom.

I most certainly am not. 

Big and Little are fed a steady diet of fats, preservatives, and sugar. 

OK, I do sprinkle liberally with vegetables and fruits and protein.

I digress...

So I let my boys eat junk, but one thing I never buy is white bread.  As a daughter of a diabetic, the one lesson I retrained from my youth is that white flour is nothing but pure sugar.  

I'd rather give them sugar from a yummier place...like the jelly that goes on the peanut butter that goes on the bread.

In fact I remember vividly Big coming home from first grade and when I asked him what he bought for lunch that day, he told me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

I asked him why in the world he would spend his lunch money on that, when I could make him one at home for free.

He told me it was because they use 'fresh' bread at school.

...white bread.

So I read labels.  I make sure they it's not just whole wheat, but 100% whole grains. Ya gotta get the fiber.

So Big Daddy patiently waits for me to read the bread and then we move on.  As I glance across the aisle, I notice the crackers.  There is now a brand of crackers that has added fiber.

Lookit!  Those crackers have added fiber.  Those are poo crackers.

Could you say that a little louder so the rest of the store can hear that?

Why?  That's what they are.  Eat a handful of those and tell me they aren't poo crackers.

Big Daddy walks off.  He does that often when accompanying me places.

Further down the aisle I come across the peanut butter.  I picked up a pack of snack size PB packages and thought that would be a great way to pass off carrots as a treat in the lunch sacks.  They can dip them in the PB.

I read the back of the label.

There's no fiber in peanut butter, Sugar.

Course not.  Then it would be poo-nut butter.

He left the store.

When You Need a Helping Hand

I took an informal poll at work today.

I asked the girls what type of Hamburger Helper they thought would be used.

It was unanimous.

Beef Stroganoff.

Jack thinks we should have a blogmeet down Pony way.

Jason brought up an excellent question.  What does one wear-if anything-when rastlin' in such exotic fare?  Would it endanger a female competitor's, um...you know, health if one competed in their all together?  

I started to do some research, but stopped when I found this site.

Enjoy.

Ponies Ought Nine

So the annual trek to Hot Springs went off without a hitch, ya know?

Except for the part where I lose my shirt to those wretched bookies.

In all honesty my shirt is only twenty dollars, so the loss is minimal.

...but the fun knows no bounds!

My photos this year were non-existent, but I managed to get a shot after the first race.

...and a shot of my favorite character, albeit from the back.  Last year he wore purple accessories.  But you can read about that further down.

Look here and here. My favorite rite of spring chronicled for anyone and everyone to read.

And another thing.

Looking back on those posts, I realize I used to actually write.  I used to think of something I wanted to share and actually put it down on (cyber) paper.

What happened to me?

Ebb and flow, I reckon.  Maybe someday soon, I'll think of something that needs to be said in a witty way.  Maybe not a witty way, but in a personal way. 

My own personal way.

I kinda miss that.

Instead I've resorted to Wicked Wednesday reporting. Which I must confess is kind of fun.

I already know what tomorrow holds.

Are you giddy with anticipation?

Oatmill Rastlin'

...not 'oatmeal'.

...oatmill.

My hand to Jesus.

...

...

...

I have no words.

This N That

As I sit drinking a glass of red, I'm feeling the wind blow through an open window.  It is blessedly blowing the stink off  me and taking winter's cobwebs with it. If you were here you'd hear the click of my keys and the snorts I aim at Facebook.

Big is sitting at the snack bar.  There is an art/drama project due when school returns to session next week.  He is busy at work tracing Oedipus and the Sphinx on a vase. I'm pleased as punch that this senior can concentrate with less than 45 days of school left.

Little and Big Daddy are in the living room playing with guitars.  There is tuning to be done and experimentation taking place with the newest heirloom passed down just this weekend from Grandad.

The livestock are contentedly lounging outside.  Fred keeps guard across the back door, while Sadie holds court atop the picnic table.

When we've all finished with our collective piddlin', and the spicy chicken pasta has digested,  I have to finish the Femme Fatal ultimate playlist on Rock Band.

No one gets by One Way or Another 'ceptin me.

...well and Blondie.

I suppose I should do something constructive.  I do need to wield the Swiffer duster.  Lord knows it's thick across the house.

Then again, the open windows and spring-like breeze should take care of that.

...you reckon?

WW IV

Held over for another week!

You can click to enlarge, but the quality is what you can expect from a cell phone.

If they change the sign next Wednesday, I may continue reporting. Otherwise I may seek early retirement from my recent foray into serious journalism.

I have indeed enjoyed bringing the latest in adult entertainment activity to you each Wednesday. 

But...

 I fear my next step would be to go deep undercover and report activities from within.

...as a competitor.

I don't know if they can handle that much Sugar in their cherry pie.

Cat Out of the Bag

Where are Mom and Dad going?

The blog awards.

What?

Yeah, Mom's got a blog.

How come you know about this and I don't?

I caught her.

What?

Yeah.  She wrote a post about Granny over a year and a half ago and then she left it up accidentally.

Did Dad know?

He caught her too, but didn't tell her he knew.  The she knew that he knew, but didn't tell him.  So for a long time she didn't let him know that she knew that he knew, and he didn't tell her he knew.  Then he found out that she knew that he knew. 

Why didn't Dad want her to know that he knew?

He thought that she'd change the way she wrote if she knew he was reading it.

What does she write about?

She writes about how she cries when I sing and how she cries when she looks at your man legs.  She also writes about Dad and family and friends and memories and experiences and what kind of wrestling is going on down at the strip club.

Weird.

Tell me.

Huzzah!

I'm just happy as a pig in slop.

Our gorgeous Nixa Lady Eagles just captured the Missouri Class 5A State Basketball Championship.

Grace, poise, and a scrappy determination was the order of the day.

Nixa 56, Blue Springs 39.

I'm exhausted and screamed out.  

...and that was just from watching it on TV.

I'm taking to my bed.