Well, I'll be go to Hell

Brighton and I were walking toward the cafeteria today…going to check out the lunch menu and fill up my water glass. We started back…and I’d forgotten to fill get my water.

“I’ll be go to hell.”

It got me to thinking about other little –isms you can find hereabouts in my beloved Ozarks. So I made a list. Now I realize these are said around and about, but these are things that have either come out of my mouth or the mouths of family/loved ones.

I cut my finger and bled like a stuck hog.
I’ve never actually seen a hog get stuck, but I imagine it’s messy.

It’s cold enough to hang meat here…and
It’s colder than a well-digger’s butt…and
It’s colder than a Witch’s tit in a brass bra.
I’ve never worn a brass bra, so I’m not sure about this one.

It’s so hot, I got meat fallin’ off the bone…and
I’m sweating like whore in church…and
He's sweating like a pig that knows he's Sunday dinner...and
I’m sweatin’ so hard my ass is making gravy.
The first I’ve heard, the second I use all the time, the third one everybody says, the fourth one…used by a dear albeit earthy friend...who also likes to say:

She's crazy as a shithouse rat.

We’re off like a herd of turtles
My uncle Eugene used to say this before setting off on those dreaded Sunday drives that I know look back on with fondness.

That Margarita is going through me like shit through a goose.
Me, me, a thousand times me.

She ain’t got the sense God give a goose.
There seems to be a goose pattern here. And the proper usage here is ‘give’ not ‘gave’.

He looks like he got whipped with the ugly stick.

It’s pouring like piss out of a boot.
It’s a toad strangler.
There are tons of rain quotes. I’ll just have to add them as I think of them.

He’d bitch if you hung him with a new rope
…or a gold rope depending on the person.

How are ya? Fat and sassy. I’m happy as a pig in slop.

Hungry? I could eat the ass end out of a goat.
Get enough to eat? Yup, I’m full as a tick.

Are you going to....church?
If the good lord’s willing and the creek don’t rise...and
I'm going if it hare-lips the Governor.
My mom used to say both of this. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Prissy Britches.

He run off like a scald ass ape...or
He run off like a scalded cat.
Again the usage is definitely ‘run’ not ‘ran’

He’s useless as tits on a boar hog.

That girl is wild as a March hare.

Calm down! You're wound as tight as an eight day clock.

Busy as a one armed paper hanger.

I know I’ve got manners cuz I never use any of ‘em.
My Great Granny used to say this.

Where were you? We was fixin’ to send out a posse.

Dear Lord, I could go on and on. And probably will with another post. I also have all kinds of superstitions that my Grandpa used to live by-especially about the weather.
So, I’ll close for now because:

I gotta pee so bad I can taste it... and
I gotta pee so bad my eyeballs are floating...and
I gotta piss like a Russian race horse.
Thank you Daddy, God rest his soul.

Come back by.
We’ll treat you so many ways you’re bound to like one of ‘em.

In a Panic

I overslept this morning.

I just love that feeling of panic you get when you immediately know you’ve slept through the alarm. It’s a feeling that creeps through the fog in your brain. You aren’t awake yet, but you’re not asleep. Your body knows and responds in the following way.

You leap out of bed cursing. My favorite is chanting “Ohshit, Ohshit, Ohshit” over and over again.

Every morning you get up and do the same thing. Pee, take shower, brush teeth… You dress and get out the door and can scarcely distinguish one morning from the rest. On these mornings however, you stand confused at the mirror wildly staring at yourself wondering what in the world to do first.

Teeth, teeth, I’ll brush my teeth!

Brilliant.

Next? C’mon, C’mon.

Shower? Out of the question-no time. Slap on some deodorant.

Hair? Ah, screw it.

Clothes…thank God it’s casual day. Jeans and Tee.

Make-up? Throw it in the tote and do it at work.

Kiss Big Daddy on the ear. (In your haste, that’s as close to the face as you can manage)

Out the door in ten minutes.

At work…on time, thank you very much.

“Sugar, you look great! What did you do different?”

“Well, I didn’t bathe, I have on no make-up and I have ‘FF’ hair.”

...and I’ve still gotta pee.

Calling Social Services

I yelled at Big Britches the other day.

He went $95 over on his cell phone bill. This is after we had the talk about going easy on the texting, switching his plan, and banning him from accessing the internet on his phone. After looking at the bill, the overages were caused by internet usage-in the middle of the night no less.
He swore he didn’t do it. Had no idea how he could have done it.

He’s lied before. He’s very accomplished at it-just like his Mamma. Therefore I didn’t believe him.

This is what I said, before I could stop myself.

“I can’t believe a thing you say. Get out of my face. I can’t stand to look at you!”

Big Daddy-ever the quiet voice of reason (me being a harpie) called the cell phone company to get to the bottom of the mystery.

Big Britches has insomnia-obtained honestly from Big Daddy. He plays Solitaire on his phone when he can’t sleep. After redoing his plan, none of us realized that if you don’t download said game directly to your phone, every time you play, you access the internet.

Oh.

I know, I know-that’s still a lot of Solitaire. Yes, he was still partially to blame.

Whatever.

I can’t take back my words. I can and did apologize-grovel even.

We’ve kissed and made up. I know his has forgiven me.

Can he forget?

You know by now, that I spend a lot of time reading crap. I guess any reading is better than no reading at all, but the problem is I subsidize my crap reading with crap television viewing. And I tend to engage in both activities paired with a cocktail. So now that summer is at its peak, I’ve compiled a list of classic American literary pieces (open for discussion I know) to read in between craps.

Here’s what I’ve got so far:

Truman Capote In Cold Blood
F Scott Fitzgerald The Great Gatsby
Mark Twain Huckleberry Finn*
James F Cooper The Last of the Mohicans
Ernest Hemingway A Farewell to Arms*
Louisa Mae Alcott Little Women
John Steinbeck Grapes of Wrath
Henry David Thoreau Walden*
Walt Whitman Leaves of Grass*
Willa Cather Oh! Pioneers

*denotes a re-read

What would you add or replace?

Ban Blogging

I read blogs, watch You Tube, check out Perez Hilton and occasionally do something at my desk that actually qualifies as work. Yesterday, IT cut off blog reading and You Tube.

I’m devestated.

Anything with ‘blog’ in the address or any variation therein is forbidden. Forbidden, I tell you. I’ll have to post in the mornings before work, I guess-I can’t even get on to my own blog. And I promised myself I’d give this little blogging experiment at least six months-a year at most. I suppose they feel we’ll spend more time working now.

Right.

Ah, the American work ethic.

Don’t get me wrong, I do my job and do it well, for my reviews tell me so. It just doesn’t take as long to get it done as they think it does. And I’ve told my boss this. Repeatedly. So have the girls I work with. We are all in the same boat. Bossy responds by saying that it balances out when a couple of times a year we are really swamped.

When does this busy time fall, exactly? I’ve missed it every year so far.

For awhile, I looked for things to do-asked for extra projects. I felt guilty. Past tense, if you noticed. For last week Bossy told us she needed to hire an additional person to pick up the slack when we’re traveling.

Do what?

I shouldn’t gripe. I like Bossy a lot, I really do. She is a great person to work for and with. I truly enjoy my job and the people around me. I like coming to work and Mondays hold no fear or dread for me. I just hope we can keep the productivity consultants at bay.

Alas…I’ve still got Perez.

Grapes of Wrath

Brighton and I stopped at a winery one afternoon whilst in Alabama. It was located on the second floor of an old building-right off the square. Charming and bucolic are two words that come to mind, but since I don't want anyone to go into diabetic coma, I'll refrain from using them.

Oops.

The proprietress, a flourishing transplant from Indiana gave us a lovely tasting and sold us a glass or 5 over the course of a couple of hours. How could an afternoon so drenched in good company and wine possibly go wrong?

SHE walked in. No, it wasn't Paris Hilton. But, Lawsie did it come close.

"Excuse me," she sniffed.

Yes. My hand to God. She sniffed.

"Where is the 'vin-yard'?"

Now must folks I know pronounce that word 'vinyerd'. Not SHE. She even prolonged the second syllable-vinyaaaaard.

Gulp. My wine soured.

Our hostess explained that they buy the juices and then make the wine there on site. She then offered her a tasting of the peach chardonnay.

"Oh, no thank you. No need. I have a very experienced palate."

WTF? Did she just say what I think she said? A very experienced palate? Well you know what, Sweetheart? I know the difference between Boone's Farm and Dom myself (and trust me there is room in this world for both) but that doesn't give me the right to be a snob for God's sake!

I hate people who make themselves feel superior at the expense of someone else. Which is usually how they have to get it done.

She then looked around for a few minutes and creaked back down the steps and out the door. I was dumbfounded. Why did she even come in?

Brighton and I immediately bought another glass and a few bottles to take home.

We had a lovely afternoon.

I have no artistic talent...

Have your words ever failed you? I've had experiences in my life that I've seen and felt and heard and smelled and tasted that bring tears to my eyes and I have no way to express them. Things beautiful and tragic.

The birth of my children
The death of my father(s)
A piece of music
A thunderstorm
A good glass of wine
My mother's failing mental and physical health


How do we get what we feel out of us in a tangible way?

It seems the most graceful and satisfying way to communicate the heart and soul is to brush a canvas or blow a piece of glass-throw some clay.

Would an artistic ability make expression easier when the words won't come? Would it be more disappointing when the expression won't flow from the heart to the hand?

I would love to bypass my clumsy words. Cut to the chase. Get it all out in a mass of color and texture and heat.

Where in the cat hair did this come from? I need to write something amusing.

Rockin' Down the Highway

Tooling home in the passing lane, I noticed a pick-up keeping pace with me in the driving lane. I'd try to speed up-he would speed up. As this was happening, I actually felt the person looking at me. Even though I tried not to, I looked over.

Wow...he was a hottie.

He winked, held up his left hand, pointed at his ring finger, and mouthed "Are you married?"

Well, how about that?

Sugar started to feel kinda cocky right about then. I had it going on! But wait...what if he was just poking fun at me? Quandary. I decided to stick with cocky and grinned back and nodded yes and shrugged.

He motioned for me to pull over and being of sound mind and body, I kept right on going-finally passing him and pulling over in the driving lane.

I still felt pretty good and looked in my rear view mirror, only to see him performing the same routine on some other unsuspecting thirty-something woman.

Alas...hopes dashed.

Six months later, same thing happened. Different guy, different gestures-crude and nasty this time.

So...

Is this a trend? Are these boys deranged?

Or is this a little game some guys play to pass the time? What would you do if the woman actually was fool enough to pull over?

Mmm.

Let's Chase Each Other...

...around the room tonight. Ah, Merle.


Big Daddy thinks I'm hot.

...after twenty years

...inspite of twenty pounds

...because of the ass and the boobs-both of which are ample

...proven by the foot rubs



I should rejoice. I imagine most woman would and do when they have a man attack them from behind at the sink.

However...I feel ridiculous. I am not a woman men lust after. I am curvacious to a fault, (I'm being kind to myself)I have an unfortunate overbite, and I belch out loud without any concern to the company around me.


I'm a class act, really.


So, secretly, I think Big Daddy has taste for shit. I swat him away and hurt his feelings. Anyone with any sense at all would find me revolting. So there must be something wrong with him and I should push him to the curb post haste.


Jeez, that is dumb!

Good Christ, that is neurotic!


Sometimes you just have to write your thoughts down in order to see just how big a dumb-ass you really are.

I think I'll feel him up tonight while he's working on the truck.


He'll like that.

Home, Sweet, Home

The business trip to Alabama was a rousing success, I was surrounded by retired southern gentlemen and gracious southern ladies.

At every turn, I was plied with homemade jams, (peach and blackberry) tomatoes, and cheesecake. Miss Mary sent me home with orange fudge. Another Mary presented me with a ceramic owl. She wanted to make certain I left their fair state with something made from Alabama clay.

Brighton (a co-worker and partner in crime with a love of all things Brighton, especially the shoes and sunglasses) told Jim that we were going to buy peaches on our drive home. He reported the next morning with two full baskets. He drove up to Chilton county after supper the night before and picked them himself. He wanted to make sure we didn't buy any junk on the way home. You can't be too careful with your peaches.


On the drive home there was an Oscar Mayer Wienermobile sighting. It was actually moving on the open highway. We waved. Ya gotta wave at the Wienermobile.


The drive home took us through Tupelo, Mississippi and the birthplace of Elvis. (Well, of course we stopped. Are you daft?) The lady taking tickets at the homestead said they were expecting 65 busloads in August-from England. I'm assuming they'll wait until they are stateside before actually getting on the bus. But, England? Well, he was 'The King'.


Brighton's husband is a Civil war buff. So, we stopped by Brice's Cross Roads for a book and a T-shirt. Does the remembrance/celebration of a civil war happen in other countries? It's a part of my heritage, but I wonder...


We bypassed Memphis. We'd been to Graceland before, so we passed this opportunity. I did hear Rendezvous ribs calling my name. We stopped at the Krystal instead. That's about as far north as they go, I think.


Coming home through Arkansas, we stopped and bought okra, cantaloupe, and fried pies-all from the same roadside stand.


We drove through Black Rock for my benefit. It saddened me beyond belief. It has been many years since I drove through my grandparents' hometown.


It is dead.


Every building in downtown is boarded up. The original corner grocery store was burned down, a new one (with much less personality) had replaced it and had closed also. I remember walking with my bubby, passed Bobby Gene's garage, to the store for a Coke. I can hear the bell on the door ting and the wood floors creak.


I arrived home to hugs and kisses from my Missouri men and gave them in return a carload of produce and home-canned goods.


The next night we had homemade ice cream with fresh Chilton County, Alabama peaches.


I love my life.

Homework

This is a paper by Little Britches. Don’t ya’ love it?

Auto Biography

Tall, dirty blonde, white, and outgoing
I am son of Big Daddy and Sugar Britches
I love food, amusement parks, and movies
I feel good, happy, and tired
I need food, family, and sleep
I give happiness, a friend, and food
I fear wax figures, parking garages, and clowns
I would like to see Washington D.C, Heaven, and the moon
I live in MO.


I give happiness…

Yeah you do, Babe.

Serving...

I sat and watched the rockets' red glare and the bombs bursting in air last night with the family and friends-homemade vanilla ice cream to pass. My favorite couple had matching red, white and blue flag shirts on. They purchased these beauties at the Bass Pro Shops.

Of course they did.

I love fireworks. I mean to the point that they actually give me joy. It's the whole multi-sensory experience. I feel the percussion of the artillery shells in my belly. The smell of gunpowder and the lights exploding. During a really good show I have been known to laugh hysterically with tears running down my face.

I'm an odd duck, I know. I look the fool.

This year, while engaging in said spectacle, I thought of our men and women overseas. When they come home, will they ever view fireworks in the same way?

I have a friend that served in the Marines during Desert Storm. He told me that only unexpected fireworks really bothered him, but the first time he heard storm sirens after coming home, he freaked out a little. But he said that was just him. Different things affect different people-and for different lengths of time.

My dad served in Korea. He was 16 when he joined-lied about his age. Helicopters bothered him.

My grandpa served in the Pacific theatre in WWII. He wouldn't talk about it much at all, but certain smells would make him nauseous-smells that the rest of us couldn't even pick up.

So, when they come home, what will bring them joy and what will cause them pain?

Suddenly, I feel the fool.

A new favorite

I've mentioned I get antsy if I don't have a book to read at all times. So I have a few in the queue.

A new favorite is the Prey Series by John Sandford. I know I'm late to discover him, but I love me some Lucas Davenport. Lord, that man is so sexy he could only exist in fiction. But, I love finding new series of books. So, now I have about 16 more to go. Awesome! The only problem is finding them if they are out of print. Ah well, I love a trip to the used book store.

Another favorite author is Tess Gerritsen. A retired M.D. and full time author, she writes a great thriller. You'll end up liking Maura and Jane I'll bet.

I'm dying to get my hands on books by Meg Gardiner. She publishes out of England so it's going to be a challenge to get all of her series.

I need to re-read "Half-Blood Prince" before the the final Harry arrives. I'd better get cracking.

Heading South

A part of my raising took place in rural Arkansas. Some of my people still live there, including my Granny, so I still consider it 'down home'. One habit I picked up there is, no matter if I've known you for a second or for years, I'm going to call you 'Babe', 'Sweetheart', 'Honey', or 'Darlin''.

"Would you like me to push the cart to your car for you, Ma'm?"
"No thanks, Babe. I've got it."

"How are you, Sugarbritches?"
"Fat and Sassy, Darlin', what's up with you?"

"Mrs. Britches, would you tell Big that Bill called?"
"You bet, Sweetheart."

This works out great especially when I can't recall your name from Adam. It sets up an air of familiarity. It's a problem because I've realized that some people hate it. It's too much familiarity.

I always liked it. I guess that's why I picked it up. It never felt offensive or patronizing-just kind of warm and friendly.

I'm bringing it up because I have to travel to Prattville, Alabama next week for work. I'm going to get 'Ma'med' and 'honeyed' into a frenzy.

Somehow, those words coming form the lips of a southern man makes me glad to be a woman.

Not very feminist is it.

I take it back

It's not worth it.

At 5:00 this morning we chucked the downpours in lake country. While our crap dries out in the garage, I'm sitting in my chair with a glass of red wine and my new John Sandford novel. At least I will be when I finish this post.

Stick a fork in me.