Hello, God. It's me, Sugar.

OK.

So I love to play Rock Band, right?

So for Christmas, I bought 'the boys' Rock Band 2.

Oh. My. God.

Fleetwood Mac, Billy Idol, Journey.  I'm in all kinds of 80's Heaven.

So in order to keep my fat, happy ass off their game, they broke down and bought me my own game.

Dance Dance Revolution.

Wait a minute.  I forgot.  In order to be cool and sound like I know what I'm talking about I need to refer to it only as DDR. (Thank the good Lord they didn't get me the Hannah Montana version)

I don't think I like this game as much.

It requires movement.

I'm not saying I don't need movement.  Because if you've ever taken a gander at my backside it would immediately become evidently clear that I do.

I just don't want it.  Movement, that is.

You also need coordination.

Which, surprisingly I have.

Have you ever watched the dancing sows on an episode of Hee Haw?

That's me!

I'm a corn fed gal, but I can cut a rug with the best of 'em.

If need be.

However, DDR (because I'm nothing if not cool) is a pad with nine squares.  It requires quick feet and jumping.

My thighs are still burning and I haven't touched it for two days.

But I will.

As God as my witness, I will DDR for at least three days a week for 30 minutes.

Sshhhh.

Maybe He didn't hear that last Scarlett-like proclamation.

But here's the God-lite Chet and a dandy example of my dancing prowess.

Get it?  Sowess-Prowess?

That's the Breaks

I've broken three wine stems this week.

One broke in my hand.  I was picking it up to fill it and it simply shattered (Shadoobie) leaving a gash in my middle finger-a finger that gets a lot of activity I might add.  It bled profusely, but now is just sore and healing into a dandy scar.

Two I forced into the top rack of the dishwasher. I snapped them right off at the base of the bowl.

Now, I knew after I broke the first one that the second one wouldn't fit.  But because of the red wine consumed in said glass, I was convinced that this time around a glass would indeed fit. Somehow the dishwasher's dimensions had changed overnight.

I was sure of it.

In fact, I was a little shocked and surprised when for the second time in 24 hours a stem snapped off when I tried to slide the top rack back in.

Ping!

Hmm. 

Is it pure coincidence that Big gifted me with a set of stemless wine glasses for Christmas?

I think not.

The Simple Things

When Big Daddy and I were first married, we'd go to the mall and watch people. We'd window shop and dream and he'd let me try on clothes we could never afford.

I also made a big show out of holding his hand or stealing a kiss because I wanted women to know I was with him and under no circumstances would I let them get their hands on him.

Our treat was a trip to Mr. Bulky's to buy jordan almonds.

I'd never had them growing up.  I had no idea that jordan almonds were candy coated and reminiscent of M&Ms but without the chocolate. They were pastel colored and appeared to made for Easter.

He thought this was unacceptable and an error in my upbringing.  So while we were shopping through windows and dreaming and watching, we'd share a small bag. I used to suck on them until the candy was gone and then eat the almond. 

He went Christmas shopping yesterday.  He was gone most of the day and when he returned he came bearing gifts to be wrapped and some to be enjoyed immediately.

They were red and green and white and candy coated.

I hid them in our bedroom and refuse to share them.

Sometimes something is so sentimental and so special and so sweet that it is just for you, ya know?

Sugar and the Donettes

Brighton brought in Hostess Donettes today.

Sounds like a fifties girl group, doesn’t it.

“Ladies and gentleman-boys and girls, put your mittens around your kittens and get ready to shake, rattle, and roll to the latest sensation: The Hostess Donettes!”

But, no.

They are those little white powder sugar doughnuts that are nothing but sugar, flour, lard, and preservatives.

Yum.

I broke down and ate one.  At least I think I did.  I inhaled something without chewing.  I went to the bathroom an hour later and found I had conspicuous white powder under my nose.

Did I mention I had been in a meeting between the doughnut consumption and the meeting?

I didn’t?

Oh.

So yeah, I sat in a meeting with a powdery substance under my nose and no one said a word to me about it.

Not. One. Word.

Just Talking

I stood in the kitchen and talked to my boys tonight.

They had covered two Christmas parties this evening.

There was laughing and teasing and an impromptu bass recital.

There was gossip about their cousin and his meds.

There was sharing of photos from cell phones.

There were confessions of naughty white elephants.

There was an actual white elephant.  Made of wood it was, but still an elephant.

There was the aftermath of too much really great Mexican food.

There was mock terror and mimicking Big Daddy and his finger snap/finger point/look of death combo when they get out of line.   

They left and went to the other end of the house and disappeared in their rooms.

I lingered in the kitchen for awhile.  

A Baby

The thing that I remember most vividly about children I have held, my own and others, is the smell of them. Babies have that smell that comes off their scalp, it's unique to them, like a puppy's breath. They nuzzle in the spot between your neck and shoulder, warm, fragile breath, whispers against your neck, and that baby smell fills your senses. When you hold that child, smell that baby smell, you can't have bad thoughts. You know you are holding one of the best of us, untainted with all of the crap that we accumulate as adults.

This is the most beautiful paragraph I have read in a long while. 

The rest of his post deteriorates into ugliness.  Not by his writing or recitation of truth, but the subject matter.

After I read Midtown’s post today, I wanted to go home and hug my own kids.  Even though they have smelly feet and their scalp no longer carries the scent of the miraculous, they are my babies, and I can still remember them as when.

I then read and reread his first paragraph.  Amidst so much ugliness, a baby indeed smells of beauty and hope and truth.

What a beautiful reminder, especially this time a year.

A Winter's Night Fall

So I slipped on the ice last night, right?

I jumped right back up.  There was no need to rent a derrick to get me back up and into my car.

I fell on my right side.  I caught myself with my right elbow and landed on my right butt cheek.

So why is my left side sore, huh?  

I reckon I pulled everything on my left side out of whack.

Flat as a flitter I was.

And shocked.

And embarrassed.  

I had zero regard for my safety because I immediately looked around to make sure no one had been privy to my nocturnal stumbling.

Of course I knew it was icy, but I came barreling out the doors like nobody's business.

To add insult to non-injury I had to scrape my windshield before I could drive home.

sigh.

Shaggy

OK.  So you've heard me carry on about Little's man legs, yes?

It's been over a year since I  made that discovery.

This morning, I let him drive back from the high school where he helped participate in a Pearl Harbor Day remembrance gathering.

It's bracingly cold outside. (IE colder than a well-digger's butt) And when it is that cold, the shining sun seems even brighter.  I looked over at him and the sun coming in the windshield perfectly highlighted the blond hairs covering his chin.

Sweet Jesus.

It stopped my heart.

Decisions, Decisions

I'm waiting for the banana bread to cool.  Sometimes I think the boys let bananas turn brown on purpose just so I'll bake up a batch.

Football is on in the living room.

A new video game is in the Xbox 360.

The clothes are folded.

The dishes are done.

Soon The Office will start.

While I wait, paintings are being perused.

It is impossible to narrow it down to just one favorite.

Maybe by the time I've made my selection, the banana bread will be ready to slice.

If you have a mind to, come on over and have some.  

...after you've chosen your favorite.

Pickin' and Grinnin'

So I'm sitting there this evening taking in a little Hee Haw.

The episode is circa 1969.  I was a mere one year of age when this originally aired.  The jokes were corny and stale back then and I am ecstatic to report they haven't changed one wit. (Get it? Wit?  Ha!  I kill me!) 

If I groaned once, I groaned a hundred times in the hour.  One thing you can say about a bad joke, it weathers well.  It can't get any worse with time.

...but then again, it can't get any better.

Example.  

"Hey, I hear you play the trombone."

"Yeah, but lately I've been lettin' it slide.

Poetry.  Pure poetry.  

So not only was I steeped in awesome cheesy cornpone, I reveled in vintage Tammy Wynette and got to witness Mr. Haggard when he was clean shaven and sporting a pompadour.  

Don't that just churn your butter?

All was not golden however.

The Hager Twins.  

Really? 

Why?

No Hurry

Today I feel sorry for anyone who wants to peer in my kitchen window.

Not that I'm accustomed to that sort of tomfoolery, but the heat from the stove is making peering or leering impossible.  It's difficult to see through fogged up windows.

The frost on the bottoms is a good indicator that the air is freezing. As I house-slipper my way out to the back deck to sip coffee, the cattle on the fence row prove my hypothesis by snorting steam out from their noses.  

Yeah, snorted. 

 I heard them.

I appreciate that the neighbor has returned cattle to that pasture.  I like my cross-field bovine conversations.  Most days we don't discuss much, but today we had a visit about the pickup trucks that joined them yesterday and the fence mending that took place.

We said our good days and I retreated back into my kitchen and was blasted in the face by warmth and the smell of cranberries and cinnamon simmering on the stove.

The yeast rolls are rising nicely and the vegetables are in the oven melting in swiss cheese.

I reckon I orta take a shower before time gets away from me, but the fire in the wood stove beckons and I think I'll succumb to its call to sit beside it for a spell.

We'll be over the river and through the woods soon enough.

No Turkey Today

Today will be spent with just my little nuclear family.

An old family recipe involving ground ham will be eaten today.  It involves a brown sugar glaze and some baking time.

The usual Thanksgiving feast will be held Saturday, with Big Daddy in charge of the bird.

So today I give thanks with my men.

Conflicts at home and at work have been-or are in the process of being-resolved and I'm thankful for the return of my internal sunshine.

So stayed tuned.  I think my blogging britches have been hung up long enough.  They've been properly aired out are ready to return to service.

Have a blessed day.

The Albatross

I’m immersed in a project now that is the bane of my professional existence.  It has me so downtrodden I have little interest in working on it and therefore procrastinate because I detest it so.

It’s not that documenting processes for a new system is all that terrible, but it can be horrifically boring and repetitive and leave little room for creativity.  

That’s where my blogging comes in.

Well…it used too.

I’m not posting much and honestly have very little enthusiasm to try. I still voraciously read and check in with everyone else, but hitting the keys at my own digs takes too much effort.

I think it all stems from this horrible assignment.

I have corporate pulling my arms, telling me how this system works, how it should work and who has authority to do what and when. “We need checks and balances.  We need to control authorization!”

I have the end users pulling my feet.  “Corporate has no business in our affairs.  They don’t use the system and shouldn’t have any say in its day to day operation.”

I didn’t mind when they got attitudes with each other, because I am the neutral party.

At least I was.

I’m now on the receiving end of the attitudes and I gotta tell you…I don’t care for it much. 

Why are you checking in with so and so?

Uh, she’s the project manager.

She doesn’t use this system, you need to be checking in with us.

I’ll certainly be happy to show you anything I have and as a matter of fact I do need your input.

You need to let us review it not her!

Nobody has decided where the processes are going to be housed and who has control over them once they are finished.  Who is going to do ongoing maintenance?  

Just tell me who in God’s name is in charge! 

I’m going to piss somebody off and I hate that.  Yet it isn’t me making the decisions. 

…and I don’t know who is...making the decisions.

This ain’t my first rodeo, kids.  I’ve done this sort of thing before and I hate the personal and emotional toll this project is taking on me.  Usually I’m above it all, but I’m a hair’s breath away from extricating myself from this whole ugly mess, giving them what I have so far and telling them to go to a hot place.

Am I just burned out?

So here I sit.

...or should I say lie?

… on the proverbial rack.

Outside

Big Daddy and I went out on the deck tonight to get the stink blowed off us.

He felt the need for a cigar, so he took the livestock and out he went.

I donned my sheep skin slippers to ward off a slight chill and followed.

We sat side be side on top of the picnic table and listened to nothing.

The sound of nothing can be eerie.

There was no wind in the trees, no bugs kicking up a fuss, no frogs sounding off.  We didn't even hear the sound of traffic from the nearby main road.

A glow lit up the valley.  We think it came from town but we're not sure.

It was an evening for sneaking up on something.  Or an evening for something to sneak up on you.

We sat side be side breathing in clean cool air disrupted only by the occasional pleasant whiff of cigar smoke.

We wanted to talk to each other but the silence was deafening.

Saved by Zero

Lester used to sing the national anthem of the Philippines.

He’d sing it loud, off-key, and in its entirety.  Bubby and I would join him in song and collapse to the floor in giggles because Grampa couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.

I searched for years to find a copy of the Filipino national anthem. …or at least someone who knew the words.  

I came up empty handed.

I relayed this story and sang a few bars of what I remembered for Big one night.

Thanks to the digital age and his 99 cent gift, I now have a copy of Lupang Hinirang.

It sounds nothing remotely like what I remember. 

 I could call Bubby right now and ask him to sing it with me and I guaran-damn-tee that we’d come up with roughly the same melody and skewered words.  Words we have no idea how to pronounce correctly or define.  

Are they even real words?

Probably not.

Today there is a different Filipino anthem than there was in the early forties. Diwa ng Bayan was sung at the time and doing a little research and finding the lyrics, it’s possible this was the song he would sing to us.  The words sound somewhat closer to what I know.

But then again, Grampa was born in Elizabeth, Arkansas.  It could have just been his backwoods southern accent coloring the pronunciation of Filipino words.

I miss it.  I listen to my Uncle Hippy who sounds of him and go to a giddy, happy place.

Grampa served in the South West Pacific theatre in World War II.  He was stationed on those islands and it is a small wonder to me that he came away with such a charming thing to share with his grandkids.

Growing up, his buddies called him Doll. He had these amazing, surreal blue eyes-the kind you’d see on a porcelain baby doll.  He had doll eyes.  He said he never cared for the nickname until he noticed that the little gals all thought it, and he, was cute.  

Then he didn’t mind so much.

During the war, he acquired a different nickname.  They called him Zero, because that was what he did.  He shot down Japanese Zero fighter planes.   I don’t know the particulars unfortunately.  Next Sunday when I talk to Granny, I’ll ask her.

I’ll get back to you.

He enjoyed the Filipino people. He’d shut down on us though, when we’d ask him about the Japanese. He’d just get up and go to the kitchen.

“I need some bristles.”

Pretzels.

 I remember once walking into a K-Mart with him.  He stopped suddenly at the front door and told me to go catch up with Grandma.  I asked him why and he told me there were Japanese folks in the store.

He told me this in a more, um, colorful manner.

He left.  

I looked around and couldn’t see anyone that looked Japanese.  I shrugged and caught up with Grandma.  I told her where he’d gone.

“Babe, he always knows when one is around.  He can smell them.  You wait, we’ll run across one.”

We did.

I will never know what he saw and felt and absorbed through the very pores of his skin. 

I never marched in his combat boots.  

…nor my dad’s who served in Korea.

…nor my brother’s who served in the Persian Gulf.

...nor all of you today who were-and continue to be-in harm’s way.

And thanks to all of them, I won’t have to.

Getting Old?

I just finished performing my morning ablutions.

Shower, makeup, hair.

I was standing at the vanity in my bra and drawers putting blush on my cheeks.  

I don't say that to be titillating.

I tend to be vigorous in my rouge application.  Every time I would swipe the brush across my cheeks I heard a weird sound coming from beneath my right arm.

It was my arm flab.

...flapping.

...audibly.

I told you it wasn't titillating.

Election's Eve

There's a pumpkin pie in the oven.

A chicken pot pie has been eaten for supper.  I put a biscuit topping on instead of a crust.  My men tend to eat their veggies if they're camouflaged in something interesting.

I've put supper in the crock pot for tomorrow night.  The recipe called for a cup of white wine. That means there is the better part of a bottle left over.  

I reckon there is nothing for it except to finish it off myself.  God knows wine doesn't keep once it's been opened.

It doesn't, does it?

I imagine I'll take my happy ass into the living room and sit it upon the couch for a night of TV.

Big is at rehearsal.  "Singing in the Rain"  for the fall show.

Big Daddy and Little are up at the local Bass Pro.  There is need of a hunter education card, so classes must be taken.  One is there for moral support, the other is in need of a passing grade before deer tags can be obtained.

Guess who is who?

Me?  I reckon I'll see how Denny Crane's mad cow is coming along.

I'll feed the livestock.  

Finish the wine.

Enjoy a weirdly warm autumn evening.

And I'll pray.

The election is tomorrow. 

Tonight, I pray for healing.  I pray for my country's decision.  I pray that no matter what the outcome tomorrow we can come together united to fix the many problems we have.

I pray the rest of the world will once again look to us as a beacon of hope and integrity.

...and change.

No man is an island.

Is it any different for a country?

I know my vote.  And no matter what anyone else says, my vote does count.

So much hinges on the choice made tomorrow.  

So, my dearest blog brothers and sisters,  no matter your decision...no matter your opinion...no matter your heart.

Be true to your country and vote.

Rest, review, reflect.

...and elect.

Another Conversation with Gram

Sometimes when I get off the phone with her, my head actually spins.  She changes mood faster than a girl changes clothes.

Granny, how are you?

Hi, Babe.  Oh Honey, Granny’s no good.  I haven’t been sleeping.

I’m sorry.  You OK?

Oh I’ve got the acid reflux.  I wake up and my chest is on fire.  I’ve got medicine, but it ain’t no count.

I hear ya.

You scared me awhile ago when I called the home to talk to yer Mommy and you answered.  It’s not like you to be there in the middle of the week.  I just knew something was wrong.

No, It ‘s her birthday and I thought I should go see her.  I got off work a few hours early.

Well it worried me.  But you know your poor old Grandpa used to tell me I worry about things that will never happen.  (Sniffle)  I sure wish I could see your Mommy one more time before I leave this Earth.  But, I know I won’t.  (Sniffle) I’m just too old.  But I won’t complain.  God’s been good to me.  I won’t complain.

It’ll be fine, Honey.

My stomach just hurts me so bad.  I wish I could get my bowels to move.  They seem to be stopped up.

Uh, OK.  Have you taken anything?

I try but it makes me sick at my stomach.  Do you still have problems with your bowels moving, Babe?

Huh?

You know when you were little you had a terrible time.  You’d sit on the pot and cry.

Really?  I uh…

And then you’d pass a stool so big I’d have to cut it up with a coat hanger to get it to flush.

Jesus God, Granny.  You did not!  Are you sure that wasn’t Bubby?

No, Babe it was you.  I told you not to eat all that cheese.

I don’t believe a word you’re saying.

Good, cuz I’m storyin’.  Ha!  Gotcha.  But Babe you did eat too much cheese.

Granny I’m going to kick ya!

Maybe it’ll help my bowels move.

Reason Enough

I'm almost home.

And I don't mind telling you...I'm exhausted.

I guess that's what you get for running naked through town.

On top of it all I'm shouting.

Gas is $1.96! Gas is $1.96! Gas is $1.96!

Well, technically, Gas is $1.93!  It is when you buy it at Wal-Mart and use a gift card.  You get three cents off whatever the price is on the sign.

So.  I'm a little chilly.  I'm a little horse.  (as opposed to a big horse?)  I mean my throat is sore.

But if those gas prices aren't enough reason to go running naked through town, I don't know what is.

I'm coming, Officer.  I need to tie my shoe laces.

Tomorrow

Big gets his senior pictures taken tomorrow.

You'd think I'd have something substantial to say about that.  You're expecting some kind of embarrassing emotional outburst, aren't ya?

Let me think.

...

...

...

No.  Nothing.  

His favorite bowling shirt is ironed and ready to go.

...

...

He got a haircut.

...

...

He's wearing his Chuck Taylors.

...

...

...

Maybe I'll have more to say after they're done.

...

...

We'll see.

The Recipe

Just so all of you will stop clamoring, I'm going to give you my recipe for cranberry tea.

OK.  So nobody is clamoring.  But...I get such joy out of this simple fall beverage that it would just warm my heart if one of my long distant blog buddies would partake and enjoy also.

So as I make the second batch of the year...

1 package cranberries

2 qt. water

3 cinnamon sticks

Bring to boil, reduce heat and simmer 20 minutes.  Make sure to enjoy the popping sounds of the berries as they crack open from the heat.

Strain cranberries.

At this point, I take the cranberries and concoct a homemade sauce.  Of course this isn't to every one's liking and you should only use this as a guideline, but whilst the cranberries are still hot, I put them in a small bowl and add:

1 tsp. lemon peel

1 tsp. orange peel

1/2 C brown sugar

1/2 C sugar

Stir and refrigerate.

As I said, this could be too sweet.  However, after it is cooled, Big has been known to take a spoon and eat the whole mess.  

Then he sits on the stool for two days.  

I'm just kidding.  He doesn't.  But we don't worry about urinary tract infections.

Back to the tea...

Add to the strained cranberry juice:

2 C pineapple juice

2 C orange juice

2 C water

1 C sugar

Simmer 20 -30 minutes.

Awesome, Y'all.  This is where you could add some cinnamon schnapps to taste and have a fine hot cocktail to partake of in front of a roaring fire.

Or, if you want it to remain non-alcoholic, here is the secret to adding extra cinnamony goodness.  When you bring the batch to a boil, add a package of red hots.

Yeah, the candy.

Melt it all down.

Keep warm in a crock pot.  

Every time you come into the house from out of the chill, the smell will hit you and you'll be in autumn Heaven.

You're welcome.

A Roast in Every Pot

So there’s a nip in the air, right?

What does that mean?  Hot beverage season has arrived!

I stopped at my local Price Cutter last evening after work to get fixin’s for my favorite.  On the way in, I noticed a couple of store associates hanging out in the parking lot talking to a young woman with a small child.

I went in and picked up fresh cranberries, orange/pineapple juice, cinnamon sticks and schnapps and a few other items.  I ended up spending $50 dollars out of the $20 I had allotted myself for weekend fun. So I am in the negative already and it is only Thursday.

On the way out I noticed the store folks and the young woman were still standing in the parking lot.  One of the associates wore a white lab coat that gave away his status as butcher.  A third man had joined them-one of our small town’s finest in blue- and he was searching the young woman’s car.  On closer, covert inspection, I noticed the butcher was now holding a package of roast in his hand.

Ah.  I see.

Let me explain something about myself-I have a cold hard heart about some things.  Usually when someone gets busted for shoplifting a lipstick or bottle of vodka or a Glade air freshener, (true stories every one) I have very little sympathy.  People panhandling at the corners of busy intersections and highway ramps only cause accidents and I’m never compelled to give them money.  I hate it when chunky young women hold up signs telling me they are hungry and then use their equally chubby children and/or dogs as bait.  It does not make me feel sympathetic. It makes me angry.

But last night my heart broke for this woman.

I was inside cheerfully buying crap I didn’t need with money I didn’t have so I could enjoy a tipple on a chilly evening.  I was humming to myself in anticipation for God’s sake!

This young woman, however, was tired of feeding her pale son hot dogs and canned tuna.  Something inside of her snapped and she slipped a high quality cut of meat inside her hoodie.

She stood quietly while the officer inspected her belongings.  She didn’t scream or throw any type of white trash hissy fit.  It wasn’t Cops-worthy.

She stood there with dignity.  Yes, you heard me.  Dignity. 

I wanted to buy that meat for her.  I wanted to take my bottle of liquor back inside, return it, and buy her that roast. 

But it was too late.

Later as I drank my spiked cranberry tea, I thought of her.

It tasted bitter.

Fall Behind

After work this evening I walked out into the cold and wet.

Rain.  

Brown wet leaves sticking to everything.

Autumn.

I'm beside myself I'm so excited.

I'm here.  I'm over here.  I'm here, I'm over here.

You should see me.  I'm cuteness personified.

But since you can't-see me that is-you'll have to take my word for it. 

Fall is here.

Finally.

It's dreary, chilly, and just a wee bit depressing.

I couldn't be happier.

Acting the Fool

It's been a big day for me.

...and you're going to get a sappy post.

So if you don't enjoy reading about my kids, then now is the time to go and read something else.

Love Yuns. See ya soon!

For the rest of ya's...

News flash. My kids aren't perfect. Hard to believe, but true nonetheless. In fact, I have posts written about lapses in judgement, poor choices, laziness, and well, just plain stupidity.

...and those are just about me.

But I don't publish those.

My boys break my heart on a regular basis. Sometimes it's a pleasant ache and other times, it's a bitter acidic burning in my stomach.

The good with the bad you know.

But as usual, I'll report the fantastic.

Little got his driving permit today.

For those of you who visit from across the way, here in the states at 15 you can take and pass a written test. Then you can put in drive time legally with a licensed driver.

Basically, it's a practice permit.

While waiting for him to take his test, I ran into friend I graduated high school with. She was there with her oldest.

We chatted about the year we got our own permits. Now, here we were. She and her oldest and me with my youngest.

I teared up with Big because he was the first. I teared up with Little because he is the last.

After coming home drunk with nostalgia and...and...Ok just nostalgia, it was time to prepare for homecoming activities at the high school.

Big was singing the anthem with the choir and Little rocking the tuba.

The boys had to be at school long before we did. They had things to do and all Big Daddy and I needed to do was show up. So Little drove off with Big in the passenger seat patiently showing him the ins and outs of a manual transmission.

Yeah, dammit. I teared up.

Sigh. Again.

The neighbor across the way saw me standing on the porch, watching.

You OK, Sug?

Yeah. Little got his permit today.

Nervous Mom, huh?

Actually, this just breaks my heart a little.

I understand.

Then at the end of the drive, Little popped the clutch and killed the motor.

I laughed and everything was right with the world.

So Little made me cry today. I blubber at the drop of a hat and there's nothing for it. I ain't worth shootin' and we all know it, but there it is.

But...

Big did me in, too.

At the football game he not only sang the anthem with the choir, he was the soloist.

Did he tell me he was doing this? Of course not. He knows how I am! He knows I become a puddle of ridiculousness when he springs things like this on me.

You're right. I know. I know. Even if he had told me I would have swelled up tears of pride, but I could have prepared some and not made quite such a huge spectacle of myself.

But he didn't so it serves him right. He could have saved himself the embarrassment of his ridiculous mother.

Maybe he does know and just doesn't care. Or... maybe he secretly enjoys my displays of idiocy.

Either way, my boys have done me in and I'm going to bed.

I'm worn slick.

Proof

I am the poster child for negative self-absorption. I had to walk through our cafeteria today. I needed to walk some DVDs over to security and the shortest route is cutting through both dining rooms and then on through the doors on the far side. It was traumatic to say the least. I kept my head down.  I never looked up once as I bravely strode across hostile territory-a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I’m a grown woman. But when I have to walk through a room full of people I am transported right back to 6th grade. After lunch, we would line up and walk back down to our 6th grade pod.  In order to get back we had to walk through the library.  I could feel the bile rise in my throat as we would approach the first stack of books and would gird my loins against the attacks of the big kids (7th graders) that were there for study hall. The attacks were only in my mind of course.  But the stares were real.  All eyes would look up as we passed and the giggles would begin.  The stifled snorts of laughter that I just knew were aimed at my homespun, orange double-knit pants.  The sneers directed at my buck teeth.  I could feel my face begin to flame as I imagined them pointing. (Imagined because I would never dream of actually looking up) I convinced myself that I was the object of that laughter. ..though there was never any proof. Just as I convinced myself that when a cute boy smiled at me in class one day, that he was actually making fun of me.   I just knew that his buddies put him up to it as a joke. … though there was never any proof. I guess that’s when I started down my path of self-deprecation.  Beat ‘em to the imagined punch-get the added bonus of everybody thinking I'm funny-the relief of being laughed with not at. …and yes there is a difference. Funny, isn’t it, what shapes your personality?  So today I walked back to my office pod from security the long way-avoiding a return trip through the cafeteria.  I convinced myself it was for exercise. My little 6th grade self knew it was to avoid the stares and giggles of 7th graders disguised as adult professionals. For those of you hoping I would finish this little post by bravely walking back through, looking up, and overcoming my fears-I’m afraid I’ve disappointed you. Because by the time I had chatted up security and regaled the receptionist with my latest stalest punny joke, I had convinced myself that the stares I felt on me, and the raucous lunchtime laughs, were actually comments on the size of my ass. …though there was never any proof.

At Dawn They Slept

I was driving Little to Sunday School this morning.  We were chatting about the band contest yesterday, rehashing performances, disputing scores.  The usual.

Our little marching band was featured on the local news last night.  Pretty heavy stuff!

This year the music-and all the other trappings that go into a marching band show-is a tribute. It lovingly tells the story of Pearl Harbor and gives its respects to the fallen soldiers. 

It is a daunting task but we've met the challenge and so far have eight trophies to show for it.  It is moving without being cheesy.

But Little pointed out to me this morning that this year the show isn't about winning awards. 

It can't be or it won' t work.

Before each performance they listen to recorded stories of survivors, they have a history lesson. Another way to get the students into the moment and the right frame of mind is a particular addition to their uniforms.

Dog Tags.

Each member wears the name of the show on one tag and the name of a fallen soldier on the other.  

I noticed some wore their tags on the outside of their uniform and some didn't.

Little wears his on the outside.

Yeah.  Well he's my guy, Mom.  And if I wear the tags on the outside when we compete, it's like he can see the show and know it's for him.

Wait a minute.

 Gulp.  

Swallow.

Swallow.

I had to get that lump out of my throat before I could continue.

From the mouths of babes they say.

I hope Little never shuts his.

The Escort

If ya have a hankerin’ for some spooky reads this month, run on over to Moxie’s place.  She’s got tricks and treats in store for us this month of the supernatural variety.

It got me thinking.

I didn’t realize what an influence my grandparents really had on me until I started writing this blog.  I’ve written about them a lot and I didn’t expect that to happen.  It’s been a happy accident, thank you Bob Ross, that I’ve journaled about Granny and Grandpa.

I gave Moxie a little yarn about Prissy and her ‘sight’.  I call it a bunch of hog wash, but this time of year it surely is fun to believe a little.

According to Prissy, this is just this kind of attitude that will ever prevent me from ‘seeing’ anything.

Well, thank Jesus!  I’ll leave the otherworld in the other world.

Anyhoo, my Bub is intrigued by the whole thing and has stories of his own.  One of which I will tell here. 

It involves our Grandpa.

But first, if you haven’t been with me long, go read about Dad and Gramps.  It won’t take you long, and I’d like you to get to know them.  They were fantabulous men and if my boys turn out half as well, I will be living large indeed.

If you’ve already read these two posts you are acquainted with Steve and Lester and can come on along.

Ahem.  ...and so we begin.

It was a dark and stormy night.

No joking.

The year was 1995.  Grandpa had cancer.  I could go into detail, but anyone who has ever dealt with this demonic disease knows that watching someone waste away from it is the very vision of hell.  Granny called and told us that the time had come. We’d better get on the road to Arkansas.

Big and Little were both little.  They were already in bed and the weather sucked.  I told Granny we’d come down first thing in the morning.

We didn’t make it.  And of course I'll regret it all of my days.

He had already passed.

I grabbed Bubby and we went outside so he could grab a smoke and fill me in.

Well, Sis.  Uncle Hippy kept begging him to hang on and not to go.  Prissy was on the other side of him telling him she knew he was tired and to feel free to go.  Granny sat at the end of the bed and cried and rocked and moaned.

Good times.

I got tired of standing there and walked over toward the bathroom and leaned against the sink.  And the weirdest thing happened.  I smelled smoke.  I looked all over, up and down the hall, and couldn’t find anyone smoking.  I knew it wasn't smoke lingering on me, because the smell wasn't right.  I stood there a moment longer and then the scent came on stronger and just knocked me over.  It was pipe tobacco.  It was Captain Black.  And Sugar, I swear to God the instant that smoke started to subside, Grandpa died.

Of course.

I knew what he was telling me. 

My mother and my uncle played tug of war over their father-the same old dance that estranged them then and keeps them estranged to this day.  While they carried out their drama, our Dad quietly and peacefully sneaked our Grandpa out the back door.

Hogwash? 

Probably.

But it sure is comforting.

Restless

Here I sit.

Big Daddy has a class tonight.

Little is at a soccer game.

Big is at rehearsal.

I fed the livestock.

I changed my clothes without issue.

I put some supper on.

I wanted to go for a walk, but my lazy bone has healed from its recent bout of activity, so I turned on the TV instead.

I turned off the TV.

I picked up a book.

I put it down.

I turned on the vacuum.  I turned it off.

I put in a load of laundry.

I lit some candles.  Cinnamon.

There’s a chicken package left in the trash.  I take out the trash before it starts to stink.

I come back in from the garage and stand in the middle of the kitchen.

I scratch my head.

I look around.

I went out on the deck.

I watered the dogs.

I emptied cigar butts out of the ash tray.

I came back in.

I perused iTunes.

I put on a pot of coffee.

I read a few blogs.

I tried to call a friend.  Voice mail.

I hung up.

I walked out the front door and to the end of the drive.

I stand there.

Heavy sigh.

I walk back.

Here I sit.

…some days, ya know?

Dancin' in the Drawers

OK

So Big Daddy was out of town the first part of this week.  It was a well deserved break from the daily grind of the heat and air business.  He got to travel down Texas way where he toured a plant and got wined and dined.

“Good for him!” says I.  For he works hard and deserves a little time away from the garment factory.

I came home of an evening to an empty house.  A house where the thunder of silence was ringing in my ears.

I headed back to the bedroom to shuck out of my big girl clothes and into my play pants.  Standing there in my drawer tail a thought occurred to me.

“I need a glass of wine!”

So I turned and grabbed my robe off the peg.

I looked at it a moment.

Then another.

Then another.

With a rebellious thrust, I threw my robe on the bed and walked to the kitchen in my bra and underbritches.

Yes I did too!

I strode down the hall and through the living room clad in nothing but my under pinnings.  I went to the counter, grabbed my bottle and a glass, and walked back through the rest of the house.

Yep. 

Both ways.

In just my drawers. 

Once I got back to the bedroom I turned on the radio and dug in my closet for an adequate fitting pair of jeans.

But  before I could get them on, a song came on that I hadn’t heard in years.  And before I knew it, I was dancing.  That crazy 80’s dancing that only folks growing up in the 80’s knows about.  It involves a lot of bouncing and hair flinging.

Made bold by my previous foray, I danced down the hall and into the living room. From there I made my way back to the kitchen and went clear around the table.  I waved at the dogs out the window and made haste for the living room and another round around the chairs in front of the big screen.

At this point I felt a little guilty.  I knew Big Daddy would certainly get a kick out my drawer dancing and would want to know why I didn’t perform this activity more often.

...when he was home!

As I rounded the corner back to the hall, the sound of three laughing young men came bursting through the front door and it was suddenly evident why I didn’t.

I slammed my bedroom door behind me horrified and obscenely out of breath.

“Mom, are you OK?”

Gulp. “Fine, everything is fine!”

That was too close.

I came back out of the bedroom fully clothed and barking orders-Something about mowing and dog watering.  My little venture into wild abandonment abandoned.

But not forgotten.

Something to look forward to when the nest is empty, heh?

This was the song... It put a little shimmy in my backside.

Restoration

What is it about a large body of water that restores a person?

Fall is now upon us and with the arrival of autumn; comes the clean crisp air we look so forward to. Air that not only helps us breathe more deeply, but see more clearly. The haze of humidity lifts and we are treated to colors that wouldn’t be nearly as vibrant in the heat of summer.

But as fall begins summer activity ends and in bustles the winter. Winter brings joys of its own, indeed. But it’s during that long season that I find myself longing for the water.

Aching for its power.

Yearning for its healing.

A hand brushing over the surface can soothe the psyche’s frayed edges. The silky feel of the water travels directly up my arm into the rest of my body to smooth the ends and repair the jags.

Kicking off my shoes, rolling up my pant legs, and wading in can shock my system and give me a giddy laugh as that feeling of dread is yanked out through my stomach.

What was it again I was worried about?

A quick breath in, a clumsy dive under and I understand the concept of baptism. As I surface I feel my lurking evil side left behind in the depths. I am left hopeful that next time-my next opportunity-I will make the right choice.

Standing at the foot of a roaring dam, my thoughts are drowned out by the thundering noise. I feel the spray blasting me in the face and watch fallen tree limbs and my melancholy being hauled downstream against their will.

Ten steps back up the bank.

Silence again.

It is dawn.

It’s the best time.

The world is quiet, my thoughts are silent, and I’m the first person ever in the history of the world to step into the water. This spot has never before been explored. And I talk to the fish and the birds before the Sun has a chance to schedule their day.

I’ve never been in the ocean though.

From a hotel window I’ve seen it. I’ve looked at it across a wide expanse of black beach and caught my breath in my throat as I marveled at an impossible blue.

But someday I long to touch it.

…and see how it touches me.

Question for you.

OK.

So, Little's playing football tonight, right?

They win.

Big. Thank you very much.

No thanks to the referees.

Now, I'm not going to spend this post griping about the quality of the officials.  That can be done much better by others.  

I've shared before that I'm neither the brightest bulb on the porch nor crayon in the box. I'm not even the sharpest tool in the shed, but if one signs on to be a referee for American football shouldn't he at least be able to move from one end of the field to the other without risking a heart attack?

Shouldn't there be a weight limit?

Shouldn't there be some kind of fitness test?

Shouldn't he realistically still be able to play the game he's officiating?

I don't understand how a 300+ lb. man thinks he can pull this off or the fact he is given a paycheck to do so.

Is there a local shortage of officials?

It scares me to death every time I see him out there because I honestly think that one night in the middle of third quarter the EMTs are going to haul him off on a stretcher.

To his credit he is very precise in his hand signals to the announcer.  It's virtual poetry. 

Really.

He is the picture of grace as he slowly and gracefully creates a veritable interpretive dance out of calling offsides.  When he throws a yellow flag it's rhythm gymnastics in the Ozarks.

But we're playing ball here, Kids.  And I really think he should be able to actually see a play when he calls it.

Unlike the others around me, I kept these wicked and uncharitable thoughts to myself.

...and no you guys don't count because I tell you everything. 

 Well... not everything.

Maybe Later

I have a fabulous post for you.

It's witty and poignant and thought-provoking.  It's my master work I just know it!

But you won't get it today because it's stuck in my head and I can't get it out.  It's rattling around up there and making so much noise I can't hear myself think.

Wait a minute.  I guess I am hearing myself think.  That's the problem.  If I could vomit it straight out from my brain, I'd feel much better.  Instead it's swirling around making me dizzy, wishing I could puke.

It's that awful feeling of wanting and wishing you could just puke and be done with it.

So what am I saying?

Blogging makes me nauseous?

Blogging is like puking?

Writing a post can make you sick but once it's finally on the 'page' it's a huge relief?

See.  I told ya you weren't getting anything today. 

A Room with a View

I've lived with six men in my life.

OK.  One was a brother, two were Fathers, two are sons and the poor, put-upon Big Daddy.

They all have some things in common.  Not all of these men are guilty of the same things, but a few observances in no particular order.

1. Bleach won't get out racing stripes.  Dynamite maybe, bleach no.  Buy them dark colored undies.  It's your only recourse.
   
2. During football season, you can slip in and out of the house unnoticed. 
3. Never, and I mean never, mess up the order of the Sunday newspaper.
4. They will always make better chili and barbecue.
5. They need one place for their stuff that you promise to never touch.  This can be a table top or maybe a shelf.  This spot isn't to be dusted or the contents moved for any reason.  They know exactly what is there and they don't want anything messed with.
6. They don't care how the furniture is arranged as long as they have one chair and it has a direct sight line to the TV.

It's this last item that I wanna visit with you about.

Every once in a while I take a hankering to rearrange the furniture.  Usually it has to do with my cleaning cycle.  Meaning, the house gets to the point where I'd rather just sell it than clean it.  Since that option is out of the question, I move the furniture.  

Moving the stuff around in a room forces you to clean out all the nooks and crannies and when you are done you feel transformed!  It's almost as if you had a new house-without selling it and moving to a new one.

Used to be, I could move any room I wanted by myself.  No couch was too big or TV too heavy.  I could push and shove and flip and kick.  Plug everything back in and go take a nap.

These days, with the onset of modern technology, we have cords and speakers and wires and routers and splitters and stereo and mono and picture in a picture and surround sound and Xbox.

In short, the men in my house now have to be involved, because I have no idea how any of that crap is put together.

Oh, I can unplug it all.

...and did.

But once I moved everything over to the other side of the room, Big Daddy pointed out that the cable was still pulled to the other side of the room.  That's why the TV and the rest of the electronics were over there in the first place.

I asked him what we needed to do.

He told me that 'we' needed to get under the house and pull the cable to the other side of the room and pull it through the floor.  Then 'we' were going to have to move the surround sound, and then 'we' were going to have to hook all the equipment back up and then 'we' were going to have to reprogram everything.

Oh.

He was very excited about 'our' project.

The next day, I had a lovely new living room.  The view to the TV is even better than before and the sound is most excellent.

And now I'm going to do the laundry.  And I swear by all that's holy, I won't say a freakin' word about any of their drawers.

Warning: A Naughty Post

...just so you know up front.

Big Daddy is working on a project in the garage.  It's a set piece for the next show at the high school.  It involves-among several other things-pipe, glue, screen wire, and cussing.

In between curses we chatted.  Actually I chatted and he endured my endless prattle.

I took a seat on my throne. (the riding mower)  I swatted mosquitoes and sipped a cocktail while BD actually did something productive. 

What I need is a pipe expander.

What's that?

In short, it enables you to heat the end of a pipe and make the hole bigger so you can slip another pipe inside.

Oh.  ...like a speculum!

Do what?

That's what the gyno uses at my yearly.

I see.

Yeah.  She used to warm it up, but these days they use a plastic version.  Those aren't nearly as cold. 

Ah.

Once I'm in the stirrups, she inserts the speculum and turns it a couple of cranks in order to make the end of "the pipe" bigger and then takes a scrape off the sides to send to the lab.

Yeah.  Um.  OK.  That is the process, but the terminology is different.

Poor Big Daddy.  He tries to explain what something is, but I only hear what I want to hear and tonight I heard how I could compare a minor construction project with a pap smear.

No matter that one had nothing to do with the other.

Really?

It's called swaging.

Swaging?

Yes. To swage.

Swage?

Yeah, you know.  Sounds like Madge.

Huh.  Never heard of it.

As I turned to go look it up I heard a voice from the kitchen doorway.

Tell me you've caught the word play in all this.

Huh?

C'mon, Mom.  Don't make me say it.

Tell me!

Next time ya go for your yearly, tell the doc she needs to 'swage the vag'.

Big makes me so proud. 

I know full well that I'm failing miserably as a Mother, because I should have been shocked, appalled, and ashamed.

...but I laughed out loud.

Look up swage.  As you read, you can see this conversation could have gone in a myriad of directions.  But the above conversation actually took place.

I know that surprises you. 

Ahem.

Another Day at the Office, Part 2

Day three at the plant and despite my protests, I have enjoyed my visit.  

At least the visit outside of the conference room and in the actual plant.

This location has several different manufacturing shops within it and slipping from one to the next brings back various and sundry ghosts from the past.

For my cousins in Arkansas owned a camper shell factory.

With the smell of the propane burning off the fork lift, I conjured up my favorite cousin, Bug.  He, Bubby and I would would cruise around the round square of a summer evening and search for the infamous ghost light that would appear when you drove past the perfect spot.

The sounds of chain saws, belt sanders and the Psst Chunk, Psst Chunk, Psst Chunk of a nail gun remind me of weaving in and out of production looking for all of my kin.  It was my job to call them all in to a special supper that cousin Kitty had made.  Everyone would knock off work immediately and we'd all climb the hill to the house to eat.  

The first time I ever had a deer steak was on Kitty's table. 

I loved it.  

Prissy, as I recall, had a hard time swallowing.  You know.  Bambi and all that.

There is an ancient break room here complete with Naugahyde booths and Formica tables.  The pop machine is modern, but when I selected a Diet Pepsi, a Diet Caffeine Free Coke fell into the shoot.

I loved that!

The old camper plant had a pop machine, but it was a side loader and the glass bottles that it held was whatever type that was available when the supplier came round.  And the label never matched what you actually received.  We'd get the keys to the machine and drink as much free pop as we wanted.

Prissy didn't approve.

This week the men on the line touched me the most, because I am indeed surrounded by men.

In an office environment you don't get the raucous laughter, the loud voices and colorful language.  You don't get calloused, stained hands or the faint scent of sweat mingled with sawdust.  

I found myself mentally adding missing scents: a whiff of beer and cigarette smoke.  If I missed the scent, I'm sure they missed being able to partake of the real thing.  

Different times.

I missed most keenly the sight of a cigarette dangling from their mouths.  I overheard a lot of forbidden conversation whilst watching a smoke bob up and down in a mouth.

Sweat, sawdust, beer, and cigarette smoke.  

Throw in an occasional whiff of Wrigley's Double Mint gum and you get a week or so out of every year in my adolescence.

You get a whiff of my much missed, dear departed, complicated step-daddy.

In the early 80's.

In rural Arkansas.

In a camper factory.

Shake it off, Sugar.  Back to work.

...let the whining continue!

Another Day at the Office

I'm out of the office this week and in one of the plants.

Right now I'm being trained on software for which I will create user guides and SOPs.

Yeah, that's what they pay me for.

These folks at the plant are kicking and screaming all the way.  Things are just fine, thank you very much.  

The trainer from the software company is a patient soul.

If it ain't broke, don't fix it!

We can't do it this way!

We're different!

Can't we customize these fields?

You'll never get anyone willing to use it!

The guys in the plant don't want to be bothered!

I need a beer.

...or six.

Persepolis

Grandma, you smell so good.  How do you do it?

I pick Jasmine flowers every morning.  When I dress, I slip them inside my bra.  That way, I always smell good.

That’s great!

Not the sort of thing I would expect to hear from an Iranian grandmother speaking to her granddaughter.

I watched a little movie today called Persepolis.

Wow.

In my haste to watch I didn’t peruse the menu to discover that I could have watched it dubbed in English.  I instead listened to beautiful French and read subtitles.

I’m very glad it happened this way.

It made for a more intimate experience because I related to this young Iranian girl living in Tehran during the Muslim revolution.  I felt her friendship, laughed at her Granny, and marveled at the history lesson I received.  I commiserated with her love of the Bee Gees even though she lived in a world I didn’t know and spoke in a language I didn’t understand.

I missed nothing and I gained so much.

While I was graduating high school she was sleeping on a park bench in Austria in an attempt to escape the horrors of war.

The family in this movie were no more extremists than my family in America.  In fact, I saw eerie parallels.

How quickly could the same fate await us?

They were so hopeful after the collapse of the shah, but the new Muslim regime forced a stifling moral code on this damaged Iran.  No smoking, drinking, cursing, or revealing clothes.  No parties.  No running down the street because it causes a woman’s behind to shake in a provacative way.

Wait a minute.  Am I in Tehran or Southwest Missouri?

My own Baptist upbringing discourages all of these things. Well, I can run (not that I do), but in some more conservative denominations, dancing is still forbidden. Of course I’m not hauled off to jail for smoking the occasional cigarette in public and thankfully so, but I'm often less than forthright under the strict moral code.

It’s beginning to exhaust me.  This double standard that I bristle under yet still maintain.

Finally, though.  I recognize it.

In this time of war and political madness it is very easy to forget that we are all just people.  We all breath air, walk on two legs, enjoy music, treasure the snow on the mountains and hide in our hearts the sweet smell of grandmother.

Stop the Insanity!

Dateline:  Saturday, August 30.

Location:  Wal-Mart Supercenter Branson.

At approximately 5:30 pm a child was seen running wild through the electronics department.  Her harried mother was chasing behind her pleading.

“Sweetie Pie! Please. Please.  You have to stop this madness!”

She actually asked her daughter “to stop this madness”?

The words ‘stop this madness’ actually came out of her mouth?

Yup.

Big Daddy said, “That’s a blog entry right there.”

Yup.

Said daughter responded to harried mother’s pleas with more giggles and an extra lap around a pallet of DVD players.

Mother responded by collapsing on a bench.

I responded by doubling over.

Film at eleven.

Hell in a Handbasket

I don’t understand some people.

Something was missing in their raisin'.

I never make Big Daddy wait outside. It's just plain rude. 

That's what it is.  Rude!

Yes, Thank you.

We were walking down the boardwalk last night.  

Prior to this unfortunate incident.

We happened upon a gorgeous Asian family having their picture taken with the beautiful Taneycomo as the backdrop.  Asian Grandpa stood across the sidewalk lining up his sons, daughters, grandchildren and new grandbaby.

Being a former citizen of the City, I couldn't let this moment pass by without offering my assistance.  I used my best mullet body language to motion to his camera and suggest that he let me take the picture so he could get in the shot with the rest of his family.

RarRarRarRarRarRar!

This is, of course, universal grumpy grandpa speak for "Buzz off!  If I wanted my picture taken I'd have asked.  Go about your business and leave me alone!"

To which Asian grandma replied:

Ooooh!YisYisYisThankyouThankyouThankyouYisYisYis.

Which, of course, is universal grandmas speak for, "Shut up you old fool and get your ass in the picture!"

I took the first shot with everyone smiling happily.

...except Grandpa.

When I was finished, I presented the view finder for Grandpa's approval.

RarRarRarRarRarRar!

Which, of course, is universal grumpy grandpa speak for "Jesus Christ that picture sucks.  If you can't take a photo any better than that why did you even offer!"

To which Asian grandma replied:

Ooooh!YisYisYisThankyouThankyouThankyouYisYisYis.

Which, of course, is universal grandma speak for, "That's perfect!  What the cat hair are you griping about?"

He thrust the camera back at me to try again.  When I finished, I once again handed the camera back to him for his approval.

Rar!

This is, of course, universal grumpy grandpa speak for "If this is the best you can muster, I guess it will have to do."

To which Asian grandma replied:

Ooooh!YisYisYisThankyouThankyouThankyouYisYisYis.

Which, of course, is universal grandmas speak for, "Ooooh! Yes. Yes. Yes. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Yes. Yes. Yes."

Big Daddy and I continued down the boardwalk.

Sugar, I don't think he wanted his picture taken.

Ya think?

Breaking News-Waxy O'Shea's

I'm aghast.

I'm agog.

I arrived at one of my most favoritist watering holes this evening only to discover that they've changed their menu and no longer offer curry and chips.

A quote Irish pub unquote that gave up curry and chips to offer more stuffed mushrooms?

I'm so glad that Big Daddy and I copiously tipped the bar maid one day last year and she gave us the curry recipe.  Albeit it was by the five gallon bucket.  But seeings how I cooked cashew chicken for a living many years ago I, thankfully, know how to condense a recipe.

Oh well. 

Room for more Guinness!

Even so-I'm crestfallen.

Forgive me for leaving on such short notice, but I must take to my bed.

Rhetorical?

I was listening to some politickin' today. 

The Democratic convention and all.

I suspect I'll be listening when it is time for the Republican shindig, too.

All my life I've been told how important it is to vote.  "It's our duty as Americans to get out there and let our voices be heard!"

But, how about those folks who don't really have a voice?   The folks who vote just because it's their 'God-given' right.  They don't really know how they want to vote, they just close their eyes and circle the name the finger falls on. 

I've known it to happen.

I'm not very smart, but isn't that dangerous? 

This is my dilemma.  I'm out there trying to wrap my feeble brain around some of these issues, and the more I learn the more confused I get.  I get nervous.  What if I'm wrong?  What if I'm convinced of one thing and later down the road regret my decision?

Shouldn't being informed go hand in hand with that vote you cast? Or at least make an effort to be?

 

I guess the question I ask is:  Which is worse-an ignorant vote or no vote at all?

'tis a quandary.