LOST in a moment...

Oh my gosh, you guys. I just had the BEST evening.

• Red Wine
• Crock Pot Lasagna
• Bread Pudding
• Big and Little
• My 'I've dang near taken him to raise I love him like my own' neighbor, Chase.
• The season premiere of Lost. (My poor Hurley. I think you're the most sane of the whole bunch.)

Watching this show together is a little ritual the four of us love and adore and I'm happy as a pig in slop.

I only wish Big Daddy would join in. I consider him a 'Lost widower'.

In all honesty, I think he's more interested in this show than he lets on. He retreats to the bedroom not to escape Lost, but to give me this special time alone with the guys.

...ain't he just the coolest?

On top of that, tomorrow has already been declared a snow day. School is out!

I think I'll take the day with the guys. What else am I going to do with all my vacation days? Go on holiday?

...right.

Verbal Diarrhea

Have you ever said anything really awkward and/or inappropriate and the minute it comes out of your mouth wished you could take it back?

Have you admitted or revealed much-too-personal things to someone and later wonder why in the name of all that’s holy can’t you just keep your big yap shut?

Lawsie.

I mentally bang my forehead with my hand and think, “Stupid, stupid, stupid!”

Then I stew on it for awhile, replaying the event over and over in my mind obsessing- wondering if anyone noticed. Did I offend anyone? Do they think I’m an idiot? Am I a social moron? Do they think I’m a bad person? What should I have done differently? Do these jeans make my ass look big?

Eventually I get over it. Or at least I think I do. Years later I’ll be nodding off to sleep and a fleeting thought of that moment goes through my head and it’s as if it just happened. What causes thoughts like this to just pop into my head out of goofin’ nowhere?

Shouldn’t a normal, well-adjusted person just get the heck over it?

This whole idea came to mind as I was sitting on the pot, staring at the wall and suddenly remembered a particularly embarrassing event that took place, oh let’s see…

12 Years ago!

Do you ever write posts while sitting on the commode-either physically or just in your head?

No?

Oh.

(Banging Forehead)

“…Stupid, stupid, stupid!”

It's a party

What type of partier are you? Your Result: The Lurker You like to go out and party, go to bars, concerts, etc - but stay more on the sidelines. You and part of the action, but people have to approach you more than you jumping into the middle of the action. You typically don't get 'hammered', just buzzed enough to come out of your shell and talk to a few people, usually other 'lurkers'. Large groups of people talking at once intimidate you and you tend to drift away from the pack often.
The rock-star party animal
The Socialite
Hardcore drunk
Bar Social Butterfly
Bar Slut
The designated driver
What type of partier are you? Make Your Own Quiz

This is good. I party like I blog.

...who knew?

Bussing

Boon and I spent Friday on a school bus.

Party!

Not only do we work together, but she and I have kids in the same high school in the same concert choir. So we took a vacation day to pull Mom duty and chaperone one of the buses.

We rode up Tan-Tar-A way to the Missouri Music Educators Association's annual conference. Our little choir was only one of four high schools selected to perform for the masses. Masses to the tune of 12,000 from what I’ve heard.

Big doin’s, indeed.

Have you ridden a school bus full of teenagers recently?

No?

Well let me fill you in on all the niceties.

They smell. They either have too much body odor or too much Axe Kilo.

Boys and girls both use hairspray and since the temperature was about 7 degrees, we couldn’t open the windows. See above.

They make out when they think you're not looking.

They are loud.

They can’t hold their water. After we stopped for breakfast, we only had about an hour to our destination. These are exact quotes from three girls.

I’m about to pass out I have to pee so bad.

I’m serious, I’m having issues, is there anyway you can just stop the bus? I’ll go on the side of the road.

Why couldn’t we have planned a bathroom stop?

For an hour’s drive? A bathroom stop?

One girl held up her big Gulp and looked at me like, ‘duh’.

When I pointed out that they knew we only had an hour and they should have gauged their beverage consumption, she just looked at me.

“What?”

She didn’t get it.

Thank God there was no vomiting.

So, OK. Some things never change. I remember the same exact happenings when I rode the bus, except the boys weren't sporting Axe, they were sporting Chaps. If they could afford it-Polo.

Buses haven’t changed much. Most of them have automatic transmissions now, but you know what? They still smell the same. That funky unique odor that only school buses have. And the seats are the same. No seat belts and they are so close together you can hike your knees up on the seat in front of you.

So, I did.

Hiked my knees up.

I still could.

I was excited.

Other unexpected, wonderous teenage things of note:
They were grateful for the time Boon and I took to spend with them.
They were courteous.
They sang like angels and I cried the entire time reveling in the appreciative gasps I heard coming from the audience of professionals around me.

Because of the crying:
Boon thinks I’m ridiculous.
I think I’m ridiculous.
Big knows I'm ridiculous.

It was a good day.

Opinions are Like...

This pisses me off.

I’m sorry Heath Ledger is dead. I am. His death was unexpected in a world where this type of thing is well, expected.

But Fred Phelps and his band of merry bigots-picketing his funeral-makes me madder than a old wet hen.

How do supposed believers of Jesus Christ think that this demonstration is in any way indicative of his teachings?

OK.

I’m not a smart woman.

Have you ever seen any sign of intelligent life coming from outta my posts?

There ya go then.

So I don’t debate the issues. In a battle of wits I always come to the field unarmed. It’s hard for me to give my opinion sometimes.

But…

Here it is. As is entitled to me.

These people are fools. They spread hate, lies, misinformation, and bullshit.

I am embarrassed and hurt that my gay friends have to deal with this kind of crap in the world.

I am embarrassed beyond belief to think that as a Baptist, I could somehow be associated with these nutcases. People who don’t know better might think that all of us are bigoted, bilious, hate-mongering, gay-bashing ass-wipes.

I am embarrassed that these idiots are only geographically a hop, skip and a jump away from me.

I'm embarrassed that they perform these hideous stunts.

In the name of Jesus!

The Jesus I know tells me to pray for these jack asses. He instructs me to love them.

To not throw stones.

To wash their feet.

That ain’t easy, Kids.

It’s hard for me to follow right now.

…and that’s not debatable.

We're Outta Here.

Big Daddy and I are going away this weekend.

Like, away.

Like, no kids.

no family responsibilities
no documentation to write
no presentations to build
no presentations to present
no underwear to repackage
no cooking
no cleaning
no laundry
no bitching

What else is there?

Ahhh!

…I remember.

Alive and Kicking...

but I'm working.

...a lot.

I'm having to wear my grown up clothes during the day and act all professional like.

It's a trial.

My blogging has gone begging, unfortunately.

...or fortunately depending what side of the 'publish post' button you're on.

I hope you all are doing well, maybe we'll get to visit this evening.

Broom Broom

Straight to you from Southwest Missouri.

...brings a tear to the eye.

Super Britches

I kind of like the idea of being a superhero.

It’s a bird. It’s a plane...

It’s Sugar Britches!

I’d only use my powers for good of course, because as Mr. Parker told us, “With great power comes great responsibility.”

The Fashion Police would have a special ‘pant signal’ rigged on top of the local Gap to alert me when my services were needed.

In a single bound, I’d rid the world of high-waisted, tapered leg jeans.

I’d use my power of invisibility to sneak up on unsuspecting teen boys and pull their pants up above their butt-crack thus restoring their drawers to underwear.

With my laser vision I would destroy the muffin-top/thong above the waist of the jeans combo worn by ill-advised young girls.

I would swoop down on retired gentleman and stamp out black dress socks worn with sandals…and shorts.

I'd karate kick my redneck brethren and divest them of their sleeveless button-up woven shirts. Which of course, they had made themselves by cutting the sleeves out with a pair of scissors. Then, I'd turn the scissors on their hair and divest them of their mullet.

With fire from my fingertips, fanny packs would cease to exist.

Flip-Flops would mysteriously disappear all winter long…only to return just as mysteriously in the summer months.

Ther are so many people and so little time that I need help-I need a side kick.

What do you suggest? What would I call her?

Sugar Britches and:

Splenda Shorts
Saccharine Slacks
Dextrose Drawers
Nutra Knickers

It is a quandary.

Meanwhile, back at the Hall of Hosiery, my interest peaked, I went online to get guidance on what type of superhero I would be.
http://www.thesuperheroquiz.com/

This was the result.

"The Hulk"
You are a wanderer with amazing strength.


< /table>
Click here to take the Superhero Personality Quiz


Well, now that won’t do at all! His britches are way too small. The fit is all wrong and his skin color is…is… well, I can’t put my finger on it but something about it just ain't right.

But then, I took the Super Villain test.


This was the result.

"Mystique"
Sometimes motherly, sometimes a beautiful companion, but most of the time a deceiving vixen.


< /table>
Click here to take the Super Villain Personality Test


I love that! A vixen.

I thought a vixen was someone who applied the vapo-rub to unsuspecting children in the dead of night.

No?

RING!

Excuse me for sec.

I was just informed the fashion police are hitting a brick wall with the ‘Pant Signal’. Something about zoning and air space.

Hopes dashed.

…maybe the world is better off.

(aside) I've been drinking way too much...tea.

Steep Math

I’m on my yearly tea kick.

Somehow it doesn’t add up.

Three cups of coffee equals one pee.

Three cups of tea equals 17 pees.

I came home from work tonight and weighed 78 pounds.

…I better get back on my coffee before I waste away.

20 Items or Less-Questions from the Express Lane

If we buy five packs of Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit gum is that considered one item or five?
One.

I have 47 seven items instead of 20 is that OK?
(sigh) Yes.

Do you take payroll checks?
Yes.

Will you take cash?
Yes.

Will you take a WIC voucher?
Yes.

Will you take my firstborn?
Yes.

Can you ring up alcohol?
Yes.

Is register 13 really the only line we can buy smokes at?
Yes.

Did you know that ‘20 items or less’ is actually grammatically incorrect? Less is used for quantities. Fewer is used for individual units. So technically, your sign should read ‘20 items or fewer’. Do you think your store planners realized that?

…No.

The Pink Buffalo

Technically my first kiss was in Kindergarten. He was a skinny blonde five year old that kissed me repeatedly on the cheek one day while riding the bus home from school. He doesn’t count as my first boyfriend though, because he moved away mid year and our relationship was never able to develop to its full potential.

However, The He came along when I was 12. He was 14.

A fast piece, I was.

In seventh grade, he asked me to ‘go’ with him. I said yes because well, he asked, and he had really white teeth.

‘Going with’ someone consisted of eating lunch together, passing notes in the hall, and going to the fair.

Pretty heady stuff.

His family raised chickens, so the first stop on our big night at the fair was the stockyards.

Could it possibly get any more romantic?

“Man, look at the size of that cow!” I exclaimed.

“That’s not a cow. That’s a bull!” He said.

I didn’t feel it polite to look. But since it was a rather large animal, I felt the need to comment. Besides, isn’t ‘cow’ just an all-purpose word for a single head of cattle? I was little miffed he felt compelled to correct me so loudly-in front of everyone.

We rode the Tilt-a-Whirl. Afterward he complained again, loudly, that my hair whipped him in the face and I should have worn it up. Again, I was miffed because I had slept on those spongey pink curlers all night so my long hair would be perfect.

He soon forgave me as we headed to the games area in the midway. He couldn’t wait to demonstrate his prowess with a ‘firearm’ and after several attempts and then several more-and then several more he finally popped the balloon.

I took my hard-won plush pink buffalo home with pride. A gal never forgets the first prize won for her by a suitor. Even if I was still miffed.

The next day between classes, he grabbed my hand, (which was still thrilling, by the way) and pulled me outside the shopped door.

He pulled me to him and kissed me.

At least I think that’s what he was trying to do. He put his open lips over my lips. I was stunned. I didn’t know what to do, so I kept my mouth shut and did a great job of kissing his teeth. I couldn’t understand why he had his lips flapped open. How could he kiss me on the lips with his mouth all weird like that?

I didn’t get it.

Later, sitting in English class, I decided as my first kiss, the experience was completely unsatisfactory.

Obviously he did too, because he broke up with me the next day.

I wasn't devastated.

Oh I tried to be. I really did. I did all the things young girls are supposed to do when they ‘break up’ with someone. I went without supper for two nights and locked myself in my bedroom and cried.

At least I tried to. I played All Out of Love by Air Supply over and over again on my little turntable just hoping the tears would come. Alas, they never did.

A couple of months ago I happily reconnected with an old friend of mine and she told me he had been married and divorced a couple of times and still ran the chicken farm.

My next kiss didn’t come until four years later. In another state with another boy.

…It was very satisfactory.

Big Now Has a Girlfriend

That's all I have to say about that.

Stretching

Hi, Granny.

Well, it’s about time you ‘Hi, Grannyed’ me! I’m mad at you.

I know.

It’s been three weeks since you called me.

Yes, Ma’am.

Why do you want to go and hurt Granny that way? What have I ever done to have you treat me that way?

Yes, Ma’am. I know.

It just hurts Granny so bad when you do me like that.

Honey, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’ve just been…I’m working a second… I at least…Bubby never ca…You’re right... It was thoughtless of me and I’ll try not to do it again. Would it help if you called me collect whenever you wanted?

I’ve got nationwide on my cell phone. But, Baby, I don’t call nobody. Besides, you’re never home.

… you’re right.

I’m sorry, Baby. Granny’s just not feeling good. I turned 90 you know.

Yes, I know.

How’s your Mommy? Now I want you to tell me the truth. Good or bad.

The truth? She’s holding her own. She’s not going to die tomorrow, but she’s going downhill. Her Rebif isn’t working like it should so I’m having the staff check and see if they can up her dosage. Her eyes are getting worse, it’s harder for her thoughts to connect, and you can’t read a thing she tries to write.

That’s what I thought. Oh I’d love to go see her, but I can’t go nowhere-and she can’t come see me. …but you can! Why haven’t you come see me, Babe? Granny just loves you so much. You were my first Grandbaby and, I don’t know, something about you just took a hold of me.

Yes. Ma’am.

What have I ever done to have you treat me this way?

How’s the weather, Granny?

Oh, Babe the sun is shining and it’s nearly 75. It’s just beautiful!

Yeah, it’s warm here too. It’s been a nice drive to Mom’s today.

Babe, did I tell you cousin Reedy’s got cancer?

No.

She’s only got a couple of months. Lung cancer, but she keeps smoking away. I call her about onced a week to check on her. She lives way over to Portia now so I can’t go see her.

Wait, You call her?

Yeah. She’s hard to catch, but I keep trying until I get her. She hardly every returns my calls though.

Granny, she’s probably resting.

Maybe, but it just hurts Granny. What have I ever done to have her treat me this way?

…sigh. I don’t know, Honey. I really don't know

Voices of Angels

I walk at lunch. I have for over a year.

I eat at my desk and then take my lunch hour to put on my iPod and go. I don’t break any land speed records in the process, but it gets me off my duff. I have a desk job you know, so my duff is sizable-though on the down hill slide I'm happy to report. Thanks to the retail gig.

But since it's the first of the year, Brighton has decided to walk with me. Her resolution to be thinner and all.

Dang.

I mean, I love her more than my luggage and while walking, we make summer plans, laugh, and gossip. But lunch is my time. The hour a day I give me and me alone.

Of course it would be the heighth of poor manners to walk with her and listen to my iPod. So I have done without. My podcasts have gone begging. I have no idea what is happening at Lake Woebegone. I have the last series of Ricky Gervais collecting dust and my new music is now in the top ten.

But today, Brighton took the day off. (Literally. She felt puny today and called in sick.)

Yay!

The music of choice, is choral.

Now don’t run off!

I’m not musical. By that I mean I don’t read music. I can carry a damn fine tune if I do say so myself and I understand what I’m listening to, I just can’t articulate what I’m hearing into musical terminology.

But this music, how do I say it?

It moves me.

I love how some pieces grow. How by the time you’ve gotten to the end of a piece it has snatched you up and shaken you around like a rag doll. Leaving nothing but those majestic voices echoing in your ear.

Can you really hear the human voice in this form and not believe in God?

...just a little?

Sweet Thoughts

Excuse me, Ma’am. Do you carry buttermilk?

I’m standing in the middle of menswear, so this was an odd inquiry. But, since I shop as well as work here, I had a quick answer.

Sure do. Over in dairy.

As she wheeled her way toward groceries, I went back to my folding and thought of my Grandpa.

Doesn’t everyone think of their Grandfather when they are asked about buttermilk?

No?

Oh.

Folding shirts and repackaging boxer shorts is therapeutic in a way. It keeps your hands busy and lets your mind wander.

So you’re welcome to wander with me for awhile if you have a mind to.

Lester Otis has been gone 12 years or so now, but through the course of his 80 years whenever he wanted a glass of milk he always asked specifically for ‘sweet’ milk-lest Granny bring him buttermilk by mistake. It didn’t matter that there hadn’t been a drop of the stuff in house for years, Grampa asked for ‘sweet’ milk.

He’d have a glass with supper and then for a snack later in the evening he’d take leftover cornbread (which was prepared everyday) and crumble it up in a big glass of ‘sweet’ milk and eat it with a spoon. This is seriously good eatin’, Yu’ns.

I kid you not.

Grampa also chewed tobacco. He chewed on the sly. He’d take Bubby and me fishing ‘down to the spill-way’ and we’d stop in the store and get a rope. We were, of course, sworn to secrecy. While we fished, he’d cut a big chaw off his rope and then without closing his knife, he’d pick up a tree branch and start carving a walking stick out of it.

I still have one of my Grampa’s walking sticks.

I got a bee sting one summer and he spit tobacco juice on it. It stopped stinging. Immediately. I stopped gagging. Eventually.

He didn’t smoke much. Granny was the big cigarette smoker, but he would blow cigarette smoke in my ear whenever I had an earache. Immediately after this, he would warm up a teaspoon of ‘sweet’ oil with Granny’s lighter and then pour it in my ear.

He also made up the word ‘Horsefeathers’.

Oh yes he did!

This is a great word to use instead of Bulls#@t.

Grampa, let Bubby and me go to the café and loaf with you this morning. I promise we’ll be quiet.

Horsefeathers!

Lester Honey, He said the check was in the mail.

He’s full of Horsefeathers!

See?

When I got older I realized there was an old movie with that word as the title.

Sigh.


That’s when I made the discovery.

My Grandfather knew Graucho Marx! Isn’t that the coolest?

One hot, sticky Arkansas night, we were outside fighting mosquitoes and trying to stay cool. Gramps was whittling, I was reading, Granny was watering her flowers, and Bubby had made a make-shift squirt gun out of an empty mustard bottle. He was busy drowning ants.

Grampa made some covert motions to Bubby.

Granny was bent over in her flower bed. Her ample backside hiked in the air. Bubby took his mustard bottle squirt gun and squeezed a stream of cold water right up Granny’s housedress.

Good times.

She screamed like the hounds of hell were after her and chased Bubby around the yard with her hose.

Grampa just sat there laughing and shaking his head.

Now, Son. Why’d you wanna go and do a thing like that for? You shouldn’t pester your Granny like that.

He was an ornery cuss.

…and right now I just miss him like crazy. I’ve got that little hard knot in the middle of my throat.

He drank ‘sweet milk’.
He ate ‘redneck cereal’.
He spat on us.
He got us into trouble.

He coined the word ‘Horsefeathers’.

…and you’ll never convince me otherwise.

Heart Burn

You know what's just the best?

Being freezing cold and jumping into a bed freshly made with flannel sheets, then wrapping yourself around the back of the body that's already there. Melding yourself into all the nooks and crannies-letting the heat radiate into you. Aaahhh.

Preferably the body belongs to someone you love.

No, not preferably.

Mandatory.

Because then the heat passes through your body.

...right into your soul.

Bears in Roseland

On this new year's morning, before bowl games commence, I participate in another staple of this holiday.

The Rose Parade.

My love of a good parade is widely known. But I rarely sit and watch a televised parade. It's like a sporting event. Some things are just better witnessed live. I tend to have it on while I piddle around my kitchen. I stop to watch if something peaks my interest.

Well then, picture my interest peaked.

Imagine my excitement when I look up from the waffle batter to see my alma mater, my own beloved Missouri State University Bruin Pride band opening the show!

Right there in high-def, (as Al Roker continually reminded us. And not that I have high-definition television, but I'm sure it would be just as wondrous as he suggests) in all their maroon and white glory, the drum line with their plumes flying in the warm Pasadena winds, in front of a colorful set built especially for the occasion.

My excitement knows no bounds!

Imagine also then, my profound disappointment when they proceed to participate in the cheesiest piece of schmaltz I have ever witnessed.

Here I need to pause to tell you. I love musical theater.

I know. I know. You thought I was trendy. Cutting edge, even.

Sorry to disappoint. The truth is I'm a really big nerd.

...I hope this doesn't destroy the illusion some of you have of me.

So, we know I love a good stage show, but this opening number was cringe-worthy. I stood ringing my hands as the syrup warmed in the microwave. My poor Bears. What an opportunity to showcase their ample talents. Instead, a musical attempt (complete with costumed singers and dancers) to show cultural diversity and harmony only managed to display disingenuous smiles and dump an entire box of melted Velveeta all over the noble trombones.

I was shattered.

As I lamented squandered opportunity over coffee...

Suddenly.

There they were again!

My Bears, resplendent one and all, leading the parade with -76 trombones.

Huzzah!

Hope restored.

Happy Happy 2008.