...and the award goes to?

Saturday there are some big doin’s going down over to Dublin way.

Dublin?

As in Ireland?

Yup.

They are having the 2008 Irish Blog Awards.

Doesn’t that sound like fun? Putting faces to ‘names’?

I lurk a lot in that part of the blogosphere. I’ve enjoyed so much talking with and learning from some really swell folks. Check out my Imported Britches-which is grossly out of date-and stop by and say howdy.

Go to this link for a great sampling of who is up for awards. Whether you like political rants, personal musings, beauty or food blogs, they have it all.

I’ve even stopped by to visit blogs written entirely in the Irish language. Gaeilge?

I don’t glean much out of those. Imagine.

Anyway.

I can’t wait to see who takes home the prizes.

This post is just a little tip of the hat to my blog buddies across the pond.

Have a great evening, Guys! (Except for Primal who will be home washing his hair.)

…I’d love to be a fly on the wall.

Fruit of the Vine

I like wine.

I like drinking wine.

I love drinking wine out of wine glasses.

Plastic cups, coffee mugs, and straight out of the bottle all work very nicely if the situation calls for it, (and trust me, there have been situations that call for it) but there is just something about the glass.

It’s sexy, People.

A wine stem is just dang sexy and there’s no two ways about it.

There is something ritualistic and soothing and celebratory about opening the bottle, letting it breathe, (by breathe I mean the time it takes to reach up and grab a glass from my hanging stemware rack) and pouring it into a glass of my choosing.

I certainly don’t own or can I tell you all types of glasses. I know that there are different types of red wine glasses but other than a brandy snifter, I couldn’t tell you what they were. (Is brandy really considered wine?)

I digress…

My favorite white wine glass has crackled glass at the base of the globe. A Christmas gift from Big Daddy.

My favorite red wine glass has a crack in it, but still has a place of honor. (also a gift from BD) My second favorite and the one I use most, is royal blue and the bowl fits in my hand like a…well let’s just say it fits. It was a gift from Mammy Kelly for my 37th birthday.

My favorite sparkler glass is a flute with a slight white frosting at the base of the bowl and a long, lithe stem. (I like delicate stems. It forces me to be gentle I guess, and reminds me to slow down and savor the whole experience.)

It was stolen from a friend I haven’t seen in years.

Actually, I didn’t mean to steal it, it just ended up at my apartment about 18 years ago and never made it’s way back to it’s proper owner. I think of her every time I drink from it and wonder where and how she is. I also wonder if she knows or cares what happened to it.

It also bears telling that I have only one matching set of ‘all-purpose’ wine glasses and they are in a box in my cabinet gathering dust. I don’t think they’ve ever been opened. They were purchased for company, but somehow company always gravitates to my rack.

So to speak.

They see one they like and pluck it off the rack.

I love that.

Whenever someone asks what they can get me for a gift, (and you’ve been wondering haven’t you?) I always say a stem. It’s also what I like to get for myself when I travel.

I remember who got it for me, from whence it came, and the occasion. And I get twice the pleasure drinking wine from a treasured tribute.

So, yeah. I’m a little obsessive about my wine glasses.

And when one breaks,

…my heart goes with it.

Bodhrán to Bluegrass

My mind wanders around in circles like it's lost and can't get it's bearings.

Thus my posts wander.

Case in point...

Big Daddy and I hit the pub on a Saturday night not too long ago.

This is newsworthy because it has been awhile. We wandered down Branson way and ended up at Waxy’s.

Dirty Old Towne is the house band and being the old farts we are, we always seem to leave before they play. That evening we stayed.

I was going to post about them.

About how they start later than most bands because during the height of tourist season their fiddle player is that cute little Haygood boy from down to the strip. He comes complete with a blinding, mega-watt Branson smile. He has to finish his paying job before he can come let loose down at the bar.

The young girls dig him.

Not me of course.

Ahem.

I was going to post about how they cover a lot of Celtic stuff and about the drummer who has a vocal range not to be believed, and how I got a little light-headed and started to swoon when he broke out the bodhrán .

And me without my smelling salts.

I was going to post about their kilt-wearing, lead-guitar player and if I weren’t so lazy I’d research what those little tab thingies on the side of his stockings are for.

Maybe one of y'all can fill us in.

I was going to comment that all they are missing is a whistle and an accordion.

But, I know where they can find at least one of those.

I was going to post about all that.

MMM?

Well.

I guess I just did.

But instead, my little Ozark hillbilly heart is just beating with something base and primal and elemental because their top-hat wearing electric bass player, at one point in the evening, turned off the power, and started slappin’ the upright.

Oh. My. Sweet. Lord.

The bass is not an American instrument, but when someone puts down the bow and starts slappin’ it with their hand, the instrument becomes something else entirely.

It becomes Bluegrass.

Which is American.

These boys were definitely not playing bluegrass that evening, but I definitely went home and scoured my modest collection looking for some.

I suddenly had a powerful hankering for something with an upright and a mandolin and a banjo and a fiddle and maybe even a…

Dare I say it?

‘worsh’ board.

I wanted to hear sweet, high harmony like you find nowhere else in music complete with sustaining notes that hang for hours before they resolve.

I wanted to play it loud in my car so I could harmonize along off-key and slap my hand on the steering wheel and cause passers-by to give me odd looks.

(You sing in your car, too and you dang well know it.)

Maybe I’ll resurrect the Tuesday Playlist and throw out my bluegrass favorites.

Or maybe I’ll just direct you to the soundtrack to O Brother, Where Art Thou? and be done with it.

So excuse me for now. I’m going for a drive. I have to sing 'I am Weary'.

…and laugh and weep simultaneously from the sheer beauty of it.

Now It's His Hands

I've discussed Little and his unwelcomed physical transformation before. I've regailed his character.

Tonight was Jr. High conferences. They are student led. This means that Little had to go throught a folder of his work. As he went through each item he pointed and gestured with his hands.

I couldn't pay attention to a thing he said because I was transfixed by his fingers.

Little now has these beautiful, long, graceful fingers. They almost seem freakishly long compared to the rest of his hand.

You know how a puppy's feet just seem too large for his body?

That's not what I'm talking about.

I thought it was, but it's not. Because Little's hands are not the least bit clumsy.

His fingers look like they were made for something special.

Music, maybe? He plays bass. He plays the tuba.

Art? He drew Spiderman on his folder. He used to love to sketch before he discovered the football.

Charming women? I don't have the strength to even consider that, although I see it coming.

(gulp) Soon.

An honest living is all I want out of my young men. Whether it's changing oil or transplanting kidneys.

But tonight- in Little's hands,

...I saw magic.

The Wrong Thong

Here comes that cute little Lorna girl walking down the hall.

Her with her thin shapely legs and all.

Christ.

I really want to hate her, but unfortunately she’s one of ‘those’ people who is sweet, kind, and gracious to everyone therefore making it impossible to hate her simply on the grounds that she’s gorgeous.

That pisses me off. I’d really love to hate her.

You see, I’ve always wanted slender shapely legs.

Ain’t gonna happen.

Because...I have an hour glass figure.

Now, it’s more the hour glass from the wicked witch’s castle in the Wizard of Oz than let’s say an egg timer. And time has run out seeings how all the sand has fallen to the bottom.

But it is an hour glass nonetheless.

That being said, I’ve never lost an ounce of fat from my thighs.

I carry my weight in my hips, butt, and legs. So when it comes off, (and it is coming off currently thank you very much for asking) it’s noticeable first in my face, waist and to lesser extent, the boobs.

My knees still blubbereth over.

I’m bringing this up, because I guaran-damn-ty that Missy there down the hall wears a thong.

I spend a lot of time these days folding and re-hanging women’s unmentionables and I have had ample time to study, peruse, and lust after pretty under things.

Mostly thongs.

There are thongs with lace and ribbons and shiny crystal hearts where the dental floss meets the waist band.

A lot of women wear these and swear they are the most comfortable inventions ever created by man. (And I assure you a man had to have come up with this idea.)

I tried a thong.

Once.

I burned it in the wood stove less than 30 minutes later.

I have spent the majority of my life picking my drawers out of my crack. I see no reason to put a strip of fabric up my ass on purpose.

That doesn’t mean though I trot around in high-waisted 'Granny Panties'.

Ew.

I’m more of a bikini/hip hugger kinda gal.

That should satisfy ya’ll’s curiosity. I know there has been considerable interest in what kind of drawers I wear. I daresay it’s been a subject of great debate.

…this blog is called ‘Sugar Britches’ after all.

The Heart of the Matter

Thank you for calling Wal-Mart. How can I help you?

This is Cherie. I won’t be in tonight. I can’t get out of my driveway. (Click)

Thank you for calling Wal-Mart. How can I help you?

Yeah, this is Lavonne. Honey, I can’t come in tonight. My road is iced over. (Click)

Thank you for calling Wal-Mart. How can I help you?

This is Marianne. There is no way I’m getting out in this stuff.

But, you live across the street!

Oh. Then I’m sick. I won’t be in. (Click)

Thank you for calling Wal-Mart. How can…(SLAM!)

Sugar! Oh thank God you are here. Everyone else has called in tonight.

So I gather.

By the way, I don’t think we’ve officially met. I mean I’ve seen you around and all. Anyway, I’m Bonnie. I’m the infants’ department manager.

Glad to meet you. I only wish it could be under happier circumstances.

Well, you’re on your own. You’ll have to man the phones tonight and cover all five departments.

Great!

If folks ask, we are out of: ice melt, rock salt, sleds, cheap cat litter, shovels, kerosene, and generators.

Good God! What’s left to buy?

Groceries. People have gone crazy today buying groceries.

But, that means we’re also out of bread, milk, eggs, and bottled water.

Exactly.

So why are we still even open?

(Blank Stare) Why tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day.

…of course.

The Icemen Go-eth

Big, Little, and Chase went outside today to get the stink 'blowed' off them. Big took pictures of their little boondoggle that took them over the river and through the woods.

Actually it was through the back yard, across the meadow, and into the woods.

He has a great eye, damn him! Is there nothing this kid can't do?

Too bad the date stamp is still on them and the date is wrong. I can fix it later.

Greatness can't wait!

Tea Time

I'm standing at my kitchen door with a mug of hot coffee in my hand watching Mother Nature do her thing.

It's raining ice from the sky this morning. Schools are out. Businesses are closed.

Wicked stuff.

We have a coating of ice covering our little fire pit on the deck.

Big Daddy insisted I stay home today.

Where is he?

On the road to work, of course.

There sounds another clap of thunder.

I'm used to ice storms, but the thunder and lightening that is accompanying this thing is making for very odd weather indeed. T and L? During an ice storm in the dead of winter?

I love a good summer thunderstorm. It does the heart good.

But this?

This is something else.

I think I'll put on a big pot of oatmeal for breakfast and maybe make a pot of tea. I'll dust off one of Prissy's old pots.

...Yeah, I think I'll do that.

Here Comes the Sun

“I can’t see you but I’d know you anywhere-you smell like sunshine!”

That was my Great Granny Mae. She was 98 years old when she died. I’d only seen her twice in my life, but I remember her saying those words to me and I would marvel-because I knew that age had blinded her.

She chewed tobacco. I’d never seen a woman do that before and it fascinated me. She’d sit ramrod straight in her rocking chair with a ratty shawl draped around her shoulders. She kept her chair pulled up close to the woodstove and when she’d spit, she never missed the empty Folgers can that sat on the floor between her and the stove.

Granny had an old pump organ in her living room.

My Great Aunt Ettie would play it for her. That same organ is now in my living room. A stipulation, before it was passed to me, was that a picture of Aunt Ettie had to rest on it always.

It does.

The carpet on the pedals is worn into an imprint of my Aunt’s shoes. And if you look closely, you see the pedals being held on by galluses off of an old pair of my great grandpa’s overalls.

Some folks in her little town in Arkansas called her a witch because she’d read tea leaves and advise people based on what she saw there.

Granny could also tell you what would happen today based on the dreams she had the night before.

She could read the sky and tell you the weather for the next week.

… and she could do things.

She passed to her son the medicinal purposes of tobacco.

You see, Granny Mae was a Native American-a Cherokee. Her ancestors (I believe it was her Granny) walked the Trail of Tears. Her ‘mysticism’ was inherent.

Prissy loved her. … I mean loved her like no one else on earth. Prissy always knew she was Granny’s girl. She’d go to her for comfort, and advice, and chocolate pie.

Before Prissy got sick she and another cousin began genealogy research. Being ‘Indian’ was always something Granny's family felt they had to hide-for a variety of reasons. Prissy had to overcome purposeful misinformation on censuses and other documentation to get proof of blood lines.

Prissy persevered. It took a couple of years, but she's now named on the roster and it’s one of her proudest achievements.

She loved her Granny enough to bring our heritage out of fear and shame into pride and into, well…light.

It wasn’t me that smelled of sunshine.

…it was my Momma.

Snow Day

This is how we spent our day.

...how 'bout you?

A snow man!

Finishing touches.

A good day's work.