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.