Sounds

It's raining tonight and I have a little heartache.

I'm sitting on on my covered front porch. It's thundering and booming and lightening and the rain is pouring down like a cow peeing on a flat rock.

I love that.

I go inside and beg Big. "Come outside and sit and help me watch it storm!"

"Ah, Ma. I just now got on the college website. Besides I can hear it out my window. It's awesome, huh?"

"Yeah! (Gulp) Great!"

Little is watching TV, but he meanders out for a minute to comment.

"Whoa. It is really coming down."

He retreats back in just like that.

I continue my vigil. The rain occasionally blows up in my face which only adds to my pleasure. I look longingly next door.

I haven't seen Chase in a week or two- the little shit. He's working double shifts, courtin' a girl, and getting ready for college in the fall. He hasn't time to spend with his own Momma. Why would I think he'd have time for me?

Sigh.

Even though the clamor outside is deafening, I'm surrounded by a melancholy silence.

Now, those of you who have spent anytime at all with me over the past few years, know that I never took the awesome noise in my house for granted. I loved and cherished every bang of Rock Band and every throaty laugh at 2:00 in the morning.

I still do. They just get fewer and farther between.

I won't mourn this change in my life for long for I know a new and exciting one will come along. There will always be noise coming from my boys.

...in one way or another.

I'm just reflectin', I reckon.

I would say I'd keep you posted, but I haven't bothered to post in so long I'm not sure you can trust me.

Dressing the Part

I wore a dress to work today.

I know in this day and age it is in poor taste to go outside your home unclothed. I daresay it's even illegal. But I don't wear dresses anymore. Somehow down the line my work uniform became slacks and a blouse.

I continued, however, to rock the shoes.

I helped a girlfriend shop for a dress this weekend. She has a reunion coming up and obviously wanted something smashing to wear.

So a trip to the Dress Barn and 27 dresses later, she had in hand the perfect one.

I also found in my hand a perfectly fetching black and white polka dot sensation.

"Buy it!" she says.

"I don't need it!" I says.

But the kind clerk reminded us that we'd get an extra 10 dollars off the clearance price on each if we purchased both and she'd throw in a VIP discount.

So, I parted with twelve dollars and brought it home.

It was 12 bucks. Ladies, do I need to say more?

But I promised myself then and there that I would wear it.

But where? I mean really. Where would I wear it? I don't even wear skirts to church anymore.

And then it hit me that, contrary to popular belief, it wouldn't kill me to dress a little nicer for work.

So this morning I showered, shaved, put a curl in my hair, and set off to work with gams gleaming.

I swished into work with the humid air lapping against my legs like lake water.

I felt the tingle on them as the condiditoned air indoors evaporated the residue.

I remembered, that when seated at my desk, I could hike my skirt up past my knees for a little additonal ventilation and no one would be the wiser.

I fielded the expected remarks.

-Hey! Sugar! Got a job interview?

-Sug, I'm so sorry. Funeral this afternoon?

-Sugar! For God's sake cover those things up. The glare! I can't stand the glare!

But then I walked back in my door this evening after a hard day of dress wearing.

Little looked up from Halo 2 and did a double take.

"Wow, Mom! You look pretty."

Oh yeah.

I'll be doin' this here dress thing again.

Potty Mouth

We have a large ladies' room here at work.

20 stalls-10 each on either side of the handwashing stations.

So lo and behold. I go to avail myself of the facilities this morning and find myself alone in the restroom. There isn't another soul in there.

As I go about my business, I hear the bathroom door open and another lady come in.

...and use the stall right next to me.

Really?

Really?

...and it wasn't pleasant.

Why in the world would a person go into a virtually empty restroom and use the stall right next to someone when there are 19 others to choose from?

This is a serious issue, Folks.

Dusk

That great time of evening when everything goes still.

Now is the time of year when everything is green and fluffy and full of color and scent.

The fire pit was fufilling its destiny with logs ablaze. I didn't have any marshmellows or chocolate or graham crackers.

Pity.

The frogs began kickin' up a fuss down at yon pond.

A bat buzzed us. Where it came from we're still not sure.

Sadie and Fred took off down to the fence. They growled off into the timber.

Was that another dog?

Nope.

It was a coyote. He loped out across the bottoms and then made his way back into the woods.

The guys chatted and Big puffed on his first cigar.

His first good cigar.

Big Daddy decided that all of those Swisher Sweets he and a buddy had been sneaking after their school shows should be replaced by a Romeo Y Julieta once he turned 18.

You know, I like being downtown. I love the romantic notion of renting a loft and gazing out at all the folks going by. Walking down to the corner for a coffee-watching folks go by during First Friday Art Walk-from my window.

But it is just a notion.

I'm a redneck girl at heart.

And sitting on my redwook deck at dusk is just about perfect for me.

Paint Your Wicker

In preparation for graduation festivities this weekend, I persuaded Big Daddy that we needed to paint.

We painted porches.

We painted decks.

We painted furniture.

We started out with a paint sprayer.

Several hours and several choice words later, Big Daddy gave up fighting the good fight and made a mad trip to Lowe’s for rollers and pans.

During his trip, I took over the furniture-a mixture of white paint and water to cover wicker that had weathered a lot of weather.

Now I don’t suffer shoes gladly normally, but yesterday I kicked them off so I could feel the grass squishing through my toes while I slung paint.

…and I do mean slung.

I slapped my brush over and around. I splodged it into cracks and crevices. I dappled it across the backs and circled the legs.

For my trouble I had white freckles across my nose and a smattering across my arms and legs. I left white foot prints across the driveway.

While I laughed at my idiocy, I suddenly felt the earth tremble. I staggered trying to keep my balance.

It wasn’t an earthquake.

The fervency with which my Dad rolled in his grave caused the earth to tremble.

He painted for a living.

He painted inside, outside, and underside and he did it all wearing white.

Aside: the scent of baby oil make me think of him. He would slather himself in it before painting outdoors. The reasons were twofold.

1. His vanity knew no bounds and he could tan while he worked.
2. Practicality. What little paint he got on him would wash off easier with an oily undercoating.

Anyway…. I inherited none of his talent. He was appalled at my sloppiness and let me know.

But…

While he’s up and about, shaking his head in disgust, I’d love it if he would stick around for another few days to watch his oldest grandson graduate from high school.

I know Big never got to meet his Grandpa. But I have a feeling Dad knows all about him. And it sure would be nice if he rattled and rolled around a little on Sunday- as Big begins his own paint job.

…not porches or decks or furniture.

As Big picks his colors, he’s going to need help with his brushes.

Maybe with your hand guiding him, Daddy, he’ll finish without leaving footprints in the driveway.

Shopping for Zing Zang

Big Daddy and I have decided to support our local businesses here in our little township.  So when our Bloody Marys became just Marys, we went to the new Brown Derby to restock.

At nine in the evening, the parking spots in front of the store were full.  We had to park down the strip center aways-right in front of the 24 hour access gym!

I was mortified.  I got out of my car and stayed in the shadows until I could burst noisily through the hooch house doors.

I made it back to the car unseen.  

Whew!  That was a close one.

What if someone drove by and saw me parked right in front of the gym?  

My reputation would be in shreds. 

...just like that

Big is 17.

For another month or so anyway.

Tonight, for one reason or another, it was just he and me at home.

There was no Xbox, no computer games, no texting.

There we sat on the divan.  House was on the TV.

He piled the couch pillows in my lap and laid his head down so I could run my fingers through his hair.

And just like that....

He was seven.

Just like that...

He was a sleepy little guy crawling up to snuggle under my arm-slowly waking up to go to kindergarten.

Just like that...

Just like that...

So, yeah. 

For just a second he was seven.

It was nice.

A Very Brady Rastlin' Match

I've never eaten pork chops and applesauce myself.  But Peter Brady and Alice surely made it popular in the 70's.

It seems to be a dish that goes together like apple pie and cheddar cheese.

Another combination I've never eaten.

In lieu of our current economy, I can also understand why The Pony would substitute pork chops with pork rinds.

It's frugal.  

Why waste a cut of the new white meat, when you can get a bag of chicharrones at the Wal-Mart for 99 cents?

Being from Missouri, I also know about the long standing argument that centers around how to pronounce the name of our fair state.

Mizzoureeeee?  Mizzouraaahhh?

So in keeping with our highfalutin quest to sound educated and genteel, I can see why The Pony-in its infinite wisdom-would deliberately choose a more sophisticated and exotic spelling.

I can think of no other explanation.  Maybe you can.

So for tonight's entertainment, I give you...

Applesauce and Pork Rhine rastlin'.

...you can't make this shinola up.

Fiber

So Big Daddy and I were trekking through Country Mart.  

It's a jim dandy of grocery store down Hollister way.  After we visited with Prissy last Saturday, we braved the hellish winds and came down from Point Lookout to check out their wares.

Yes.  Yes it is an exciting adventure for us to mindlessly aim through a grocery store.  

A crazy life I lead,  I know.

After a spell, we stopped in the bread aisle for me to read labels.  

Now don't get your bowels in an uproar thinking I'm a good Mom.

I most certainly am not. 

Big and Little are fed a steady diet of fats, preservatives, and sugar. 

OK, I do sprinkle liberally with vegetables and fruits and protein.

I digress...

So I let my boys eat junk, but one thing I never buy is white bread.  As a daughter of a diabetic, the one lesson I retrained from my youth is that white flour is nothing but pure sugar.  

I'd rather give them sugar from a yummier place...like the jelly that goes on the peanut butter that goes on the bread.

In fact I remember vividly Big coming home from first grade and when I asked him what he bought for lunch that day, he told me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

I asked him why in the world he would spend his lunch money on that, when I could make him one at home for free.

He told me it was because they use 'fresh' bread at school.

...white bread.

So I read labels.  I make sure they it's not just whole wheat, but 100% whole grains. Ya gotta get the fiber.

So Big Daddy patiently waits for me to read the bread and then we move on.  As I glance across the aisle, I notice the crackers.  There is now a brand of crackers that has added fiber.

Lookit!  Those crackers have added fiber.  Those are poo crackers.

Could you say that a little louder so the rest of the store can hear that?

Why?  That's what they are.  Eat a handful of those and tell me they aren't poo crackers.

Big Daddy walks off.  He does that often when accompanying me places.

Further down the aisle I come across the peanut butter.  I picked up a pack of snack size PB packages and thought that would be a great way to pass off carrots as a treat in the lunch sacks.  They can dip them in the PB.

I read the back of the label.

There's no fiber in peanut butter, Sugar.

Course not.  Then it would be poo-nut butter.

He left the store.

When You Need a Helping Hand

I took an informal poll at work today.

I asked the girls what type of Hamburger Helper they thought would be used.

It was unanimous.

Beef Stroganoff.

Jack thinks we should have a blogmeet down Pony way.

Jason brought up an excellent question.  What does one wear-if anything-when rastlin' in such exotic fare?  Would it endanger a female competitor's, um...you know, health if one competed in their all together?  

I started to do some research, but stopped when I found this site.

Enjoy.

Ponies Ought Nine

So the annual trek to Hot Springs went off without a hitch, ya know?

Except for the part where I lose my shirt to those wretched bookies.

In all honesty my shirt is only twenty dollars, so the loss is minimal.

...but the fun knows no bounds!

My photos this year were non-existent, but I managed to get a shot after the first race.

...and a shot of my favorite character, albeit from the back.  Last year he wore purple accessories.  But you can read about that further down.

Look here and here. My favorite rite of spring chronicled for anyone and everyone to read.

And another thing.

Looking back on those posts, I realize I used to actually write.  I used to think of something I wanted to share and actually put it down on (cyber) paper.

What happened to me?

Ebb and flow, I reckon.  Maybe someday soon, I'll think of something that needs to be said in a witty way.  Maybe not a witty way, but in a personal way. 

My own personal way.

I kinda miss that.

Instead I've resorted to Wicked Wednesday reporting. Which I must confess is kind of fun.

I already know what tomorrow holds.

Are you giddy with anticipation?

Oatmill Rastlin'

...not 'oatmeal'.

...oatmill.

My hand to Jesus.

...

...

...

I have no words.

This N That

As I sit drinking a glass of red, I'm feeling the wind blow through an open window.  It is blessedly blowing the stink off  me and taking winter's cobwebs with it. If you were here you'd hear the click of my keys and the snorts I aim at Facebook.

Big is sitting at the snack bar.  There is an art/drama project due when school returns to session next week.  He is busy at work tracing Oedipus and the Sphinx on a vase. I'm pleased as punch that this senior can concentrate with less than 45 days of school left.

Little and Big Daddy are in the living room playing with guitars.  There is tuning to be done and experimentation taking place with the newest heirloom passed down just this weekend from Grandad.

The livestock are contentedly lounging outside.  Fred keeps guard across the back door, while Sadie holds court atop the picnic table.

When we've all finished with our collective piddlin', and the spicy chicken pasta has digested,  I have to finish the Femme Fatal ultimate playlist on Rock Band.

No one gets by One Way or Another 'ceptin me.

...well and Blondie.

I suppose I should do something constructive.  I do need to wield the Swiffer duster.  Lord knows it's thick across the house.

Then again, the open windows and spring-like breeze should take care of that.

...you reckon?

WW IV

Held over for another week!

You can click to enlarge, but the quality is what you can expect from a cell phone.

If they change the sign next Wednesday, I may continue reporting. Otherwise I may seek early retirement from my recent foray into serious journalism.

I have indeed enjoyed bringing the latest in adult entertainment activity to you each Wednesday. 

But...

 I fear my next step would be to go deep undercover and report activities from within.

...as a competitor.

I don't know if they can handle that much Sugar in their cherry pie.

Cat Out of the Bag

Where are Mom and Dad going?

The blog awards.

What?

Yeah, Mom's got a blog.

How come you know about this and I don't?

I caught her.

What?

Yeah.  She wrote a post about Granny over a year and a half ago and then she left it up accidentally.

Did Dad know?

He caught her too, but didn't tell her he knew.  The she knew that he knew, but didn't tell him.  So for a long time she didn't let him know that she knew that he knew, and he didn't tell her he knew.  Then he found out that she knew that he knew. 

Why didn't Dad want her to know that he knew?

He thought that she'd change the way she wrote if she knew he was reading it.

What does she write about?

She writes about how she cries when I sing and how she cries when she looks at your man legs.  She also writes about Dad and family and friends and memories and experiences and what kind of wrestling is going on down at the strip club.

Weird.

Tell me.

Huzzah!

I'm just happy as a pig in slop.

Our gorgeous Nixa Lady Eagles just captured the Missouri Class 5A State Basketball Championship.

Grace, poise, and a scrappy determination was the order of the day.

Nixa 56, Blue Springs 39.

I'm exhausted and screamed out.  

...and that was just from watching it on TV.

I'm taking to my bed.

WW III

Cherry Pie tonight.

Does one jump into a huge cherry pie and wrestle?

Does one just jump into the pie filling itself without the crust?

I should have asked this with the chicken pot pie last week, but I forgot.

Is the cherry pie ala mode?

Do they play Cherry Pie while wrestling?

...wouldn't that be the pits.

Heh.

...that's what she said

...for those of you who watch The Office.

For those of you who don't, this might catch you up.

Big and Little make me laugh every day.

It's good to be me.

Wicked Wednesday 2

I was remiss in my duties.

If any of you missed Chicken Pot Pie rasslin' last Wednesday...my bad.

However, oil rasslin' is still taking place at the Pink Cadillac.

10W40 or Canola?

Technically…It’s Rasslin’

If you find yourself down around The Pony- a gentlemen’s club-of an evening, make sure you stop in for ‘Wicked Wednesday’ wrestling  specials.

I don’t participate in nor witness these amazing spectacles, but I enjoy the billboard touting them as I drive by said establishment.

My favorite Wicked Wednesday thus far has been ramen noodle wrestling.

Last night they featured biscuits and gravy wrestling.

Whatever happened to good-old, all-American jello wrestling?  

Too prosaic.  

Passe.  

Boring.

What’s next?  Yogurt wrestling?  Macaroni and Cheese, perhaps? Mashed potatoes? 

What do you think?

The possibilities are indeed endless.

Maybe next week, I’ll take a photo of the sign as proof in the pudding.

Stayed tuned for weekly updates.

I want to keep you…

…wait for it.

…abreast.

Booty Call

As I was pulling on my new red pleather high-heeled boots this morning I had a thought.

No, wait. …I had two thoughts.

Number one was the thrilling fact that I found a pair of boots that would actually fit over my fatted calves. 

Celebrations ensue.

Number two was the dawning that I could pull up my britches’ legs and put on my boots after I already had my pants on.

I’ll explain.

As we have discussed, I am a child of the 80’s. 

Now...all you pretty young things of today can discuss all you want the idea that you heralded in the era of the ‘skinny jean’.

You did not.

We did.  ...and they weren’t ‘skinny jeans’.  They were ‘peg leg jeans’.

I remember quite vividly taking in the inside seam of my jeans in order to get them tighter around my calf and ankle.  And kids, if you were a girl coming of age when I did, you remember doing it too.  …or someone who did.

What does this have to do with boots?

Hang with me.

In my little rural neck of the woods, especially in the era of Urban Cowboy, we all wanted cowboy boots.  But it was a struggle to wear them with our jeans.  It was a process. 

…and here it is.

1.     Lay jeans on floor.

2.    Stuff the upper of your boots into the ankle opening of the jeans. Toes facing the ceiling.

3.    Pick your jeans up by the waist so they are standing with the boots inside.

4.    Scrunch the waist down and over the top of your boots, so that your jeans are semi-inside out and pooled on the floor around your boots.

5.    Step into your boots thus stepping into your jeans.

6.    Pull up your waist band.  It should come to rest just under your boobs.

7.    You will now be wearing your jeans and your boots.

8.    Lie back down on the floor, facing the ceiling.

9.    Inhale deeply.

10.  Suck in your stomach.

11.  Zip your jeans.

12.  Roll over to your side and slowly stand back up.

13.  (Optional) Do several knee bends and hiney rotations to stretch out the jeans.

14.  Apply Aqua Net liberally to hair and leave. (OK that wasn't part of the boot/jean process, but it was part of the process)

What in hell were we thinking?

A Question for the Universe

Can anyone tell me, when you have a clean drawer and clean silverware, where all that dirt and grime comes from that collects in the bottom?

Can you also tell me how to clean it out without removing all the silverware and just running the tray through the dishwasher? 

Cuz I gotta be honest here, I'm too damn lazy for that nonsense.

Generations

I know.  I know.

It seems all I do is write about the weather and tonight is no exception.

The ice and the snow and sleet and the rain-it's all here.  Right now.  Howling outside my door.

I've already eaten my supper, put on my PJs, performed my ablutions and slathered on face cream.  The contacts have come off and the slippers put on.

I'm ready.

My favorite corner of the couch awaits with an afghan to pull over me and a book to read.  I'll add to the mix a glass of wine or four and let the weather bedevil someone else.

All my little ducks are in their rows.  The boys are off the treacherous roads and have got the LEGO (LEGOs?) out again. (this post spelled correctly and thank you for not calling me out on it in the last one)   The dogs are lolling by the fire.

Maybe I talk so much about the weather because it is ingrained in me.  

Granny would talk about the loads of laundry she did or how many cans of beans she put up that day.  Some days she'd chronicle a trip that she and Grandpa would take to Portia or Jonesboro or just write about a run to the Piggly Wiggly. 

But every single day Granny's diaries detailed the sweltering temperatures or lack of rain. She'd start off every entry with the temperature and the time of sunrise.  She'd confer with Grandpa about what the colors painted in dusk sky were telling her and what it meant for the weather tomorrow.

I'm not that prolific.  And I hold no illusions that anybody would want to read a detailed account of my day.

Yet.

I'm drawn to those old bibles and calendars and journals and scraps of paper that she's kept all these years.

So even if I don't chronicle my day and I've never put up a can of anything, I am connected to her by the weather.

It inspires me.  I feel compelled to say something.  I need to put fingers to keyboard in gratitude that I have a warm, dry, comfy, loving home.  

Maybe I feel it most keenly when the winds howl and the sleet bombards my roof.

Waxing poetic?  Philosophical?  Legs?

Well, I'm off now.  The book awaits as I go ahead and sip the wine.

I'm betting Granny is writing about the ice, too.

I can't wait to read about it.

Life as I know it

The house is shaking.

I have smoke in the living room and I trip as make my way through.

...Leggo, train sets, (thus the smoke) and Lincoln Logs. They get dragged out when buddies spend the night.  

I have two extra boys tonight which means blowing up the air mattress.

You might think I'm complaining but you'd be mistaken.

I love the noise and laughter that wake me up at 2 in the am.

I bitch and moan because the gallon of milk I bought yesterday is gone today.  I refuse to buy any more pop because I find half finished cans laying around the house. I roll my eyes as I listen to them complain that there is nothing in the house to eat, when in reality there is tons.  They just don't want to bothered to actually cook anything.

Again.  If you think I'm complaining, you'd be mistaken.

I deal with nasty hair, smelly feet and dirty clothes that suddenly appear out of nowhere needing to be washed.

But I love it.  

I think the good Lord knew what he was doing when he blessed me with boys.  Girls have too much drama and are too high maintenance.

I know because I am one. There is enough estrogen in this house with just me.

I'm thinking tonight about how loud silence can be and how piercing it will be when they are gone.

So I gladly bang on the wall in the middle of the night to quiet Rock Band and signal them to get to bed because we have church tomorrow.

I know what I'll give thanks for when I get there.

It's Coming

Little, what is that? I can’t see it from up here on the deck.

It’s a dead coyote.

What?  That close to the back fence?

Yeah.

Well quit pokin’ at it and get the dogs away from it.

OK.  Sadie!  Fred!  Get!

Does it smell?

No, but the maggots are all over it.

Damn, Boy, this ain’t Bones.  Get away.  Chase, you too!  I mean it.  Chase, drop it! Don’t you dare drag that off with your bare hands!

Sugar, I got it.

You’re gonna pull the tail off.

Sugar, I got it.

Your Momma is gonna kill me if you get some kind of hideous disease from throwing that thing over into the timber. …Aw, there you go anyway. 

Sugar, I got.

I’m gonna slap you sideways and your Momma will thank me for it. At least make sure you wash your hands!

We still don’t know how it got there.   Big, Little, Chase, and BD all agree that the idiot neighbor boy got it with his .22 and it crawled up to the fence row and died.

I disagree.

I think something more sinister is afoot.  I feel it my bones.  I smell it in the air. I’m breaking out into cold sweats.

Have you heard of The Jersey Devil-The Iowa Grass Monster-The hideous, yet fascinating train wreck that is the Chupacabra?  

I’m telling ya.  It was some kind of dark creature that laid waste to that poor coyote. 

Lock up your dogs.

Put the livestock in the barn.

Turn on the flood lights and baton down the hatches.

Momo is back and he’s got a thirst for blood!

Nothing but Net

I like a cool autumn night sitting under Friday night lights and watching strapping young men toss around the pigskin.

But I love a cold winter night spend inside a gymnasium watching strapping young men dribble the round ball.

The Tournament of Champions celebrates it 25 anniversary this year.

Is that possible?  It can’t be.  I was at the first one.

So let me do the math, if I was mumble mumble in 1984, then that would make me mumble mumble.

Oh, yeah.  I guess that is right.

Sigh.

Our little basketball team was honored to play in the first two tournaments and we lost spectacularly in both of them.  It would be many years before my alma mater would be invited back.

But my goodness it was exciting to be on the floor of Hammon’s Student Center.  It was always a thrill to get to play in an arena.  And as mascot, I stood with the cheerleaders and flapped my red eagle wings around excitedly and drummed up as much enthusiasm as I could.

(Not one word about me being the mascot, you hear?  Not ONE word.)

In the 80’s before football grew in the rural towns, basketball was king.  The gyms were full.  The crowds roared. A state championship was always on our minds.

To this day I love coming inside from the frigid outdoors and being blasted in the face by heat and the smell of popcorn. My mouth waters for nachos with jalapenos.  My heart thrills at the blasting of the buzzer and the squeak of athletic shoes on the court floor.

I don’t care where you live; the scent of a high school gym is universal.  One step inside and an adult is transported back to their adolescence in one whiff.

So as the games continue into the weekend, I marvel at the new arena.  I gasp at the size of the concession stands and the girth of the new scoreboard.  

My little rural heart is still awed at the spectacle.

…and thrilled silly by squeaking shoes.

Grateful

Hey, You.

Yeah, You.

It's cold.

A bone-chilling, hiney-freezing seven degrees.

It makes me grateful for my Eeyore fleece pajamas and my sheepskin slippers.

It makes me grateful for the fireplace/wood stove in the living room that cranks out the heat while we watch Wall-E and eat hot wings and drink cocoa.  (and we have two teenage boys that make the trip to the wood pile so I don’t have to.)

I’m grateful my livestock are sprawled out in the floor.  One under the coffee table and the other grunting and chasing rabbits in his sleep.

I’m grateful for my flannel sheets and birthday quilt. 

What birthday quilt? 

 I have been remiss.

I only show you the hands.  And let it be known that the hands on the left and the right wrought this piece with love for the grateful hands in the middle.

...and yes.  It is on my bed not my wall.

So as the wind howls outside, I’m flanked by my men, I have a full belly, soft jammies, and my dogs at my feet.

I’m warm on the inside and the out.

It’s not so bad really.

The Name Game

Bennifer started it.

Brangelina are doing it.

Why can’t we?

Let’s see.  If you put Big Daddy and Sugar together, what would you get?

Big Sugar.

I don’t think so.

Sugar Daddy?

Nah.

Big Sugar Daddy?

mmmmm.

Let’s just use the Big and the second half of Sugar.

Bigar.  Bigger?

Ah.  No.

…how about the first half of Sugar and leave off the B in Big.

Shig?

Doesn’t roll off the tongue very well.

Let’s use the B in Big and take off the S in Sugar.

Bugar?  Boogar?

Booger!

This is oddly and sadly (soddly?) appropriate.

Still Lost

I've blogged about this twice.

You'd think I'd get my bowels in an uproar about something important, but no. 

If I had a lick of sense I'd be lamenting world poverty and atrocious human rights issues, but again, no.

I could be posting about my aversion to ivory and the poaching of my beloved elephant. Even that would have some relevance.

But again...

No.

I know you’re sick of hearing me harp on this, but I’m still not convinced this is a good thing.

I want to see the zipper up the back of the sleestaks’ costumes.  Isn’t that the point? 

Will there be enough cheese?

I worry.