Well. Look Who the Cat Drug Up.

So...

Ummm.

See, I've been really...
I've had an awful lot of...


Bah.

I'm on a laptop these days. Can use it any room in the house.

Sexy times.

Guess my favorite room?

Right now I'm on the couch. I just came in from sitting outside. My clothes smell like grilled hamburgers and wood smoke.

Most pleasant, I must say.

The wine I drank whilst listening to the pond frogs has comfortably settled in several places. Little and two of his cohorts are playing Halo on two different TV's and another is in the kitchen trying to fix the PC.

Big has left to spend the night in town with a buddy. He spends less and less time here at the house. It is as it should be. I like it when he passes through though. Post secondary education and all the trappings that go with it seem to suit him.

It makes me glad. He's come off a hard year.

So as spring rears it's head, the warm-thrilling day we just had will give way to snow this weekend.

Yep...snow.

Welcome to the Ozarks, Folks.

...and thanks for the prod, You!

Whatta Guy

RING!

This is Sugar, how can I help you?

Mother!

Ohgodwhatswrong?

Well...

Just tell me.  It's OK. Whatever it is, it'll be fine.

Alright...The cable is out. The internet is out.  Everything!

That's it?

Are you kidding?  This is a tragedy of epic proportion.

Jesus Christ on a stick!  I'm at work. What do you want me to do about it? 

Call the cable company.  

You call the cable company.  

No you.

You're there. I'm not.  If you call, you can tell them how it's behaving.

But you know how to handle those people.

Why don't you take this opportunity to, I don't know, do some homework?  MMM?

Well right now I'm not doing homework but I am working.

Don't lie to my, Boy.  You are not.

I am too.  I'm sitting in the kitchen in my drawers sewing up a split in the side of my shorts. It's not pretty, but it's functional.

To conclude:  Big won't call the cable company.  However...

Big mends his own clothes. 

I don't care you are.  That's awesome!

Getting this out of the way

I'm sitting outside on my deck watching a storm roll in.  There is a hint of fall in the air.  A cool, autumn like breeze is blowing across my wine glass. 

This is appropriate as school starts tomorrow.

I should be working on the choir booster blog I cooked up, but I need to get this out of my system first.

Lucky you, huh?

It will be a school year like no other because My Big will be a senior and my Little will be a freshman.

Good times.

I say that sarcastically, but it's true.  Even if we all do meet ourselves coming and going.

Little will play football and be in marching band.  A seemingly impossible feat, but doable with organizational skills-which he is blessed with.  He stresses easily, though.  He is extremely hard on himself and I'll have to keep that in check.

Big will want to do all-state choir and perform in the All-state Thespian show.  An actual impossible task due to scheduling.  One will have to give.  And since that will break his heart, it's also breaking mine.  Plus there is that whole getting ready for college thing.

Shudder

I'm only going to get to do this once you know.

This parent thing.

And for some reason it seems so important during these special years.  I liked high school, no I loved high school.  Except for the part where I never had a boyfriend and of course at the time that seemed more important than anything else.  

Looking back I was blessed not to have to bother.  You see, I know the pressure and the stress they are under being so busy, because I've been there.  I remember specifically standing in Prissy's kitchen before play practice and lamenting the fact that I had to take a dump, but I didn't have time.

But this post isn't about me.  Shocking ain't it?

I need to tell you how much I love these young men.  How fucking proud I am of them.  

But I can't.

I don't have the gift...the talent to put it into words. 'Love' is so overused that it seems inadequate. I wish to God I was a poet.  I wish I could form some kind of unique verse to emotionally communicate to you what I feel for these children.

But I can't.

My words can't, so my body does it for me. 

It's doing it right now by putting this painful knot in my throat. 

It does it by producing tears.

My wretched body puts a catch in my voice so Big Daddy knows when I'm fixin' to let loose.  My voice goes an octave lower when I speak in a vain attempt to keep my eyes from leaking.

I love my children.  I'm so proud of them that I truly feel my soul can't contain it.

So try to stick with me until graduation next May.

I'll be here.

...trying to stay hydrated.

I'm so Ashamed

I'm a drummer you know.

Actually I'm a better singer than drummer.  I can play lead guitar passably, but if I had my druthers I'd leave that up to someone with more skill.

I've toured Amsterdam and London.  We got kicked off stage in New York because our vocalist sucked and the rest of us couldn't save him.

Alas.

Little turns fifteen this weekend and since we're going to be at the lake, I gave him his birthday present early. The last item I bought with my discount before I quit the second job was...

Rock Band.

It was a completely frivolous and unnecessary purchase.  I'm racked with shame that I gave into his pleas.  I should be dumped into the Pit of Useless Mothers for even considering such a total waste of money and time.

...that is, until he asked me to sing.

Please, Ma.  You know this song don't you?  It's Dead or Alive.

Oh dear God.  He played the Bon Jovi card.

Damn.

I knew that song and flat rocked Run to the Hills to the point I earned us a tour bus and several groupies.

I'm not a gamer, but I've got to tell you...

I will play this game till I have blisters on my ass and fingers.  

I'm obsessed. 

I can't get enough. 

I've stayed up until all hours because I will, by God pass 90% on medium drumming.  I go to sleep humming Say it Isn't So.  I drive to work with Blitzkrieg Bop running over and over in my head.

I have no time to blog because I'm

Here it is...

I have no idea how to do this sort of a thing.

I was a virgin until this video.

Don't you judge me!

The graphics are cheesy, but I am a work in progress.

This is Big. Granted this video isn't from last night's cold pasta extravaganza, but this was the actual award winning performance from last weekend.

Both of his ensembles got a '1' rating at state, but this was the crowd pleaser as you will see.

Big is a bass and he is not a red head.

Ladies and Gentlemen, it is my pleasure to present Big Britches.

Three Weeks Later

I'm a little late.

The lake crested Saturday. I know it is Monday, but now is the first chance I've had to post.

Don't hate me.

To refresh...the dam on:

The dam on Saturday, April 5, 2008:

In order to save a large city on Tablerock, peoples homes on Taneycomo will be destroyed. Boon's husband works for the co-op and prayed for peace on Sunday over the decision he helped make to open the flood gates to dump one lake into another. It was indeed a 'no-brainer' decision. But such a decision still causes a true and decent man much anguish to make.

Our spot in the world on:




Our spot in the world April 5, 2008:



And here:


It's hard to fathom.

We sit here in the summer. The radio playing low. Country of course.

Why is it country and/or southern rock at the lake when the rest of the year it is indy folk and rock?

The mosquitoes are buzzing, gnats are swarming, it's still way too humid, but has cooled to a 'comfortable' 90. The cicadas have started to screech and supper is cooking on the pit.

...but not today.

I know the water will recede, but our 'summer home' looks dismal.

Over fifty families have been forced to evacuate. When they do come home, if they can come home, weeks and months of clean up and rebuilding will take place.

I am blessed, people.

...don't think I don't know it.

This Post was Previously Recorded

A man came through my line tonight and all he purchased was a box of Grecian Gray.

You know, the hair dye.

It made me smile.

...If only he'd purchased some pipe tobacco also.

Solo

UPDATE!
Big's going to state for a third year in a row. For three performances. He's going for his mixed ensemble, his men's ensemble, and his solo.

He rocks!


I got to listen to Big's solo for district competition tonight.

He's good.

Oh, let's get real.

He's freakin' fantastic!

I know he's good. He's been to state twice, so this isn't just blind parental pride.

Here's the thing.

Why do I still literally, not figuratively, gasp with surprised wonder every time he opens his mouth on stage?

I do understand why I am moved to shed those God-awful embarrassing maternal tears.

I don't understand why I'm so awed when I listen to him sing. It's as if I'm hearing him for the first time -each and every time I hear him.

Even after listening to scads of his performances.

After all this time, the new hasn't worn off of listening to him.

...maybe it never will.

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!

Snow Day

This is how we spent our day.

...how 'bout you?

A snow man!

Finishing touches.

A good day's work.

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.

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

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.

The Post in Which Monty-The Belligerent Cynic- Contributes to the Blog of Pants in Her Time of Need

Hello all, Montgomery Jack Farnsbooth here.

I have kidnapped Miss Sugar, and will be posting for her in my own classy way... MWAHAHAHA!!!

Anyways! I haven't really kidnapped her but she is busy working and has decided to have someone else keep things up and running...

So I'm Blog-sitting... And it better damn well pay....

So, the Christmas days are coming, and the controversies, old clay-mation cartoon specials, and bonuses (i wish!) with it.

A snow covered town, hot Wasil (yes, this is spelt right, pronounced wah-sil[as in baby noise and a window sill]), and cookie S'mores cooked over iron pot fires. This is Christmas for the Britches family.In a previous post Pants mentioned Silver Dollar City. Well I'm here to give an in detail description of the wondrous times that are spent there at Christmas time._________________________________________________________________

The gates are in sight!!! The two triangle billboards are crystal clear in the flurried night. The trip to the heavily wooded parking lot holds us in its frosty anticipation, as we slowly mount the climbing winding hill.We search for a spot and are victorious in our venture and we all pile out.

Immediately the trunk is popped and all of our winter wear is grabbed until it's hard to discern one from the other except by the color jacket we wear. We slowly run to the round-about to wait for the open air tram to shuttle us to the city on the coldest ride in the park.

We sit in electric anticipation of the wonders that await us on the other side of the tree line, though we have been raised on the sight, at winter it's remodeled in our minds, the memories of years past refurbished, and the congregation of the mass emotion hits us all as we smile, sigh, then run like maniacs to the turn-stile so the ole gaffers, all decked out in suits and top hats, await to grant us entrance to the kingdom of the Ozarks, with it's fires smoking away keeping the streets warm, trade shops of all sorts lit merrily as we stroll down the lane, with soft whispers of caroling in the trees.

As we huddle together in the warmth of family, in the way only an over-mind of years of tradition can, we stroll subconsciously to the first and most important stop of the night....IT'S SANTA!!!!!!!! Amongst all the tiny tot's and toddlers who await with baited breath to see the man of all their Christmas dreams, they're are two teenagers with their eager mother, as she claps her hands together in rapid fashion, in a way only a mother who has had years of practice can, shudders and yells "YAAAAAY!!! IT’S SANTA!!!!!!" And the two young men(As she HATES being told that they are) roll their eyes, look at each other and smile, knowing that there is no other place in the world that is quite like Silver Dollar City in the winter.

The two of them mount the stage and sit on the air over Santa's lap, trying not to break the poor old man, because, as I said, these two young men do weigh just a bit more than they look, being corn fed and all. They sit with aching thighs as the minutes tick by as Santa tells you nice things jolly old men are supposed to say, such as, the joy of Christmas may never be forgotten, as long as it lives forever in your hearts, and the hearts of all those you meet, and they just wish that they would take the blasted photograph before their legs will fall off their da...~FLASH~ The picture is taken! And we slowly and proudly leave, having saved another Santa from a destroyed lap, and improving the fortress of memories our mother has in the delicate snowflake ornaments, containing pictures dating back since Little was born of her two little boys and Santa.

We make our way through the children, hugging our mother as she fondles her sons, and go to the next stop in our agenda to pick up yet another hardy token of the Ozarkian City of Lights. Down the winding lanes and trees, and through allies and shops of warmth and homeliness, we make our way to the Smithy to receive the reward for our faithful attendance to every festival, the pewter ornament of a building in the city in its entire holiday garb! “OOH!"Our dear matriarch exclaims " They cast this years after the tree on the square!" meaning of coarse the giant 5-story Christmas tree that sings and dances with it's spectacular show of songs that is enough to make any man with his family cry.

"Well, we can go home now..." says our father with a smirk on his face as he turns towards hill street(Cardiac hill, heart attack hill, cardiac street, hardy cardy heart attack hill and all other names given the steepest hill in the city)

"SAYS YOU!" say me and my brother in the best manners possible, then promptly turn our backs on them and flea to the Christmas tree to see the show, because it has just started, and is' playing the carol of the bell's, our favorite one!

The tree erupts in a display , with it's multi colored lights chasing each other over the tier's of candles lighting the sections, the angels proclaiming joyous refrains, and the familiar ghosts and spirits of past, present, and future, meld together into one bountiful creature of holiday festivity and shout into the heavens it's most merry greeting “MERRY CHRISTMAS!!! AND MAY GOD BLESS US! EVERY ONE”!

As I run, I turn back to see my dad chuckling as he turns and looks around at the trees and lights in a place that time has forgot and will never remember, at the place that he worked and toiled for more than a wage, and slowly turns and gives his last tender gaze towards the beautiful girl that he caught so many years ago, and soundly kisses her, amid the lights, sounds, and smells in the one place that love will never be forgotten, as long as there is one piece of popcorn (or one popcorn seller) to be swept up.___________________________________________________________________

And such is a Christmas tale from Monty, to Britches and all her readers. Merry Christmas Y'all!

And as I sit here in my Vicodin induced euphoria in the early morning of Christmas Eve, I hear the clangor of a wood stove burning up fuel, I remember presents needing to be wrapped, and I anticipate, with Silent mouth, to hear the sleigh bells on the sleigh of the jolly old man of Christmas dreams.

And so I leave you, with but an echo of Christmas cheer in the lofts.

Tooth update...

The wisdom teeth were extracted successfully yesterday.

After a Vicoden and a long nap, Big was ready for bear. He went to a party last night. So, obviously the horror stories he was subjected to at school did not come to pass.

I went in with him yesterday very blase' about the whole matter. People get this done everyday.

Then they started hooking him up to an EKG and preparing the I.V..

What?

Ah, I think I've changed our minds. Is this really necessary?

I don't know what I was (and wasn't) thinking. I mean, it is called oral surgery.

It's just having your child hooked up to machinery and poked and prodded just didn't set well with me.

I know he's damn near a grown man. ...and it doesn't matter a whit.

Fear clenched me in the belly for a second-the what ifs.

I quickly flicked them aside and went on with it. ...or at least Big went on with it.

He slept and dreamed of milkshakes.

I sat in the waiting room and fretted.

He got the better end of the deal.

Silly Boys

I got off work a few hours ago. I spent the day putting out winter coats, ladies' bras, and long underwear.

I thought I'd come home, drink some wine, eat a little supper-let Big Daddy wait on me. You know-make the day seemed way worse than it really was to garner a little sympathy.

Instead I have three teenage boys in my living room giggling like little girls.

Let's play Scrabble!

No way. Cranium!

I hate Cranium.

Then run next door and get Clue.

OK

Oh, look! It's Jack Black on TV.

More giggles and no board games.

Lots more Jack Black.

Go get Clue. You'll be the one to disappoint Mom if you don't.

No way.

Ah, Yeah.

Still no Clue.

Me: It's OK, Guys. really.

More laughter.

More noise.

...lots more wine.

Did I mention I'm in Heaven?

Thanksgiving

Yeah, I know. Thanksgiving was Thursday.

But I'm commenting today, because I just spent time with my chosen family. And for that I am truly thankful.

Today, after ringing up toilet paper and Christmas wrapping for the good people of Southwest Missouri, I went to my second feast of the week-late, but in time to clean up leftovers.

I want you to meet them.

The Matriarch. She reminds me repeatedly that my hair has gotten too long and I need to wear it short again. I'm also told I'm going a little gray. I also took on too much by offering to bring the mashed potatoes and the gravy and the stuffing. I'm working two jobs-I don't have time for all that.

'Chelle-Daughter 1. She brought the burnt pies and set up the craft table. No one wanted to build foam snowmen, but we did anyway because we love her. She also spent the majority of the time griping because, "Mom can't get her shit together! We were supposed to eat at two and it was after three before we even got started." Husband showed up late after he got off at the garage. He had to stop home first and get The Incredibles for the girls. Did I mention the gingerbread man making?

Joy-Daughter 2 and my BFF- "Quit yer bitchin! All of yuz!" She's single and will be everybody's aunt for the rest of her life. She's got a huge loyal heart. She'd like a mate. But she honestly believes that no one could live with her and then sets out to prove it by lashing out at men before they get the opportunity to spurn her. It's a pity really because she's stacked. ...and from what I hear men like that sort of thing.

Pauline-Daughter 3- She and husband live up Kansas City way. We've had the opportunity to spend time with them there and when they come here to visit the matriarch. Those cute little girls belong to them. As we were leaving tonight, Pauline and Husband were screaming at each other over an erased tape in the camcorder. They always keep the party lively. I think heirloom dishes were broken this evening.

Fin-Only son and Big Daddy's BFF. Fin and wife are the picture of stability. When not turning into a hermit in the wilds of SW MO, he can be found lifting his leg and farting on his sisters (of which I have now been christened). He's 42. Of course I could try to convince you that this type of behaviour is eschewed. But it makes us laugh like idiots every single time even as we run through the house to escape it. Is there really something funny about farting or is it a redneck thing?

(Personal aside here. I will belch like my belly's exploded and nary blush a wit, but I WILL NOT fart in front of anyone if I can help it. In fact, I've convinced myself I don't fart at all. It's a comfort to me. Even though the aforementioned BFF reminds me that a belch is just a fart from the mouth.)

The patriarch has passed. Pauline's husband's mother joined us today as did Fin's wife's parents.

'Chelle's boy and Fin's girl are both 18 and were born a day apart. Both were present for the festivites which gets harder to do the older they get. Big and Little were both there too. Though the minute I arrived, Big took the car in order to get to Taco Bell for his 5-12pm shift. They all pitched in though to help the little girls make those beautifully ugly gingerbread men. We've got photgraphic evidence.

How do the Britches fit into this lot?

The usual. We met at work and spent the next 20 years becoming a family-of which there are many types:

The one you are born into who will be there for you through thick and thin....or not.

The one you marry into that sees you as angel or devil depending on the direction of the wind.

The one you create-the sons and daughters you bring into this world. Remember when you looked at your children for the first time and saw them as real people with thoughts of their own? When they were no longer just your babies. Remember the awe?

The one you choose. The friends that become more than friends and yet more also than family.

What defines this grouping?

I don't know. I just know that on this day, in the year of our Lord 2007, I sat in the middle of this mayhem and thanked my God for these people. That I have the honor and privilege of knowing them and loving them.

...and being their family.