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.

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.