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!