Ah, everyone has his or her addictions. Mine have changed over the years, but I will readily admit to my current addictions – "Gilmore Girls" reruns and Diet Dr. Pepper. I gave up soda last year for Lent; yes, folks, I gave it up for 40 days and 40 nights, but I have little hope of ever abstaining from "Gilmore Girls." I even have episodes on my iPod.
A "Gilmore Girls" episode actually prompted this blog. I was watching the episode where Paris follows Rory to Stars Hallow. Paris is looking for the kind of news story for the school paper that will clinch a prestigious award for them. She is convinced that Stars Hollow, the picturesque town where Rory lives, has an underbelly of crime and corruption. Rory tells Paris she’s wasting her time. But, some people, like Rory, can never sniff out the dark undercurrent that resides in every town, be it large or small. My own mother, for example, couldn’t find trouble if I dropped her off smack-dab in the middle of Hell’s Kitchen. But me? I can somehow find myself embroiled in a "Rose Mary’s Baby" type docu-drama whereever my feet may take me. It is a gift. I mean, I learned just last night that a young whipper snapper friend has turned to a life of crime by stealing Sprite from McDonald’s. It starts out innocently enough, stealing soda, but it ends with free-basing hotdogs. I know from my own sordid soda addiction.
I tell you who else can find trouble . . . simply follow college frat boys around with a video camera, and there, my friends, you will have good TV. I heard tell last night of a group of whipper snappers from UT Knoxville that took a road trip to see a friend attending UT Nooga. Downtown Nooga is very nice, indeed, but the curvy road will lead you astray. Off the drunken visitors go to a friend’s house (down the curvy road). Upon their arrival to the residence, they are greeted by the southern drawl of an overalled hillbilly in a greasy shirt drinking Busch Light beer. "Y’all want to come on over here and drink some beer with me?" "No, no, no . . ." the whipper snappers unanimously answered, with the exception of the lone wolf passed out in the car. The rest of the group entered the residence of their friend, leaving the passed out fella in the car and the barefoot, dirty hillbilly rocking on his front porch.
Fast forwarding to later in the evening, the whipper snappers go to check on their drunken crony in the car. Gasp . . . he was GONE. But, these amateur Sherlock Holmes’ found a clue – there was a Busch Light beer can on the hood of the car. So, off they go knocking on the hillbilly’s door. He answered the door and said, "Y’all can’t have him, ya just left him in the car." The hillbilly had developed a cliched lisp at some point during the evening. (I for one was shocked at this turn of events. I mean, I can think of several instances where a gay man might need to wear overalls, but under NO circumstance can I ever imagine any of MY gay friends in a dirty shirt).
They went next door to call the police, much to the chagrin of their host (I’m guessing he had to hide some stuff in the toilet tank before the police were actually called - as I mentioned earlier, we all have our addictions). But, the police arrive to save the day, and they knocked on the hillbilly’s door. Hillbilly answered the knock with a newly busted nose. Apparently, the hostage had awoken in a strange bed with a hillbilly rubbing his feet. His first reaction was to punch said hillbilly in the nose. See . . . some people can just take care of themselves – drunk OR sober.
This story makes me even sadder that "Gilmore Girls" was canceled. I could have submitted a script entitled, "Rory & Logan Meet Teddy Ray." (Matt Czuchry, who played Logan, is, after all, originally from Knoxville, so it would have been very plausible that he would have been in the group of frat boys visiting UTC). I can’t even tell you how much I would have enjoyed writing the dialogue for that episode. Rory would, of course, have called Lorelai to save the day instead of the police . . . that folks, would be good TV.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Thank Goodness We Put Our Crazies in the Front Parlor
I have a step brother-in-law that is clinically insane. He literally believes that he is Jesus. So far, he's having a hard time building his following. His name is Timmy, and he only has one leg. I've never asked what happened; he lives right by the lake in Winchester - perhaps he lost his leg during a "walk on water" incident.
Other family members grow frustrated and weary of Timmy, but I find amusement in the bizarre, so I grab a glass of tea and sit with Timmy. We here in the south don't institutonalize our crazies . . . we sit them in the front parlor and have theology discussions. Wait, maybe that's why I'm in the front parlor with Timmy?!
Other family members grow frustrated and weary of Timmy, but I find amusement in the bizarre, so I grab a glass of tea and sit with Timmy. We here in the south don't institutonalize our crazies . . . we sit them in the front parlor and have theology discussions. Wait, maybe that's why I'm in the front parlor with Timmy?!
The Haunting of Bryson Hollow
My cousin, Linda, a rocket scientist for NASA, lives in an old 6,000 square foot Victorian home in downtown Huntsville. She lives in the home with her mother, Mildred, a retired accountant, her ex-husband, Brooks, a retired CIA agent, and her daughter, Amy, a judge. When she bought the home, it needed a good deal of renovation. The construction work seemed to have stirred the spirit of a young girl. As very respected members of the community, stories of their ghost were published in newspapers and magazines. Now, they have ghost hunters that come from all over the country – apparently, ghost hunting is a popular sport at the moment.
I've never witnessed any paranormal activity at Linda's house, but I have come to believe I myself have a ghost. I believe my ghost to be friendly but very hungry . . . he seems to love carbs. My sixth sense tells me that my spirit is not a little girl at all. I believe that my spirit is a tall, dark, handsome man somewhere in the 6-foot range. I'm calling him Antonio. I've long since given up eating carbs as they go straight to my ass, but Antonio seems to love them. He raids my frig at night and eats entire sleeves of crackers. He also fancies leftover takeout that's usually earmarked for my lunch the following day. My biggest problem with Antonio is that he is terribly messy. I'll wake the following morning to a messy kitchen that was clean the night before. I wonder how I might teach Antonio to use the dishwasher? Perhaps I should contact someone from the Catholic church . . .
I've never witnessed any paranormal activity at Linda's house, but I have come to believe I myself have a ghost. I believe my ghost to be friendly but very hungry . . . he seems to love carbs. My sixth sense tells me that my spirit is not a little girl at all. I believe that my spirit is a tall, dark, handsome man somewhere in the 6-foot range. I'm calling him Antonio. I've long since given up eating carbs as they go straight to my ass, but Antonio seems to love them. He raids my frig at night and eats entire sleeves of crackers. He also fancies leftover takeout that's usually earmarked for my lunch the following day. My biggest problem with Antonio is that he is terribly messy. I'll wake the following morning to a messy kitchen that was clean the night before. I wonder how I might teach Antonio to use the dishwasher? Perhaps I should contact someone from the Catholic church . . .
I’m Not Peppermint Patty, So Stop Asking for My Autograph
My hairdresser, Lucy, thinks I'm the greatest thing since high-speed Internet. I'm even tempered, experimental, and strangely unemotional about my hair. I plop down in her chair and say, "Whatever, Lucy." She claps her hands with delight . . . I can literally see the sparkle in her eyes as she's thinking "oh, my dear guinea pig!"
Lucy's latest cut for me is a graduated bob . . . it feels strange not having curly hair. I look in the mirror and barely recognize myself. I do, however, love waking up having fairly normal looking hair vs. my normal early morning Medusa look.
My husband finds the straight hair unsettling . . . he says I look like Peppermint Patty. I am too amused by the statement to actually be angry.
I remember going to see "You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown" as a kid. I was sitting in the front row. All of a sudden, I feel a spotlight on me. Charlie Browns points to me and says, "There's my little redheaded girl, right there!" He then comes over and sings a song to me. I wanted to crawl under my chair.
So, it's gotten me to thinking . . . am I trapped in some kind of "Peanuts" parallel universe? My recent foray into quantum physics allows me to believe that it's possible. Note that my hairdresser's name is even Lucy.
Now - the issue of me going from Charlie's mysterious redheaded girl to Chuck's lesbian friend . . . I think that's an issue for another blog on another day.
My all-time favorite quote from "Peanuts:" "Nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love." Charlie Brown.
Well, gotta go. I'll see YOU in the comic strips . . . or maybe at the pumpkin patch.
Lucy's latest cut for me is a graduated bob . . . it feels strange not having curly hair. I look in the mirror and barely recognize myself. I do, however, love waking up having fairly normal looking hair vs. my normal early morning Medusa look.
My husband finds the straight hair unsettling . . . he says I look like Peppermint Patty. I am too amused by the statement to actually be angry.
I remember going to see "You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown" as a kid. I was sitting in the front row. All of a sudden, I feel a spotlight on me. Charlie Browns points to me and says, "There's my little redheaded girl, right there!" He then comes over and sings a song to me. I wanted to crawl under my chair.
So, it's gotten me to thinking . . . am I trapped in some kind of "Peanuts" parallel universe? My recent foray into quantum physics allows me to believe that it's possible. Note that my hairdresser's name is even Lucy.
Now - the issue of me going from Charlie's mysterious redheaded girl to Chuck's lesbian friend . . . I think that's an issue for another blog on another day.
My all-time favorite quote from "Peanuts:" "Nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love." Charlie Brown.
Well, gotta go. I'll see YOU in the comic strips . . . or maybe at the pumpkin patch.
Monday, June 22, 2009
My Quantum Leap
One of my favorite things about the south is that intellectuals are often camouflaged and usually unpretentious. I used to fancy myself somewhat of an intellectual, but alas, I am not. I have learned that my true nature is just a happy spirit; but I'm drawn to the intellectuals. Tony, my brilliant husband, and I must seem like an odd match. I wake up happy, I love to sing aloud (badly), dance around the house, and have conversations with the people I'm in line with at the grocery store. Tony could literally never leave the house, he's leery of strangers, he needs to understand the way things work, and he has a biting wit. I have many friends that have never even met him . . . he's been referred to as a "cardboard stand-up" in photos because some believe he doesn't really exist.
To understand our relationship, you need only look at the selections on our personal iPods. My library consists of such things as Love Shack, Shiny Happy People, and I Want to be Sedated. Tony's library is strictly audio books such as "Electric Universe," "E=mc2," and countless books by Richard Feynman and Stephen Hawking. The problem . . . I sometimes feel guilty about not asking the deeper questions. This week, I tried to forgo my happy music and listen to some of his audio books. I was doing fine until we got to quantum physics, and frankly, I just don't get it. My childhood was filled with kittens, Kool-Aid, and lots of friends. Tony's childhood was filled with poverty, abuse, and uncertainty. What I do know is that when I've had a really hard day, when I've come home from caring for a loved one fighting for life with all my energy sucked, the energy of our house changes. He needs my energy . . . it's his air, his collagen, or as Tony might say, his CH2OH. I need his intellect - I crave stimulation even though I sometimes don't seek it out on my own. So, it's okay that I don't understand quantum physics. It's okay that I sing my happy music along with my iPod at the top of my lungs while gardening outside, with the coyotes howling in the background, mistaking my singing for an ambulance siren. It works; I am at peace, and that is my quantum leap.
To understand our relationship, you need only look at the selections on our personal iPods. My library consists of such things as Love Shack, Shiny Happy People, and I Want to be Sedated. Tony's library is strictly audio books such as "Electric Universe," "E=mc2," and countless books by Richard Feynman and Stephen Hawking. The problem . . . I sometimes feel guilty about not asking the deeper questions. This week, I tried to forgo my happy music and listen to some of his audio books. I was doing fine until we got to quantum physics, and frankly, I just don't get it. My childhood was filled with kittens, Kool-Aid, and lots of friends. Tony's childhood was filled with poverty, abuse, and uncertainty. What I do know is that when I've had a really hard day, when I've come home from caring for a loved one fighting for life with all my energy sucked, the energy of our house changes. He needs my energy . . . it's his air, his collagen, or as Tony might say, his CH2OH. I need his intellect - I crave stimulation even though I sometimes don't seek it out on my own. So, it's okay that I don't understand quantum physics. It's okay that I sing my happy music along with my iPod at the top of my lungs while gardening outside, with the coyotes howling in the background, mistaking my singing for an ambulance siren. It works; I am at peace, and that is my quantum leap.
I Think I’ll Name Him Arnold Arnold Arnold
As I was leaving church yesterday, my preacher shook my hand and said, "How are you, Little Red Riding Hood?" That's all I've ever known him to call me. It got me to thinking about names. My mother, in her best impersonation of a sheep, decided to give me the EXACT same name as an older first cousin in the same small town. I can only attribute such an act of cruelty to postpartum depression.
Most people in my life have never spoken my legal name. I don't hate the name, Jennifer, per se, it has just never felt like my own. I have been plagued my entire life, even in adulthood, with nicknames. Here are just a few that I remember: Sapphire, Jenni, Jen, Jenni Belle, Peanut Jr., Baby Powder, Chicken Legs, Little Red Riding Hood, Peppermint Patty, Victoria, Ji Ji, Red, Muffin Stump (I refuse to explain some of these!)
My grandfather called me Sapphire until the day he died. I don't believe he ever forgave my mother for not making that my legal name. I'll have to agree with my grandfather. Not only did a close relative share the same name, but 75% of women in my age group ALSO share the same first name. I, therefore, have been intrigued with interesting names my entire life.
I come from a large, nosy, Southern family, and my aunts view unpropagating members such as myself as the gravest of sinners. Thankfully, they've stopped asking about my "condition" since I said that I planned on naming my first born Arnold Arnold Arnold.
Here are some of my all-time favorite names:
1. Shermetta Renee Schwendimann
2. Ima Rose Bush (say it out loud)
3. William Williams (although, he went by the much less interesting 'Bill Williams')
4. Precious Valentine (a black football player at a local high school. I've heard he's very good – "A Boy Named Sue" syndrome – I hope he becomes a professional football player someday; it is a name for the record books, and I LOVE it!!)
5. Anita Knapp
6. Shannon Gannon
Rural Legends
My friend, Renee, and I grew up in different parts of the state, but we are both from very small towns. When we dress up, we can both put on a good city girl impersonation. I've found that the accent wanes or intensifies depending on where you are and who you're talking with (and how long you're there). But, we both have had our "Beverly Hillbillies" moments; we've shared our war stories over the years. Renee once ate a pat of butter at a fancy-smancy wedding 'cause she thought it was a mint. I once got my coat stuck in the escalator at the O'Hare Airport. They had to shut down the escalator and pry my coat out with a crowbar. I also wore these ridiculous strappy sandals to a business dinner in The Village in the pouring down ran . . . couldn't keep those darn things on when my feet got wet, so I had to walk through the streets of New York barefoot – how country bumpkin is THAT?? Hurricane Floyd was moving up the coast . . . you'd think I would have had the good sense to wear pumps, especially since they'd shut down the subways due to flooding.
But, I find that we talk about our own hometowns more than our big city adventures. I know the funny nicknames her grandma Capitola has for everyone (my favorite to date: Ole Lumpy Legs), and she knows all my Mean Lorene stories. Strangely, some of our stories are the same. For example, we both have stories of friends or family members that have "allegedly" buried cats and ran over their heads with a lawn mower (we both are animal people, so we always cringed at these stories). We also both know women that have supposedly sewn up their drunken husbands in a sheet and commenced to giving them a good beating (her story involved a beating with a shoe, and my story involved a beating with a broom – or was it the other way around??). The sad thing is . . . I always kind of believed the sheet story. Oh, well, I suppose there's comfort in the gullibleness of small town girls, no matter how well traveled we become. Proudly, this small town girl HAS managed to go to Tijuana several times without waking up in a bathtub full of ice with internal organs missing!
But, I find that we talk about our own hometowns more than our big city adventures. I know the funny nicknames her grandma Capitola has for everyone (my favorite to date: Ole Lumpy Legs), and she knows all my Mean Lorene stories. Strangely, some of our stories are the same. For example, we both have stories of friends or family members that have "allegedly" buried cats and ran over their heads with a lawn mower (we both are animal people, so we always cringed at these stories). We also both know women that have supposedly sewn up their drunken husbands in a sheet and commenced to giving them a good beating (her story involved a beating with a shoe, and my story involved a beating with a broom – or was it the other way around??). The sad thing is . . . I always kind of believed the sheet story. Oh, well, I suppose there's comfort in the gullibleness of small town girls, no matter how well traveled we become. Proudly, this small town girl HAS managed to go to Tijuana several times without waking up in a bathtub full of ice with internal organs missing!
I’ve Worked with Lots of Errrr “Donkeys” but Never an ACTUAL Billy Goat
I work as a consultant for an assessment company in the 'Boro. In this day and age, much of the work is outsourced to other cities; however, I work at the home office in a business park. I like the people in the business park. We have a tattoo place, a hairdresser, the Weed Man, a vitamin distributor, the soils group, a dance instructor, and a place called Big Head Caps, just to name a few. (My brother-in-law has a freakishly large Charlie Sheen type head, so I've actually bought a cap for him before from Big Head Caps).
One day I went in to the office, and I found about a dozen goats wondering around in the parking lot. Later in the day, the goats would begin climbing on top of cars. Being a farm girl, I can't tell you how amusing I found the whole thing (I kept thinking of the cliched term "corporate jungle," but it had "devolved" to "corporate farm".) Estelle in the suite next door did not find the incident nearly as humorous as I . . . she called animal control (to no avail). Maybe I would have found the whole thing much less amusing if the goats had not found my own mini-SUV too daunting of a challenge to actually climb. I'm sure I'd feel differently with hoof prints in the hood of my vehicle.
That same day, I came back from lunch to find police patrol cars everywhere. At first I thought they'd finally busted the Weed Man for selling marijuana (I have a theory that his advertisement for killing crabgrass in manicured lawns is a front for a lucrative drug business. But, no, the Weed Man was safe for another day.) Estelle came over and explained that the billy goat had seen his reflection in the window of Big Head Hats, and he busted through their window with his gynormous horns. Once in, he couldn't figure out how to get back out, so he ran rabidly around the store until the police arrived. I personally believe that he was just trying to find a hat to fit over his large horns. (I hear that their employees of non-farming origins are still in therapy, though).
I can only imagine that the billy goat was arrested because it was an obvious case of "breaking and entering." As a concerned citizen, I have a few questions for the arresting officer. When the goat was placed in the back of the patrol car, did they have to use one set of handcuffs or two? Was he able to post bail? I wonder who the goat called for his one phone call? I also wonder if the judge was lenient for a first time offender. We all make mistakes . . . it is, after all, a "corporate farm" out there.
Hangin’ with the AARP’s
My Aunt Mi Mi has been visiting from out of town, so I've been hangin' with an older group of ladies (the average age being 74) that I refer to as the AARP's. I am, proudly, an honorary member (a Petite AARP . . . sorta like the Petite Ya-Ya's).
I love my Aunt Mi Mi. She is my mother's only sister, and she is 17 years her senior (imagine the surprise my grandparents must have felt when my mother came along).
Aunt Mi Mi is always dressed to the 9's and looks as if she just stepped out of the TV screen from "Dynasty." She's put 3 husbands in the ground; men of all ages still swoon in her presence. She was shaking her head this last week at the man troubles a young whipper snapper was having. She said, "To catch a man, you have to say you're not interested and run the other way." I had to laugh; I believe the statement, in all its simplicity, to be very true.
I become the designated driver when the AARP's get together. A couple of summers ago, I was driving them to 'Nooga Town, and we lost our radio signal. As I was scanning for a new channel, we came across a rap song. Aunt Mi Mi said, "What is that, an auctioneer?" Again, I laughed.
I like hangin' with the AARP's. I get a new perspective on life, not to mention a renewed feeling of vitality. My Great Aunt Teen, 87, told me over the weekend that I looked 15 years old. Maybe it was the baby-doll dress I had on . . . I'm not sure, but I ingested the compliment like a drug. Of course, Aunt Teen does suffer from macular degeneration, but that's completely beside the point.
My favorite topic of conversation had to be at Friday's hen party that my mother hosted. My proper, southern belle cousin in her 60's, Virginia Ann, began talking of a man, Delmar, who remarried a lady named Belle. Well, the gentleman suffered a heart attack and died on their wedding night. Virginia Ann put her hand on her chest and said, "I just couldn't show my face at the funeral!" Again, I laughed. I'm glad that I am not bound to the societal restraints that tied those women that I love. I believe Delmar went the very best way possible, and I'm sure he died a mirthful man.
I love my Aunt Mi Mi. She is my mother's only sister, and she is 17 years her senior (imagine the surprise my grandparents must have felt when my mother came along).
Aunt Mi Mi is always dressed to the 9's and looks as if she just stepped out of the TV screen from "Dynasty." She's put 3 husbands in the ground; men of all ages still swoon in her presence. She was shaking her head this last week at the man troubles a young whipper snapper was having. She said, "To catch a man, you have to say you're not interested and run the other way." I had to laugh; I believe the statement, in all its simplicity, to be very true.
I become the designated driver when the AARP's get together. A couple of summers ago, I was driving them to 'Nooga Town, and we lost our radio signal. As I was scanning for a new channel, we came across a rap song. Aunt Mi Mi said, "What is that, an auctioneer?" Again, I laughed.
I like hangin' with the AARP's. I get a new perspective on life, not to mention a renewed feeling of vitality. My Great Aunt Teen, 87, told me over the weekend that I looked 15 years old. Maybe it was the baby-doll dress I had on . . . I'm not sure, but I ingested the compliment like a drug. Of course, Aunt Teen does suffer from macular degeneration, but that's completely beside the point.
My favorite topic of conversation had to be at Friday's hen party that my mother hosted. My proper, southern belle cousin in her 60's, Virginia Ann, began talking of a man, Delmar, who remarried a lady named Belle. Well, the gentleman suffered a heart attack and died on their wedding night. Virginia Ann put her hand on her chest and said, "I just couldn't show my face at the funeral!" Again, I laughed. I'm glad that I am not bound to the societal restraints that tied those women that I love. I believe Delmar went the very best way possible, and I'm sure he died a mirthful man.
Psychic Readings at the AARP Water Aerobic Classes
Momma and the AARP's have started taking daily water aerobic classes at Patterson Park in the 'Boro each morning at 8:00 a.m. Virginia Ann's doctor told her that she needed to have knee replacement surgery. She is determined not to go under the knife, so she's on a weight loss kick. Because of her bad knees, her only real exercise option is water aerobics, so the AARP's have been going for a few weeks now. They've been trying to get me to come. I tell them, "I already work out 2 hours a day with my jogging, and I really do have to actually work occasionally." I am a little curious about it, though. I felt like there was a blog in it, somehow.
The AARP's are an energetic and fun crew, and they are always on the lookout for new members. They know all the little old ladies and men that frequent the class now. Momma tells stories about them; I feel like I already know some of them, and I really won't be surprise if a few show up at our Thanksgiving dinner.
I've heard lots of stories about Tina. She is usually beside of Momma in the line-up. Tina has lost 30 pounds. She goes to do weight training after the aerobics class each day. Well, today Momma casually says, "Tina's sister, Sis, sees things when she's walking down the hall." My interest was peeked by this statement, so I prod further. "Well, she sees ghosts," Momma answers. "She talks to ghosts?" I ask. "Oh, no, she doesn't talk to them; she just sees them." As it turns out, Sis's deceased brother talks to her all the time, but she won't talk back to him – she prefers having conversions with the living. The spirits also tend to be a little more bothersome to her when she interacts with them. I'm sure her brother must be slightly irked, though.
Now, I believe Momma should have STARTED OUT with this story if she really wanted me to go to the water aerobic classes. She clearly has no sense of marketing. I think I'm going to tell the AARP's that if they can get Sis to the class, I'll be there promptly at 8:00 a.m. I know Renee wants to know if all rabbits go to heaven, and I've got questions about how to get my carb-eating ghost, Antonio, to use the dishwasher. This may be beyond Sis's expertise, but I'd also love to know why all roosters seem to hate me and usually delight in flogging me (a burning question for a farm girl). Feel free to post any questions you might have from the beyond . . . I'll be happy to pose them to Sis.
The AARP's are an energetic and fun crew, and they are always on the lookout for new members. They know all the little old ladies and men that frequent the class now. Momma tells stories about them; I feel like I already know some of them, and I really won't be surprise if a few show up at our Thanksgiving dinner.
I've heard lots of stories about Tina. She is usually beside of Momma in the line-up. Tina has lost 30 pounds. She goes to do weight training after the aerobics class each day. Well, today Momma casually says, "Tina's sister, Sis, sees things when she's walking down the hall." My interest was peeked by this statement, so I prod further. "Well, she sees ghosts," Momma answers. "She talks to ghosts?" I ask. "Oh, no, she doesn't talk to them; she just sees them." As it turns out, Sis's deceased brother talks to her all the time, but she won't talk back to him – she prefers having conversions with the living. The spirits also tend to be a little more bothersome to her when she interacts with them. I'm sure her brother must be slightly irked, though.
Now, I believe Momma should have STARTED OUT with this story if she really wanted me to go to the water aerobic classes. She clearly has no sense of marketing. I think I'm going to tell the AARP's that if they can get Sis to the class, I'll be there promptly at 8:00 a.m. I know Renee wants to know if all rabbits go to heaven, and I've got questions about how to get my carb-eating ghost, Antonio, to use the dishwasher. This may be beyond Sis's expertise, but I'd also love to know why all roosters seem to hate me and usually delight in flogging me (a burning question for a farm girl). Feel free to post any questions you might have from the beyond . . . I'll be happy to pose them to Sis.
At Christmas, the “Monkey Talks” after Consuming a Case of Cheap Liquor
Today was the day . . . I was typing away, and the thought crept into my mind – what am I going to get Wilburn for Christmas this year? I love this time of the year with all the upcoming holidays, especially Christmas. I spend months looking for the perfect gift for each friend and family member. I'll spin through the house uncontrollably, like the Tasmanian Devil, leaving in my wake four Christmas trees, enough nutcrackers to decorate a small village, and ribbon that could completely stretch around the circumference of the Earth.
Wilburn, Tony's step-dad, is tough to buy for, though. He and his sons are, well, different. They are a, errrr, thrifty lot, and I don't believe they exchanged gifts at all before we came along. Tony's step-brother, Timmy, once gave Mean Lorene a bottle of bleach for Christmas. Another year, he gave Mean Lorene and Wilburn a dozen donuts (six for each). But, he's one up on Wilburn, who has yet to actually buy a gift for anyone. I used to try and buy nice gifts for Wilburn, but I grew frustrated; he never acknowledges a gift – he simply opens the package, looks at the gift, and closes the lid. I began buying tacky gifts for Wilburn to see if I could get a reaction . . . like those beaded covers for your car seat, singing santas, or western shirts with embroidered eagles on the pocket. I started feeling a little guilty, though, so last Christmas I bought him an expensive bottle of whisky. Wilburn, for the very first time, at least acknowledged the gift. He wanted to know how much I paid for it, so I told him the amount. He grabbed my arm, pulled me over to the cabinet, and he pulled out a large box. It was a case of liquor. Each bottle contained a gallon of whisky. 'See here,' he said, 'you could have bought a whole case for the same amount of money.'
I have a large, extended family, and I thought today of how different all our family gatherings are, and how strange, in fact, my family really is.
When we go to Bobby and Maria's for our first fall event of the season, the instruments are pulled out, and we have a great jam session. We sing hymns and country music from the days of Hank, Sr., - the music of my childhood. Bobby built their log cabin with his own hands, and it is like going back in time. It is life in the hills at its finest with family, neighbors, music, and great, country cuisine (cooked in huge, cast iron pots over the fire). I can already hear Bobby prodding, 'Sing us a song, Little Red.'
I have a bizarre sense of humor, and my favorite Christmas memories involve strange events. My grandmother, Nanny, once pulled down her pants and peed right in the middle of Aunt Mi-Mi's living room floor. Nanny cackled with delight. I can't think about it without laughing, some 15 years later. Christmas is just not Christmas, after all, without someone urinating on the carpet.
We spend Christmas Eve with my dad's family. They are card players; at the witching hour, Aunt Kay will shout, 'I shot the moon, you ole goat!' Uncle Mutt, a horse trainer, was actually featured in a segment called, 'Millionaire Rednecks' one year on Hardcopy. I wouldn't exactly use the word 'millionaire' to describe Uncle Mutt, but the redneck part fits just fine. The show aired earlier in the day that Christmas Eve, but someone taped it, and we sat around the TV at the party and laughed at Uncle Mutt telling the reporter, 'Now y'all go on an' git . . .' Christmas is just not Christmas, after all, without a favorite uncle being featured on Hardcopy.
And I can't leave out Tony's family. My niece, Cindy, and I both love to play games. In competition, our eyes glaze over, and we each turn into our soap opera evil twin. One year, we convinced the women to play the men in a game of Pictionary. We drew an all-play . . . Tony was drawing for the men, and I was drawing for the women. I eyed the card and passed it over to Tony. As the hourglass was turned, I quickly drew a '$' and some lips. Cindy screamed, 'Money Talks!' We high-fived in victory. Ronnie looked at Tony's drawing in shock and said, 'What the hell is THAT?' Tony said, 'It's a monkey,' to which Ronnie replied, 'I see that, but where were you going with that?' Tony said, 'You know, monkey talks.' He had obviously misread the card. We all doubled over in laughter. Now, every year at Christmas someone says, 'Hey, Tony, monkey talks . . .' (Tony has not played Pictionary since.) Christmas just isn't Christmas, after all, without talking monkeys.
Wilburn, Tony's step-dad, is tough to buy for, though. He and his sons are, well, different. They are a, errrr, thrifty lot, and I don't believe they exchanged gifts at all before we came along. Tony's step-brother, Timmy, once gave Mean Lorene a bottle of bleach for Christmas. Another year, he gave Mean Lorene and Wilburn a dozen donuts (six for each). But, he's one up on Wilburn, who has yet to actually buy a gift for anyone. I used to try and buy nice gifts for Wilburn, but I grew frustrated; he never acknowledges a gift – he simply opens the package, looks at the gift, and closes the lid. I began buying tacky gifts for Wilburn to see if I could get a reaction . . . like those beaded covers for your car seat, singing santas, or western shirts with embroidered eagles on the pocket. I started feeling a little guilty, though, so last Christmas I bought him an expensive bottle of whisky. Wilburn, for the very first time, at least acknowledged the gift. He wanted to know how much I paid for it, so I told him the amount. He grabbed my arm, pulled me over to the cabinet, and he pulled out a large box. It was a case of liquor. Each bottle contained a gallon of whisky. 'See here,' he said, 'you could have bought a whole case for the same amount of money.'
I have a large, extended family, and I thought today of how different all our family gatherings are, and how strange, in fact, my family really is.
When we go to Bobby and Maria's for our first fall event of the season, the instruments are pulled out, and we have a great jam session. We sing hymns and country music from the days of Hank, Sr., - the music of my childhood. Bobby built their log cabin with his own hands, and it is like going back in time. It is life in the hills at its finest with family, neighbors, music, and great, country cuisine (cooked in huge, cast iron pots over the fire). I can already hear Bobby prodding, 'Sing us a song, Little Red.'
I have a bizarre sense of humor, and my favorite Christmas memories involve strange events. My grandmother, Nanny, once pulled down her pants and peed right in the middle of Aunt Mi-Mi's living room floor. Nanny cackled with delight. I can't think about it without laughing, some 15 years later. Christmas is just not Christmas, after all, without someone urinating on the carpet.
We spend Christmas Eve with my dad's family. They are card players; at the witching hour, Aunt Kay will shout, 'I shot the moon, you ole goat!' Uncle Mutt, a horse trainer, was actually featured in a segment called, 'Millionaire Rednecks' one year on Hardcopy. I wouldn't exactly use the word 'millionaire' to describe Uncle Mutt, but the redneck part fits just fine. The show aired earlier in the day that Christmas Eve, but someone taped it, and we sat around the TV at the party and laughed at Uncle Mutt telling the reporter, 'Now y'all go on an' git . . .' Christmas is just not Christmas, after all, without a favorite uncle being featured on Hardcopy.
And I can't leave out Tony's family. My niece, Cindy, and I both love to play games. In competition, our eyes glaze over, and we each turn into our soap opera evil twin. One year, we convinced the women to play the men in a game of Pictionary. We drew an all-play . . . Tony was drawing for the men, and I was drawing for the women. I eyed the card and passed it over to Tony. As the hourglass was turned, I quickly drew a '$' and some lips. Cindy screamed, 'Money Talks!' We high-fived in victory. Ronnie looked at Tony's drawing in shock and said, 'What the hell is THAT?' Tony said, 'It's a monkey,' to which Ronnie replied, 'I see that, but where were you going with that?' Tony said, 'You know, monkey talks.' He had obviously misread the card. We all doubled over in laughter. Now, every year at Christmas someone says, 'Hey, Tony, monkey talks . . .' (Tony has not played Pictionary since.) Christmas just isn't Christmas, after all, without talking monkeys.
The Funky Chicken Rep - A New Workout Craze
Renee and I showed up at the MAC yesterday looking like the Bobbsey Twins. We were both dressed in denim capri's, white T-shirts, and flip-flops (I'll let Renee be Bert, and I'll be Nan . . . it is, after all, my blog, so I get to be the girl). I've started running again this year, but my fall allergies and the cold weather will soon drive me inside, so we're contemplating getting a membership at the MAC. We went to get a tour of the facilities yesterday, and I'll have to say, it is very impressive.
I have my reservations, though. I've been a runner at different times throughout my life. All you have to have to be a runner is an iPod with uptempo songs like "Train in Vain," "American Boy," and "I Want to Be Sedated" (some of my personal favorite songs for distance running), and ratty gym shorts or yoga pants with a wrinkly ole T-shirt. I tend to be a little hobo-ish, so I had issues this morning finding workout clothes that didn't have holes in them. If I join, I'll have to actually buy new workout clothes (as I hate looking hobo-ish in front of total strangers).
As we were walking through the MAC yesterday with Teddy, our tour guide, my eyes kept darting left and right; I was having flashbacks, and I was looking for Crazy Tampa Jim. A few years ago, Desi and I got a personal trainer; it was the first time I'd ever done weight training. Men tend to fancy Desi, and Crazy Tampa Jim was no exception . . . he told us that we were his special pets 'cause Desi always made him laugh. What that amounted to was him spending extra time with us working us extra hard (damn you, Desi, with your beguiling ways!!).
Since I have never been a gym rat, my reps had all the grace of a drunken woman doing the funky chicken on a slick dance floor at a wedding reception at 2:00 in the morning. I would beg Crazy Tampa Jim for Styrofoam weights (to no avail). I walked around in a misty haze of pain and soreness for months. I finally had to refuse to do the seated tricep push-ups – that bloody hurt! Crazy Tampa Jim would roll his eyes. I explained to him that Southern women simply didn't need good triceps, especially married Southern women.
Desi stopped working out because she "allegedly" had her gallbladder removed (I still have my doubts – I would actually like to see the gallbladder). I continued to work with Crazy Tampa Jim for a few more months, but I just didn't have the stomach to face him alone. I was hoping to have my own gallbladder attack, but I grew tired of waiting for an ailment. Finally I told him one day that it would be my last workout with him - I was breaking up with him for a couch. He protested, but I assured him it was in vain. "I will buy pants with elastic in the waist if I have to," I said, "but I'm TIRED of being sore all the time!" I haven't seen Crazy Tampa Jim since, though he has called a couple of times to make sure I'm not eating Cheerios for breakfast. If I see him at the MAC, I will turn and run as he is yelling to my backside, "Whatever you do, don't eat a WHOLE banana!"
Funny post note: Renee and I have a running joke that we are married to the same man. Tony and Alan look alike, act alike (often communicating with cro-magnon man grunts), and they are both suspiciously absent from most social outings. Well, it has finally happened – Renee and I are morphing into the same person (which will at least save us the trouble of becoming Mormons). We both showed up at the MAC last night dressed in black gym shorts with a white stripe down the side and gray and pink running shoes with white socks. The morph isn't complete yet. I had on a pink T-shirt, and Renee had on a white T-shirt with pink around the neck and sleeves, but she said she almost wore her pink shirt. I wonder if my soreness is from the workout or the morphing process?
I have my reservations, though. I've been a runner at different times throughout my life. All you have to have to be a runner is an iPod with uptempo songs like "Train in Vain," "American Boy," and "I Want to Be Sedated" (some of my personal favorite songs for distance running), and ratty gym shorts or yoga pants with a wrinkly ole T-shirt. I tend to be a little hobo-ish, so I had issues this morning finding workout clothes that didn't have holes in them. If I join, I'll have to actually buy new workout clothes (as I hate looking hobo-ish in front of total strangers).
As we were walking through the MAC yesterday with Teddy, our tour guide, my eyes kept darting left and right; I was having flashbacks, and I was looking for Crazy Tampa Jim. A few years ago, Desi and I got a personal trainer; it was the first time I'd ever done weight training. Men tend to fancy Desi, and Crazy Tampa Jim was no exception . . . he told us that we were his special pets 'cause Desi always made him laugh. What that amounted to was him spending extra time with us working us extra hard (damn you, Desi, with your beguiling ways!!).
Since I have never been a gym rat, my reps had all the grace of a drunken woman doing the funky chicken on a slick dance floor at a wedding reception at 2:00 in the morning. I would beg Crazy Tampa Jim for Styrofoam weights (to no avail). I walked around in a misty haze of pain and soreness for months. I finally had to refuse to do the seated tricep push-ups – that bloody hurt! Crazy Tampa Jim would roll his eyes. I explained to him that Southern women simply didn't need good triceps, especially married Southern women.
Desi stopped working out because she "allegedly" had her gallbladder removed (I still have my doubts – I would actually like to see the gallbladder). I continued to work with Crazy Tampa Jim for a few more months, but I just didn't have the stomach to face him alone. I was hoping to have my own gallbladder attack, but I grew tired of waiting for an ailment. Finally I told him one day that it would be my last workout with him - I was breaking up with him for a couch. He protested, but I assured him it was in vain. "I will buy pants with elastic in the waist if I have to," I said, "but I'm TIRED of being sore all the time!" I haven't seen Crazy Tampa Jim since, though he has called a couple of times to make sure I'm not eating Cheerios for breakfast. If I see him at the MAC, I will turn and run as he is yelling to my backside, "Whatever you do, don't eat a WHOLE banana!"
Funny post note: Renee and I have a running joke that we are married to the same man. Tony and Alan look alike, act alike (often communicating with cro-magnon man grunts), and they are both suspiciously absent from most social outings. Well, it has finally happened – Renee and I are morphing into the same person (which will at least save us the trouble of becoming Mormons). We both showed up at the MAC last night dressed in black gym shorts with a white stripe down the side and gray and pink running shoes with white socks. The morph isn't complete yet. I had on a pink T-shirt, and Renee had on a white T-shirt with pink around the neck and sleeves, but she said she almost wore her pink shirt. I wonder if my soreness is from the workout or the morphing process?
Which Super Human Power Would You Choose?
I’ve almost completely given up TV. It happened almost a year ago. I was flipping through the channels looking for something to watch, and it landed on 'Rock of Love.' Sometimes I find amusement in trashy shows. I watched about 10 minutes of that ridiculous show and thought, well, that’s 10 minutes of my life I’ll never get back.
Being a complete and utter turbo nerd, I can’t give up 'Heroes.' I still watch it weekly. As I was watching it last night, I found myself wondering what super power I’d like to have. A few came to mind . . . not your normal ones such as mind reading or flying. No, I chose being able to meet deadlines without working 14-hour days. Or, being able to put in my contacts in less than an hour, like any normal 12-year-old worth their salt is able to do. I realized last night that I actually do have a super power. I can create vortexes and send my right contact lens into another dimension, never to be seen again. I used my super power just yesterday morning. (I really should get some sort of rotten tomato award for being the WORST contact wearer in the known universe).
I believe my dog, Fat Ashley, also has super powers. Well, Fat Ashley is really not my dog. She migrated from our evil neighbors’ house (aka as my parents’ house) when Tony and I moved in. We put a doggie door in the garage for our dog, Boomer. As we were trying to teach Boomer to use the door, Fat Ashley looked on in disgust and contempt. She sailed through that door . . . after two years, Boomer has yet to use the doggie door, but Fat Ashley has permanently moved into our garage. Her eyeless companion, Odie, has moved in as well. In a very super hero sort of way, Fat Ashley acts as Odie’s seeing eye dog. We have a creek that runs in front of our yard. "Odie The Fearless" will run and buck recklessly about the yard. I was watching the dogs play one day from the balcony, and I saw Odie running toward a steep creek bank. Fat Ashley saw that he was about to take "The Lipton Plunge." She ran at lightning speed and knocked him out of harms way. His bucking and jumping was rerouted to a safer direction, thanks to Fat Ashley.
I walked into the garage last night loaded down with groceries after writing science test questions for 12 solid hours. Ashley was there waiting on me. I looked into her sparkling intelligent eyes. Wait . . . was that a contact lens I just saw in Fat Ashley’s right eye??
Being a complete and utter turbo nerd, I can’t give up 'Heroes.' I still watch it weekly. As I was watching it last night, I found myself wondering what super power I’d like to have. A few came to mind . . . not your normal ones such as mind reading or flying. No, I chose being able to meet deadlines without working 14-hour days. Or, being able to put in my contacts in less than an hour, like any normal 12-year-old worth their salt is able to do. I realized last night that I actually do have a super power. I can create vortexes and send my right contact lens into another dimension, never to be seen again. I used my super power just yesterday morning. (I really should get some sort of rotten tomato award for being the WORST contact wearer in the known universe).
I believe my dog, Fat Ashley, also has super powers. Well, Fat Ashley is really not my dog. She migrated from our evil neighbors’ house (aka as my parents’ house) when Tony and I moved in. We put a doggie door in the garage for our dog, Boomer. As we were trying to teach Boomer to use the door, Fat Ashley looked on in disgust and contempt. She sailed through that door . . . after two years, Boomer has yet to use the doggie door, but Fat Ashley has permanently moved into our garage. Her eyeless companion, Odie, has moved in as well. In a very super hero sort of way, Fat Ashley acts as Odie’s seeing eye dog. We have a creek that runs in front of our yard. "Odie The Fearless" will run and buck recklessly about the yard. I was watching the dogs play one day from the balcony, and I saw Odie running toward a steep creek bank. Fat Ashley saw that he was about to take "The Lipton Plunge." She ran at lightning speed and knocked him out of harms way. His bucking and jumping was rerouted to a safer direction, thanks to Fat Ashley.
I walked into the garage last night loaded down with groceries after writing science test questions for 12 solid hours. Ashley was there waiting on me. I looked into her sparkling intelligent eyes. Wait . . . was that a contact lens I just saw in Fat Ashley’s right eye??
Medical Mysteries that Happen Behind Closed Doors
If you're around me for longer than two minutes, you know that I love to tell stories about my eccentric friends and family members. Renee was over on the farm a few weeks ago, and Momma was talking about my brother's mean rooster that has flogged about everyone in the family now (that rooster really does deserve to go in the frying pan). Renee said, "Oh, that rooster really is mean? I thought you just wrote that in your blog to be funny."
I am a people watcher; I always have been, and I find that real life is often much more amusing than fiction. I, of course, take creative liberties every once in a while. For example, in prior blogs, my dog, Fat Ashley, really didn't have a contact lens in her right eye, and Dan and I didn't magically disappear after slamming our fists together at Duggers (we simply walked out the door, as any red-blooded homosapiens would do). So, yes, the people in my life are REALLY that eccentric (and fun).
My favorite places to "people watch," besides around the people in my everyday life, are at night court (for obvious reasons) and at the doctor's office. I once sat down by a man that had a slight twitch in a crowded doctor's office. He had a cast on his arm. I asked what happened. Apparently, a TV had made him insufferably angry, and he put his fist through it. I wonder if that happens as often these days with so many people converting to LCD and plasma TVs? There's just not as much room in there now to get the "best" of the TV.
But, I know the "real" stories don't happen in the waiting room. They happen behind closed doors. Here are a couple of my own embarrassing medical stories:
An ex-boyfriend's mother works for my gynecologist, and she sees me naked once a year. She'll casually chat with me as the doctor is poking around on my breasts, and, well, other delicate areas. I always imagine her covertly calling her son after each visit and saying, "Hey, guess who I saw today . . . naked. Jenni; and let me tell you, time has NOT been a friend to those breasts of hers."
I have problems with my ears, especially when I fly. When I used to travel so much, I had a perpetual prescription to ear drops. I had an early morning flight to OR on this particular day. When my alarm clock went off at 4:00 a.m., I didn't want to wake my husband by turning on the lights, so I grabbed the ear drops on the night stand, unscrewed the cap, and poured the solution in my ear. The problem . . . it wasn't ear drops. I had grabbed some fingernail polish, also on my night stand. When I realized what I had done, I grabbed my suitcase and headed out the door in my PJs to the ER. The lady at the ER checking me in asked, "What's the problem today?" I told her that I had poured fingernail polish in my ear. She looked at me and said, "What did you say?" Since she didn't hear me properly, I said louder, "I poured fingernail polish in my ear." She quickly scampered away and came back with a nurse, who immediately got me a cot. It could have just been my imagination, but it seemed like a lot of staff members kept peeking around the curtain, giggling. When the ER doctor finally sashayed in, I spent about 20 minutes explaining why, in fact, I was sitting in an emergency room with fingernail polish in my ear. Luckily, the polish was quick drying polish, so it had not made it very far into my ear. I was treated with a Q-tip and fingernail polish remover.
I actually made my flight, although, I had on PJs with uncombed hair, still wearing a medical bracelet. I'm sure I looked like the escaped mental patient that I probably really should be. One more flew over the cuckoo's nest . . .
But, my favorite medical story is not my own. A friend used to work in the ER. Apparently, an old farmer was attaching a piece of equipment to his tractor. He saw a hole that looked JUST . . . THE . . . RIGHT . . . SIZE, and he became a bit randy. Fast forward a few hours, and both the farmer and farm equipment were sitting in the ER. Yep, his penis was stuck in the "hole." Now, being a farm girl, I can tell you that farm equipment is normally VERY heavy, so he probably had to have some "help" getting there, and I don't even want to think about them hauling him down the highway in the back of a truck bed. The things we miss by choosing a career outside of the medical field! See, real life . . . stranger and much more amusing than fiction.
I am a people watcher; I always have been, and I find that real life is often much more amusing than fiction. I, of course, take creative liberties every once in a while. For example, in prior blogs, my dog, Fat Ashley, really didn't have a contact lens in her right eye, and Dan and I didn't magically disappear after slamming our fists together at Duggers (we simply walked out the door, as any red-blooded homosapiens would do). So, yes, the people in my life are REALLY that eccentric (and fun).
My favorite places to "people watch," besides around the people in my everyday life, are at night court (for obvious reasons) and at the doctor's office. I once sat down by a man that had a slight twitch in a crowded doctor's office. He had a cast on his arm. I asked what happened. Apparently, a TV had made him insufferably angry, and he put his fist through it. I wonder if that happens as often these days with so many people converting to LCD and plasma TVs? There's just not as much room in there now to get the "best" of the TV.
But, I know the "real" stories don't happen in the waiting room. They happen behind closed doors. Here are a couple of my own embarrassing medical stories:
An ex-boyfriend's mother works for my gynecologist, and she sees me naked once a year. She'll casually chat with me as the doctor is poking around on my breasts, and, well, other delicate areas. I always imagine her covertly calling her son after each visit and saying, "Hey, guess who I saw today . . . naked. Jenni; and let me tell you, time has NOT been a friend to those breasts of hers."
I have problems with my ears, especially when I fly. When I used to travel so much, I had a perpetual prescription to ear drops. I had an early morning flight to OR on this particular day. When my alarm clock went off at 4:00 a.m., I didn't want to wake my husband by turning on the lights, so I grabbed the ear drops on the night stand, unscrewed the cap, and poured the solution in my ear. The problem . . . it wasn't ear drops. I had grabbed some fingernail polish, also on my night stand. When I realized what I had done, I grabbed my suitcase and headed out the door in my PJs to the ER. The lady at the ER checking me in asked, "What's the problem today?" I told her that I had poured fingernail polish in my ear. She looked at me and said, "What did you say?" Since she didn't hear me properly, I said louder, "I poured fingernail polish in my ear." She quickly scampered away and came back with a nurse, who immediately got me a cot. It could have just been my imagination, but it seemed like a lot of staff members kept peeking around the curtain, giggling. When the ER doctor finally sashayed in, I spent about 20 minutes explaining why, in fact, I was sitting in an emergency room with fingernail polish in my ear. Luckily, the polish was quick drying polish, so it had not made it very far into my ear. I was treated with a Q-tip and fingernail polish remover.
I actually made my flight, although, I had on PJs with uncombed hair, still wearing a medical bracelet. I'm sure I looked like the escaped mental patient that I probably really should be. One more flew over the cuckoo's nest . . .
But, my favorite medical story is not my own. A friend used to work in the ER. Apparently, an old farmer was attaching a piece of equipment to his tractor. He saw a hole that looked JUST . . . THE . . . RIGHT . . . SIZE, and he became a bit randy. Fast forward a few hours, and both the farmer and farm equipment were sitting in the ER. Yep, his penis was stuck in the "hole." Now, being a farm girl, I can tell you that farm equipment is normally VERY heavy, so he probably had to have some "help" getting there, and I don't even want to think about them hauling him down the highway in the back of a truck bed. The things we miss by choosing a career outside of the medical field! See, real life . . . stranger and much more amusing than fiction.
Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants
Is any woman EVER really happy with her body? One friend says, "I have no butt. I really wish I had a butt." My sister-in-law cries, "We must, we must, we must increase our busts!" Another friend says, "I'm an apple shape. So what if I have long, beautiful legs? (That's not what she says, by-the-way, that's MY description of her legs). Just look at this belly of mine!" she groans.
I have an hourglass shape, which basically means that fat particles can jump off a friend to either my breasts or butt (like fleas). No amount of exercise or diet can dissuade these "fat parasites" in said areas. I believe all women are dissatisfied with their bodies. Men don't understand, and they tend to be unsympathetic. It being an election year and all, if given the choice, I would NOT re-elect my fat parasites; however, my husband is a proponent of fat parasites, and he might even campaign for their re-election. See, men just don't understand.
Here's the problem with an hourglass figure . . . you have to wear clothes that fit, otherwise, you look as big as Aunt Bertha in her floral mumu – and I LOVE to wear baggy clothes. As a matter-of-fact, baggy clothes, crazy hair, and the no make-up look are the GREATEST perks of being a consultant.
The other problem with an hourglass figure is the jeans issue. Sure, I CAN find jeans that fit me, but I usually have to pay $50 + for them, and I tend to be a little frugal (I guess designers are making us pay for all the extra material they are having to use in the seat area). My apple shaped friend says, "Oh, try the Ashley Judd jeans from Goody's. I love them!" So, off to Goody's I go. I was not optimistic – our body types are completely different. We weigh the same and are exactly the same height, but I'm probably at least 1 size larger due to my gluteus maximus parasites. But, I took Mrs. Ashley's jeans into the dressing room and tried them on. They fit perfectly. It could have been my imagination, but I think I heard angels singing in the background. And the best part – yep, $29, thank you very much.
I'm not sure how Ashley Judd has taken the same pair of pants and made them fit both me and my small bottomed, long legged, apple shaped bud, but I really think they should consider a sainthood for her. Or, maybe it's just a "Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants" thing. I'll be mailing the jeans to YOU with a letter right after I take them off. Remember, you can't wash them . . . it will break the magic! (But, please buy some Febreze).
I have an hourglass shape, which basically means that fat particles can jump off a friend to either my breasts or butt (like fleas). No amount of exercise or diet can dissuade these "fat parasites" in said areas. I believe all women are dissatisfied with their bodies. Men don't understand, and they tend to be unsympathetic. It being an election year and all, if given the choice, I would NOT re-elect my fat parasites; however, my husband is a proponent of fat parasites, and he might even campaign for their re-election. See, men just don't understand.
Here's the problem with an hourglass figure . . . you have to wear clothes that fit, otherwise, you look as big as Aunt Bertha in her floral mumu – and I LOVE to wear baggy clothes. As a matter-of-fact, baggy clothes, crazy hair, and the no make-up look are the GREATEST perks of being a consultant.
The other problem with an hourglass figure is the jeans issue. Sure, I CAN find jeans that fit me, but I usually have to pay $50 + for them, and I tend to be a little frugal (I guess designers are making us pay for all the extra material they are having to use in the seat area). My apple shaped friend says, "Oh, try the Ashley Judd jeans from Goody's. I love them!" So, off to Goody's I go. I was not optimistic – our body types are completely different. We weigh the same and are exactly the same height, but I'm probably at least 1 size larger due to my gluteus maximus parasites. But, I took Mrs. Ashley's jeans into the dressing room and tried them on. They fit perfectly. It could have been my imagination, but I think I heard angels singing in the background. And the best part – yep, $29, thank you very much.
I'm not sure how Ashley Judd has taken the same pair of pants and made them fit both me and my small bottomed, long legged, apple shaped bud, but I really think they should consider a sainthood for her. Or, maybe it's just a "Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants" thing. I'll be mailing the jeans to YOU with a letter right after I take them off. Remember, you can't wash them . . . it will break the magic! (But, please buy some Febreze).
The Pig Queen - A Dream Come True
I have been obsessed with going to the Wilson County Fair for several years now. A few years ago, Daddy gave me a calf. The calf was born in the dead of winter, and she lost her ear to frost bite. I had no choice but to name my cow Van Gogh. That very same year, I heard a promo for the Wilson County Fair on the radio . . . they were talking about the earless goats at the fair. I had images of going up to an earless goat and saying, "I'm going to name you Van Gogh," and then moving to the next goat and saying, " No, I'm going to name YOU Van Gogh!" (I'm sure my grandfather, a farmer, would be horrified to learn that his little Sapphire grew up to be so peculiar).
Renee and I both have fuddy-duddy hubbies that won't take us to the fair, so we took matters into our own hands. When Renee called and asked if I wanted to go to the fair, I told her I was on my way! Renee, after all, has been hearing me talk about these earless goats for years now. So, off Renee, Jessie, Will, and I go to the Wilson County Fair. Our conversations in route to the fair were your normal ones. We talked of earless goats (of course), the fact that I needed to get a potbelly pig to help control my snake problem (pigs eat snakes), and we talked about the bull in the movie Barnyard actually having utters (a travesty!!).
We arrived at the fair, and the stars were aligned, my friend! Our very first stop was to the earless goats (yes, yes, pictures to come . . .). That's one more thing I can mark off my bucket list. We didn't know it at the time, but the day would only get better! There are so many possible blogs in my Sunday at the Wilson County Fair. Let's see . . .
1. The earless goats.
2. Redheads were coming out of the woodworks – they were everywhere.
3. Some man gave Renee and I pairing knives. I believe he wanted us to chop carrots with them, or something, but we decided they might best be used for protection.
4. Middle aged women with lumpy skin, belly-button rings, and clothing at least two sizes too small (if you listened closely, you could hear the low hum of the clothing whispering, "I'm…Not…Qualified…For…This…Job!")
5. Stalking a 16-year-old guitar player with Jessie.
6. Meeting a FABULOUS 95-year-old groupie that quite possibly could have been a ghost. (She WILL get an entire blog at some point!! Yes, yes, there's a picture below!)
7. Watching men in loin cloths jump 80 feet into a 9 foot pool of water (although, I have become jaded – I wanted a horse to be involved).
8. A very nice carny who carries a rodent around in her apron (yes, yes, there's a picture below!!).
Ah, the memories, the memories. We were just about to leave when we passed by the pig race that was scheduled to start at 9:30 – it was 9:22. How could we leave without seeing that? We saw pigs, ducks, and goats race, but the finale was to be a potbelly pig race. The MC announced dramatically that he needed 4 adult women. My crew, spurred by my potbelly pig talk early in the day, immediately began jumping and pointing at me. The MC came and looked me up and down. I was camouflaged yesterday in city girl attire. "Have you ever even seen a live pig?" he asked suspiciously. I assured him that I had. He looked unconvinced, but, none-the-less, I was assigned to pig number 8. I knew before the pigs left the gate that pig number 8 would win; it was simply in the stars. Sure enough, I was crowned Pig Queen of the Wilson County Fair.
Renee, Jessie, and Will began bowing down as I gave the audience my best pageant wave. Fireworks erupted in the sky in honor of my great victory. I got a ribbon and everything. The MC brought the pig over . . . I was to give him a victory kiss (I assure you that I have kissed worse). Renee was so excited she nearly peed her pants. But, alas, it was just a ruse. I was actually kind of excited about it – I felt certain that my pig would turn into James McAvoy when our lips, errrr, snots met. I wish I had known – I would have come more properly dressed . . . perhaps sequins and overalls?
Well, I'm off to fulfill my duties as the 2008 Pig Queen. I will be touring all the Piggly Wigglys in the South East, so bring your cameras, kids!
"Fair"well, and remember, "Darlin' I love you, but give me Park Avenue." 
Renee and I both have fuddy-duddy hubbies that won't take us to the fair, so we took matters into our own hands. When Renee called and asked if I wanted to go to the fair, I told her I was on my way! Renee, after all, has been hearing me talk about these earless goats for years now. So, off Renee, Jessie, Will, and I go to the Wilson County Fair. Our conversations in route to the fair were your normal ones. We talked of earless goats (of course), the fact that I needed to get a potbelly pig to help control my snake problem (pigs eat snakes), and we talked about the bull in the movie Barnyard actually having utters (a travesty!!).
We arrived at the fair, and the stars were aligned, my friend! Our very first stop was to the earless goats (yes, yes, pictures to come . . .). That's one more thing I can mark off my bucket list. We didn't know it at the time, but the day would only get better! There are so many possible blogs in my Sunday at the Wilson County Fair. Let's see . . .
1. The earless goats.
2. Redheads were coming out of the woodworks – they were everywhere.
3. Some man gave Renee and I pairing knives. I believe he wanted us to chop carrots with them, or something, but we decided they might best be used for protection.
4. Middle aged women with lumpy skin, belly-button rings, and clothing at least two sizes too small (if you listened closely, you could hear the low hum of the clothing whispering, "I'm…Not…Qualified…For…This…Job!")
5. Stalking a 16-year-old guitar player with Jessie.
6. Meeting a FABULOUS 95-year-old groupie that quite possibly could have been a ghost. (She WILL get an entire blog at some point!! Yes, yes, there's a picture below!)
7. Watching men in loin cloths jump 80 feet into a 9 foot pool of water (although, I have become jaded – I wanted a horse to be involved).
8. A very nice carny who carries a rodent around in her apron (yes, yes, there's a picture below!!).
Ah, the memories, the memories. We were just about to leave when we passed by the pig race that was scheduled to start at 9:30 – it was 9:22. How could we leave without seeing that? We saw pigs, ducks, and goats race, but the finale was to be a potbelly pig race. The MC announced dramatically that he needed 4 adult women. My crew, spurred by my potbelly pig talk early in the day, immediately began jumping and pointing at me. The MC came and looked me up and down. I was camouflaged yesterday in city girl attire. "Have you ever even seen a live pig?" he asked suspiciously. I assured him that I had. He looked unconvinced, but, none-the-less, I was assigned to pig number 8. I knew before the pigs left the gate that pig number 8 would win; it was simply in the stars. Sure enough, I was crowned Pig Queen of the Wilson County Fair.
Renee, Jessie, and Will began bowing down as I gave the audience my best pageant wave. Fireworks erupted in the sky in honor of my great victory. I got a ribbon and everything. The MC brought the pig over . . . I was to give him a victory kiss (I assure you that I have kissed worse). Renee was so excited she nearly peed her pants. But, alas, it was just a ruse. I was actually kind of excited about it – I felt certain that my pig would turn into James McAvoy when our lips, errrr, snots met. I wish I had known – I would have come more properly dressed . . . perhaps sequins and overalls?
Well, I'm off to fulfill my duties as the 2008 Pig Queen. I will be touring all the Piggly Wigglys in the South East, so bring your cameras, kids!
"Fair"well, and remember, "Darlin' I love you, but give me Park Avenue."
Midget Wrestling, New Beaus, Karaoke, Theory of Relativity and Whatnot
For the last several years, I have been impersonating a responsible adult. Unfortunately, possibly as a by-product of that, I don’t get to spend as much time with my free-spirited friend, Desi, as I would like these days. When I’m with Des, I know that I am a character in a Grayson Capps song. Life is dirtier, hazier, and a good deal more fun when you’re with her . . . like perpetually walking the streets of New Orleans as a vagabond and misfit. Men of all ages, shapes, colors, and sizes love her, and they are drawn to her like whipper snappers are drawn to myspace. I believe it has something to do with Einstein, relativity, and whatnot. When I’m with her, I sometimes get caught in the crossfire of her 'man-inertia,' and I hear the most ridiculous pick-up lines. My favorite to date: 'Do you like hillbillies?'
I can always count on meeting new and interesting people when out and about with Des. For example, several years ago, we were on a flight home from San Antonio, TX. It was late, and I had every intention of sleeping through the entire flight. We grabbed our seats; the young man seated beside Des turned out to be from her hometown. He had just gotten out of jail. I’d wake up to hear Des ask, 'Yes, yes, I see. But, was she worth going to jail for?' (FYI – the answer to this question should always be NO!).
Des has a new guy friend named Dan, who happens to have a midget fetish. So, for a birthday surprise, she bought Dan tickets to go see midget wrestling. I tagged along since I hadn’t met Dan yet. Hmmm – what to wear to such an event. I went with jeans, flip-flops, and a black blouse. I haven’t painted my toenails in about 3 years or so, but I felt like there was a good chance that my toes would be seen by the midget wrestlers . . . so I painted them pink especially for the occasion.
Desi, 10 years my senior, loves playing the age game – people always guess us to be the same age, and it just delights her. So, of course, when she introduced me to Dan she asked, 'Now, how old do you think she is?' Dan guessed me to be 32 – I was liking him already.
We showed up at Chef Raymond’s (the venue for the midget wrestling), and a waitress named Amy came over to Desi and said, 'Stephanie, you look great!' Desi replied, 'I’m not Stephanie, but thank you.' Amy zoned in on me . . . 'Oh, I LOVE your hair! I’d like to get mine cut like that, but I’m afraid.' Amy’s fear of short hair, as it turned out, stemmed from the fact that she was a 'hair stroker.' Ah, we had already found someone else with a fetish, and the night was very young. Amy is 4’11,' and she explained to us that she is technically a dwarf. I thought that this information would excite Dan, but he seemed frightened of Amy. Fetishist can be very picky, I’ve learned, and clearly Dan prefers the gals under the 4’6' range.
The midget wrestling started, and it was great fun. Meatloaf, a 276 pound midget, easily won. It was an unfair match, though. His tiny opponent, Blixx, was clearly smashed. He admitted to 7 shots and countless beers before the match began. Sadly, we parted ways with the midgets and Amy the dwarf in search of grub; midget wrestling works up an appetite. So, off we went to Duggers, with Amy yelling to us, 'Goodbye Dan, goodbye Jenna, goodbye Stephanie.'
Duggers was absolutely packed – there was no free seating. But, never fear, Desi found us a table with 'Leslie.' He was sitting alone . . . well, almost alone – he had about 10 empty glasses on the table. I, of course, got the honor of sitting beside Leslie. He quickly deduced that my husband was smart, handsome, and maybe a CIA agent (but I’d never know it). 'Why, pray-tell, do you think that?' I had to ask. 'Well, you’re smart and good lookin,’ so I figured your husband must be, too.' Hmmm, I understood why Leslie was alone. He was clearly rusty on his pick-up lines. I mean, his line hardly measured up to, 'Do you like hillbillies?'
We ordered chicken and drinks, but we found out from our waiter that they were out of glasses. For some reason, Leslie seemed unwilling to give up any of his glasses, so we just had to wait. When our waiter eventually brought our food and drinks, Desi began dancing with him. Dan and I collectively agreed that our waiter was actually Zero from the movie 'Holes' all grown-up. I don’t think Desi even asked for his autograph.
The karaoke began as we were enjoying our chicken. Some guy was singing 'I Would Do Anything for Love, But I Won’t Do That.' Leslie informed us that the song was about a threesome (which I still don’t believe - I mean, can you imagine a man feeling so strongly about not participating in a threesome that he'd sing a song about it??). He went on to explain that he had experimented with 2 men and 2 women before. Clearly, Leslie was not as rusty as I had originally thought. He recommended to Dan that he go the 2 women route – it was Leslie’s personal preference. What good is life experience, after all, if we don’t share our knowledge with others?
We looked through the song catalog to pick out a song for me to sing on my birthday. Dan suggested 'Material Girl.' Damn it – I was coming off as prissy again. I’m guessing it was the pink toenails.
Oh, but all fun nights must come to an end. As we were recapping the evening’s events, Dan asked what I planned on doing with my newfound knowledge. I promised that I would only use it for good. We slammed fists like super heroes and magically disappeared, leaving Leslie alone with his many glasses dreaming of threesomes.
I can always count on meeting new and interesting people when out and about with Des. For example, several years ago, we were on a flight home from San Antonio, TX. It was late, and I had every intention of sleeping through the entire flight. We grabbed our seats; the young man seated beside Des turned out to be from her hometown. He had just gotten out of jail. I’d wake up to hear Des ask, 'Yes, yes, I see. But, was she worth going to jail for?' (FYI – the answer to this question should always be NO!).
Des has a new guy friend named Dan, who happens to have a midget fetish. So, for a birthday surprise, she bought Dan tickets to go see midget wrestling. I tagged along since I hadn’t met Dan yet. Hmmm – what to wear to such an event. I went with jeans, flip-flops, and a black blouse. I haven’t painted my toenails in about 3 years or so, but I felt like there was a good chance that my toes would be seen by the midget wrestlers . . . so I painted them pink especially for the occasion.
Desi, 10 years my senior, loves playing the age game – people always guess us to be the same age, and it just delights her. So, of course, when she introduced me to Dan she asked, 'Now, how old do you think she is?' Dan guessed me to be 32 – I was liking him already.
We showed up at Chef Raymond’s (the venue for the midget wrestling), and a waitress named Amy came over to Desi and said, 'Stephanie, you look great!' Desi replied, 'I’m not Stephanie, but thank you.' Amy zoned in on me . . . 'Oh, I LOVE your hair! I’d like to get mine cut like that, but I’m afraid.' Amy’s fear of short hair, as it turned out, stemmed from the fact that she was a 'hair stroker.' Ah, we had already found someone else with a fetish, and the night was very young. Amy is 4’11,' and she explained to us that she is technically a dwarf. I thought that this information would excite Dan, but he seemed frightened of Amy. Fetishist can be very picky, I’ve learned, and clearly Dan prefers the gals under the 4’6' range.
The midget wrestling started, and it was great fun. Meatloaf, a 276 pound midget, easily won. It was an unfair match, though. His tiny opponent, Blixx, was clearly smashed. He admitted to 7 shots and countless beers before the match began. Sadly, we parted ways with the midgets and Amy the dwarf in search of grub; midget wrestling works up an appetite. So, off we went to Duggers, with Amy yelling to us, 'Goodbye Dan, goodbye Jenna, goodbye Stephanie.'
Duggers was absolutely packed – there was no free seating. But, never fear, Desi found us a table with 'Leslie.' He was sitting alone . . . well, almost alone – he had about 10 empty glasses on the table. I, of course, got the honor of sitting beside Leslie. He quickly deduced that my husband was smart, handsome, and maybe a CIA agent (but I’d never know it). 'Why, pray-tell, do you think that?' I had to ask. 'Well, you’re smart and good lookin,’ so I figured your husband must be, too.' Hmmm, I understood why Leslie was alone. He was clearly rusty on his pick-up lines. I mean, his line hardly measured up to, 'Do you like hillbillies?'
We ordered chicken and drinks, but we found out from our waiter that they were out of glasses. For some reason, Leslie seemed unwilling to give up any of his glasses, so we just had to wait. When our waiter eventually brought our food and drinks, Desi began dancing with him. Dan and I collectively agreed that our waiter was actually Zero from the movie 'Holes' all grown-up. I don’t think Desi even asked for his autograph.
The karaoke began as we were enjoying our chicken. Some guy was singing 'I Would Do Anything for Love, But I Won’t Do That.' Leslie informed us that the song was about a threesome (which I still don’t believe - I mean, can you imagine a man feeling so strongly about not participating in a threesome that he'd sing a song about it??). He went on to explain that he had experimented with 2 men and 2 women before. Clearly, Leslie was not as rusty as I had originally thought. He recommended to Dan that he go the 2 women route – it was Leslie’s personal preference. What good is life experience, after all, if we don’t share our knowledge with others?
We looked through the song catalog to pick out a song for me to sing on my birthday. Dan suggested 'Material Girl.' Damn it – I was coming off as prissy again. I’m guessing it was the pink toenails.
Oh, but all fun nights must come to an end. As we were recapping the evening’s events, Dan asked what I planned on doing with my newfound knowledge. I promised that I would only use it for good. We slammed fists like super heroes and magically disappeared, leaving Leslie alone with his many glasses dreaming of threesomes.
My Epitaph Would Read...
My friend, Shermetta, suggested the other day that I move my blogs from myspace to facebook. Truth be told, I've had other projects going on, and I haven't written any blogs lately. But, after paying my respects to an old family friend yesterday, I felt a blog gurgling about.
When my grandfather passed away, we built a mother-in-law suite onto our house years before it became fashionable, and my dear, but slightly insane, grandmother moved in with us. Upon her death, as we were cleaning out her room, we found 68 white socks (belonging to my dad, brother, and myself) tucked under her bed. She had been "collecting" them for years from the laundry room. My brother and I like to call those years "Nanny's crazy years." We still laugh until we cry about some of her antics during that time period; but, don't you have to laugh about it?
I grew up in the very tight-knit community of Brysonville set in the Cannon County Hills. A country "neighbor" (meaning they could live 10 miles away) named Mabel stayed with my grandmother during the day while my family was at work and school. Mabel was a gentle soul, and she never even so much as raised her voice to my crazy grandmother. Nanny and Mabel would clean, cook, watch soap operas, shell peas, can, and do laundry together during the days of their many years spent together.
Mabel was married to a much older man, but I never saw her out and about with him. Her constant companion was Rayburn, her bachelor son. A story floated around that Rayburn once had a girlfriend, but it didn't last because Mabel went on their dates with them. I still don't know if the story is true.
Mabel's body just simply wore out on her earlier this week at the age of 79. I talked with Rayburn at the graveyard, and he seemed just lost without his Mabel. He has no family left, and I realized how lucky I am to come from such a large, nosey, infuriating, loud, loving family.
Mabel was buried in the Reed Cemetery, and many of my own relatives are at rest there. I began looking around at the tombstones, and I was drawn to a stone with the epitaph, "She lived a loud life." It was so much more interesting than "Rest in Peace." I started to think about what Tony would put on my stone. I'd like to think it would be something romantic, such as, "Wit and daring lurked just under the surface in the waters of her sapphire eyes." But, I'm not married to a romantic, I'm married to a funny fellow. I suspect he would choose somthing like, "Fill Dirt Here, Please" for my epitaph. (There would also be an arrow. Tony would find an arrow funny).
I really don't have to worry about such, though. I don't want to be stuck in a box. I will be cremated. I read "Annie Freeman's Fabulous Traveling Funeral" a few years ago. I hated the book, but I loved the idea of the departed's friends taking a road trip across the country to spread Annie's ashes at places that were important to her. I'd have Tony sprinkle a few of my ashes atop these hills that I love so dearly, and then I'd send my friends across the country to sprinkle the rest - the trip would be taken in a convertible, of course. Fun times would be had by all, as Desi would no doubt be involved.
Rest in peace, Mabel. Thank you for loving and caring for my crazy Nanny. But, these are words that really should be spoken in life.
When my grandfather passed away, we built a mother-in-law suite onto our house years before it became fashionable, and my dear, but slightly insane, grandmother moved in with us. Upon her death, as we were cleaning out her room, we found 68 white socks (belonging to my dad, brother, and myself) tucked under her bed. She had been "collecting" them for years from the laundry room. My brother and I like to call those years "Nanny's crazy years." We still laugh until we cry about some of her antics during that time period; but, don't you have to laugh about it?
I grew up in the very tight-knit community of Brysonville set in the Cannon County Hills. A country "neighbor" (meaning they could live 10 miles away) named Mabel stayed with my grandmother during the day while my family was at work and school. Mabel was a gentle soul, and she never even so much as raised her voice to my crazy grandmother. Nanny and Mabel would clean, cook, watch soap operas, shell peas, can, and do laundry together during the days of their many years spent together.
Mabel was married to a much older man, but I never saw her out and about with him. Her constant companion was Rayburn, her bachelor son. A story floated around that Rayburn once had a girlfriend, but it didn't last because Mabel went on their dates with them. I still don't know if the story is true.
Mabel's body just simply wore out on her earlier this week at the age of 79. I talked with Rayburn at the graveyard, and he seemed just lost without his Mabel. He has no family left, and I realized how lucky I am to come from such a large, nosey, infuriating, loud, loving family.
Mabel was buried in the Reed Cemetery, and many of my own relatives are at rest there. I began looking around at the tombstones, and I was drawn to a stone with the epitaph, "She lived a loud life." It was so much more interesting than "Rest in Peace." I started to think about what Tony would put on my stone. I'd like to think it would be something romantic, such as, "Wit and daring lurked just under the surface in the waters of her sapphire eyes." But, I'm not married to a romantic, I'm married to a funny fellow. I suspect he would choose somthing like, "Fill Dirt Here, Please" for my epitaph. (There would also be an arrow. Tony would find an arrow funny).
I really don't have to worry about such, though. I don't want to be stuck in a box. I will be cremated. I read "Annie Freeman's Fabulous Traveling Funeral" a few years ago. I hated the book, but I loved the idea of the departed's friends taking a road trip across the country to spread Annie's ashes at places that were important to her. I'd have Tony sprinkle a few of my ashes atop these hills that I love so dearly, and then I'd send my friends across the country to sprinkle the rest - the trip would be taken in a convertible, of course. Fun times would be had by all, as Desi would no doubt be involved.
Rest in peace, Mabel. Thank you for loving and caring for my crazy Nanny. But, these are words that really should be spoken in life.
The Meanest Woman Alive - Mean Lorene
I call my mother-in-law "Mean Lorene." She happens to be the meanest woman alive. She had a stroke a few years ago, and it affected her speech. She'll call things by the wrong name, but most importantly, she has developed verbal diarrhea – a thought is out of her mouth as soon as she thinks it. I was talking to her the other day, and she asked me if I had sold my chicken. I told her no, as I have no chickens (honesty is the best policy, after all).
She could eat candy 24 hours a day. We got her a huge chocolate Santa Claus for Christmas a couple of years ago . . . we were chastised for months for having the nerve to buy her a hollow Santa (I made sure her Easter bunny was solid chocolate). This year, she's accusing her grandson of giving her a half-eaten box of chocolate for Christmas (it's cruel, but we're happy to have the diversion).
My real fear is that I'll get beaten up one day at the doctor's office. Usually, Rita, my sister-in-law, takes her to her appointments and suffers the wrath of Mean Lorene. She once said to Rita in a packed doctor's office, "I can't believe how fat you've gotten" (Rita has a strong sense of self-worth, thank goodness). But, sometimes I have to take her. She'll say things (loudly) like, "Look at those pants that woman has on over there," "That woman looks like she's got a dead squirrel on her head," and "I really wish I had that man's ice-cream." I should probably learn some karate moves to protect myself.
In all seriousness, I do love that hateful old woman. She will only allow myself and Rita to care for her when she's ill. Sometimes life rewards us for longevity by giving us the finger. Mean Lorene has suffered or is currently suffering from the following: breast cancer, stroke, atrial fibrillation, high blood pressure, and kidney disease. She has to have an abdominal CT scan every few months to monitor her kidney disorder, and often times she urinates on herself before the procedure. Once she had a hair appointment with my hairdresser, Lucy, following the CT scan. She was embarrassed about the mess. I told her Lucy had seen stranger things (she does Brazilian waxes, for goodness sake).
Mean Lorene had to learn how to read again following her stroke. She'll pick-up anything and read it. At Christmas, we were helping my sister-in-law, Tammie, put her CD collection on her new MP3 player. Mean Lorene picked up a Prince album and started reading the song titles aloud. I gently pulled the CD case out of her hand as I heard her saying, "Cream," "Do Me, Baby," "Get Off," "Head," and "Sexy M.F." I replaced the CD case with a magazine. I like to think myself progressive and open-minded, but I don't think I'll ever be ready to hear my mother-in-law talk dirty.
She could eat candy 24 hours a day. We got her a huge chocolate Santa Claus for Christmas a couple of years ago . . . we were chastised for months for having the nerve to buy her a hollow Santa (I made sure her Easter bunny was solid chocolate). This year, she's accusing her grandson of giving her a half-eaten box of chocolate for Christmas (it's cruel, but we're happy to have the diversion).
My real fear is that I'll get beaten up one day at the doctor's office. Usually, Rita, my sister-in-law, takes her to her appointments and suffers the wrath of Mean Lorene. She once said to Rita in a packed doctor's office, "I can't believe how fat you've gotten" (Rita has a strong sense of self-worth, thank goodness). But, sometimes I have to take her. She'll say things (loudly) like, "Look at those pants that woman has on over there," "That woman looks like she's got a dead squirrel on her head," and "I really wish I had that man's ice-cream." I should probably learn some karate moves to protect myself.
In all seriousness, I do love that hateful old woman. She will only allow myself and Rita to care for her when she's ill. Sometimes life rewards us for longevity by giving us the finger. Mean Lorene has suffered or is currently suffering from the following: breast cancer, stroke, atrial fibrillation, high blood pressure, and kidney disease. She has to have an abdominal CT scan every few months to monitor her kidney disorder, and often times she urinates on herself before the procedure. Once she had a hair appointment with my hairdresser, Lucy, following the CT scan. She was embarrassed about the mess. I told her Lucy had seen stranger things (she does Brazilian waxes, for goodness sake).
Mean Lorene had to learn how to read again following her stroke. She'll pick-up anything and read it. At Christmas, we were helping my sister-in-law, Tammie, put her CD collection on her new MP3 player. Mean Lorene picked up a Prince album and started reading the song titles aloud. I gently pulled the CD case out of her hand as I heard her saying, "Cream," "Do Me, Baby," "Get Off," "Head," and "Sexy M.F." I replaced the CD case with a magazine. I like to think myself progressive and open-minded, but I don't think I'll ever be ready to hear my mother-in-law talk dirty.
Jack Daniel's BBQ Ribs
Well, another holiday is fast approaching, so it’s time again for one of my favorite holiday recipes. I took Momma, a very, very, very good Baptist, over to the dark side with this recipe. As you probably well know, any Baptist worth her salt wouldn’t be caught dead in a liquor store. Momma’s solution was to come over to my house to bum some Jack for her BBQ sauce, but I finally had to cut her off. So, she calls me the other day and asks if I’d like to go to lunch. I pick her up, and she sheepishly asks, “Will you go to the liquor store with me to buy some Jack Daniel’s?” We walk into the liquor store, and Momma is confused and overwhelmed. I explained to her that drunks are easily confused, and they post gynormous red signs for them. “See,” I say, pointing, “there’s the ‘TN Whiskey’ sign.”
Momma kept looking around nervously. I think she might have felt more inconspicuous had she not been wearing her lime green VBS T-shirt. Perhaps I will school her in covert operations next.
My point being, any recipe that can get a good, God-fearing, Baptist woman into a liquor store is one worth trying!
4 lbs pork ribs
Jack Daniel’s BBQ Sauce
½ c Jack Daniel’s (up to 1 c and as little as ¼ c can be used)
½ c brown sugar (the Splenda brown sugar product is actually pretty good in this if you’re watching your sugar)
1 c catsup
2 tsp worcestershire sauce
¼ c vinegar
1 Tbsp FRESH lemon juice
3 cloves garlic, minced
½ tsp dry mustard (if you don’t keep dry mustard in your pantry, don’t go out and buy it – a squirt of yellow mustard will work fine)
salt & pepper to taste
Mix all ingredients for sauce. Cooking is not necessary unless you are using the Splenda brown sugar – if I’m using that, I’ll cook it on the stovetop (medium heat) for about 5 min. or so. Place ribs in stock-pot. Cover with water & parboil for approximately 20 minutes. (For you non-foodies, parboil is basically a fancy-smancy word for “boil”). Preheat oven to 300 degrees. Remove ribs from pot & water and place on foil lined roasting pan (keep a little water in the pan – under the foil - throughout the cooking process to keep the ribs from drying out). Pour about ½ of sauce over ribs. Top with foil and bake for 2 ½ to 3 hours. I baste the ribs throughout the cooking time with the remaining sauce (maybe every 30 minutes or so).
Momma kept looking around nervously. I think she might have felt more inconspicuous had she not been wearing her lime green VBS T-shirt. Perhaps I will school her in covert operations next.
My point being, any recipe that can get a good, God-fearing, Baptist woman into a liquor store is one worth trying!
4 lbs pork ribs
Jack Daniel’s BBQ Sauce
½ c Jack Daniel’s (up to 1 c and as little as ¼ c can be used)
½ c brown sugar (the Splenda brown sugar product is actually pretty good in this if you’re watching your sugar)
1 c catsup
2 tsp worcestershire sauce
¼ c vinegar
1 Tbsp FRESH lemon juice
3 cloves garlic, minced
½ tsp dry mustard (if you don’t keep dry mustard in your pantry, don’t go out and buy it – a squirt of yellow mustard will work fine)
salt & pepper to taste
Mix all ingredients for sauce. Cooking is not necessary unless you are using the Splenda brown sugar – if I’m using that, I’ll cook it on the stovetop (medium heat) for about 5 min. or so. Place ribs in stock-pot. Cover with water & parboil for approximately 20 minutes. (For you non-foodies, parboil is basically a fancy-smancy word for “boil”). Preheat oven to 300 degrees. Remove ribs from pot & water and place on foil lined roasting pan (keep a little water in the pan – under the foil - throughout the cooking process to keep the ribs from drying out). Pour about ½ of sauce over ribs. Top with foil and bake for 2 ½ to 3 hours. I baste the ribs throughout the cooking time with the remaining sauce (maybe every 30 minutes or so).
I Swear I’m Not a Stalker, Officer, I Just Had to Pee
My beautiful Aunt Mi-Mi, my mother's only sister, is in the twilight of her life. In her younger years, she was full of gypsy blood. She and her first husband would hop in their car and move from place to place, town to town. I always imagine them in a red convertible, top down, of course, with Aunt Mi-Mi in sunglasses and a scarf wrapped around her head. In my mind's picture show, she would throw her hand up in the air to wave, but she wouldn't look back . . . leaving the farm and small town life in her wake.
With three husbands in the ground, Aunt Mi-Mi has ended up in Cookeville, TN. She no longer drives. I have a good deal of that same gypsy blood flowing through my own veins, and I can't stand the thought of her stuck in that house on a hill. This fall I announced to Momma, "Pack-up the car, we're taking Aunt Mi-Mi to see the fall leaves."
We pick-up Aunt Mi-Mi, and we head toward Edgar Evans State Park. Upon our arrival at the park, Aunt Mi-Mi seemed absorbed in her memories. "Kirby used to bring me here all the time. I wouldn't want to date Kirby, but I just wish he were still alive," she continued. Kirby was Aunt Mi-Mi's boyfriend between her second and third husbands. They would "go dancing" together. I felt kind of bad for Kirby; I knew he could never fully win Aunt Mi-Mi's heart. He just wasn't the right sort of fellow. For example, Aunt Mi-Mi wouldn't allow Kirby to accompany her to my wedding . . . apparently, his shirt and tie didn't match.
But, I found Kirby terribly interesting, mainly because he was a narcoleptic. He could fall asleep anywhere – on the steps, watching TV, eating dinner. I would always sit next to Kirby and engage him in conversation. I secretly hoped that he'd fall asleep one day in mid-sentence, "Now, Girlie, the secret to happiness is . . . zzzzz, zzzz." And then I'd never know! It would have made a GREAT story, but, alas, he never fell asleep mid-sentence (at least, not with me).
Things went sour with Kirby after Aunt Mi-Mi met her dapper third husband, Paul, at one of these dances. Aunt Mi-Mi extinguished Kirby's flame like a bad kitchen fire. But Kirby had tenacity. She found him one night spying on she and Paul in the bushes outside her house. "He's stalking me!" she squealed. Her daughter, Jane, and I both took-up for Kirby. Jane said, "I like Kirby, and I can be a bit of a stalker myself." "Well," I said reasonably, "I don't think he was stalking you. I think he merely came for a visit and saw you weren't home. When nature called, I think he simply fell asleep in the bushes." I've always had a theory that narcoleptics could fall asleep while peeing . . .
RIP, and sleep well, Kirby. Don't worry – I figured out the secret to a happy life. I hope you did, too.
With three husbands in the ground, Aunt Mi-Mi has ended up in Cookeville, TN. She no longer drives. I have a good deal of that same gypsy blood flowing through my own veins, and I can't stand the thought of her stuck in that house on a hill. This fall I announced to Momma, "Pack-up the car, we're taking Aunt Mi-Mi to see the fall leaves."
We pick-up Aunt Mi-Mi, and we head toward Edgar Evans State Park. Upon our arrival at the park, Aunt Mi-Mi seemed absorbed in her memories. "Kirby used to bring me here all the time. I wouldn't want to date Kirby, but I just wish he were still alive," she continued. Kirby was Aunt Mi-Mi's boyfriend between her second and third husbands. They would "go dancing" together. I felt kind of bad for Kirby; I knew he could never fully win Aunt Mi-Mi's heart. He just wasn't the right sort of fellow. For example, Aunt Mi-Mi wouldn't allow Kirby to accompany her to my wedding . . . apparently, his shirt and tie didn't match.
But, I found Kirby terribly interesting, mainly because he was a narcoleptic. He could fall asleep anywhere – on the steps, watching TV, eating dinner. I would always sit next to Kirby and engage him in conversation. I secretly hoped that he'd fall asleep one day in mid-sentence, "Now, Girlie, the secret to happiness is . . . zzzzz, zzzz." And then I'd never know! It would have made a GREAT story, but, alas, he never fell asleep mid-sentence (at least, not with me).
Things went sour with Kirby after Aunt Mi-Mi met her dapper third husband, Paul, at one of these dances. Aunt Mi-Mi extinguished Kirby's flame like a bad kitchen fire. But Kirby had tenacity. She found him one night spying on she and Paul in the bushes outside her house. "He's stalking me!" she squealed. Her daughter, Jane, and I both took-up for Kirby. Jane said, "I like Kirby, and I can be a bit of a stalker myself." "Well," I said reasonably, "I don't think he was stalking you. I think he merely came for a visit and saw you weren't home. When nature called, I think he simply fell asleep in the bushes." I've always had a theory that narcoleptics could fall asleep while peeing . . .
RIP, and sleep well, Kirby. Don't worry – I figured out the secret to a happy life. I hope you did, too.
Hot New Reality Show
Growing up, I always found those pictures in Momma’s photo albums a bit, uh, creepy. You know the ones – pictures of dearly departed relatives in the casket at the funeral home. The pictures would inevitably end up right beside a picture of me digging through my Easter basket with crazy bedhead, attired in a gown & my Easter Mary Jane’s. But, in adulthood, I’ve finally come to understand why those pictures were taken . . . so that we can remember the tackiest of jokes made at Aunt Lizzie Rae’s funeral. In fact, I’m thinking of shopping around a new reality show, loosely titled, “Yes, We Really Act that Way at the Funeral Home.” My friend, Des, admitted to having laughing fits during her father’s funeral service. Luckily, such moments are often passed off as being “grief stricken.” I remember sitting in the corner laughing hysterically with cousin Jane, tears streaming down my face, about my beloved Aunt Sammie’s wigs that had a tendency to look like dead squirrels.
Sadly, some of my strangest moments have happened at the funeral home. My husband’s Aunt Francis passed away several years ago, so we loaded up the Beverly Hillbilly wagon and drove to the mountains of Smithville, TN. Tony’s people are country folk, and they eyed me suspiciously, walking in with a chocolate peanut butter cake & a black Prada purse. Let me go ahead and explain to you out-of-towners that the words “Smithville” and “Prada” are seldom used in the same sentence. And I heard such whispered sentences as, “Look at Tony and that hoity-toity wife of his . . .” But I didn’t blame them really; they had no idea how country my origins really are (plus, many a friend has told me I can come off a little "snooty" at first).
At this very funeral, my husband and his ancient Aunt Kenzata kept trying to feed me “white chocolate” from a ziplock baggy. Well, Momma didn’t raise no fool. I knew that “white chocolate” was in fact “lye soap.” Kenzata had mistaken me for a city girl, and it was her funeral home version of a snipe hunt. I bet you a Krispy Kreme doughnut that Kenzata had someone poised with a camera waiting for me to take a bite of that “white chocolate.”
My mother-in-law, Mean Lorene, the 120-pound, sugar-consuming tornado, was not about to leave her sister’s funeral without the rest of the chocolate peanut butter cake I had made for the mourners. She, after all, was a mourner. She walked into the kitchen with a clear mission . . . rescuing the cake. An elderly gentleman (I hope and pray it wasn’t her brother-in-law) was cutting a piece of cake. Lorene pulled the plate out of his hands and darted out the door. She didn’t even let him have the piece he had cut. She ate the remaining ½ of cake on the ride home WITH HER HANDS (she had forgotten to grab silverware in her haste to “leave the scene”). I watched in shocked amusement as she stuffed mouthfuls of cake into her mouth with her peanut butter covered hands.
To this day, I regret not having a video of that (the modern-day equivalent to the funeral home camera pictures, I might add). I believe I will do a “dramatic reenactment” of the funeral home cake heist for my reality show.
Sadly, some of my strangest moments have happened at the funeral home. My husband’s Aunt Francis passed away several years ago, so we loaded up the Beverly Hillbilly wagon and drove to the mountains of Smithville, TN. Tony’s people are country folk, and they eyed me suspiciously, walking in with a chocolate peanut butter cake & a black Prada purse. Let me go ahead and explain to you out-of-towners that the words “Smithville” and “Prada” are seldom used in the same sentence. And I heard such whispered sentences as, “Look at Tony and that hoity-toity wife of his . . .” But I didn’t blame them really; they had no idea how country my origins really are (plus, many a friend has told me I can come off a little "snooty" at first).
At this very funeral, my husband and his ancient Aunt Kenzata kept trying to feed me “white chocolate” from a ziplock baggy. Well, Momma didn’t raise no fool. I knew that “white chocolate” was in fact “lye soap.” Kenzata had mistaken me for a city girl, and it was her funeral home version of a snipe hunt. I bet you a Krispy Kreme doughnut that Kenzata had someone poised with a camera waiting for me to take a bite of that “white chocolate.”
My mother-in-law, Mean Lorene, the 120-pound, sugar-consuming tornado, was not about to leave her sister’s funeral without the rest of the chocolate peanut butter cake I had made for the mourners. She, after all, was a mourner. She walked into the kitchen with a clear mission . . . rescuing the cake. An elderly gentleman (I hope and pray it wasn’t her brother-in-law) was cutting a piece of cake. Lorene pulled the plate out of his hands and darted out the door. She didn’t even let him have the piece he had cut. She ate the remaining ½ of cake on the ride home WITH HER HANDS (she had forgotten to grab silverware in her haste to “leave the scene”). I watched in shocked amusement as she stuffed mouthfuls of cake into her mouth with her peanut butter covered hands.
To this day, I regret not having a video of that (the modern-day equivalent to the funeral home camera pictures, I might add). I believe I will do a “dramatic reenactment” of the funeral home cake heist for my reality show.
Fifth Third Bank is Slowly Driving Me Insane
We visit my sister-in-law, Rita, frequently. Rita bought a great house last year, but we're either going to have to ask Rita to sell the house, find a less direct route, or completely stop visiting Rita.
The problem . . . we have to pass Fifth Third Bank to get to Rita's house. My husband, a brainy rationalist, hates the name 'Fifth Third Bank.' He believes it to be a silly name for an institution dealing with numbers and finance.
He is a Leo, and I am a Libra; my astrological duty is to purr into his ear, 'Yes, that's the stupidest name ever.' But, astrology be damned; I'm tired of hearing about it. Besides, only part of me thinks that it's a stupid name. My artsy side thinks that it is great that some marketing guy convinced a room of stuffy suits to give a financial institute an ironic name* . . . it seems poetic and clever to me. A tiny Jenni is standing in the middle of my corpus callosum tugging left and then right, and frankly, I find the whole process tiring. Until I pick a definitive side, I think I'll continue banking at First National Bank. Sorry, Rita; you'll also probably have to drive to Woodbury to get your squash until we find another route.
*And, yes, I’m well aware that I could look-up the name origin on the Internet, but I refuse. Some things should just remain shrouded in a hazy mist.
The problem . . . we have to pass Fifth Third Bank to get to Rita's house. My husband, a brainy rationalist, hates the name 'Fifth Third Bank.' He believes it to be a silly name for an institution dealing with numbers and finance.
He is a Leo, and I am a Libra; my astrological duty is to purr into his ear, 'Yes, that's the stupidest name ever.' But, astrology be damned; I'm tired of hearing about it. Besides, only part of me thinks that it's a stupid name. My artsy side thinks that it is great that some marketing guy convinced a room of stuffy suits to give a financial institute an ironic name* . . . it seems poetic and clever to me. A tiny Jenni is standing in the middle of my corpus callosum tugging left and then right, and frankly, I find the whole process tiring. Until I pick a definitive side, I think I'll continue banking at First National Bank. Sorry, Rita; you'll also probably have to drive to Woodbury to get your squash until we find another route.
*And, yes, I’m well aware that I could look-up the name origin on the Internet, but I refuse. Some things should just remain shrouded in a hazy mist.
The Woodbury Phone Book
I showed up to my parents' house last night perfumed, combed, spit-shined, and dressed in my Sunday finest. Momma and I were going to the funeral home. I walked in and said hello to Daddy, but I was greeted by complete silence. I found him reading the phone book. Daddy is not a reader, so I became immediately suspicious. Momma walked through and explained, "Your father had an appointment with his oral surgeon this morning, but he's had his pain pill, so I'm ready to go." I asked why he was reading the phone book. She said she wasn't sure but that he had been reading it for an hour (Daddy gets a little crazy when medicated). I'm a reader, but phone books aren't exactly my genre. I find that there are too many characters to keep up with. "Well, should we leave him like that?" I asked. To which my mother replied, "Oh, he's fine. Chloe (my 11-year-old niece) will be here with him." So, off we went to the funeral home. I silently wondered during the drive what exactly prepares an 11-year-old to sit with a heavily medicated mute reading the phone book.
Daddy is a social creature. He retired about 6 years ago, and he's having trouble adjusting. The family farms of myself, my brother, and my parents take up about 250 acres, and Daddy grows weary of only seeing us and our animals. I can't really say that I blame him. He used to hang out at Joe's Place (a legendary restaurant in Woodbury) back when the original owner was still alive. There was a dedicated table at Joe's where old men would gather, known as the "Liar's Table" (it was basically the equivalent to a beauty shop for ladies). But, the restaurant has changed hands a few times since Joe's death, and the crowd has changed. I personally never liked eating at Joe's Place. I am obsessive-compulsive, and I have issues with symmetry. Invariably, I would end up sitting in front of the paintings of Elvis and Jesus. The Elvis painting was velvet, and it hung slightly higher than the Jesus painting, and the Jesus painting was always crooked. The paintings haunted me, and I always found myself wanting to take a hammer, nails, and a level to the restaurant . . . so I could never really enjoy my hamburger.
But, Daddy has found other social activities. He plays Rook every other Saturday at the Senior Citizens' Center. He is actually a bit of a card shark . . . they don't play for money, but he has lots of trophies. I have a theory that he looks into the eyes of those little old ladies and somehow hypnotizes them with his sea blue eyes. I won't play with him – he cheats. Besides, I prefer Poker and Scrabble.
He has also taken a liking to a gentleman in Smithville (a neighboring county) named Johnny; they talk about once a month on the phone. The friendship started out by Johnny calling the wrong number. He was trying to reach someone in Smithville (a 536 number), and he constantly called my parents' house (a 563 number) by mistake. Daddy and Johnny will talk on the phone for 30 minutes like a couple of teenage girls (imagine talking to someone dialing a WRONG NUMBER for half an hour!). This year, Daddy and Johnny actually sent each other Christmas cards. I wonder how long it will be before Johnny gets added to the will?
Daddy is a social creature. He retired about 6 years ago, and he's having trouble adjusting. The family farms of myself, my brother, and my parents take up about 250 acres, and Daddy grows weary of only seeing us and our animals. I can't really say that I blame him. He used to hang out at Joe's Place (a legendary restaurant in Woodbury) back when the original owner was still alive. There was a dedicated table at Joe's where old men would gather, known as the "Liar's Table" (it was basically the equivalent to a beauty shop for ladies). But, the restaurant has changed hands a few times since Joe's death, and the crowd has changed. I personally never liked eating at Joe's Place. I am obsessive-compulsive, and I have issues with symmetry. Invariably, I would end up sitting in front of the paintings of Elvis and Jesus. The Elvis painting was velvet, and it hung slightly higher than the Jesus painting, and the Jesus painting was always crooked. The paintings haunted me, and I always found myself wanting to take a hammer, nails, and a level to the restaurant . . . so I could never really enjoy my hamburger.
But, Daddy has found other social activities. He plays Rook every other Saturday at the Senior Citizens' Center. He is actually a bit of a card shark . . . they don't play for money, but he has lots of trophies. I have a theory that he looks into the eyes of those little old ladies and somehow hypnotizes them with his sea blue eyes. I won't play with him – he cheats. Besides, I prefer Poker and Scrabble.
He has also taken a liking to a gentleman in Smithville (a neighboring county) named Johnny; they talk about once a month on the phone. The friendship started out by Johnny calling the wrong number. He was trying to reach someone in Smithville (a 536 number), and he constantly called my parents' house (a 563 number) by mistake. Daddy and Johnny will talk on the phone for 30 minutes like a couple of teenage girls (imagine talking to someone dialing a WRONG NUMBER for half an hour!). This year, Daddy and Johnny actually sent each other Christmas cards. I wonder how long it will be before Johnny gets added to the will?
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