Wednesday, December 16, 2009
My favorite Christmas decoration is the lighted wreath on the back of my SUV.
My Beloved - bless his geeky, little heart - MacGyvered a way to make the wreath light up anytime the vehicle's ignition is engaged. Now I can make merry without having to worry about switches and batteries and such. Isn't he wonderful? He enables my goofy, little whims.
Yes, I realize I am odd. In all the years I have done this, I don't recall seeing another wreath like it. Could be because it is perhaps, shall we say, a little bit, um, illegal? Well, I don't know that it is illegal, but it could be. Maybe that's why I've never seen another one like it. Or maybe it is legal, and I'm the only loon out there. No, that can't be it. Just the other day, I saw an older gentleman with antlers affixed to the sides of his car to make it look like a reindeer. The antlers were on backward. That's what I call loony. Festive but loony.
I'm calling myself an entrepreneur. Living on the edge. Dig that paradigm. Everybody wants to be me.
If I had half a brain, I'd probably try to sell these things. Yet it is that little issue of legality that stops me. But, c'mon, folks, what officer who is sound of mind would stop a merry citizen who is just trying to spread a little Christmas cheer even if it is in the form of a small traffic diversion, eh? "Would you care for a Christmas cookie, officer, or maybe some figgy pudding, hmmm?"
link: nat king cole
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Yes, I can see a couple of you wincing and smacking your foreheads at the thought of me at high tea in my Peanuts shirt. But this is me, y'all.
High tea. Now there's something I never thought I'd find myself doing. I loooove tea; don't get me wrong. I'm just, well, not prim and proper. You read the above paragraphs, right? I'm comic relief, not high tea material.
Even so, I was flattered beyond belief that I was invited to such an event. It was amazing. Little finger sandwiches, scones, chocolate-covered strawberries, and tea, of course. The tablecloth alone was gorgeous. (Why is it that I can't remember the last time I sat at a table that donned a tablecloth? Oh yeah, probably has something to do with my Peanuts t-shirt. Ahem.) The dishes were dainty. The company was fun, and there was a lot of laughter.
Is it OK to laugh at high tea? There weren't any guffaws. Don't recall any chortles either. Maybe some snickers. Plenty o' mirth. Just the right mix of joviality for the occasion, methinks. But, hey, this is me here. Consider the source.
A part of me has always wanted to be dignified in an Anne Shirley sort of way. Now, there's a gal I can relate to. Just enough mischief to make her interesting. Beautiful with a wild imagination. A fire in her heart and a gleam in her eye. Yet she knew how she was supposed to act in social situations. Whether or not she always carried it off with dignity, she knew.
Me? I don't quite know. I'd like to know, but I don't. I haven't been properly trained.
This is me, y'all. What you see is what you get. Hope you like it. Love me or leave me.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Camping with the extended family is always a rollicking good time. So is camping. Period. For that matter.
This time, it didn't go so well really, not for Dave. He suffered with the worst migraine of his four-year old, little life. Lots of pain and puking. Sorry. No nice way to put it.
That's all behind him now. I think. I hope. I pray.
He was a new man today. No more agony. Just lots of full-throttle silliness. That's my boy.
The camping trip was an odd mix. Check that. I'm not speaking of my relatives in this instance, although "odd mix" would not be a stretch. Ahem.
It rained often if not much. Enough to dampen the feet. Inwardly, I laughed at the rain. It was either laugh or cry. I'd much rather laugh.
I had my husband's baseball hat to protect my curly locks. Dry bangs = happy woman.
All told, dry ankles = happy woman too. Every morning I had clean, dry pants to don. No matter that within minutes I'd step out into sogginess that would eventually soak my ankles because, for the moment, my pants were clean and snug and unsaturated by rain slosh.
These, I found, were the essentials: my baseball hat, clean pants, and a pain-free Dave. Unfortunately I got the latter far less than I would have liked. C'est la vie.
Last year at this time, all was right with the world. I don't recall that it rained. Even more of the extended family was on hand to add to the aforementioned odd mix. I most certainly had a pain-free Dave then. Yet, he didn't quite make it through the canoe trip.
It was the best of times.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Monday, September 14, 2009
Now this guy's wife has the polar opposite personality type of her husband and I. You'd think the two of us would really gang up on her and want to claw her eyes out. But we don't. We find her rather fascinating. She's quite amusing. Then again, so are we. She's ubercool. We are too. She's smart. Yeah, us too. I could go on, but I don't want to embarrass myself. I do have to continue writing, you know.
My point, and I do have one, is this: Perhaps the reason her husband and I find her so riveting is that she's different. Well, she's different than he is for obvious reasons. Ahem. But she's also different than the both us for other reasons. And we find ourselves standing back, shaking our heads and smiling to ourselves in that knowing way. You know, "Oh, there she goes again."
This is where it gets particularly compelling to me. The personality is the thing. Well, at least for me, that's the attraction. I mean, he, no doubt, has these uncontrollable urges to kiss her, and I just don't. It'd be all wrong. For one thing, she's entirely too tall for me. (Oh, I amuse myself.)
At any rate, discounting all else, if you zone in on the personality gig, you start to wonder what exactly it is that makes different personalities want to come together in the first place. This is what I want to understand. How does all this work? What makes us tick? How are we different, and how are we the same?
Speaking of the same, my hubby and I have strikingly similar personalities 'cept he's more spontaneous than I. I guess that makes me the boring one. Shirley, you jest.
Are you thinking what I'm thinking? Cuz I got a surprise for you. You may be able to figure out what it is about you that makes you do what you do. And grab your peeps because they may want to do this too.
There's this thing called a Myers-Briggs Type Indicator. There is also this other thing called a Jung Typology Test. Fancy names for a personality test. Don't worry. It can be fun. Just take it and see what you get. Then armed with your personality type, see what it means.
Now I won't be so bold as to tell you that what you read about yourself will be 100% accurate. It may feel like your personality profile fits you like yesterday's underwear. But it will raise your eyebrows a few times. I guarantee. And you'll probably laugh in spite of yourself if you know what's good for you.
Step One: Take this free online test. HumanMetrics
Step Two: Given your personality type, see what it means. Personality Type Portraits
Give it a whirl. Hopefully you'll be glad you did. Here, I'll show you mine, and you can show me yours if you like. I'm an ISTJ. See, that wasn't so hard, now was it?
link: ella and louis
Sunday, September 13, 2009
We hugged. We laughed. We talked about our pajama pants. It was classic.
You have to know Janie. She's quite a lady. Lemme see if I can find you something. This says a lot.
See what I mean? She's some kinda gal. This was a billboard spread. It is only one little piece of her story.
She's amazing. Have I already said that? Well, she is. Talk about strength of character. Whew, doggie! She's a lot like her mama. Beautiful inside and out.
How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord,
Is laid for your faith in His excellent word!
What more can He say than to you He hath said—
To you who for refuge to Jesus have fled?
Fear not, I am with thee, oh, be not dismayed,
For I am thy God, and will still give thee aid;
I’ll strengthen thee, help thee, and cause thee to stand,
Upheld by My gracious, omnipotent hand.
When through the deep waters I call thee to go,
The rivers of sorrow shall not overflow;
For I will be with thee thy trouble to bless,
And sanctify to thee thy deepest distress.
When through fiery trials thy pathway shall lie,
My grace, all-sufficient, shall be thy supply;
The flame shall not harm thee; I only design
Thy dross to consume and thy gold to refine.
The soul that on Jesus doth lean for repose,
I will not, I will not, desert to his foes;
That soul, though all hell should endeavor to shake,
I’ll never, no never, no never forsake.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Nestled on another cart was this shapely corked bottle. Then as I was darting past the clothes racks, this billowy blouse practically jumped out at me and begged me to take it home. How could I resist?
But then, then the most amazing thing happened. On my way to the furniture section, what to my wondering eyes did appear but my beloved of all Hannahs along with her best pal Esther. A two-fer-one. Talk about your major bargains. Remember when I told you I had a week that ended with a fulfilling surprise? This was it.
You gotta know Hannah. She moved out of state. Finding her here anywhere is like finding a diamond in the rough. Then again, you gotta know Hannah. Of course, she'd be at the Goodwill. That's where all the great stuff is. Amen?
What a great time we had. Hannah and Esther, they're beautiful dames with a ready wit. We had the place rocking with laughter. All abuzz with excitement. You'd have thought it was 50% Off Day or something. I laughed until I ached and almost cried.
And do you know something else that is beguiling about those two little lovelies? Look closely, you won't want to miss this. They both have those eyes. Those breath-taking, promise-breaking eyes. And there they were. Two powerful sets of them. Both belonging to women I hold dear. I was powerless under their spell.
It is a good thing I went there alone because upon that sight, all responsibility just flew out the window. But wait. No, I wasn't there alone. My children were there with me only I barely have recollection of that now. Yes, that's right. I remember it distinctly. My youngest was pumped because he had just secured a three-dollar bowling ball. There, there, Josh. You have fun with that. Mama's just a little dimwitted now. Can you blame her? Have you seen those eyes?
link: the eyes have it
Friday, September 11, 2009
There'll be no MRI. And it's not a tumah. (Thank you, Ahnold.)
The doc was good. Articulate, definitive, thorough, kind. He told us what we expected and wanted to hear. Still, it is good to hear it from an edjumicated medical professional.
Glad that it is over, but it has only just begun. Sorry 'bout your life of hard knocks, kid. Something tells me you got the gumption it takes to carry it.
Hey, if you can't use this as a forum for gratuitous pictures of your kids, then what's a blog for anyway?
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
angst: Best enjoyed when watching somebody else say it as it starts with a brief snarl. GRRR!
bombastic: If that's not fun to say, what is?
ilk: Not much great about this word since it makes you feel like you need to hawk a loogie.
incorrigible: Makes stubborn sound classy.
melancholy: It doesn't sound at all like what it means. The word itself conjures thoughts of warm breezes o'er a blooming meadow. Nothing of this dreadful sorry kind of thing.
pithy: It'd be better if it didn't thound tho thithy.
quaff: Snoopy gets almost all the credit on this one.
serendipity: The faster you say it, the sillier it gets. Actually for the full effect, you have to draw out the first two syllables and quickstep the last three.
That's my short list. Whatcha got in yours?
Friday, September 4, 2009
This one told me he loved me. That doesn't happen very often. I know well enough to pay attention.
This one told me he loved me. He does that every day. And he always gives a bear hug and a kiss as accompaniment.
This one told me he loved me. And he always tells it like it is. As a matter of fact, he and his little brother ran up to me and hugged me simultaneously. I could have died happy on the spot.
This one told me she loved me. And I melted. Like buttah.
This one told me he loved me. And I hang on every word he says.
This one ran up to me and hugged my leg. I know what he meant.
It's good to be me.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
I think I just got a free spa treatment. For two hours this morning, Dave under slight sedation wallered in my lap waiting to get sleepy enough to succumb to the MRI. I feel like I've just undergone a complete body dermabrasion. And I didn't have to pay a thing for it. Lucky me.
It didn't happen. The MRI, that is. But you gotta understand Dave to know the gig. The guy has two modes: sleep and full throttle. There is no in between. So even though the doc attempted to sedate Dave with some liquid loopiness, the guy was just not going to be able to be perfectly still for a noisy, irritating, futuristic-looking medical test. He's four and fast. What's a guy to do?
So the next thing we'll try at some yet to be determined date and time is an MRI with what will no doubt be a general anesthetic. Whoa, Nellie. Here we go. I don't think I signed on for that one. No, wait. I'm his mama. Yes, I did. Never mind.
In light of this morning's events, in case you are wondering, Dave is very funny stoned. And you thought he was funny before. Add to that mix, random stumbling, slurred speech and even more goofy faces than he normally renders, and you have a recipe for comedic genius.
Don't get me wrong, the morning wasn't without its stress. We did our best to keep our wit and wits about us, but it wasn't easy. There were times I laughed and other times when I wanted to alternately scream and cry, but I knew that would do no good so I forewent it. (Or is that foregoed?)
At one point what looked like the entire hospital OB/GYN nursing staff came out of a conference room while Dave and I were in the hall. Dave was protesting madly, and I was holding him calmly and trying to ride out the storm.
My smile toward the nurses was true but waning, and I figured that it was the least I owed them since they've seen more of me than anybody has a right to. Yet without their nimble skill, I may have not been able to bring my children into this world. Let alone cradle one of them as he screamed for relief from an unknown demon.
Let me just say the prayers y'all sent were timely and well received. The morning wouldn't have gone so well without them. Just in case you need to know, even though I know the harrowing experience we'll have before us, the calm still remains.
I am not looking forward to this firewalk however. Not by any stretch of the imagination. So I'll thank you kindly to pray again whenever we know the appointed time 'cause I think I would like to be sedated for that one. Maybe I'll just down a brewski in the parking lot on the way in. That should do the trick.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
I was stunned but calm. I was perplexed but calm. I was thankful to the medical community for their quick action, but yet again calm.
Whereas I have no assured certainty that what it is we are searching for is, in fact, not there, above all, remarkably enough, I have calm.
Frankly, I can't give myself credit for this. I know every good and perfect thing comes from God. Here, right now, my good and perfect thing is calm. And it ain't comin' from me, baby. So I'm the last one to be taking credit for it.
My apologies for being so vague. What we're dealing with here is my guy Dave and his recurring headaches. As it so happens, Dave had what I'm calling a migraine last Thursday. It was so bad he puked. He instantly felt better, crumpled in my arms and fell asleep for the night.
I can count on one hand the number of times I think he's had a migraine. This, by far, was the worst. He in his ashen, o'erwrought state. Yet in his four years, he's been plagued with scads of other headaches I've attributed to allergies or sinus pressure. His daddy has the same vexing plague, so I find myself not too terribly alarmed.
Although his daddy never pukes from the pain. Or maybe to relieve it. My baby. My four year-old baby did and has. Something about this doesn't seem right.
This whole headache and puking thing, although it has only happened thrice, is assuredly what the doctors simply do not want to see. I feel their pain. So tomorrow, what the radiologists are looking for is a tumor. I pray they search feverishly for naught.
Honestly though, I think they will. Find nothing, that is. There goes that calm again. Although I have some reason to believe I may be wrong, I'm chalking this up to heredity. Bad genes, you know. Happens to the best of us. Apparently.
I could be wrong. I pray I am not. And there goes that calm again.
Call it denial if you want. I really don't think that's it. And I don't presume to be some faithful giant. But I do know Whose I am. And Who sees me through. And Who despite my sobbing fear, brings me encompassing, controlling calm.
Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.
Monday, August 31, 2009
As a rule, I feel there is something dreadfully wrong about putting an animal in a cage. Especially when the cage is much too small for the animal to have any semblance of freedom. Animals although subservient to man deserve better.
My cats, my big cats, they exude power, confidence, intrigue, bravery. And yet somehow they look genteel and approachable. But they are conflicted, annoyed. This cage is not their home. They deserve to be free, unrestricted by the confines of man.
I have a friend. He's a lot like those animals.
Just to look at him, you'd be awed by his sheer strength. He is a man of strong moral character and great resolve. He's learned much and knows well enough to share the bounty. He is God-fearing to say the least. He's earned the respect and love of his family and friends and deservedly so.
But this world. This cage is not his home. For all that is good and is true, heaven is his home. And he is bound by the restrictions put upon by himself and his surroundings.
He and the rest of us fortunate enough to be called children of God, we are confined. Confined to serve on this sod until God sees fit to call us home. Until then, we pace. We toil. We sweat. We work to serve the One who gave us life.
Someday we will join Him. We will forget all about our cages. Because we won't be able to see anything else besides His glory.
Until that day, we do well to look outside the cage. To focus on our home. To see the One who put us here and Who brought us through.
I love you, you gentle giant. But don't mourn your cage. Grow despite it, not to spite it. Christ is our Victor. No cage confines Him. Don't let yours confine you. In Him, with Him, and through Him, there is no cage.
18 On this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not overcome it. 19 I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven; whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.
If I have seen further, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
It could have easily gone the other way. The days aren't always painless. And the news ain't always good.
Yet the One who made us is steadfast and sovereign.
29 With your help I can advance against a troop;
with my God I can scale a wall.
30 As for God, his way is perfect;
the word of the LORD is flawless.
He is a shield
for all who take refuge in him.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Frankly, Jon, I really didn't need to know that.
There aren't many people in this world I want to think about being naked. Not many people at all. The list is short. Very, very short. Did you hear that, Jon?
As far as I'm concerned, everybody in the world pops out of bed like Kleenex fully clothed, refreshed, and ready for the day. There are no clothing changes. No potty breaks. No wardrobe malfunctions. No showering or disrobing of any kind. Nothing. Nada. Zippo.
Everybody gets out of bed and just flies. And if they do anything else, I don't want to think about it. I.don't.want.to think about it. No way. No how.
But now my Pollyanna image of the world is blown to bits, Jon. And I'm not sure I can withstand the images running through my head.
Of course, you know my quest for thinness too, Jon. I'm working hard to beat the bulge. And like you, I stand on my scales every morning in baited anticipation wondering how I fared from the day before. Oh, but, Jon, I am not like you. No, I am not. When I stand on my scales, I am fully clothed. That's how I like for people to think about me, Jon, fully clothed.
I appeal to the mathematician in you, Jon. Here's how I reconcile the weight of my night clothes during my morning weigh in. One day, after I weighed myself fully clothed, I walked to my kitchen, still fully clothed, and assembled my night clothes atop my kitchen scales and weighed them. And just to clarify, in the comfort of my own kitchen, I was, in fact, fully clothed. What I found there in my kitchen is that a typical set of my evening attire weighs right at one pound. So each morning, I dutifully weigh myself and subtract one pound for the clothes I have on my person. Ingenious, huh, Jon? Don't you wish you were me?
Cuz I'd much rather be somebody else right now, Jon. As I mentioned before, there aren't many people in this world I want to think about being naked. Dare I be so bold to say that unless you are a cute little kid or my husband, the thought of you being naked should never cross my mind.
I think I'm going to need therapy, Jon. Please don't bare your ankles to me again, Jon. I'm not sure I could stand it. As far as I'm concerned, you've never been naked a single day in your life. This is my mind, and I don't want you running naked through it, thankyouverymuch. Get out of here, and put some clothes on before you catch cold.
link: ray stevens (great one, donna)
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
We took him out for ice cream. Then he and I stopped into our local volunteer fire station for an impromptu self-guided tour. Tomorrow I'm making pancakes for breakfast.
At this rate, perhaps I'll join the ranks of the ubercool. A curse it is.
link: jefferson starship, robert frost (thanks, jane :)
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Under my orchestration, my house is plain-vanilla, dry-as-toast, stark-white nothingness. It isn't that I particularly prefer it this way. I just don't know exactly what to do to make it look any different.
These are things that you must understand when I tell you my story.
I frequent a variety store run by Old Order Amish folks. Delightful people these Amish. They suffer me gladly. I bring a little hedonistic laughter into their regimented lives. I try my best to consider their customs. There is no hiding the fact that I am not one of them, but I do my best to make it quite clear that I respect their way of life and try not to appear to be an uncaring, unobservant clod. Naturally they are set apart, but that doesn't mean they aren't approachable. They put their bloomers on one leg at a time, just like the rest of us.
But I digress.
Not long ago, I was preparing to leave the Amish store with my children when nature called. My four-year old had to tinkle. As we stepped into the bathroom. (Yes, they have a bathroom with modern indoor plumbing.) Anyway, we stepped into the bathroom, and Dave takes one look at the place, stops dead in his tracks, crinkles his nose, and says, "Girly!"
The kid practically refused to do his business in there because the toilet was adorned with purple, frilly tank and toilet seat covers. He couldn't go there. Literally.
Fortunately in good time, he was able to overcome the shock of the adornment and do his business.
But the fact remained. There I was. Decorationally outdone by the Amish. The Plain People.
Nonplussed as I was leaving, I had to share my story with my friend, the Amish store manager. She laughs easily especially at me. Ahem, with me, that is. I related the fact that my house was stark and utilitarian with nary a decoration therein. I told her how my son balked when he saw their "girly" bathroom. I explained that where I come from if your house is plain and simple like that, people say you are "living like the Amish."
She got a good laugh out of that.
Monday, August 24, 2009
I suppose I can blame Weight Watchers. Whether they admit it or not, they don't encourage you to cook. Or eat. The Weight Watchers way of life essentially says, "Drink plenty of water and eat tree bark, and eventually you'll be skinny as a rail."
If you start doing crazy things like adding butter or gravy or anything else to your tree bark, you'll find yourself getting to eat less tree bark because of the good stuff. And then you'll pass out from frailty and starve. Better to leave off the gravy and eat the tree bark whilst you can. And you can forget about eating anything so tantalizing as, oh, I don't know, chocolate cake. No way, missy. Not gonna happen.
"Let them eat cake," indeed. Which, by the way, roughly translated, is the French equivalent of, "I am a jelly donut." But that's not important now.
What is important is that I can't cook. Not if my life depends on it. Try as I might, it just ain't happenin' for me.
My eldest has made this quite clear to me. I gotta feel for the fella. For eight years now, he's had to put up with whatever I can assemble as a food offering and somehow subsist on a day-to-day basis. After a while, with meal after meal of hapless blue plate specials, a guy tends to become resolved to lifestyles of the bland and tasteless.
Just to prove my point, let me explain to you exactly what it is that I can't cook. No wait. There is too much. Let me sum up. Here are two things--two of the many--that I've tried to make that have gone wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.
1) Hamburgers. No, I'm not kidding. My hamburgers taste like cardboard with ketchup. 'Tis a pity to kill a cow for such a savorless offering as this. I'm pretty sure ol' Bessie deserved better.Though I pale in comparison to my friends and loved ones with their culinary proficiencies, through all this, I can rest assured that there is, in fact, the perfect food just down the next grocery aisle.
2) Rice Krispy Treats. Now stop laughing. It can be done. And I've done it. But only once because I learn from my mistakes. I screw up and move on. Leaving me dejected. Dejected and hungry.
Lo and behold, I give you ... Chocolate Chex.
Take a moment if you need it. Drink it in. Know that fulfilling goodness is just within reach.
Do you realize they don't put food preparation instructions on cereal boxes? Maybe they should. They don't know who they're dealing with here.
link: ich bin ein berliner, the princess bride (available on DVD everywhere)
Friday, August 21, 2009
Couldn't you just die? Is this not the most precious produce you've ever seen?
We didn't have to pick up a Sam. We already had one of those.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
My apologies. Let me introduce you. This is Aimey. She is more than just beautiful eyes. She has a tender heart and poignant spiritual observations. Her eyes dance when she speaks of those she loves. She is unabashedly giving of her time for the right reasons. And she is diligent, doggedly diligent. Along with those eyes she has this captivating Utahn accent that I've never heard from another human being. If I needed another reason to be captivated, there I have it.
Yet this isn't so much about her, it is about those eyes. Her eyes and eyes like hers.
I am completely at their mercy, those eyes. Please make them stop. Lest I promise to do bad things. They could tell me to jump from the highest precipice, and I'd jump. They could implore me to go to the ends of the earth, and I'd go.
I can't stand to look. You must make them stop. Oh, but don't take them away. I have to stare into them for as long as I can bear. They taunt me. And draw me in. I am powerless. I am weak. I must obey.
link: lemonade makin' mama, robert's rules of order, those eyes
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
This is a cross I must bear.
But there is one thing I can do. Oh yes, one thing. In my little workaday life, I can alert the media when somebody has a brake light out. Never fear. Edie's here.
I performed this service today when I drove around a mail carrier's SUV. Out here in the country, our mail carriers don't have bona fide, property-of-the-US-guberment mail trucks. Oh no. The mail carriers where I live, get their personal vehicles modified to accomodate shuffling mail through the passenger's side window.
How cool is that? I'm dying to drive one of these things. Wait a minute, maybe I can. My neighbor is a rural mail carrier. I bet her car has the same kind of rig in it. Maybe if I make her some brownies I can drive her car and pretend I live in Britian or something. Wouldn't that just be the coolest thing?!? "Cheerio. A parcel for you, dear. Ta ta."
At any rate, this postal carrier dude had a brake light out, and as luck would have it, his driver's side window was down a bit so I could let him know he was driving in danger. Perilous, perilous danger.
Now if you'll excuse me, I hafta go make some brownies.
link: stevie wonder
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Funny thing is I never met Joy. But everybody who I've ever heard talk about her erupts into laughter at the very mention of her name. She was just that kind of person.
Joy was one of my husband's friends from work. Sadly, she died tragically in an automobile accident on the way home from Spring Break one Easter. Everybody was stunned. She left a lot of broken hearts. Mine included.
How can you miss a woman you never met? She's my soul sista, my homegirl, my BFF.
Everybody was Joy's best friend. If she just met a body five minutes prior, she became engrossed in that person, and she'd proclaim her undying love and dub the new person her best friend. And she meant it. For that instant in time, that new contact was her best friend. Eeeew, doggie! You better believe it.
Joy's motto which she frequently touted was: "Work hard. Play hard. Pray hard." That was Joy. In a nutshell.
Lately I've been channeling Joy. Yes, I know you can't really do that, but you know what I mean. There are lots of incredible, charming, wonderful people in my life, and I like them to feel special. If Joy was anything, she was an encourager. It is an important thing to be.
I look forward to meeting Joy. Oh, and I will some day. She's having a blast in heaven right now, no doubt. I can't wait to join the party already in progress. 'Cause whenever Joy is around, there is a party. You can be sure of that.
link: beaker from the muppets (my apologies to beethoven), down in my heart, nat king cole
Monday, August 17, 2009
Lots of smart people go to my church. My parents go there. My husband's parents go there. Need I say more? (I know what side my bread is buttered on. See how smart I am!?!) Oh yes, I suppose you're right. Smart people are bustin' out all over the place. Everywhere I go there's another one. And another one. Not only are they smart, but they're also funny. You just can't beat smart and funny.
Wherefore smart, funny people congregate, therefore also are geeks. Because geek = smart + funny. Oh, and lest ye be confused: Geeks are not nerds. Oh, no. My husband taught me this. Nerds are geeks who dress funny. Funny weird, not funny ha-ha. Geeks have some semblance of fashion sense albeit subdued.
So there's this one geek at my church who's very proud to be a geek. He and my husband's pet name for each other is, in fact, Geek. They're so cute together. Them and their man love. 8-|
At any rate, this geek shall remain nameless...but you know who you are. This geek this morning at church had completely unbeknownst to me put together an eloquent video presentation about some geeky thing he had just implemented. The first thing I see on the screen is a picture of me and my family. I knew we were in for it. Oh, but no, not we, come to find out, I was the one who was in for it. Baby, was I ever.
This whole thing was about an email list that I'd conjured up so our church peeps could connect with each other more readily when need be. Since I'd started this whole mess, the Geek thought he should therefore yank my chain a little. He loves to do this. It makes his geeky little sense of humor soar.
Anywho, in the course of his geekazoid demonstration, he decidedly states that at home, I screen my calls. I pipe up in my best theatrical voice and say, "I do not." 'Cause I don't, you know. It's not my thang. I don't have caller ID. I gots no idea who's calling me when that little ol' phone rings. I'm just glad that it's ringing. It means that somebody wants me. Somebody from somewhere wants to talk to little ol' me. Me. Me. Me.
So when my phone rings, I get this adrenaline rush knowing for the briefest of moments even if it is only to fetch the phone for somebody else, I am, in fact, needed. When the phone rings, like some Pavlovian freak, I answer it.
There, Geek, are you happy? I blogged about you. Just like you wanted me to. I'm here for you, man.
link: anita ward, loverboy (no, not you, geek, the band called loverboy. i have my own geek. i don't need another one.)
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Welcome to the land where good hair days never end. The punks. Work it, baby.
Speaking of babies, I wouldn't cross 'em if I were you. The little one looks angry. You wouldn't like him when he's angry.
link: george thorogood & the destroyers
Saturday, August 15, 2009
OK, if you must know, I was cleaning something off the ceiling. Alright, it was mold. Are you happy? Don't ask me why there was mold on my son's bedroom ceiling. We just moved into the joint. But there was a teensy bit up there, and I had to get it off before it crept down the wall and devoured my youngest in his sleep.
At any rate, that picture is one of the best pictures I've ever had taken in my long-legged life. My husband took it. That's why I look so happy.
Generally I take bad pictures. Very, very bad pictures. Most of the time. For the following reasons:
1) I often have my eyes closed in pictures. If I know the camera what's being used to take my picture, and by that I mean if I've had my picture taken with this camera a couple times before, I subconsciously close my eyes before the flash so's I don't get spots before my eyes. It is a psychological defense mechanism. I hate the spots because they stay there for a verrrrry long time. These spots evoke strained, unfocused looks on my face as I try helplessly to read the body language of the person I cannot see.But this picture, this picture was taken from across the room. I look happy. I am happy. I look gay. I am not gay, just happy. My chin is taut, and my hair is "amazing and luscious." Not my words. But I'll gladly embrace them and feast on their bounty. (Oh yes, I almost forgot, sashay on over for a great giveaway by my friend who is also "amazing and luscious.")
2) When I smile my nose does a weird thing, and closeups are not kind. It is a big nose. Big noses run in my family. Er, what I meant to say was that most of the people in my family have big noses. Well, on one side of my family, that is. The other side of my family have much smaller, less, ahem, noble noses. At any rate, when I smile broadly, my nose crinkles and gets pointy on the end, and I look freakishly Halloweeny.
3) I'm over forty, so things like wrinkles and crow's feet run rampant o'er my countenance. And even though I have a nice smile and these luscious lips, smiling makes those nasty, little lines more pronounced.
Which reminds me, somebody else recently said my hair was "sexy." Now I know for a fact--and you'll just have to trust me on this one--that this person was not looking to get anything from me, if you get my drift. This person did not owe me money or a favor. This person was just saying what this person thought to be true. That I had some stunningly "sexy" hair. Then said person gave my husband a look like, "You lucky devil." (My husband didn't see or hear any of this because he was busy talking to somebody else. He does that a lot.) Suffice it to say, being told I had sexy hair was the biggest boost to my little ol' ego I've had in a good, long time. Not to mention the fact that I've just been told that my hair is "amazing and luscious." I'll just ride high on that for a while.
At any rate, back to my picture. I thought it important to tell you that I was not dancing at the time. You don't want to see me dance. Even if I get tipsy, I still can't dance. My dancing looks like a cross between a Peanuts character and Bill Cosby. You wouldn't want to see it. It isn't pretty.
link: bee gees
Friday, August 14, 2009
Kind of an odd thing to say, I agree, but I get where he's coming from. Here's the Bible story Sam recalled from Luke chapter 2:
8 And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. 9 An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. 10 But the angel said to them, "Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. 11 Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is Christ the Lord. 12 This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger."I'm glad my boy knows what it means to be "amazed like a shepherd." Don't you wish everybody did?
13 Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying,
14 "Glory to God in the highest,
and on earth peace to men on whom his favor rests."
15 When the angels had left them and gone into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, "Let's go to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has told us about."
16 So they hurried off and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby, who was lying in the manger. 17 When they had seen him, they spread the word concerning what had been told them about this child, 18 and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds said to them. 19 But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart. 20 The shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things they had heard and seen, which were just as they had been told.
There is work to be done.
16 Then the eleven disciples went to Galilee, to the mountain where Jesus had told them to go. 17 When they saw him, they worshiped him; but some doubted. 18 Then Jesus came to them and said, "All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. 19 Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, 20 and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you. And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age."link: bible gateway, we all, like sheep
Thursday, August 13, 2009
What I found would have made any science professor in the tri-state area mist with pride.
It is fun to let airtight containers sit ignored over time, long, looooong periods of time just to see what you're going to get. They are shoved back to the wall left to seethe and ferment in their own little happy, self-contained environment.
This particular specimen came from a tub of what your taste buds would likely call yoghurt. (Notice the British English spelling. Also notice the word "hurt" hidden in there. They're not kidding.) We're not big on American yogurt. It is too sweet and candy tasting. Unadulterated yoghurt is devoid of sugar and tastes more like sour cream on a bad day.
Now this yoghurt we'd tried and instantly disliked because it was too foul tasting. (Go figure.) So into the abyss of the fridge it went to be ignored until the proper time of its unveiling. Yesterday was apparently the day.
I can't tell you much about what I saw because I was afraid of it actually. I didn't want to look. It was however the most impressive collection of mold I've ever laid eyes on albeit briefly. And I'm sure a chemistry teacher somewhere probably fainted when I boldly thinking nothing of my own welfare picked up the top skin and threw it in the trash. And, yes, it came off intact in one big pinch.
Hoorah. I am brave.
Oh man, I hope the trash man was alright after he hoisted it into the back of his truck. It could have escaped the bag and gone after him in search of a new host to devour. Maybe I should call the company to make sure he's OK.
link: young frankenstein
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Sunday, August 9, 2009
I realize I reside in a place where racing is king, but you have to understand that I live under a rock. I don't know a thing about sports, and I'm cool with that. My favorite sporting events are the Olympics and Stupor Bowl commercials. Do you get my drift? If it is something where lots of people are sweating or competing or trying to win some ring, medal, cup, trophy, or jacket, I probably know little to nothing about it. And I don't have a problem with that.
Now I know it is common for most people to be into sports of one kind or another. That's fine. It's all good. Whoop it up. Get on down with your bad self. But for me, when it comes to sports, you're looking at a blank page. I'm clueless. It's important that you realize this when I tell you what I am about to say.
Bear with me. Allow me a brief segue, if you please. I buy stuff at resale shops whenever I can for clothing especially. I found this great--what I thought to be--football jersey but with a very feminine, form-fitting cut to it. Since I've always been a bit of a tomboy, the whole "football jersey" thing really worked for me. And it had the number 24 on it which meant nothing to my little sports-ignert mind at all. Fiddle-dee-dee.
So the other day at the height of NASCAR season--not that I'd know it, I was wearing my "jersey" at the grocery salivating over a display of Oreos, when I see a man giving me these nervous, sideways glances. He was a big guy. He needed a shave. And his clothes? Let's just say he was slummin'. But, hey, if you can't go to the grocery wearing a wife-beater, where can you go, eh?
At any rate, this nervous, big guy blurts out, "That 24's lookin' pretty good!" I grabbed my Oreos, and I ran.
Little did I know that Mr. Wife Beater was, at the time, probably more interested in the 24 than he was in the woman what was wearing it. Apparently there's this NASCAR dude named Jeff Gordon, and he drives really, really fast?!? How was I to know?
link: Hank Williams, Leo Arnaud, Scarlett O'Hara, Pepsi: Britney Spears/Bob Dole, Snickers: Voting Booth
Saturday, August 8, 2009
I've never understood the concept of reading such ilk. Or is that "ick," hmmm? I mean, what's the point? Why would I want to trouble myself with this rubbish, if all it is going to do is get me all hot and bothered?
Granted there is nothing wrong with a little hot-and-bothered now and then, but the times I avail myself for leisure reading rarely coincide with the times my husband is accessible for a little romp in the hay. So why exactly should I subject myself to such trashy tripe, eh?
Have you ever tried to read some of this stuff? Everybody's all ripped and passionate and seething just lollygagging about from one scene to the next until it, ahem, climaxes to the part where they are ripping off each other's clothes. Pardon me, but if there are going to be clothes being ripped off a person, I prefer one of said persons to be me, and I really don't want to waste time reading about it. Puhleeze. 'Nuff said?
link: the archies
Friday, August 7, 2009
But there are things that I don't quite understand about men. Like why are they so gross? And why is gross funny? And when we women are aghast (and I do mean "gassed") at their being gross, why is that even more funny? I just don't get it.
I grew up in a house of mostly female persons. My poor dad. He had three daughters. And a wife, of course...but not in that order. Lucky for him probably, none of us were what you'd call girly girls. But we were not gross. And except for his occasional bouts of belching and flatulence, my dad wasn't terribly gross either.
Now I live with three male persons. It has come to my attention that guys are gross. Guys are gross, and it is not funny. They toot and say, "Oops." Not funny. They stink up the bathroom, and the stench wafts down the hall. Gross, not funny. They scratch and spit and sniff and snort, and it is not funny. Hawk a loogie? Not funny. They monologue about digestive upset and bathroom trauma. Incredibly gross, not funny. Not even a little. Diarrhea exposition becomes a love soliloquy. So not funny. Belching is an esophageal art form. Pathetically gross, not funny.
I love men. The Bible even says I would. But guys are gross, and it is not funny. It isn't called a curse for nothing.
Most women agree with me that guys are gross, and it's not funny. But we do have one traitor. I'm guessing she's in the If-You-Can't-Beat-'Em-Join-'Em camp. But then again, I saw an interview with her once, and let's just say she has a short attention span. And she's blond. Real blond. Like the roots go all the way through, honey. Well anyway, to prove my point, I give you Smart Beep's Blind Date. If I can sympathize with anybody on this commercial, it is the guy in the back seat. Somehow even though he's a guy, he knows it is gross, and it is not funny.
And there is one other lady--and I promise I'll stop here--who is NOT gross and who IS funny. Well, maybe she is a little bit gross, but she is pointing out how gross guys can be, so I am giving her a get-out-of-jail-free card. At any rate, if you yourself are gross or if you are one of the ones who loves said gross person, this should be worth a chuckle.
Until next time, just remember: Guys are gross, and it is not funny. Well, maybe a little. ;)
link: faith hill
Thursday, August 6, 2009
My spider veins are quite impressive in their own right. I must tell you about them since you won't be seeing them. (Thank your lucky stars.) They--my veins not your stars--look like an ant farm transit map.
As a medical specimen, I'm sure I'm quite stunning, or maybe that's appalling. No matter.
My veins wile away the time thinking of ways of becoming even more hideous. My husband's always thought I've had great gams despite my scene-stealing venous system. Take that, my little pretties.
I try not to think about them, or look at them, or be in the same room with them, but they keep following me around.
If I ever get bored in my geriatric years--and I don't plan on doing that because I'll be too busy acting crazy since it will be harder to tell if I really am or if I'm just messin' widcha. At any rate when the time comes, I plan on taking a blue Sharpie and completing the gaps in my transit map. Just to have something to do. It shouldn't take long, but it will make me feel better. Give me a sense of finality and closure to my burgeoning transportation system.
The rest of the ladies down my nursing home hall will wag their tongues and shake their heads. Or maybe they'll saddle up beside and join me. 'Cause a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. In her pretty, pink shoes.
link: Del Rubio Triplets, Psychedelic Furs
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
My boy Sam turns 8 today. My oldest son. He's always been my favorite. He was my first baby, you know.
I have several names for him: Silly Sam, Silly Man, Sweet Boy, Handsome, Handsome Boy.
This can be a problem when I stand in the produce section amid adult male strangers and say, "Hey, Handsome, what kind of salad should we get?" It's happened.
I'll give you a moment. ... 'K, back to my son.
He's precious, priceless, sweet as honey wine. I get lost in his dimples, and his eyes sparkle like the stars. How many little kids do you know who play the accordion by ear without even looking? He has probably seventy-five piano melodies in his repertoire without using a single sheet of music. And he did all that a couple years ago. Brilliant? Yeah, I think so. We share the same smile, he and I.
He's a lot like me. How can I not love that?
Then there's his little brother, Dave. My youngest son. He's always been my favorite. Being the baby and all.
You can call him anything you want. Just don't call him "little." Some of my fav's are: Dave-o, Silly Boy, Sweet Boy, Handsome, Handsome Boy.
He has a million faces. Each one of them funny in their own right. He's been articulate nearly as long as he could talk. He's whip smart. He doesn't miss a thing. He has the most poignant observations I've ever heard from a kid. He has a new superhero/occupational persona every day. With every kiss, he gives an endearing hug.
He's just like his daddy. What's not to love?
I think I'll keep 'em.
Happy birthday, Silly Man. Mama loves you.
link: crosby, stills & nash
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
As sun sets, the mesmerizing flames lick 'round and higher. My mind flits through scenes of ancient Babylon when Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego took what could have been a fatal stand. As my face stings from the ambient heat, I cringe at the thought of the flames of hell. I thank the One who rescued me for the privelege of never having to experience that inferno, mourning for those who will. Having been emotionally exhausted, I let my mind go blank. Drinking in the flames.
On the eve of trash day, I dumpster dive in search of things to burn: pizza boxes, wood scraps, junk mail, my bra. Whatever. Tonight was no different. But I couldn't stop there. I dug up dead weeds around the burn pile trying to pretty up the place. It is a burn pile after all. A thinking place. It must be revered.
I burnt viney things and bright green things and stickery things. Knowing nothing of what I was touching with my gloved hands because that would require a knowledge of plant life. And since I don't know much about botany, my poison ivy-prone skin and I fear every little plant that isn't actively blooming.
I had no idea how long I'd been clearing the hill. Knowing it was a race to cleanse my person lest the pustulant plague begin to ravage my body, I hurried inside to freshen up. I stuffed my garments in the washer. Left with nothing other than a couple of freshly laundered throw rugs, I fashioned a garment with coverage suitable to shuffle past my two small boys who were lounging in the living room.
And I am happy to report, oddly enough, that it only took one throw rug, one 31 inch throw rug at that, to reach completely around this forty-something year old waist that has borne two children. The second throw rug was used, of course, to cover my caboose. (Sorry. I know. TMI.)
My husband--charming man that he is--in his amused alarm told me, "It kind of works for you." Ecstatic I am to know I can make even a throw rug...or two look good.
For those ladies in the audience, I leave you now so you can scurry to the secrecy of your bathroom to see how many throw rugs it takes to cover your shapely physique. Hush now. Don't worry, baby, dem's love handles.
link: malachi 4, the beach boys, sam cooke, the trammps
Monday, August 3, 2009
Well, today I find myself folding the mountainous accumulation of laundry that I tend to do on Mondays or whenever I feel like it. (Who am I kidding?) I look down at the floor beside one of the dining room chairs and there lies the last remnant of a chocolate chip cookie which had, no doubt, been sitting there for at least 36 hours.
I have no idea who dropped the cookie remnant and thus who could have been eating it. No idea at all. It could have been anyone from a small gaggle of people. Some blood-related, some not. But I trust these people. I'd gladly donate a kidney to any of them if need be. And last I heard, none of them had a communicable disease.
And my floor was clean. I had Roombaed it myself just before the event inasmuch as one can Roomba anything one's self. As a matter of fact, my entire house was relatively clean thanks in no small part to my husband who can really get motivated when company comes. (Gee, who can I invite over next weekend?)
So I went for it. Hey, it had a chocolate chip in it. It was a little stale, yeah, but that unmistakable delicioso chocolate chip cookie flavor was still there shining through. I'm shameless. I know it. And I'm not afraid to admit it.
link: cat on a roomba, gas station pizza, found a peanut
Sunday, August 2, 2009
The last time she cut my hair, I brought along my two boys--without asking first, mind you. Luckily, my guys sat quietly pouring over their books while she gave me a new 'do. (Yes, there is a God.)
Yesterday, the first time I saw Ranae after the cookie drop, she thanked me profusely, embarrassingly so, saying, "Those were the best chocolate chip cookies EVER!" She went on to tell me how much she and her family loved them, how her husband tried to hide them, and how she'd love to have my babies.
I get a lot of that.
Funny thing is just about everybody who eats my cookies says the exact same thing, "Those were the best chocolate chip cookies EVER!"
I try to be a modest individual. However, some things are too blatantly obvious to hide like my blazing intellect, my cunning wit, and my seething good looks. But you know, with the rest of the stuff, I try to keep it down so as not to overinflate my ego. Seems the prudent thing to do.
Even so, once you hear something enough, you tend to believe it. Henceforth, I give you:
The Best Chocolate Chip Cookies Ever...Except for Your Mom's, Of Course
2 c. butter or shortening *
1 1/2 c. sugar
1 1/2 c. brown sugar
2 tsp. vanilla
2 tsp. baking soda
2 tsp. salt
5 c. flour
3 c. semi-sweet chocolate chips, preferably name-brand
* Before you make these cookies, consider why you are making them. Yes, I know you are making them to eat them, but the question is: when do you want to eat them? If you want to eat them the self-same day that they are baked, use butter. Butter-based cookies taste yummy, but they do not hold up well over time. If you want to eat the cookies over a period of a few days or so, be sure to use shortening. Cookies made with shortening are scrumptious and will last longer but tend to be a tad bit greasy. (You can use margarine instead of butter, but honestly, what is the point? Doing so doesn't somehow make it a healthy alternative. And if you do use margarine, don't even think about using diet margarine. That makes some nasty cookies. Bleah!)
Should you use butter, heat it until slightly melted; there is no need to heat shortening. Add the sugars. The world works better with racial harmony, and so do these cookies. Use equal amounts of brown and white sugar. (Do not discriminate or the cookies will rise up against you. OK, maybe not, but they may stage a sit-in.) Throw in the vanilla and the eggs but do it gently; remember the eggs were separated from their mother at a frighteningly young age. Mix well.
Next add flour, salt, and baking soda. Using a sturdy spoon, pulverize the dough until it is a uniform color. During this step the use of a hand-held commercial mixer is not recommended as it would undoubtedly sustain irreversible shock.
Add the chocolate chips. Distribute the chips evenly throughout the dough. There is nothing worse than a naked cookie.
You can alternately use M&Ms or--clutch the pearls--Peanut Butter M&Ms, but if you do, might I suggest making these shortening-based cookies? (Is it too late to say that?) It just works better.
If these are butter-based cookies, chill the dough for at least twenty minutes. Chilled dough is happy dough. If you plan to chill it overnight, cover unsparingly with plastic wrap. Short-term chillin' may happen in the freezer, but overnight chillin' must happen in the refrigerator. If you mistakenly chill the dough in the freezer overnight, say hello to your new bowling ball.
The dough will be adequately chilled when it can stand on its own. To see if the dough is ready, grasp the edges of the cookie bowl firmly on either side. Hold the bowl up on end. If the cookie dough barely moves, the dough has been properly chilled.
Shortening-based cookie dough does not need to chill, but it won't hurt anything if it does. Butter/margarine-based cookie dough has to be chilled if you want it to do right by you.
When ready to bake, heat the oven to 350°. Plop twelve jawbreaker-sized bundles of chocolate onto an ungreased cookie sheet.
Don't make really big balls o' dough. Just nice, smallish, chocolate confections. If you make the balls too large, they spread out and run together on the pan during baking. And that's just wrong.
The balls don't have to be uniform in shape either. A few terrain features in the finished product makes it all the more exciting when picking which cookie to eat next.
Roast them for eight minutes. Your cookies must bake in the oven, not age. The cookies should be domed-not-doughy on top and golden-not-brown on bottom. They will darken and wrinkle in the sunlight just like the rest of us.
If you get a doughy/brown combination, cut the heat back to 325°. The time can be stretched to ten minutes and beyond, but this is not typically a good practice unless you bake cookies at high altitudes. (In which case, you know better than I what to do. I typically bake cookies at an altitude of about 260 feet.)
If you peer into the oven and think that the cookies are not quite done, that's when they are done. Take them out immediately; let your stomach be your guide.
If you were overeager and overbaked the cookies, they will become hard and indestructible. Tell the children that the cookies are playthings. Have faith in the little tikes; these are the same kids who sit on the kitchen floor playing with oatmeal boxes.
Relax and enjoy the fruit of your labor. These cookies taste remarkably good when frozen, no really--you get the great taste of cookie batter without the salmonella. Cookies are good alone or with a friend.
p.s. If you want a PDF of this recipe, just rattle my cage.
link: cookie monster
Saturday, August 1, 2009
The greater part of the natural-born American, English-speaking public has no idea how to say my name correctly. This has always been a quandary to me. What is it that is so difficult about the arrangement of those four little letters?
I have a public school education. I hung with the masses. I sat right beside them in English class diagramming my sentences and enunciating my diphthongs. We were tight, them and I.
However, most people upon seeing my name pronounce it as if it is a name that belongs to a guy. And I'm standing right there! (Should I be worried?) They say "ed-eee" (Eddie) instead of "eee-dee" (Edie) which, of course, would be the proper pronunciation.
Many people are rather daring in their erroneous speech patterns. Humorous I find cashiers with their furtive glances who boldly wave my credit card through the air and say, "Are you sure this belongs to you?" Then I remember the name on the card. The cashier thinks I just mugged a guy in the parking lot to get this. Do I look like the type?
Of course, there are the crass ones who lie to cover themselves. After they say "Eddie," I correct them saying politely as I can muster to the 50 millionth stranger, "Two Ds is Eddie. One D is Edie." This is the comeback I get, "Oh, I've seen it spelled that way before." Pfft. Liar, liar, pants on fire.
So my job in life, if no other, is to educate the general public on the fact that:
"E-D-D-I-E is ed-eee, and
E-D-I-E is eee-dee."
There, I've said it again.
link: the band, bobby vinton
Friday, July 31, 2009
Is anybody else getting queasy? Cuz I'm not sure I can go on like this.
Yeah, she blogs. She's amazing. Check it out. You'll hang on every word. You won't be able to put it down.
Then her Latin lover husband starts up. Oh now, he's really something. Very funny when he's not being gross. ( He's such a man. 8-| ) And he makes some good points too. The man's got skillz. And his testimony will knock your socks off.
More recently, I've come across Sasha. Oh, Sasha, how can I ever measure up to her? I'm all disheveled and disorganized, and she's so NOT. I stand back in awe and laugh a little in spite of myself. Laugh a lot actually.
Oh, that reminds me. Now it is time for a totally solicited on Sasha's part but purely shameless on my part deviation from my current line of thought. Sasha is giving away a suhweet necklace with a velvety ribbon that I am just dying to rub through my fingers. (I wonder if it is as soft as a calf nut sac?)
And speaking of calf nuts, you gotta meet Ree. She's the Pioneer Woman. Annie, get yer gun and grab a cappuccino. If there was ever one who would inspire me to write the Great American Novel, it is Ree. As if it wasn't hard enough to live up to her, she's a redhead to boot. As if!
And an honorable mention shout-out (I miss you, Sarah.) goes to a "guy named Jon." He's fun-loving, and he introduced me to woot. (sniff, sniff - A moment, please.) Ahem. Geeks, unite!
Well, there you have it. They are why I am here, doing this. If it weren't for them, I wouldn't be here. So don't blame me. The bloggers made me do it.
link: flip wilson, willie nelson & julio iglesias
Thursday, July 30, 2009
And here you are lookin' at me wondering what I have to say to the world. Tell me, and we'll both know, baby. I got no idea. I just know it's gotta get out, and this is as good a place as any.
But, hark! I'm a homeschooling mama. A domestic goddess of magnanimous proportion. I don't have time for this. What am I? Crazy? Don't answer that.
I can't promise much. Only that I'll bare my soul. Believe me, I'm doing this for me. If you come along and enjoy the ride, all the better. But I just gotta broadcast whether anybody shows up to listen or not. Call it my sanity.
I had precious little inspiration to blog until My Beloved told me he'd get a kick out of reading the inner workings of my deviant, little mind. And, darlin', I live to make him happy. I mean, c'mon, ladies, if a guy this sexy sweetly said you should do something outrageously fun that you find secretly scintillating cuz he'd get a cheap thrill out of it, could you turn him down? No, me neither.
We're still talking about a blog, right? Yeah, I thought so.
Hang on to your hat. I have no idea where we're going, but I'm mighty glad to be behind the wheel.