too funny for words

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link: www.something.com, dire straits (um...maybe not)

hey, hey, good lookin'

Apparently there is this thing called NASCAR. What I gather is you got this track and some cars and these men and women. There are women too, aren't there? Well anyway, these drivers zoom around the track really fast much like the Indy 500 only the cars look a bit different. Am I getting warm?

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

sugar, oh, honey, honey

I'm walking through the grocery aisle pretty as you please, and I come across a little Sugar in the Raw. Does this not sound like a trashy romance novel?

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

gross misunderstanding

I love men. They look good. They smell good...well, most of the time. They are fun to watch when they lift heavy stuff.

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

pretty in pink

These are my pretty, pink shoes. You aren't seeing them on my pretty, pink feet because I don't have pretty, pink feet. I have spider vein-wrought feet. This, however, does not preclude me from wearing pretty, pink shoes. A girl's gotta live.

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

love the one you're with

There are a couple of fellas I want you to meet in case you haven't been properly introduced.

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

burn, baby, burn

I love to burn things. It is incredibly therapeutic. I stand outside in the back 40 reveling in the peace, watching planes fly by, hearing birds and frogs and critters chatter, getting distracted by shiny things.

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

10 second rule

So I made cookies the other day, right? (Bah, now he has me saying it.) We had some friends over for gas station pizza and cookies on Saturday. It was a riot.

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

me want cookie

The other day (That is a tip of the hat to my husband because with him, everything happened "the other day."), I dropped off some of my renowned chocolate chip cookies to Ranae, my hairstylist, to show her my appreciation. She's a gem of a gal, and I owed her one.

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
4 eggs
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

yes, indeedy edie

I gotta get something off my chest. Take a load off. It's a small chest. It won't take long.

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