Washeteria

It is amazing how many times a day God does something to like...jerk a knot in my tail. Get my attention. Remind me to STOP WHINING and look around and realize what a great life this is.

Yesterday? He sent Stupid Crook Tricks to make my day...just made my day. The refrigerator is in. It's smaller than the other one but it's in and it fits and WE ARE HAVING COLD MILK FOR SUPPER TONIGHT. But I was on a TEAR about that refrigerator and then The Big Boy was mad because I just BOUGHT a refrigerator without consulting him first (hey asshole...YOU DON'T DRINK MILK) and everything was all pissy and then...and and then...and then God said, "Here. Stupid crook trick. Stop being mad and laugh a little."

I've laughed a LOT.

My grandparents used to have the general store in this little town. Then, about 35 years ago while I was in high school, my grandmother put in a washeteria. Which was fun for a while; she was older and got to socialize and it didn't take a lot of upkeep. Then they shut down the washeteria and moved the washers and dryers into the barn.

And they've been setting there ever since.

Now, this family bought them used so Lord only KNOWS how old they were. But they were piled up in the barn and every now and then my dad would mutter about "making fish cookers" out of the...something. Barrels? Drums? Drums! Apparently, somewhere in a washer or a dryer is a drum that you can make a fish cooker out of. I am not making this up. Rural ingenuity is an AMAZING thing.

Eventually, my little brother pointed out that...HEY DAD. You can BUY a GREAT fish cooker for $40. No welding...no fixing...no tricks. But the washers and dryers still sat there. Really tall and sinister looking with big fat windows staring at you in the dark everytime you were dumb enough to venture that far into the straw.

A couple of years ago, someone called and asked if they could carry off the w/d's for scrap metal and my dad went BALLISTIC. Lost it completely. Those were HIS washers and dryers and BY GEORGE they would be there until hell froze over. If he so pleased. And even though the rest of us were thinking, "How great would it be for someone to carry those things off?" we let it slide. Might be our job but not our machines. Hate it when that happens.

SOMEONE STOLE THE WASHERS AND DRYERS! As in, backed a huge-monstrous vehicle up to a barn on the side of Highway 72 in the dead of the night and carried off every single one of those washers and dryers. Every one. Every one. And while the rest of the family is secretly SO relieved because now WE don't have to handle this...know what the crooks did? Do you KNOW what the crooks did?

If you own property, every decade or so you have a lumber company come in and thin out the largest hardwoods. Pays the taxes and lets the forestry rebuild itself. And the last time the lumber guys came, they cut a stand of cherry. And my dad took it to the Amish in Tennessee and had them mill it into boards. To build things with...like bookshelves for 50th wedding anniversaries or boxes to stack for storage.

GUESS WHAT THE CROOKS USED AS RAMPS TO MOVE THE RUSTED-OUT WASHERS AND DRYERS?

Several tens of thousands of dollars worth of CHERRY WOOD. Handmilled cherry wood. Beautifully aged and carefully stacked. Cherry wood. In the mud, on the ground, ramping out 50 year old rusted washing machines and dryers.

My sister and I moved the cherry wood. It's not ruined and now it's somewhere else but...HOW DAMN DUMB IS THAT? The crime didn't get reported because as has been pointed out...the rest of us are just grateful the machines are gone but...you dumbass. You ignorant redneck. You TOTALLY worthless human beings.

Steal a couple of hundred dollars in scrap metal, using several thousand dollars in cherry wood to ramp it over the mud. I think I should call Matt Lauer. And I GUARANTEE you Paul Harvey is rolling OVER in his grave!

I want my SPOON!

That would be my silver spoon. The spoon that would ensure that I can stop worrying about the state of the world and how we got here and what the HELL is going to happen to my kids. The spoon that says I don't need to check the price of meat or know how much the utility bill is.

No lie. I was crossing the bridge one day last week, coming home from school drop-off, and I turned on the radio. And all of a sudden it was like...overload. An epiphany. An Apocalypse. It just hit me all of a sudden that...I AM IN A BAD DREAM.

Now would be the time to wake up.

I grew up in the South in the United States of America and things were always good. There were ups and there were downs but we had the TVA (that would be an Alabama song), America had the prairies, the beaches, the Empire State Building and things always worked out. They did. Because that's what people DO. They have great lives and they improve themselves and they work hard and they take vacations and their kids ride bikes. It's The Way. They invent things and learn things and make things and build things and you leave it better than you found it.

But somewhere along the line we got off-track and today, today I decided that I AM TIRED OF THIS. I want my old life back.

I had to buy a refrigerator. A new one. Now, I could have waited and shopped around and checked here and checked there but the one I have has been dying for a week and I WANT COLD MILK. (I also need ice for the bourbon but I CAN buy that in a bag.) And in the old days...need a refrigerator? Buy one. No big deal. Cold milk is important and ice for bourbon is a necessity so...buy it. It's a REFRIGERATOR.

Y'all...I am sick. I am absolutely SICK. I paid $1200, an amount that in the past I wouldn't even have NOTICED, and I am just sick. WHAT IF I NEED THAT MONEY TOMORROW? What if They blow up the dam? What if They sabotage the water supply? What if They...

Stopping point. Never done this before but the refrigerator? IT DIDN'T FIT. So excuse me while I go BUY ANOTHER ONE and I'll finish this tomorrow.

If I sober up by then.

In The News

Animal Farm 2009
First it was Mad Cow Disease.
Then it was Bird Flu.
Now it's Swine Flu....

Do you get the feeling the animals are finally meting their revenge on the biped omnivores?

The First Dog
Why are all the White House dogs purebreds? We aren't a country of purebred people, haven't had a "purebred" president since Washington...so what's up with the dogs?

What's wrong with a mutt, I ask you? A good old pound puppy. Save a fuzzy widdle face from the gas chamber.

I appreciate that one of the Obama children is allergic...wouldn't this have been a great opportunity to address all the other pet dander intolerant little people out there and say, "It's okay to be allergic! Look! Even a First Child has allergies!" Instead, they found a hypoallergenic dog...which creeps me out a bit, truth be told.

What about a First Hamster? Other allergic kids settle for hamsters. Or a First Fish? Are fish politically incorrect? The White House is already a fish bowl...seems logical to me....

The GM Restructure
Under the GM restructuring plan, taxpayers (and union members) will own 89% of the failed company.

I DON'T WANT GM! I've never driven a GM, my parents never drove GMs...I can't stand GMs! So, because we wouldn't buy a few of their crappy cars we're now going to own THOUSANDS of them! Sweet Jeebus.

Susan Boyle
I'm really concerned that the makeover happened too quickly.

Honestly, I've given this a lot of thought - marketing people are sick that way - and I'm afraid she's at serious risk of losing the pity vote.

Not a smart move, Susan. You've been frumpy-fabulous for 47 years - would another month have killed you? You don't need a stylist, you need a evil genius PR agent!

Mike Tyson: The Movie
I have no words. Seriously.

Friday Funny

The Art of Gifting

Over the last couple of years I've come to realize something: I don't need anything. This house is stuffed stem to stern with things I couldn't use if I could find...there's enough fabric somewhere in the attic to sew a tent the size of a football field. I have 23 sets of Crown Pottery dinnerware. Somewhere....haven't seen it in nine years but I BOUGHT it so I know it's up there somewhere. (My eBay phase.) There's a gorgeous vineyard-themed wrought-iron pot rack from Neiman Marcus hanging from a rafter...it only fits with a 12-foot ceiling and THIS house has no such luxury.

I have dinner candles everywhere...in drawers. Can't use them because number one...THERE'S NOT A CLEAN SURFACE ON WHICH TO PUT ONE. And number two...these kids? How fast can you BURN down a house? Don't need to know that. But if the occasion should ever arise? Candles. Got 'em.

I did have a temporary lapse last month and cleaned out the closet where we keep the computer. I carried TWO boxes of stationery/labels/cardstock/cards/etc to the school. Why in the HELL I felt it necessary to have SIX packages of notecards on the floor of a closet is beyond me. (Although true to form, the day after I gave them away...I needed one. I knew that would happen.)

If I DO need something, I buy it. That's what grown-ups do (and while I don't FEEL like a grown-up, my age and these crepey hands beg to differ.) Can't find the Easter tablecloth? TJMaxx is just WAITING on me. These glasses don't work? I know where they sell 'em.

Which brings us to the issue of gift-giving. As in...buying gifts for people you care about, who don't need anything, either. The problem is that you want them to know you care; you want them to know they're important. You do. You just don't need to give them ANYTHING ELSE TO DUST. Not ONE MORE THING to set on a shelf or stick in a cabinet or store in the garage. If you're my age? You have it. Odds are, you have more than one. (I've seen your storage shed.)

So we've been talking for the last month or so and have come up with a list of things that are appropriate for people who have lived life for a little while. People who have a house and a car and a bank account and a mortgage. It took a lot of thought, and we looked back at what has worked and not worked over the last few years and we culled some things and added some more and voila! We have...The List.

Food
Beverage

That's it. Interpret it ANY way you want but basically...this is what works. Now admittedly, there are perks. My daughter's birthday present to me this year was wines and cheeses...in a beautiful lined basket that now sits in my closet and holds socks. I have a specific set of Waterford glasses I drink my bourbon out of and I carry one of these glasses with me wherever I go...so for my birthday last year City Girl gave me a set of styrofoam cups with "Weekend Waterford" embossed on the side. For when the life guard just flat out REFUSES to let me come poolside to pick up my kids unless I put down my glass.

For his birthday last year, I gave The Big Boy an entire beef tenderloin from a farm in Tennessee...with a cool-as-shit barrel-shaped charcoal grill and smoker. On which to cook the steaks. And when Benji got married two weeks ago? A good bottle of wine with a cut-glass stopper (although truth be told? THAT one is still in the front seat of my car. Those good intentions and that paved road, you know.)

I'm thinking we need to hook up with AARP. The day BEFORE you turn 50, AARP starts ragging your ass. They send you emails and they send you junkmail and they court you every which way but down. I've asked around and while joining seems like a good thing, I haven't gotten around to doing it because...IT'S AARP. For pete's sake. I'm not that old.

Hell, I have a nine-year-old. I'll be working until I'm at least 102.

But anyway, from now on every time AARP sends out one of its come-hithers, I think they should include this article and the accompanying list. So that not one more person gives a vase. Or a piece of pottery. Not one more person gives a lamp that doesn't fit or a sweater that can't be worn or a cookbook holder just like the one you have.

Do NOT be giving me a set of silicone bakeware...I use the real stuff. And I am NOT interested in old-lady bedroom slippers...or a wallet, when I don't carry a purse...or a subscription to a magazine I've been getting for 20 years.

Food
Beverage

That's it. Nice gift bags suitable for re-gifting appreciated because THOSE are somewhere up in the attic, too.

al Dente

A bit of funny, disturbing, beautiful animation for Hump Day.

Charles Dickens meets

Jonathan Swift meets

Monty Python meets

Ratatouille.

Click the image for the link to the clip.

Real quick after you have kids you realize...my job is not to "nurture" or "encourage" or "cultivate." My job is...to not fuck up these kids any more than I have to. Let my issues end here. These kids will be fine...without my baggage.

Easter this year was storybook but as I've pointed out...more Grimm Brothers than Dick and Jane. The Easter bunny forgot the little kid...which I covered...but then when we pulled up into the grandparents' yard there he was. The Easter Bunny. Dead. Chewed up. All over the driveway. Rabbit parts after a German Shepherd has finished with them.

You stand in the checkout at the grocery store and surreptitiously read the magazine covers on display. "Walk off 10 pounds." Every week. "Organize your home." Every week. "Perfect leftovers." Every week. "Easter Surprises." Well, I got THAT one covered!

We had family in from...five states. I think we fed 35 people. We had the best time EVER. But I keep looking at the pictures and y'all...you are missing it. Easter/family holidays are NOT about the covers on the magazines. Easter, at least in this neck of the woods, is about dead Easter Bunnies and bee rescues. About no deviled eggs because the relatives in charge of THAT particular chore got sidetracked on Saturday night, and I'm just hinting that it might have involved happy things. Easter is about The Egg Toss which does NOT have anything to do with COOKED eggs. Get in line.

The relatives who grew up in Atlanta and Orlando are in awe. How COOL is this for a holiday?

My dad will be 80 years old next year, he had a stroke two weeks before this and that's him in the cap. That's me shaking bees out of my shirt, but wearing my pearls. Should I have an allergic reaction? I'll look good on the gurney.

We were sitting outside, hunting eggs and eating ham when someone realized that there was a hive of bees swarming in a tree at the edge of the yard. So my dad goes and gets the man who lives next to us (that's still half a mile away), who is a YOUNGSTER at 76, and they pull the little pick-up under the bees in the tree and set an empty hive on the roof of the truck. THEN, they crawl up in the truck and up on the roof and take a saw and proceed to saw the limb off the tree so that it will dip down onto the top of the empty hive. The limb that has a swarm of relocating bees hanging onto it. Nervous bees. Bees with no home. The plan was that the limb would droop onto the hive and the grateful bees would crawl into it and reward us with honey. That was the plan.

Truth be told, we only had three stings between us. Mr. Neal, the neighbor, had a sting on his hand but HEY...YOU'RE SAWING ON MY LIMB AND I AM A TRANSIENT BEE. This is not smart. The worst sting was on my dad's EYELID. That was pretty the next day.

Check out the German Shepherd who KNEW there was a problem, so he jumped up into the truck. You know...he might need to cuff a bee. Being a German Shepherd and all.

When it was all said and done? The bees moved into the hive. They buzzed around a while and then the next day? My dad was over by the house when he heard this enormous humming and out of the hive came a perfectly-shaped funnel of bees.

And they left. No joke.



The relatives are all planning NEXT Easter. They're bringing friends. I baked EIGHT DOZEN homemade rolls this year and I don't know how in the hell I can do more. The truck/four-wheeler rides were filled UP (we have an awesome 400 acres) and maybe we need a hovercraft.



But I keep looking at my kids and thinking..."You know, you just MIGHT be president. Because I'll put your variety of experiences up against ANYONE you know. Bar none."


I just need to keep these latent OCB impulses in check.

The "M" Word

**Warning to our legions of male fans/admirers/potential suitors: What I am about to share involves graphic detail of the unpleasant side of reproduction. No sexy talk-talk. Come back tomorrow and we'll see what we can do for you.**

A few days ago I posted on the Facebook a complaint that Mother Nature, fickle bitch that she tends to be at this time of year, REALLY should make up her mind as to whether she's hot or cold. Her meteorological mood swings are killin' me.

At that, a lovely, male doctor friend of CG1 and mine who lives just south of here suggested that perhaps it wasn't Mother Nature after all, that perhaps I was suffering from The Vapors.

Which, being only half-fluent in Southernese I assume means...The "M" Word.

Oh, HELL no. I'm only 41 years + 2 months old! I'm still a kid. A mere girl child.

No. Nonononnonononononononononono!

But, my peeps, the evidence in favor of this cyber-diagnosis is mounting.

I've been...for the last week or two...waking up at night...cold and clammy.

I thought it was because I'm fighting some serious respiratory ick right now, but...now I'm worried: isn't cold and clammy a precursor to hot and dripping sweat?

PLEASE, someone, tell me it isn't so. I can't do m...men...The "M" Word. I can't do, I tell ya. I won't do it, see? You'll never take me alive, Coppers....

So there's this other thing - for you new readers - I had a partial plumbing-removal procedure two years ago (Stage 4 and 5 endometriosis - it wasn't pretty). Just after surgery the doc recommended removing the rest of...the plumbing.

(Second verse, same as the first)

Oh, HELL no.

You aren't doing that to me and throwing me into m...meno...you-know-what at the tender age of 40.

Nobody gets in to see the ovaries, not nobody, not no how.

"Better sooner than later" he says.

"You would say that since men, ironically, don't experience menopause (there, I said it)," said I.

And so we left it at that. And here I am. At 4 a.m., cold and clammy...sweaty-ish even. And thoroughly displeased with the angels - or St. Peter or whoever assigns body parts - for, when I was little more than a twinkle in my Daddy's eye, issuing me all the rotten crap in my pelvis that's never worked properly: A lemon of a digestive system, a tap-dancing bowel and factory reproductive parts that have never worked.

But, hey, look on the bright side - I got amazing hearing and a double-portion of ass....

I demand a refund!

Friday Funny

The Gospel of the Easter Bunny

Slightly sacrilegious? Possibly.

Pretty damn clever? Absolutely.

She Looks Like She Knows

This past Saturday Hub and I attended an event at the local cigar shop.

I love saying that, "the local cigar shop."

We didn't have a cigar shop - locally - until recently and LET me tell you, it's been like Christmas around here ever since: Hub's humidor is now stocked at all times.

It was sad, for a while...three or four pitiful, little cigars rattling around the bottom of the beautiful, inlaid, cedar-lined humidor my mother bought him for Christmas a few years ago... But not anymore!

And the best part is that the owner of said shop is a customer of ours so we can totally justify loitering in the walk-in humidor and spending a little money.

So anyway. Saturday. On Saturday a boutique cigar maker was at the shop, demonstrating cigar-rolling - a tent was erected in the parking lot and under it the band played on ...sorry...while inside: free samples of the featured cigars.

"Shut up!" you say. I will not. 'Tis true. Every word of it.

Hanging out, listening to the music, I was one of about a half-dozen women in a group of around 50 people.

In and out of the shop, all afternoon, go Hub and I, and some old friends we ran into, sampling cigars - a good, stinky time was had by all.

So there stands I, Cameroon in hand, talking with a group of people about food and wine and bourbon and all the things that make work worth working and life worth living... when a dude with a camera comes up to the group and snaps a pic.

No problem. The shop has a website and the manufacturer has an "events" page on their site loaded with images of people at different smoky functions around the country enjoying their yummy carcinogenic treats.

The guy takes the picture and then angles toward me. I look at him. Hub looks at him. Friend looks at him, and dude is grinning like a possum at me.

WTF?

Do you know what he had the nerve to say to us, the group, and everyone within earshot?

"She really looks like she knows what she's doing."

The implication in his tone was - clearly - that he thought I was doing a great job of passing myself off as a cigar smoker. Posing. Mimicking, if you will.

Well, F-U, Buddy. I've been enjoying - albeit with increasing rarity - cigars since you were shitting in your shoes. A decade longer than Hubster, and longer - possibly - than the guy who owns the shop.

I felt a spasm of Tony Soprano flash through me, but I resisted it. This is the South and I'm learning to deal with situations in a Southern manner. So I smiled at him, struck my best, dramatic cigar-smoking pose, and said,

"Yeah, she knows what she's doing."

Douche bag.

Image Credit: Pretty cool site. This guy's illustrations are amazing.

Perhaps we should consider investing in KY

Jelly, that is.

The 5 o'clock news is explaining that the banks and credit card companies started upping card rates today...some of them doubling. The explanation? These wonderful companies want to pay off their bailout debt.

Wait, wait, wait. As I've pointed out before I'm NO ONE's genuis. But doesn't this mean they're charging US in order to repay the money WE loaned them? Isn't that right? Did I miss something here?

Good thing I don't know anything about finances and economics or I might suspect I'm being had. Again. Just maybe.

Image Credit: www.funnycollection.org

Damn good thing there's not a Fourth of July Elf

One of the things about being 53 years old and having all these kids is...being 53 years old. And having all these kids.

Okay...that's TWO things. But the point is that I am 53 years old and these kids are 28, 13 and eight. And that means I have been being a parent for a loonnngg time. A really long time. And after a while?

You get tired. You get like....I'm tired. I've done this. I've done this a LOT. So now? I'm going to sit down and someone ELSE can do this. Only if you're the parent? WROONNNGGG. You ARE the default. Ain't nobody takin' up the slack but you.

This became apparent the last (to be kind) three times that damn Tooth Fairy didn't show up in this house. I HAVE AN EIGHT-YEAR-OLD. She loses teeth on a weekly basis. There is SUPPOSED to be a dollar and a dime (that's another post) under her pillow, in the beautiful hand-crafted tooth pillow her Aunt Faye got her. One dollar and one dime. No big deal, right?

YOU get up in the middle of the night, after the kid has fallen asleep, put one dollar and one dime in the special pillow under her pillow and then go back to bed. Have we mentioned? FIFTY-THREE YEAR OLD WOMEN DON'T SLEEP. If they do, it's in three-hour increments and ONE of those three hour increments in when they first fall asleep. You know...WHEN THE MONEY GOES IN THE PILLOW. We won't even go INTO the times that the fairy showed up with the money and then LEFT the tooth. Sorry. It was late.

Long story short? That Tooth Fairy been fallin' down on her duties. The bitch ain't been showin' up. Don't know what's going on...we attributed it to The Not Nice Kid not sleeping in her own bed all night. Or spending the night somewhere else. But whatever? The Tooth Fairy needs a personal secretary or a wife because THE FAIRY has NOT been getting it right. She keeps forgetting. Two days later, that dollar and dime show up and the tooth is degraded. No reason to keep old teeth.

I hate it when that happens.

Which only made it worse when, Sunday?

The Easter Bunny forgot The Not Nice Kid.

Like...forgot. Totally. Forgot. Shit.

So at six a.m. when TNNK jumped up and spent 30 fruitless minutes looking for her basket, The Easter Bunny panicked. And called TNNK's older sister and issued an emergency call...The Easter Bunny got confused. It's at your house. Please bring a basket.

This worked. We're covered. Goodies are on the way.

And then, keeping in mind we live SERIOUSLY in the country, we pulled up to Grandmother's house for Easter Sunday, after the lovely Easter church service and there....and there...and there....and then along came Jones...sorry. Digression. THERE, in the middle of the driveway, flattened and then severely mutilated by the German Shepherd....lay the Easter Bunny.

I am not making this shit up.

There was a rabbit. Dead as a door nail. His mauled remains, spread out across the driveway.

And The Not Nice Kid, who is called that for a reason, looks up and says, "Well no WONDER I didn't get an Easter basket!"

At which point I, Mother of the Year, pointed out that if that dumbass Easter Bunny hadn't been hanging out with that degenerate Tooth Fairy, everyone would have been better off.

I AM NO WORSE THAN THE GRIMM BROTHERS. And they live forever in our memories. I think I need a crown.
Editorial Note: I think we used this image last Easter...but...but...it's so damn FUNNY!- CG2

Subliminal Mutterings with CGCG Images!

I love this idea - thanks to Le Laquet for turning us on to it!

I say ... and you think .... ?

1. Animal :: Rights
   
2. Temporary :: Tattoos
   
3. Moan :: Pain
   
4. Rapid :: Eye Movement
   
5. That’s for me to say :: Mother
   
6. City :: GIRL!
   
7. Bumper :: Sticker
   
8. Eclipse :: Twilight (I am a sick Twilight puppy!)
   
9. Problematic :: Child (yours truly)
   
10. If? :: Only....
    

Highly Amusing Meme

I noticed tonight that we are up to eight would-be stalkers - stage left.

Woo-hoo! Justify our love, kids!

The newest member of Team CGCG is Em. I clicked on Em's blog and found this seriously funny meme. It looks like something that probably originated on Facebook, which is now ecumenically acceptable as I am BACK on Facebook - GOODBYE Lent!

**Quick Updated: As for bettering myself by spending all my abstained-from Facebook time catching up on reading...that didn't work out exactly as planned. I just couldn't find the books. I tried Hot, Flat, Crowded...set it aside. I went in completely the opposite direction and tried Bitter is the New Black...threw it across the room. I did read "Twisted" by Laurie Halse Anderson - sort of a modern take on Catcher in the Rye, and it was pretty darn good. So the reading... Meh. However, Hub and I did spend a lot of quality time together catching up on movies. My favorite, hands down, was Eastern Promises. Wow. Great movie. Sorry, Mama Mia.**

Here's how the meme goes:

Google "Unfortunately Your Name" - be sure to include the quote marks.

My results:

Unfortunately CityGirl was pretty much used as no more that an arm charm

Unfortunately CityGirl will not be participating in the 25 Diva Battle Royal at Wrestlemania

Unfortunately, CityGirl and Steven are not alone

Unfortunately, CityGirl's mom leaves when City Girl brings up the idea of rehab

PS - Forget Shaft - Viggo is one badass Mutha.

Friday Funny

A Clean Airport is a Happy Airport

This blew my mind this morning....

You all have heard/read me moan endlessly over the last few years about business travel and how I hate to fly through Hartsfield in Atlanta.

The irony is not lost that the only way to get ANYWHERE from here is through Hartsfield, so I've been there at least 100 times.

And as much as I detest the layout - there's no way to make a connection without at least a 90 minute layover - it really isn't a completely awful airport.

With a Starbucks at every crowded, cheek-to-jowl, intersecting corridor and a newspaper stand ever 50 yards, Hartsfield makes up for in comfort what it lacks in convenience.

And the restrooms (warning - we're wading into T-M-I territory here) are surprisingly spotless.

For decades - three of them - I was terrified of public restrooms. I have my mother to thank for that. I still recall, with HD clarity, my first lesson in "hovering." We were at an amusement park, and my little legs couldn't hold out for as long as the tinkle was taking.

So there she was, in the stall with me, yanking me up by the arm, screaming, warning me against letting my little butt-cheeks touch the seat. ::shudder::

Needless to say, I had "public potty" issues - big time.

But not at Hartsfield. For whatever strange reason - maybe because after 100 trips it felt like a second home - it always felt clean enough. And I've credited that airport for helping me get over publictoiletobia.

So that brings us to today. It turns out that Hartsfield really IS clean, and they use subliminal messaging to keep it that way.

Here's the full article.

Aaaand now you have the image of me in a public restroom doing my "thing" and that song stuck in your pretty little heads.

Shake your groove thing
Shake your groove thing, yeah, yeah
Show 'em how you do it now....

Actually, that song is more appropriate for a men's room, no?

I want THAT body and THIS experience

My dad had a stroke last week and we spent some time at the hospital. During his stay, one of his former students came to visit him. (My parents were both in education for a long time. In a lot of positions so we have a lot of interesting acquaintances.)

My sister happened to be there which is probably the only reason this story got repeated. We have laughed for days...oh, Lord. Make me wise before I die.

The ex-student, we'll call him Mike, was telling old stories. Mike and The Big Boy grew up together...in fact, when I came home and told my dad I was dating TBB his comment was: "He's a good boy. Now, he spent more time in my office than he spent in the classroom, but he's a GOOD BOY." We are grateful for small favors.

But Mike is telling stories and he tells this one. Seems there was a teacher at the junior high school and his "thing" was writing sentences. Long sentences. Written lots of times. And Mike got in trouble for something and when he was assigned his sentences he realized...Mr. Teacher always took the sentences, glanced at the top page of untold hours of work, and then summarily dropped the sentences into the trash. So Mike had a plan.

He wrote 800 sentences, three lines each. And right in the middle he inserted two rogue sentences which read: "I will never act up in Mr. Teacher's class again because then I will beat Mr. Teacher's ass and he will send me to Mr. Country Girl's dad and I will beat Mr. Country Girl's dad's ass." Two sentences. In the midst of 800. None of which were ever read.

The next week there's an announcement over the intercom: "Mike. Come to the office."

Mike's not worried. He hasn't done anything. He gets up and heads to my dad's office and there sits my dad behind his desk. And the sentences are there. On the desktop.

My dad says, "Mike. Look at sentence number 432 and read it to me." And Mike picks up the papers and says, "I will never act up in Mr. Teacher's class again because then I will beat Mr. Teacher's blank and he..."

My dad interrupted him and said, "I said read the sentence. Boy. Read the sentence. Every word of the sentence, just like you wrote it."

So Mike did. Twice. Telling the story, he says that having to say "ass" twice while sitting in the principal's office was mortifying. Humiliating. He wasn't NEARLY as funny as he thought he was. And when he was done? This was 40 years ago, so my dad beat his ass. As they were wont to do in those days.

The reason we are all ROLLING in the floor?

This is our preacher. The reverend of our church. The man whose children are the best testimonials to devoting one's life to the Lord you will ever see. This man is a ball of fire, totally devoted to his faith and his beliefs, having overcome battles most of us never dream of. (He is severely dyslexic. To the point that we only use the King James Version of the bible because it is too confusing for him to try to learn another one.) He is smart and funny and energetic and inspiring and...a problem kid.

There may be hope in this institution yet.

The Execution

...of the plan.

Plan B.

I accepted the offer of Company X (not to be confused with Racer X) and
...here I am.




Working at home, in my pajamas - must. perpetuate. stereotype. - typing away at the dining room table. When I've finished my tea and toast, I'll move the operation to the den/home office...still in my pajamas.

I've already accomplished loads of work this morning, and I've only been at it for 30 minutes: answered all my email, uninterrupted. I had a great thought at 3:00 this morning - the only time of day great thoughts come to me - and am about to launch into that, uninterrupted.

I deeply love "uninterrupted."

Anyway, I'll keep this up (not the blogging, the working, thinking of great thoughts and having of great ideas) until noon at which point I will haul the Company X-issued laptop (and air card, and Blackberry. Kisses to the IT boys at Co. X) over to Hubster's office where I'll work until 5 or 6:00.

Or until 2:00 on days when The Boss is feeling generous...or wants me, his humble servant, to mow the lawn.

That was not a euphemism for daylight sex.

I, "Grace"-the-accident-waiting-to-happen, have offered to learn to work the lawn mower and take care of the yards/gardens of our rental houses - now totaling three, plus our own house.

This will accomplish three things: 1) Save time as Hub cannot possibly keep up with four yards, front and back, two of which are on double lots, and keep up with the business, and have a life/wife 2) Save money - on a lawn service 3) Get me an awesome tan this summer!

Admittedly, it'll be a farmer's tan, but considering that I haven't donned a bathing suit in almost five years - who cares? Tanned arms and legs! Woo-hooo! But I digress....

So, yeah, this really is the best of both worlds...for as long as it lasts. Like I said, new management is due to arrive within the next sixty days and he/she may not approve of this setup.

S/he may suspect I'm blogging on company time...Crazy, huh?

Must. Perpetuate. All. Telecommuting. Stereotypes.

Belated Friday Funny

Let's see...

It's testing week at school which means we need early supper/bath/bedtimes.

Tornados came through last night.

My dad had a stroke and although he's okay NOW, it's been a LOOOONGG couple of days and nights.

I put $2300 in car tires/repairs and...oh, yeah.

The world's still going to hell in a handbasket.

But damn. I know what Michelle Obama is WEARING today. THAT helps.

They Pull Me Back In

The complete quote is, of course:

"Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in."

I don't know who said it better, Al Pacino as Michael Corleone, or Silvio Dante doing Al Pacino as Michael Corleone.

The Readers Digest version of what transpired yesterday, is that at 4:45 I was summoned by The Bosslady and made an offer I may not be able to refuse.

The long version is that before I turned in my resignation last week, I submitted a proposal that went something like this: I come into the office one day a week and work from home, part-time the rest of the week while continuing to executing my primary duties.

This removes me from a toxic environment, gives me a chance to help Hubster and supplements our income.

In return, Company X retains a good employee who does good work, doesn't have to train a replacement and saves money on benefits and salary. Meanwhile, the management of the Department of Toxicity doesn't look bad and saves a headcount (very important).

Bosslady liked it and her boss liked it. Unfortunately, Human Resources management said, "Sorry, no can do. Would love to help you, but we have 2,000 employees and there is no policy covering this situation. While we love you, CityGirl, if we make an exception for you, who is next?"

I didn't really think they'd go for it, but nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?

So I turned around, submitted my resignation, told Hub I was all his if he didn't mind eating beans and cornbread for the next year and everything was settled.

Until yesterday. For some completely unfathomable reason the VP of Human Resources went to Bosslady to find out if I'd consider the FABulous solution of...working part-time from home rather than leaving.

Whaaaa?

Call me crazy, paranoid and completely unable to embrace the perfect solution (it was originally mine, after all) but...something is, if not rotten, decomposing in Denmark.

Since when does a VP - where a mere Manager would have done nicely - insert herself into a solution a full week after a person who has only been on payroll for 13 months resigns? The very same VP who has never - up to this point - set foot in the office of, or possibly even initiated a conversation with (we can't remember), The Bosslady?

Based on my knowledge of interoffice politics and a Company X web of intrigue the KGB and Vladimir Putin himself could learn a thing or two from, I've formulated two possible and entirely plausible theories. Neither ends well for several people.

Don't get me wrong, if I could work part-time, from home, doing what I'm doing and earning a by-local-standards full salary, while still helping Hubster part-time, AND visiting my friends and shopping in "the big town" once a week...well, hell, that'd be pretty damn sa-weet.

I just don't...understand. Stay tuned.

Is it just me or is he...sexy... in a, "I don't know whether I'll kill you or screw you" James-Bond-meets...You're right, never mind.

Out of the mouths of babes...

The reason that the stuff kids say is so funny, is that they are guileless. They're not TRYING to be witty, or cute. They're just looking at things from a basic perspective.

The Not Nice Kid announced yesterday, as she tore through the kitchen on her ripstick: "I'm on the right track. I'm just going the wrong way."

Story of my life.