Auld Lang Syne

Happy New Year to all our eFriends!

Find new blogs, but bookmark the old.
For some are silver and the others are loudmouthed bitches.

::curtsy::

This is SOOO not in my job description...`

...but then, most of the last 30 years wasn't in the outline, either.

The Nice Kid is 14. She really is the nicest kid you'll ever meet...she actually LIKES you...for real. She's not faking: she doesn't want to be invited to your parties or stand in the hall with you or borrow your clothes. If she likes you? She's just being honest.

Kid is dumb as dirt.

We HAVE to have cell phones...typical day? I p/u The Not Nice Kid 20 miles away, take her to basketball practice 20 miles BACK, go back and pick up TNK, come back and pick up TNNK, go BACK and do something school-related and unnecessary and then...often? Go back again.

No big deal. It's my job. But for this? When you leave your kids in public places? THEY HAVE TO BE ABLE TO GET IN TOUCH WITH YOU. Plans change. Gyms are locked. Coaches get sick. Buses break down.

Which brings us to cell phones.

They each have one. Adequate for MY needs. Something happens? Call The Mama. She'll handle it.

Except TNK made an F on her last report card. And it wasn't over her grades; it was over work-not-turned-in. So.

You. Are. Grounded.

And your phone is cut off. Which is where "Parental Controls" come in. I put 10 numbers into her phone, and she can call any of those 10 numbers anytime. You have appendicitis in the middle of the street? You can call The Mama. You have blood or exposed bone? (The only criteria for which the school is allowed to call me.) You can call The Mama. When it's necessary? I'll take care of it. I always do. Call me, my sister, my brother or my mom. Call any family member and we will take care of the situation but...this TEN THOUSAND TEXTS A MONTH? That is SO over.

And then I get up this morning and...she has tried to hack into my account. Verizon is PISSED...reset everything. And THEN...turns out? This new love interest she thinks I don't know about?

ISN'T ON OUR CALLING PLAN. And with two weeks to go in our billing cycle, we are for-all-practical-purposes...OUT OF MINUTES.

The potential here is...ugly. REAL ugly. No one is up yet, and I am sitting here...calculating. One more mistake?

TracFone loves me. I'm it's best friend and did you know? You can get TracFone and then...limit the phone to one number. One number.

Call The Mama. I don't think I signed on for anything else and...you want to dance? I pay the band.

Buddy

So, I feel like Buddy the Elf with this post.

In Elf, when James Caan says, "Okay, sing me a song" and Buddy has to make something up on the fly, and ends with "I love you, I love you, I looooove you!"

Kids, I love you, I love you, I loooove you!!!
But I got nothin' as far as posting goes.

I guess it's understandable since I've not left the house - except for Christmas - or watched the news in a week.

Ignorance very well may be bliss. No bad news, no douchebags at The Walmart, no traffic...no ranting. And no blog fodder.

Maybe this is a bad thing.

I'll live longer because of the reduced stress, but I won't be nearly as entertaining.

::weighs hands::

Longer life...or funny posts? Hmm.... Am actually weighing the options here.

One funny thing is that I've found a way to keep The Hubster occupied while I play on the laptop - aka The Electronic Tumor: Playstation 3. While he's killing terrorists playing Modern Warfare 2? I'm type, type, typing away without getting death glares from The Mister.

Heh-heh-heh. I should have though of this YEARS ago.

"I love you, I love you, I loooove you!"

Friday Funny

Our Two Front Teeth

This holiday season you've probably experienced at least one of the following:

Spent a small fortune on gifts for relatives you don't really like.

Sustained paper cuts, bruises and other random abrasions while hunting down, standing in line for, fighting over and wrapping gifts.

Been forced to make eye contact with dozens of Salvation Army Santas, only to be made to feel like a lowly piece of crap when you didn't cough up change for the kettle. Outside Every. Damn. Store. In. Town.

So what are we, your Online Besties, doing to make things better for you this happy holiday season?

We're asking you to dig a little deeper.

Our Followers widget has been stuck at 49 Ardent Admirers for a few months now. If *only* Santa would bring us one more Follower for Christmas, we'd be two of the happiest blogging lushes in Dixie.

And I won't plant a Christmas carol ear worm that will drive you crazy for the rest of the day. Because I can do it, you know. I have one right here that's perfect....

Thanks, kids! Smooches!

Image Credit: Funtoosh.com

Last Ounce of Dignity

Yesterday, for the first time in my life (including college), I went out in public in my pajamas.

But I covered up as best I could beneath a long winter coat and enormous Jackie O sunglasses, so that made it okay.

:: rolls eyes ::

In my defense, I was too weakened by three freaking days of the stomach flu to get properly dressed.

And they were clean pajamas.

And the usual customers at my bodega (which I believe is Spanish for "shit hole that over-charges people who have no other viable option") frequently wear house shoes and hair curlers to shop for groceries...so there's precedent here.

And Hub and I needed Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup, oyster crackers and orange Gator Aid because yesterday was Day One on the road to recovery.

Okay, so we're still only on the on-ramp of the road to recovery, and frankly will the thrilled to friggin' pieces if we feel mostly decent by Christmas Eve. But we needed the soup. The soup is the key. You can't get anywhere without the soup.

Anyway, off I went with my brand-new, blue plaid flannel bottoms peeking out from under a 3/4-length dress coat.

Which wouldn't have been SO bad, if it hadn't been a Sunday. The Sunday before Christmas. When the entire corner grocery customer population - dressed to the nines in burgundy suits and hats as big as flying saucers - stopped for milk on their way home from church.

Believe me when I tell you the coat and glasses fooled no one. Nobody mistook me for an apparition of Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy Onassis.

After an eternity stumbling up and down not-quite familiar aisles, I dropped my little bundle of highly-processed cultural remedies onto the counter, and took a giant scissor step away from the checkout.

When the cashier failed to divine - from the evidential tea leaves assembled before her - what my problem was, I mumbled, "I've been sick. I don't want to infect you." At which point she eyed me up and down, pausing at the six inches of exposed flannel, and scowled at me like I'd just pissed on the linoleum.

Um...how's about a little good will there, Honey? 'Tis the season? Good will toward men?

Not so much for poorly-dressed relations, it seems.

More like, "No room at the bodega."

Bah. Humbug.

************

Foodstuffs I now associate with being violently ill and therefore will not be consuming at any point in the foreseeable future:
Corn
Oysters
Red wine - yes, red wine. I can't even look at the wine rack.
And possibly eggs

2010 is gonna be a lo-ong year.

I know the wittiest people...

and they DO make my life so very much nicer...Now let's see if I can tell this and make it ONE-TENTH as funny as it happened...

Sitting at a Christmas party Friday night, at a doctor's house. Several of us had congregated in a small room downstairs, and one of the friends (a teacher and coach) started reading the spines on the books in the shelves.

"Infectious Diseases," he read. "I'm not opening that one...might recognize something I have."

"Book Two of Congenital Heart Defects...Disorders of the Blood."

Another parent stepped up and we all sat there and laughed while they read off titles...none of us thought we had any of those books scattered around at our houses. And then one of the men asked one of the women (not his wife), "I'm going upstairs, do you need a refill?"

"I had that Menage a Trois," she said.

"Yeah," he snickered, "I thoroughly enjoyed that."

"Best 30 seconds of MY life," she deadpanned, as her husband piped up and said, "Gee, Bob, you're getting better!"

At which point Bob clinched his fists in front of him, squinched up his face and proceded to air hump while chanting, "Dead dogs. Dead dogs. Dead dogs."

Maybe you DID have to be there. But at the time? I STILL fall over laughing everytime I remember it ;)

Misery Hates Company

One House.
Two Adults.
Two...Now Three... Days.
Two SEVERE Cases of the Stomach Flu.

Jesus, take me now....

In Which I Begin Lying About My Age

My age has never, ever bothered me.

Until recently.

Maybe it's all the lusting after young men.
(I'm looking at you, Robert Pattinson - purrrrrr).

Maybe it's that we're hiring what appear to be children at work and suddenly I'm one of the the oldest hens in the coop.

Or *maybe* it's that everyone else's obsession with A Number, which I've always been able to laugh at and ignore, is finally getting to me.

Whatever drove me to it - the devil made me do it? - I lied about my age this week.

I only lied to an online form...it isn't like I looked someone in the eyes and knocked 10 years off my age...but still. I did it. And it felt right. And I'm going to continue the practice until I can't get away with it anymore.

People always tell me that I don't look my age.
(I attribute this to a chubby Polish face: The fat fills in the wrinkles).

I certainly don't feel my age. And God and everyone knows I don't behave like many women my age.

So why should I let The Number dictate how people perceive me?

Sooooo...a few days ago I was registering for...something, I don't remember what (okay now the memory thing is something I can't fake)...and I had to offer up my DOB.

As I hovered over the *correct* year, I just couldn't click on it. It seemed WAY too far away. In the DISTANT past. As in, none of my current professional peers were born in that decade. So I kept scrolling and changed that six to a seven.

And I'll do it again. Hell, my hair color is my choice, why should my age be any different?

A Recycled Christmas

This guy is clearly committed to reducing/reusing/recycling.

Not only did he forgo a live Christmas tree and eschew an artificial arbor, he recycled all his beer bottles from 2009.

He further reduced his carbon footprint when he dropped dead of liver failure.

It looks like a REALLY long way down...

...From the precipice.

Every year, January 2, I stop drinking until the Super Bowl. Can't remember why. My extended family HATES this...there are two January birthdays at the Mexican place and you better BELIEVE all those screaming kids just get on MY last nerve.

But this year? I think I need an adjustment. And in my mind...just contemplating, mind you, but in my mind...

I am going to stop drinking until the Super Bowl. I am going to cut up my credit cards for 12 months. And I am going to start walking/exercising every time one of these urges hits me.

"They" tell you: don't take on more than one lifestyle adjustment at a time. But I know me...there's no point in changing ONE little thing when TEN little things stay the same. My major personality dilemma: All Or Nothing. Get it right or don't even try. And there's no way to be perfect all the time.

So I'm thinking...Major Overhaul here. Get more things right than you get wrong.

The jury's still out. Some days it's in and some days it's out. I have...17? days to make up my mind. But this feels right.

We'll see. And you don't get to hold me to it ;)

Can we talk?

Old family story...Once upon a time, like...80 years ago...my Tennessee great-grandparents were sitting out on the front porch (which is what Southern people DID in the afternoons, back when) when this man, running for public office, came by.

Walked up the sidewalk, shook hands with my great-grandfather, make some small talk and then handed my Papa a campaign card. Asked my Papa to vote for him. And then, as an after-thought, added, "And I'd appreciate it if you'd have your wife vote for me, too."

I'm sure my great-grandmother, sitting there in her shirtwaist, with her stockings and her black two-inch heels and her perfect silver curls, in the Southern heat on a steamy afternoon, didn't say anything. But you better BELIEVE...all hell broke loose later.

And no, she didn't vote for that man. Tell HER who to vote for? They had a farm, a house in town and owned a business or two in town, one of them the general store. My Mama kept the books, did the ordering and more or less ran things. And Papa was supposed to tell her for whom to vote because...WHY?

I don't think so. We STILL laugh about that story. As we go to vote every election, because my Mama was ADAMENT that...we got the right? We WILL exercise it.

My grandmother on the other side buried three husbands. She, too, owned the general store in her town in Alabama, and I remember when calculators came out...people my age do a total on paper, and then check it with a calculator. My grandmother? Totaled up on the calculator and then got a pencil and paper to check it. Odds are, she was right more often than the calculator. Those buttons and things.

When Clinton ran for office, my brother as getting married. My dress needed hemming, and I needed help pinning it up. So off I went to...The Big Boy's old friends. They lived in the neighborhood and she was home with kids, so I loaded up my dress and pins and heels and went down for her to pin my hem for me. As we're talking, something came up about something and I THINK what I said was...I could NOT vote for...insert name of whomever ran against BC the first time here. Can't remember. But...no. Wait. What I SAID was...I don't believe in abortion for myself but I would never vote for someone who was totally anti-abortion. (It was simpler than that, but that's the gist.)

A couple of days later? I hear that female-friend-of-TBB has told her husband, "OMG. CG is going to vote for Bill Clinton." And male-friend-of-TBB said, and I quote, "OMG. I'll have to speak to TBB."

Needless to say, I heard this secondhand because NO. TBB did NOT "speak to me." But the thinking behind this...bothered me. Which is what leads us to...

This.

My family owns a farm. MY family. CG's family. I married TBB, but that's all I did. Didn't sign over no soul or rights or such. That's fine...he doesn't do fence posts or livestock or screwdrivers or chainsaws or...pretty much ANYTHING involving nature that doesn't include a putting green. That works. Don't need another opinion in this quilting bee, anyway.

So imagine my surprise...and then my horror...and now my...bemusement...when the phone rang last week and there on the other end of the line was...a parent from The Not Nice Kid's basketball team. And when I answered, the parent asked ME to please let him speak to TBB.

And then that stupid fucking dumbass asked MY husband, who is married to ME, if it was okay if the parent and his son went hunting at MY family's farm. MY. FAMILY'S. FARM.

Asked my husband.

TBB ain't no dummy, and he immediately started stuttering around until I realized what was going on. Suggested that he just pass on, "The land's leased." End of discussion.

That man called my husband, to ask permission to hunt on my farm.

I'm contemplating the perfect words at the perfect time but, excuse me. I have to go now and iron my husband's shirts and pack his lunch and shine his shoes and make him a lemon meringue pie because he has a REAL JOB and will be so tired when he comes in.

Just me. Doin' my job.

I think I'm gonna puke.

Go Suck Candy Canes

I don't care if it is Christmas.
Mint. Candy. Is. Disgusting.

All of it: Starlight Mints, Andes Candies... and candy canes.

Fresh mint is lovely, to be sure. Especially in a Mojito.

Artificial mint is the flavor of fresh breath: toothpaste and mouthwash...Orbit, Trident, etc.

Mint oil is soothing to the system which is why so many medicines are mint-flavored. Maalox is Mint. Imodium is Mint. Pepto Bismol is Mint.

Mint is NOT, in my mind, an appropriate flavor for a sweet treat. Even as a child I turned down candy if it was mint-flavored.

Apparently I'm not the only person who gags quietly every time someone offers me a candy cane. In a recent issue of Newsweek, the following appeared:

"They may be iconic, but I happen to hate candy canes. Dangerously hard, one--dimensional in flavor, and far too sweet, they may be most useful when shoved into a child's mouth to suck on in church." Read full text here.

And the choir sang, "A-men!"

Image credit: Dogster.com

I would LUV to hear this one...

...as seen on the side of Old Huntsville Road, on my way home from school every morning. Go figure.

Friday Funny

Cracking me UP....

The dog hates it when I get emails that make me laugh out loud. It's just him and me in the house all day...sudden, unexplained laughter interrupts his routine. (Which consists of napping, napping and more napping.)

We have a section in our local paper called You Said It, where people can call in and make anonymous comments. When new management took over a couple of months ago it intended to banish You Said It, but turns out people like having such a venue. (As the child of a family sometimes involved in politics? Which means you sit down and shut up? I can see how this might come in handy ;)

ANYWAY.

Opened the paper today and nearly fell out of my chair. The thing about You Said It? There are people raising hell about "crinimals" and "al-kee-holics" and "them thar" speeders. Statements are published verbatim and some of them are...reason for pause.

Quote from today's paper:

"In response to Bonnie Erbe's column in the Saturday newspaper opinion section, if God didn't want us to eat animals, why did he make them out of meat?"

This one goes on the refrigerator.

The Playlist

Since all y'all continue to comment on the "Christmas Covers" post of a few days ago, and friends and family eventually contributed their two cents, I collaborated with my accountants at PriceWaterhouse, tabulated the results of the voting and built the following Best Christmas Song Covers playlist...just for you, my peeps.

Except for a few of my choices, this was democratically decided. I'm sorry if I missed any of your picks, but if the tune wasn't available on playlist.com, I couldn't include it. (Click on the bottom song to scroll).

Enjoy!

'Tis the season...right?

It's wet and cold, and there's a 100% chance of rain today. I am going to drive 60 miles, to find those plastic, plug-in candles that no one uses any more because THAT'S WHAT I WANT. And then I'm going to drive 40 more miles to find a solid wood door, to cut in half and paint to make shutter doors. There are traffic accidents EVERYWHERE and you have to be CRAZY to get out in this but...I'm gonna get some Christmas spirit if it kills me.

The signs are not good. The Nice Kid went out to the car this morning to get her basketball bag and...lost my car keys. We spent 15 minutes looking for them, so I pulled out my auxilliary set. The Not Nice Kid went out to the car to get her lunch bag and...lost my car keys.

I turned around and came back in and told them, "When you're ready? Come get me."

They found that set. TNK had her braces off yesterday and her teeth were hurting, so before we left she took an Aleve. Got two miles from the house and..."Mom, I'm going to throw up."

Took it on an empty stomach, didn't you? HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I TOLD YOU.....

Whipped over into the median when she announces, "I have to have a bathroom. NOW!!!"

Turned around, came home, handled things...we're tardy. Got to school and this morning was the candlelight processional at church so...put them both out. Mz Chris will get you to school. A morning like this? Church is where you need to be.

So now I'm going to find me some plastic candles. And a door. And there's a good chance, on the way in or out? I'll find some good cheese, some better butter, a bottle or two of something that has Christmas spirit measured in percentages.

I just LUV me some holidays....

Stuffing

This is just a B.S. post because I couldn't stand to see that image of Adam Lambert pop up every time I clicked over to the blog.

What was I THINKING posting that thing? It's enough to give you The Little Mermaid-Meets Gay Porn nightmares.

*laugh* I'll be interested to see how many Google hits we get from people searching The Little Mermaid and gay porn.

Bing Wins Big

Bing Crosby, that is, not Microsoft Bing...which I just can't get into like The Google.

So it seems that not many people - blog followers or live acquaintances - dig modern covers of traditional Christmas songs. All y'all prefer the classic original versions, which is hugely surprising to me since I love to find new versions of old songs.

Proving further that I am odd.

Since I didn't get an overwhelming 'cover version' response either here or in live interviews, I'm going to skip the links, videos, lyrics portion of the experiment. Nine songs does not a playlist make.

Final thought: I wonder how much the music industry would pay for information like this. It could save them a lot of money...I fear they're planning an Adam Lambert covers Rosemary Clooney CD for next Christmas. :: shudder ::

What's the Season?

For some reason I'm having a really hard time getting into the holiday spirit this year.

"It's December! It's Christmas! Fun! Food! Parties!" they say.

"Meh." I say.

****

So I asked myself, "What's the best way to elevate my mood?"

"Alcohol?" My Cerebral Cortex and Limbic System guessed in harmony, as my liver groaned.

"Ooo! Ooo! I know this one! Chocolate!" chimed in the tongue.

"Shut up, all of you. The answer is music - Jeez, where have you been for the last four decades? Don't you know her at all?" snarked my tough, little heart.

Onto iTunes I went last night, buying a sleigh-load of holiday music. When I looked back at the songs I'd selected, I realized they were all modern covers of Christmas classics.

WHO, I ask you, doesn't love Springsteen's version of Santa Claus is Comin' to Town?
Ah, that Clarence and his new saxophone get me every time.

So here's the deal: Let's us - you and me - put together an All Time Greatest Xmas Covers playlist. Submit your suggestion in the comment section below, and I'll tabulate, find links and post the results over the weekend.

Ho, baby - Ho, baby - Ho!

The reality...

...a bunch of people on Facebook did this nice sappy thing where they posted, once a day for November, something they were thankful for.

It was pretty much what you expected and finally I thought, "Bullshit. What about the things that REALLY make life good?"

Remote controls...Beer...Waterford...Bare Minerals... Washers and dryers ...Cars... Knife sharpeners...Those bumps on the road that tell you when you're crooked... Sudoku...Season passes...Comfortable shoes...Funny people...Captioning on television ...Caller ID...Wine...Ice and water in the door...Cup holders in cars... Cheese ...Double doors...Nice weather...Mechanical pencils...Reading glasses...Home delivery...Good-looking earrings... Drive-thrus ...Lights...Lotion ...Bourbon... Printers ...Locks...

And that's just November.

Food Glorious Food

We've not posted anything food-themed for a while and since it IS the season to over-indulge, I think this will be a lot of fun...if you cook. If you don't cook, it clearly will not be much fun for you.

So Mrs. Gamgee over at Hobbit-ish Thoughts and Ramblings is Beta testing Blog Hop as a method of organizing a holiday recipe exchange.

Take a moment to click "you're next" at Mr. Linkey (below and left), post a favorite holiday recipe and help Mrs. G work out the bugs.

My submission is my Aunt Diane's recipe for Cranberry Relish for People Who Don't Like Cranberry Relish. It is actually cherry relish with a few cranberries thrown in, to-wit:

2 1/2 cups cranberry juice cocktail
2 cups dried cherries
1 cup (white) sugar
1 12-ounce bag cranberries
1/2 tsp ground cloves
1/4 tsp ground cardamom

Bring juice to a boil in a heavy, medium saucepan.
Remove from heat.
Add cherries and let stand 10 minutes.
Add sugar, cranberries and spices.
Cook over medium-high heat until cranberries burst, stirring occasionally, about 10 minutes. Refrigerate until cold, about 4 hours.

Sauce thickens as it cools.

My Take on Tiger

Again this morning with the "ESPN insiders" on the morning news programs!

Everyone wants to know what happened with Tiger. Oh, the mystery!

This man can't figure it out...that man has an opinion...the other guy thinks its a Republican conspiracy against black athletes - blah, Blah, BLAH.

Do you want to know what *really* happened? Ask a woman. More specifically, ask a woman who has been scorned.

This "mystery" has Caught With His Pants Down written all over it.

Here's how I think it played out (and as a golf fan, yes, I'm actually interested in this story):

1 a.m.: After a confrontation Tiger confesses to fucking around. Happy Turkey Day.
1:10: Elin (who is not exactly petite) locates his favorite golf clubs.
1:30: Elin begins chasing Tiger, swinging clubs at his head.
1:40: Tiger realizes she's serious about shoving his favorite driver up his ass.
1:42: Tiger locates car keys. Note to Buick: Keys to a Caddy.
1:43: Tiger hauls ass to the garage, with wife in hot pursuit, swinging wildly.
1:43:3o: Tiger backs down drive, wife makes contact with a vehicle window.
1:43:35: Wife makes contact with another vehicle window.

For the next sixty seconds she chases him down the drive, trying to pull his sorry ass through the car door so she can finish him off. He reaches over to lock the door, loses control of the vehicle and bada-bing, bada-boom, he lands in a ditch.

Well-meaning neighbor calls the cops and the rest is history.

What would be MORE embarrassing than a DUI in your own driveway, which, really wouldn't be all THAT embarrassing?

The revelation that Tiger can't keep his wood to himself.

Your Honor, I rest my case.