It's time again...

Halloween costumes...every year, same old same old. We sit here, we talk about it, we discuss things and then, two days before, we panic and start running around trying to find COSTUMES. Preferably extremely cool costumes, dredged from one of the piles of stuff in the living room so they're FREE.

We've done okay in the past. Kids are pretty predictable...the first couple of years it's like dressing dolls. The Nice Kid's best Halloween costume EVER was one I made...a pumpkin with a clever painted face. Took me WEEKS, but was SO worth it. Trouble with that is...follow-up. The next year? Check out that pile, kid. You can use the lampshade if you're careful.

Then they get older and you have to buy costumes because it has to be Power Rangers or Mario or some such, and homemade just will not do. This is that period where you are almost totally out of the Cool Mom range...still tolerable, just not The Bomb. Going online and ordering something and paying EXTRA because yes, you still waited until two days before, buys you some extra coolness ;)

Luckily, this doesn't last too long but is replaced by...conforming to one's peers while wearing a costume no one else has. I wish I could remember what The Big Kid did...another one of those blank spaces ;( TNK is worrying the HELL out of me because...she doesn't go trick or treating but she DOES go to parties and...COOL is important. And MY suggestions aren't going over too well. Something popped up online a bit ago, suggesting Formal Apology as a costume. You get all decked out and wear a badge saying Apology. Formal Apology. I thought this was AWESOME...she wanted to look good and it's funny and...voila!

Her text? "Mom, I'm not going to a grown up party. Highschoolers don't appreciate humor."

Well. Excuuuuuse me.

THEN...you get older and get cute....the cuter and funnier the better. Extra points for witty. One year, I wore a black sweater with numbers pinned all over it...Someone You Can Count On. Another year I printed "Ceiling" on a t-shirt; carried one of those foam fists with an upraised index finger...Ceiling Fan.

The Big Boy works for a company with a subsidiary called Buccaneer so last year...yep. We bought clip-on hooks and attached a dollar bill to each earring. TNK's first Halloween, 15 years ago, we did the Black-eyed Peep thing...Peep being her nickname.

This year, TNK plans on going as a Twister game...spots painted on a white dress, a game spinner for a hat. SHE says she needs paint for the circles, I'm thinking I can work wonders with green peas, ketchup and a little cat pee. TNNK is Dr. Killjoy which involves, of course, scrubs and lots of blood and you just know SHE has no problem slitting a vein for the effect.

I just spent two months working on the GREATEST neighborhood Halloween event EVER...every year in my old neighborhood by the river we have a cookout, hayrides throughout the neighborhood and then a bonfire with my oldest besties. And since I'm no dummy, a couple of years ago we all started bringing a different bourbon to share.

My kids don't come. Better offers.

Have I got this parenting shit down or WHAT?

Now they're trying to run her down!

We're sort of like night and day around here. This is what I did this weekend.

Meanwhile, City Girl is out saving the world, making moolah and trying to stay alive.

Personally, I'm glad I'm me. Sounds to me like drive and ambition will get you KILLED :)

Oh, BTW, I'm in New Jersey. Be back Thursday.

I've decided that New Jersey is the Alabama of the North.
Or Alabama is the New Jersey of the South.

Misunderstood. Unappreciated. People have very heavy accents, and border on having their own language.
Smells funny - Alabama b/c of paper mills, agriculture and food processing. NJ because of petrochemicals, pollution and food processing.
NJ Rednecks and AL Rednecks are virtually indistinguishable from one another until they open their mouths.
NJ residents and AL residents respond well to please and thank you and a smile when encountering someone from "not here" because they expect to be made fun of.
If you lay on the charm, they both roll over and show you their bellies. :o)

It's amazing, really.
Totally not afraid anymore.
Except of the NJ Turnpike.
I thought I was going to die. Not because of traffic, because it was so FUCKING confusing. Even with GPS I got lost twice.

She is my primary connection with the outside world because given a choice? I can peel grapes, too ;)

Marketing Geek

I've accepted - embraced, even - the fact that my life is defined by my profession.

Because it is a kick-ass, although definitely not noble, way to earn a living.

Marketing: Because PR is for pansies.

Got Mindfuck?

Advertising - It's the Other White Meat

Okay, so advertising is not, actually, the other white meat...but neither is pork, really.

And I 'm not in advertising, which is the hipster child of Old Man Marketing.
I don't hang with Don Draper, Michael Steadman or even Darrin Stephens.

But I do lo-oove me some good advertising, which had been limited mostly to print since we record the TV programs we watch and then play them back at random times, skipping through the commercials.

Until Hubster - God, please love him as much as I do - turned on Sunday Football mid-commercial break....and I'm SO glad he did.

Here are the three commercials, played in a row on CBS, that made me laugh my ass off - and once again thank the career gods for pointing me in this direction.

Friday Funny...

CG1
....because, I'm pretty sure she was serious.

This Facebook post from a friend in Auburn, Alabama:

Chicken drop at the Lodge tonight.

There are no words.


CG2
Step AWAY from the telephone, people!

Before someone calls the ASPCA on Auburn Friend, or us, I think "Chicken Drop" deserves - nay, demands - an explanation.

This is what happens at a Chicken Drop:

1. Very eager fundraising-type people construct a giant bingo card from plywood.
2. The fundraisers then scatter Chicken Chow on the horizontally-positioned card.
3. A large hen - dear God, not a rooster - is placed on the free space, at the center of the card.
4. The chicken wanders around, pecks at the feed. Heeeere, Chickie, Chickie!
5. The Chicken defecates.
6. The gathered masses note on which number Chickie has "dropped."
7. The people whose raffle ticket numbers correspond to the defecated-upon digit, win.
8. The losers have to clean up after the chicken. (joking)

I only hope people have sense enough not to serve chicken dinners at Chicken Drops, because that would be wrong on too many levels to count. Winner! Winner! Chicken Dinner!

Of course, it is possible the well-meaning People of The Lodge held a Chicken Drop horrifyingly similar to the 1981 Thanksgiving episode of WKPR in Cincinnati. Although I think the home-video would have, by now, been posted on YouTube, picked up by CNN and broadcast to the world as an example of a typical Friday night in Alabama.

A funny story...

...about people dumb enough to have a conscience ;)

It is possible I've told this Christmas story before...I've heard of me doing that. But yesterday, The Nice Kid was sitting in class when her "Where's My Droid?" app turned on her phone and it started ringing. (An aside here: You're not allowed to have cell phones at school. Mortal sin and they will FRY your ass. However...I don't trust the public school system to look out for my kids so they both carry a cell phone...AND IT DAMN WELL BETTER BE TURNED OFF or you think the SCHOOL is pissed off? Just wait until you get home:) Instead of sitting there looking innocent when the phone went off? TNK BURST into tears and started apologizing and confessing. Dumbass.)

Once upon a time some of my high school's students went to something at the arts center at the local university. And in the middle of the production, my friend Jennifer decided it was in her best interests to set off a firecracker.

It wasn't.

We got back to school and all hell broke loose. And since I was sitting beside her, I got called into the office. Now, I'm a fifth period office worker and my dad is superintendent of schools and there I stand. I looked the principal, who was a member of the local Methodist church with me from the day I was born until the day he died, straight in the eye and I lied my ass off. I didn't SORT of lie...I perjured myself. No, sirree, she did NOT do it. I know...I was sitting there, I'd have seen it, there's no way she did it without my knowing it. Nope. No way, no how. Didn't happen.

So they sent me on my way. And called Jennifer in and I will be damned if she didn't get about two steps inside that office and..."I DID IT! I DID IT! Yes!!! It was me!!!" Crying and apologizing. Confessed to everything...told the whole story. Never even HESITATED...bared her soul. "YEEESSS, it was ME! I'm so sorry! I don't know what I was thinking...I'm so sorry!" On and on, ad nauseum.

Telling the truth. After I have just LIED in front of God and everybody to save her sorry ass. Hey, I'M not dumb enough to set off a firecracker in Norton Auditorium. I AM, however, dumb enough to lie for YOU.

She was the child of sainted parents...they were truly good people and I miss them every day of my life. And one year, she and friend Monica stole two Christmas trees. A childhood prank. Jennifer took it home, they set it up and it RUINED Christmas. Every time she looked at it all she saw was...her mom and a stolen Christmas tree. Her wonderful mama and...a stolen Christmas tree. To this day, we remember that HORRIBLE Christmas. Really good lesson there ;)

I hate it when that happens ;)

Life on the tarmac...

A long time ago, The Nice Kid and I got on a plane about every two weeks. Going to Texas or coming home to visit. When she was a baby, I worried myself sick about her crying...I lived in fear of someone knifing me in mid-air to SHUT THAT BABY UP.

Eventually, a lady told me, "It doesn't bother other people as much as it bothers you," and while I wasn't sure I believed her, I decided to go with it.

Later on, I learned that if you buy a box of bandaids before you get on board, you'll never hear a peep out of your toddler....opening all those little packages and coverning her knees with bandaids keeps her entertained for HOURS. (Although picking up those paper stubs is a bitch ;)

HOWEVER. There does come a time when nothing will suffice but a good backhand. Unfortunately, most of the kids who NEED one, need it because they've never HAD one. Combine close proximity with...close proximity and bratty kids and end-of-the-day mechanical angst and...the world is out to get City Girl. Sitting here last night when up pops a message:

I need to vent to someone while I sit on the tarmac...This plane fucking stinks. Literally. The toilets on this - pretty damn big - plane must be overflowing. Granted, it's 9 pm and I'm sure the plane has been full all day, but this is torture. It is like a Port-o-let in August. Only confined to a couple thousand square feet. I dug out two Purell wipes, gave one to the guy beside me, and we're using them as odor barriers whenever the toilet door opens and closes. He thinks I'm a goddess for giving him something to whiff besides urine and chemicals. I seriously think he's about to write me a fucking check.

Okay, I'm rolling on the floor by now. Because you know, they're not serving drinks yet. I mean, be real...the fumes from a straight bourbon would go a LONG way toward soothing her nasal passages. Finally, she gets in the air and...double-whammy!

The travel gods took a series of additional dumps on me when they assigned me to a seat in between FOUR kids. A 12 year old whiner named Paul (who the guy from Omaha beside me said he'd disown if it was his eff-ing son) who I *thought* was 6 or 7, sat behind me and kicked my seat the entire flight while he whined about not having wifi - apparently his mother didn't know about GoGo.

When she suggested he pull out his book, he screamed "I HATE BOOKS!" To which Omaha whispered, "Good luck getting a job one day, you little douche bag. You'll be living in our mother's basement FOREVER." I said, "Nah. He can always get a government job." At that point Paul started a whinefest of epic proportion over pretzels and I popped in my earbuds.

Then National rented me a Yukon, which I swear to god is bigger than my bathroom...aaaand has GPS that doesn't actually work. I'm hoping all the bad shit is happening in Jax where everyone is laid back, so that only good things will come my way in Jersey next week. I am actually, literally, afraid to go to Jersey. Seriously.

G'nite.

God bless her...

Weekend Music Edition

I know everyone is going crazy for the new OK Go video, White Knuckles, and with good reason - it took the band 128 takes to get everything juuuuust right.

But, c'mon. Running down little ramps and jumping up on buckets is what dogs do.
They're tricks! Dogs are to tricks as fat kids are to hiding in bathroom stalls during gym class.

Now cats starring in a music video...that's something to see.
Even if they mostly just, you know, stand still.

Enjoy.



PS - Why, yes, I do love the name of the band! How'd you guess?

Cultural Friday Funny

My grandparents all came from large families, so my parents had around 75 first cousins. All sorts of aunts and uncles. I've been going to funerals my entire life and if your mom is from Tennessee? Funerals are great. That side of the family is really dry and funny, and what I remember most is them sitting around the night before, telling stories and laughing until they cried. Great way to see someone off.

Then...my dad is an only child. My mother has one sister, who had one child. Three of my grandparents died before I was born. That makes one grandparent, one aunt and one first cousin. Total. So my children don't have the funeral experience I grew up with and...sometimes you just forget that things have to be LEARNED.

The Big Boy's uncle died this week. Lovely man...the best of that family. We're making plans earlier this week for The Little Kids to miss school Thursday when The Not Nice Kid asks, in all seriousness, "Will there be food?"

Sheesh. Yes, dear, you're family so they'll feed you but this about Uncle Earl's LIFE. Show a little respect.

We pulled into the parking lot of the funeral home yesterday. Found a parking space, turned off the car and she says, "Do we have to pay?"

PAY? For what? PAY? Okay...learning experience here. No, honey, you don't have to pay. We're here to "pay" our respects, but they don't expect cash.

Mingle and speak and eventually move to our places. And right in the middle of a wonderful service, she turns around and whispers, "Are you sure he's dead?"

Well, hell's bells. The only thing that saved The Nice Kid and I was that it was hard to differentiate between our snorting and the other guests' sniffing. If you've never seen "Chuckles the Clown" from Mary Tyler Moore? You have NO idea how awkward it is to be sitting in the SECOND row at a funeral with tears streaming down your face. OF LAUGHTER.

But when we told it later everyone was agreed that...it was a fitting tribute to a really witty man. He would have approved.

Rest in peace, Earl McGuire ;)

Can you IMAGINE?

Heard this on the radio this morning and I don't care if it's true or not...OMG. For real.


The miners? Down in the hole? The ones we're all watching come out, and if you haven't teared up? Then you're just not right. Sez me.


One of the guys has been down there, his wife standing vigil. I mean...we're talking three months here. There is a LOT of trash to be carried out. And someone needs to be coaching a soccer team and hey...that AIN'T in the wife's job description. She is READY for her man to come home and be assured...she's already signed a contract with The Today Show and Oprah.

They get ready to start bringing the guys up, the wife is standing there all wifely and legal and.......in the background, is another voice. A female voice. Screaming his name.

Talk about interesting introductions...Wife? Meet girlfriend. Girlfriend? Meet wife.

Cameras are over there.

The radio announcer who was telling the story called it... this is the time? You're the miner?

Down in the hole is looking REAL comfortable.

"Thanks, guys. I appreciate the thought. If it's all the same to you? Just keep dropping the food and booze down that pipe. I'm good."

Politics, Religion and Sex

As you've probably noticed, people in the US discuss politics with strangers as casually and comfortably as Sarah Palin shoots baby Harbor Seals.

(I think I just made my point with that comment).

Politics is no longer a taboo topic of conversation - even though it might should be.

Following that train of thought, people in smaller towns, in ALL regions of the US (and possibly Canada although I am loathe to imagine my favorite national peoples ever being impolite) think nothing of introducing themselves to you by informing you of their church affiliation.

They follow up this bit of TMI by asking you where you go to church. Regardless of your answer they invite you to visit their church homes where they - bless their hearts - are absolutely certain you'll be much happier.

"Hi! I'm Carol! My family and I go to First Church of the Underwater Fire Eaters! You should visit! You would love it there!"

The not-even-veiled implication being that your church is not acceptable in her eyes, she cannot IMAGINE how you could spend time in such an unacceptable environment, and SURELY you can't possibly be happy there. You poor, unenlightened fool.

How is this acceptable? In a society where we're not supposed to talk about sex, religion or politics in mixed company, how is it that people are completely at ease (picture bloody baby Harbor Seals) accosting you about your worship practices?

So I, naturally, have hatched a plan to nip this shit in the bud.

The next time someone asks me where I go to church, I am going to ask him or her which position they favor during sex.

Regardless of his/her answer, I'm going to offer up an alternative.

If they don't run screaming, I'll hand them a cheap paperback version of the Kama Sutra and say, "I believe that by reading this, and letting the words into your heart, your life will be changed."

And walk away smiling.

Now see, I should have seen this one coming...

I HAD A CHILD AT 44. It pretty much defines the last half of my life. Not her fault. However, I also had a child at 40 which would be old if it weren't for the child at 44. Seems to be a trend here ;)

Last week, The Nice Kid, who is 15, had homecoming. Each day, they dressed in different character...Disney, favorite decade, OLD PEOPLE.

Read something not too long ago and it asked, "How old would you be if you didn't know how old you are?" and my first thought was...21. No lie. Still have places to go and things to do and...haven't done them yet. Getting around to it, just taking the circuitous route...LIKE MY EDUCATION!! I started college summers when I was 16, on a program for gifted children (this was 1972, no such thing as AP) and...since I was so damn smart...finally graduated when I was 32. Scenic tour.

Such is my path.

So it's Old People Day at school and YES...I'm guessing there was a nicer name but I don't remember it ;)...and we are frantically gathering up something to wear. Thankfully, Grandmother had left one of those gawd-awful Christmas sweaters over here...all covered in scenes and cute things and bell buttons. Worked great.

Except, everything else? WAS. MINE.

Mine.

Denim capris. There comes a time (wait...side story here. About three years ago we were all at my buddy's house for July 4th, when one of our friends older ((by 18 months)) sister came by. Keep in mind, this is a small town and our parents all grew up and went to school together and our grandparents are buried in the same cemetery. So Debbie-The-ExCheerleader, who still tries on her high school cheerleader uniform every Christmas to make sure she hasn't changed, stopped by. Now, she's been in a gym five days a week for the past 35 years, and she only had one kid, and she is genetically gifted, BUT. Bikini. Navel piercing. Serious tan. And as my little brother, who was "only" 42, pointed out, "I don't care how good her muscles are? That skin's been hanging there for 50 years.")

Denim capris. Comes a time when 2/3 of the planet considers you physically repulsive. Believe it or not, that's about 35. Deal with it. So at 50 I ditched the shorts and started wearing capris when I was out in public. Most of the time. So TNK gets my denim capris for her outfit.

Then? My Skecher Shape-ups. MY COOL SHOES! Nope...only old people wear Shape-ups.

Ankle socks.

Powdered her hair grey. Took one of my crocheted totes, put yarn and knitting needles in it and...off she went.

Only thing that wasn't mine was the sweater.

So I've been laughing about it all week because...come on. How ridiculous is this? I'm not OLD...I still haven't been to Paris! Or Ireland! Haven't run a marathon! These bumps and warts are superficial...nothing to do with ME!! Right?

And then this morning, I was buying milk and bread and...I bought a glasses chain. Because I'm sick of The Big Boy swiping my reading glasses and I want one decent pair to have most of the time.

When I got home and realized? Glasses chain.

Glasses chain.

Oh. My.

This mid-life crisis is going to hit, and it's going to hit hard. I have moments where I consider alternatives and then...I sit down until the urge goes away. But I'm getting worried...you read about people like me. Boring, responsible, functional people who all of a sudden buy a red car and grow a mustache.

Do you think a mustache would make me look fat?

Friday Funny...

...and accompanying excuses. From The Blogger Who Needs To Get Her Shit Together...that would be me. I told myself: two posts a week. You can do this. And I CAN...as soon as IGMST. Homecoming week at the high school which means one kid doesn't get home until ten at night...which means someone has to make the 20-mile drive BACK into town (for at least the third time) to get her. Soccer and basketball overlap for three weeks which means one kid practices for 3-1/2 hours a couple of nights a week. Two college soccer games this weekend, one high school homecoming, one Very Important College game, one BRANCH PARTY for a soccer team and its family members, Fall Festival at the elementary school, two birthday parties.

I asked the trade school to make me a pair of clothesline poles THREE WEEKS ago, and he finally emailed yesterday asking when I'd pick them up. Oh, yeah...WHENEVER I REMEMBER.

So I'll go get the truck at my parent's now and pick up the poles, then go ahead and haul the three sets of outdoor furniture from my sister's, my parent's and my house to the branch. Then I can rinse off the bugs and sweat and go take kids to the homecoming parade. And then I can go shop to FEED the 50-60 people tomorrow and go ahead and make the white sauce and the beans and marinate the chickens. And while I'm moving the furniture I can go up by the barn and cut some pig iron hickory for the big grill. BY MYSELF.

They want three strawberry cakes for Sunday's Fall Festival. And there's a chance I said I'd bake one for the Sunday afternoon birthday party. I'm bad about doing that.

In the midst of all this? The Blogger Who DOES Have Her Shit Together and who already had a Friday Funny...got blocked. At work. WTH? Have they no compassion?

So here, if this can make ME smile today? It'll all come out in the wash ;)

Fresh Ink

I'm considering adopting a new personal motto.

My first one was:
It seemed like the thing to do at the time.

Most recently it's been:
No good deed goes unpunished.

Now I'm considering from among these.
I might even have one tattoo'd somewhere.

Which do you like? Other options?

The last thing I want to do is hurt you. But it's still on the list.

If I agreed with you we'd both be wrong.

If the world didn't suck we'd all fall off.

You get extra bonus points if you laughed at the image!

Polenta is Uppity

It's been a while since we reached back into our No Place for Picky Eaters past and brought forth a good recipe for you all.

Last week I quizzed CG1 as to what sort of side dish I should take to a Supper Club dinner to compliment gumbo.

As it turned out, our hosts prepared a very tasty jambalaya, but, hell, I'm not Cajun and I've been over my Emeril Lagasse fixation for YEARS, so what do I know?

CG1 suggested: Fried Okra (EERH. Hubster hates okra), hush puppies or...baked grits.

Hmmm...Baked Grits. I make shrimp and grits all the time, but I'd never baked grits...though I imagined they'd be lovely all light and souffle-y and...grit-ty.

So I trolled the Interwebz and found a recipe. Printed it out, bought all the ingredients, and got down to work...completely disregarding the original recipe.

I do that. It's a sickness.

HOWEVER, the culinary gods were with me this time and the dish turned out extremely damn well, if I do say so myself. The supper club clan seemed to really like it, so when I got home last night I dug through the garbage can, pulling out bags and containers in an attempt to document what I'd done.

Here's the soooo not low-fat recipe as I recall it:

Baked Ham and Cheese Grits

Serves 8

• 4 cups water
• 2 cups heavy cream
• 1 teaspoon kosher salt
• 1 ½ cups quick grits
• 1 cup grated Parmesan cheese
• 1 cup grated sharp cheddar cheese
• 1 stick (cut into cubes) + 2 tablespoons salted butter
• 3 large eggs, beaten
• 1 cup chopped precooked ham (such as Heavenly Ham)
• 1 large shallot, minced
• 1 teaspoon dry thyme
• 6 cups water (for water bath)
  

Preheat oven to 350°F. Butter 8x13x2-inch glass baking dish.

Bring water, cream and salt to light boil in a heavy, medium-size pot. Add grits whisking constantly. Reduce heat to medium-low and simmer grits, whisking frequently, about 15 minutes or until thick and smooth.

Meanwhile, melt 2 tablespoons butter in heavy sauté pan, over medium heat. Add ham and thyme and sauté until ham is heated through, about 10 minutes. Remove from heat and set aside.

Boil 6 cups water.

Remove grits from heat, add cubed butter, cheeses and ham, and combine thoroughly. Allow to cool slightly and fold in beaten eggs. Season with salt and pepper. Pour into prepared baking dish. Place dish in large roasting pan. Fill roasting pan with enough boiling water to come halfway up the sides of the baking dish.

Bake until grits are golden and firm to touch, about 45 minutes.

Serve with green beans and fried cabbage (or other Southern vegetables) as a meal.

Friday Funny Thankyouverymuch

Tired of knitting sweaters and toques?
Put your needles together and purl an Elvis toupee for the follically-challenged man in your life!

Editors Note: I know this isn't *that* funny, but it made me shake my head.
And if something is odd enough to make ME look twice? Somethin' ain't right!