This, according to The Nice Kid, is a Skank Muffin. No lie. We were in TJMaxx the other day, in the check-out line, and this was hanging there for gullible checker-outers. That would be me.

I picked it up and showed TNK and said, "Cigars? Cigarettes? Tiparillos?" and she said, "Mom, put that down, it's a Skank Muffin." Luckily a friend of mine was passing by and backed me up but it came down to the same thing...TNK had no idea what I was talking about. Which was okay because...what the HELL is a Skank Muffin?

And when we got to bemoaning this, a lot of things like that came up.

My kids will never know that, the times it's erotic to have sex in gym socks? They can thank Linda Ronstadt. (Okay, I'll grant you this one is pretty much limited to the 25-and-under crowd but...there are times it works. Well.)

They don't know who the Breck girl was, or why they can thank her for swingy, shiny hair.

And then, a little while ago, they laughed when I said I used to have orange shag carpet in my bedroom. Because.....everyone knows...shag is a new thing! You have rakes and comb it and...that Mom. She's such a card and she can't remember ANYTHING!

They also don't have a clue why the stud in the movie, Cars, was NOT Lightening McQueen. God bless Doc Hudson...the most beautiful man ever put on this planet ;)

Well, I never really thought about it...

but...who's gonna write my obituary?

We've had a couple of deaths close to home in the last month and I'm just hear to say...y'all better not let ANYBODY to whom I did not give birth and whose last name is Big Boy, have anything to do with my funeral or the arrangements. That bunch is all ABOUT being humble and mournful, and dumping people into the ground with as little commemoration as possible.

I want a celebration of my life. I want something to remind you, why you spoke to me twice. I want you to remember some time we laughed together until we hurt.

And I have a plan. Take all the usable parts and give them to someone who needs them. Cremate the rest. The people who own a farm next to ours have their own little family cemetery. I'm going to build a marble obelisk there, over a 50-ft hole. Take my ashes, lift the cap off the obelisk and pour them into the hole. Put the cap back on. Put a bronze plaque engraved with my vitals on the obelisk and move on. We can bury a whole lot of Country Family Members that way, without taking up an excessive amount of space. Although...thinking about it, ten feet will probably do it. Seeing as how the ashes will like, soak in and all ;)

(A funny here...we were talking about this one day and I made the comment, "Wonder if you have to marry one of the Cooper-Johnsons to be buried there?" And The Big Boy, in all seriousness, said, "Ahhhh, a blowjob will probably do it." There seems to be a pattern here.)

But we've talked about this and I am serious...get someone who knows me and loves me and is funny and...put him behind the podium. Don't sit there and cry...laugh your ASS off because I made your life a little better! And then retire everyone to the branch, light a fire, drink some bourbon, play some "Saturday Night at the Oldies" from Q107 and call in and request "Ninety-Nine Tears" and Al Green's "Belle," and...celebrate. Celebrate the fact that I was lucky and that I was fun and that I enjoyed the HELL out of the people who came through my life. ;)

Excepting some tailgaters and that stalker dude but hey...shit happens. And I spoke up ahead of time.

White Christmas

Here in North Alabama we awoke Christmas morning to a nice, thick blanket of snow - and then it continued to snow. All. Day. Long. It was gorgeous!

Lovely, fat, dry flakes that made the world look clean and, well, Christmas-y. Fortunately it didn't stick to the sidewalks or roadways so we successfully avoided a December 26 headline that might have read: The Great Christmas Run On Milk and Bread.

Walgreen's stores around the Shoals were inundated with holiday revelers panicked into a shopping frenzy on Saturday morning. "My family is lactose intolerant, but we don't want to be the only family in the neighborhood without a gallon of milk in the fridge, come snowfall."

Which makes me wonder: Do people realize the Walgreen family is Jewish and that's why their stores are always open on Christmas? Back in the day, in Yankee-town, Walgreen's was The Only store open on Christmas.

One holiday, during High School, my step-sibs were over on Christmas Day, and we got bored as teenagers do, so we drove over to Walgreen's, bought a box of Preference by L'Oreal and turned my brunette step-sister's hair red. Ho! Ho! Ho!

Anyway, here in Alabama we had a lovely white Christmas, but did not get ANYTHING like this. This is just a-mazing. Now that's a milk-and-bread-worthy snowfall!

December 2010 Blizzard Timelapse from Michael Black on Vimeo.

Move Over, Bing!

So, you all know about Antoine Dodson, right? He is the biggest celebrity to come out of North Alabama since American Idol Bo Bice...or ESPN's Rece Davis.

It turns out that Antoine isn't just a victim of random crime. He is, in fact, a marketing genius who successfully parlayed 15 minutes of fame into a five-months-and-counting encounter with celebrity. Go, Antoine!

Y'all, I give you Antoine's Chimney Intruder. Merry Christmas.

A Thousand Words

You can tell a lot about a guy by the state of his shirt, hair and smile.

Take these two gentlemen, for example.

On the left, Alexander "Ovie" Ovechkin, of the Washington Capitals.
On the right, Sidney "Sid the Kid" Crosby, of the Pittsburgh Penguins.

Ovie is a hoot. He has, arguably, the best personality in hockey. He is 24/7 over-the-top.

Sid is...not a hoot. Necessarily. He is, arguably, the best player in the NHL right now, but detractors call him dull. Not unintelligent. Boring. Capital "B" boring.

Look at this image. It's brilliant. Look at Ovie's hair. Straight out of the shower.
Sid's hair? Perfectly coiffed for the last 2 hours, minimum.

Shirt? I think, possibly, Ovie slept in that ill-fitting shirt. If not, I'd like to know what happened to it between his PA picking it up at the dry cleaner, and this photo shoot. That's gotta be a hell of a story.

Sid's shirt? Nearly perfect. Crisp. Custom tailored.

I don't think we really need to dwell on the dental work. Ovie looks like he's never met a dentist. Sid looks like he is a dentist.

These guys are rivals - got into an epic fight last season. Ovie looks like he's over it - and then some. Sid? Not so much.

I. Love. This. Picture.
Everything you need to know about these guys is right there in black and white.

The power of an image. Ya gotta love it.

PS - If you click on the Sidney link and look at his roster picture, ask yourself this question: Is this guy the love child of Barbra Streisand and Joe Camel? Bless him.

Rabble rousing...

Michael Vick wants to do WHAT?

I'm just gonna post this link and stand back, as the wrath of City Girl singes your eyebrows ;(

Christmas Observations

Santa Baby, please bring me a week's worth of Spanx brassieres because they are a miracle. (Now there's an example of modern science being put to good use!)

I cannot imagine anything less festive than Toby Keith singing Frosty the Snowman. Seriously, Pagans are using that song to try to convert back Christians.

A dress-up Christmas party? Just one? Isn't such a bad way to get into the holiday spirit.

Seeing reindeer antlers and a big red nose on a big, bad-ass pickup truck never fails to make me smile (you sort of expect it on a Mini Cooper).

For the second year running, my favorite seasonal pass time is finding obscure Christmas songs and burning CDs for the Hubster - it gets him out of his musical comfort zone. He has no idea what's on the disc when I give it to him, but he's game enough to play it.

For reasons we won't go into here...

...I woke up in a field this morning. Now...I was in MY car, it's MY field, I was there on purpose and I wasn't breaking any laws but...a field.

And people, I am here to tell you...forget church...God is all OVER Him some country landscaping. He showed up first, all pink and streaky on the horizon. Then He glinted across the field when He hit the sun and frost.

He came down a fence row and cavorted all OVER that field, His white tail bobbing. And then He crackled some when the sun hit the frozen edges of the pond.

I was awed. And I wasn't mad anymore ;)














(Who am I kidding? OF COURSE we'll go into it here. SOME IDIOT decided that our private elementary school and the public high school into which it feeds would have their Christmas presentations on the same night. My parents were in Nashville. The Big Boy's parents are incapable. TBB (who will be referred to from here on out at That Idiot I'm Married To) had been in South Louisiana all week. He was supposed to be coming home yesterday. One kid said he'd be home at three pm. The other said he'd leave New Orleans at three pm. No biggie...he'll call.

He didn't.

I have one kid at one school, one kid at another school and a husband too damn DUMB to either 1) answer his phone; 2) stop and call and tell me he's 1) lost his phone, 2) lost his charger, 3) forgotten my number; or 3) too stupid to realize he does NOT need to be pissing me off about this. I haven't missed a child's school presentation in THIRTY years and I essentially missed both last night.

So, after I waited THIRY MINUTES after The Nice Kid's program for her to come out, only to find out the TIIMT was not only AT her program, where I was, and apparently TOO DAMN COOL to be seen where the parents were, but he had taken her and LEFT. And gone to pick up The Not Nice Kid, who was frantically calling me every 30 seconds wanting to know who was picking her up.

When they all three ended up in the same car? I didn't. End up in the same car, the same vicinity, the same house or the same bed. I have friends in low places. Lots of them. I walked in and asked for a drink and a divorce and they made the first one so well I forgot about the second one.




(Not enough to go home, but I was calmer. Talk about slow learners ;(








And then he did it again. My friend is here, trying to help me get this kitchen and the bathrooms fit for human use. Phone rang. And rang. And rang. I texted him and told him to leave me along. He called. And called. And when I finally answered it to SHUT HIM UP? He was still in town. "How 'bout I run by and pick you up for a quick blowjob? You'll be back in 20 minutes."

It's not me, people. I'm the only sane person in this bubble.

It's this soccer mom thing...

Again.

Y'all, in ninth grade The Nice Kid played school basketball. During the entire season, she played in a game...at least twice. Maybe three times. Ninety seconds tops? She scored a goal one of those times but it's possible they set the goal on the floor and reminded her where it was. She had fun. She got a great warm-up suit. She made friends with lots of awesome black kids who still watch her back; and we learned some SERIOUS catch-phrases and terms that most white kids never hear. It was good. (When you did something dumb, the black girls would go "FO!" When I asked, turns out that doing something dumb is one, dumber is two, but past that is just FOUR because you don't get three ;) The Big Boy and I attended all but one or two way-off games...she was part of a team, and that's what you do. We hoped she'd get better, she didn't, shit happens. SO??

(The thing here is that tennis is her sport...she competes USTA locally and holds her own. They just needed a tall kid for basketball so there's be enough girls to scrimmage. That works.)

My POINT, should I ever get there, is that we went to the games. We cheered. We made friends with the coach...the first guy my kids met taller than their dad. I bought the players doughnuts. Gave them rides home.

That's what it's about.

The Not Nice Kid tears UP whatever sport she plays. She goes out there intending to take you DOWN, and she usually does. Soccer is her thang ;), but she plays tennis and basketball, too. She throws a mean football. She can catch a baseball better than her record-setting dad. (This is so weird to me...you want this ball? Here...I'll give it to you. You don't have to chase me for it or run for it or anything. Does this uniform make my butt look big? And are we going to eat after the game?) SHE WAS BORN THIS WAY. She also works at it harder than just about anyone you'll ever meet.

Which makes me the perfect sports mom. I have no clue what's going...can't keep score, don't know the rules, DON'T CARE...and I can cook. What else do you need?

And herein lies the dilemma. TNNK plays 5th grade basketball...it's the soccer off-season and it keeps her in shape. Because she's so good, she also subs on the 6th grade team...you can't play down, but you can play up. She plays most of the game and scores most of the points.

Last Saturday I had a 6th grade mom rip me a NEW one, because her 6th grade daughter only played 2-1/2 minutes. By her counting. And my 5th grader played most of the game. I was so stunned, I didn't even realize exactly what had happened until I got home and...she HAD heard me speak, she HAD heard what TBB said, she DID know we were standing there and...she was PISSED.

TBB blew me off, but then it happened again at practice Monday night. Not to the same degree, but she let me know in no uncertain terms she wasn't happy with the situation. I kept turning the subject to Christmas and hunting. Should have stuck with religion and politics. She wanted to be mad.

And herein is my question...what's the cut-off for "everyone gets to play all the time and no one is special"? We all know "no child gets left behind" translates into "no child pulls ahead." When do you stop forcing my above-average kid to be average?

Last year we were getting ready to leave for the elementary school Sports Banquet, and TNNK asked, "What kind of award do you think I'll get?" I pointed out that, possibly, there wouldn't be awards. That everyone would be recognized for trying. And the kid-born-with-the-killer-instinct, the kid-who-practices-in-the-driveway-until-I-make-her-come-in, the kid-who-works-at-it, said, "They better not make me drive all the way into town for a certificate."

I fell OVER laughing. And they did ;(

LIFE ISN'T FAIR. Self-esteem is ACQUIRED, it is not instilled. You can help your child excel, but each child is born with specific talents and NO...you can't be great at everything. You can be GOOD at lots of things, but outstanding talents and abilities are inherent.

So where's the cut-off? I've been on both sides of the fence...and it never occurred to me that TNK should have a place on the basketball team unless she earned it. I take my cues on a lot of this stuff from TBB and his athletic family and background but...isn't this just common sense?

I mean...don't Y'ALL want to be on my kid's team? BECAUSE I CAN COOK AND THROW GREAT PARTIES???? Sure, she'll help you win but I make a mean white sauce to go with beer-butt chickens. I know someone at almost every food establishment within a 100-mile radius and I can get us a table most times. I take a coffee pot to early morning matches, and I have a cooler in my trunk.

PRIORITIES, people, PRIORITIES. Food, laughter and beverages take precedence over winning any day of the week. I know. I checked.

It's in the Bear Bryant biography.

What's Happening!!

I assume some of you got the "Rerun" reference, no?

Because CG1 and I are ridiculously...ridiculous...and, by the looks of things, aren't nearly as eloquent as either of us used to be, here's a rerun of one of my fave posts. It has a book, wine, the Hub and a cat. What more can you ask for?

PS - Please note how modern the clothing in that image looks. Everything '80s is new again, Kids.

*******

Last night I was all hunkered-down in my reading chair. Feet up, glass of 2005 Ribera del Duero at my side (shout out to the entire country of Spain: I love your wine! Have you ever considered sponsoring a blog?), a half-read copy of "The Reader" in my left hand, a kitten batting at my right.

Around the corner comes Hubster, he stops to survey the scene of domestic tranquility and I'm pretty sure he's thinking loving thoughts and feeling the marital bliss.

Then his face fell.

And with that the tranquility was shattered.

"You can't DO that!"

Do what? Drink and read? Oh, hell yes I can.

"What?"

"You can't skip to the end of the book! I just don't know how you DO that. That's just wrong."

I look down at the book. Sure enough, I've given myself away by inserting a finger where I've left off (midpoint) while reading the last page.

I give myself a mental kick in the ass. Time to go on defense.

"Where is it written that I can't skip to the end? You flip through magazines back-to-front."

"That's different."

"Is it?"

"If the author wanted you to know how the book ends when you're only half-through, he'd have put the end in the middle and then flashed-back... Are you really that impatient?"

Truth be told, much of the time I am that impatient. But there is a method to this breaking of The Reading Rules.

"Look, if I get half-way through a book and am not completely in love with it, I skip to the last chapter. If I like the way the book ends, I go back, read the second half, fill in the details and then reread the last chapter in its rightful place - at the end.

If I don't like the way the book ends, I set it aside and take another from The Giant Shelves of Unread Books.

If I love the book, I read it in the order intended by the author."

:: Another doubtful look and an exit ::


So the part of the "The Reader" - and I don't think I'm giving anything away here, because the commercial for the movie shows this scene - I'm struggling with is the courtroom scene.

I've already - 100 pages ago - figured out The Big Secret. Also, the back-and-forth between prosecuting attorney, defending attorney, judge and defendant isn't nearly as interesting in print as it is on the big screen. And it's in Germany, and it's 40 years ago and I'm frustrated that Hanna can't speak up for herself in the courtroom the way a modern American would.

All this led me to skip to the last chapter - and to get busted.

I didn't pick this book. This is a Book Group book. I'm slogging my way through, but I need a little help. I need to know how it ends. At least I'm not skipping the book and just watching the movie.

So I'll give you all one guess as to my favorite shot in "When Harry Met Sally."

Yes, I have a favorite shot, a favorite scene, a favorite line, a favorite song. I have ovaries. The movie was released when I was 22 years old. I was susceptible...and I've watched it about 40 times since then.

My favorite is the quick little part that shows Harry starting a new book and then immediately flipping to the last page. The phone rings, Sally asks him what he's doing, and he says, "I was just finishing a book."

My hero.

We Be Pimpin'

Did you know that you don't need a Kindle to read Amazon eBooks?

So if, say, a blogger friend wrote and self-published a book of short stories, and sold it on Amazon, you could download a Kindle app - at no charge - for your Blackberry, iPhone or PC.

Whoda thunk it?

If you were lucky enough to know a very funny blogger person, who is also thought-provoking and who has the cajones to publish an ebook, you would probably be shocked - SHOCKED - to discover this work of devastating literary genius costs a mere $1.99.

That's a pittance! Half the price of a Gingerbread soy latte!

Think about this in terms of Christmas: You could send a loved one a very good read, for a song, get credit for knowing about a brilliant young author before he becomes Robert Pattinson-famous AND earn cool bonus points for giving a techie e-gift.

Well, today is your lucky day because we - and you - DO know of such a creative genius!

Fab Boy Fab has published a short collection of essays and short stories called Little Things and it's a great read.

You really do need to click here now and download a copy. Or send a copy to someone as a gift. Or, preferably, both.

Fabs is funnier than Jon Stewart at a Sarah Palin-themed drag show.
He's sharper than Sarah Jessica Parker's stainless steel Jimmy Choo stilettos.

In short: Buy this book. You won't be disappointed.

And for the love of publishing, tell your friends!!

Extreme Knitting

Thanks guys!

Second family miltary funeral in a month yesterday...and I htink they could play "Taps" in Burger King and I would cry. Such a perfect interpretation of a service ;)