Fini!

I'm here!

:: panting hard, grasping at chest, doubled over and making inhuman wheezing noises ::

It's 11:27 - still 33 minutes from December and the end of NaBloPoMo.

I see where CG1 - ever on the ball - already posted today but, Dude, I want in on the action!

Fittingly, I have a story about a happy ending: Tonight, after a long, lo-ng day of meetings; after I (only half-knowingly) kicked up a shit storm of epic proportion, the full fallout from which will not be known until late tomorrow; after a day of having every question met with two more questions, which frustratingly led to ten additional questions - and no answers - I ended the evening laughing my ass off with three coworkers whom I hardly knew.

The company I work for has something like 45,000 employees globally, not counting tens of thousands of contractors in China, India and the Philippines. It's impossible to consider all the people I'll never meet, who are actually colleagues.

This week I'm offsite, in marathon planning sessions with a group of 20 people whom I don't know, have never even heard of, have virtually nothing in common with, and may never see again.

So we met. We went to dinner, and then some of us followed up the meal with a nightcap...at which point we all wound up quoting from the exact same random 1993 "B" movie.

A few people were talking about the technology industry and...well, technological things I didn't understand. Which led to stories about customers, which led to stories of travels to India and the Middle East, which led to people questioning the lack of Coca Cola products in Muslim countries and the abundance of Pepsi, which owns KFC, which lead to Colonel Sanders, which led to someone mumbling, "Before he went teats up" which led to me snorting - SNORTING - mouth agape, "You did not just quote from So I Married an Axe Murderer."

And so began a 20 minute snort fest; four people from wildly different backgrounds quoting Mike Myers as Stuart Mackenzie. Catch up here.

Religion will not unify the world, neither will Wikipedia or the UN - leave the heavy lifting to stupid movies.

Sometimes, life is really, really good.

i have a post...

...that requires opinionsc but i cant get to the notebook and this new phone is...new. hopefully i ll get my hands on it before midnight...

We said we'd post...

We didn't say we'd be good.

I spent three hours this morning in the vet's office with my parents dog. The one my mom ran over. When I left the doctor's office, I came home and showered off the blood and...my sims card had died.

Two hours at Verizon. The boy there was wonderful...for real.

The sims card didn't make it and I have a new phone. Two to three days to know how the dog fares.

Loooong day.

About "normal..."

It always just tickles the hell out of me to look around and realize...honey, I'm the most normal person you know. I mean...come on, y'all. This says a LOT more about you than it does me...

Skipping over Thanksgiving (which was very boring because my dad had the heat set on, like...FRY...so most of us stood out in the yard for the short time we were there) we had a family birthday last night. We have these family uproars at a Mexican restaurant, owned by a Catholic school parent friend of ours with a heavy hand on the tequila bottle. Sometimes this helps, sometime it hinders...sometimes we live up to the sign on the door. We take lots of pictures, which is sometimes the only way we know just exactly HOW much fun we had. We're normal that way.

Throw into the mix...one cranky old grandfather. He was a cranky young father, and he isn't improving with age. Some days are better than others. Some days...he shouldn't have been invited. The problem is, you never know if it's a do-invite or a don't-invite until he's rude to the waiter and then it's too late.

Let me throw in here, in case the Lord is checking my messages today, that he is 81 years old and has had a series of strokes. While he is mildly physically challenged, with a weakness on his right side, who's to say if he's mentally challenged? He's always been an ass.

The Big Kid and her cousin, The Big Niece, have been food service workers. We are a food service worker's best friends...we tidy and tip and don't do complicated orders and...

...oh, wait. There WAS that time...the grandfather announced that he wanted "that thing we always order," which would be a chimichanga, except that he wanted it made with "three eggs, scrambled. NOT two eggs, three eggs. Scrambled and then put in that thing."

This is where we became best friends for life with all our friends at the Mexican place. God? Thank you for Reigo.

Reigo was taking care of us that night, and when The Cranky Grandfather started in on his creative ordering, Reigo rolled with the punches. It was...there should be a word for funny and embarrassing at the same time...because Reigo was ON. TCG was adament, and not having a good night. Twice, he held up his empty beer bottle and announced loudly, "BEER!" No "please" or "when you get a chance." The third time, The Big Kid literally slapped the bottle out of his hand...while the rest of us slunk under the table.

Slink. Slank. Slunk. Are those really words?

But Reigo never flinched. He questioned TCG, "Not two? What about four?" but TCG held out and eventually dinner was served. I have no idea if what came was what TCG ordered, but I don't remember another uproar so maybe it was okay.

Last night? Not a good night. At one point, TCG jumped up and headed out the door. Of the RESTAURANT. The Enabling Grandmother asked, a few minutes later, "Where's your daddy?" Well, um, not sure. The bathroom? Pulling the wings off small insects? Just as TEG got up from the table, here comes TCG. Turns out...he had seen the nice girl at the cash register dash out the door and had decided that someone had left without paying and she was going after them and...

...HE WAS GOING TO HELP HER.

Did I mention the 81 years? The strokes?

Reigo rolled...have I said we love him? TCG wears hearing aids. I guess he had them in last night, but since he is not particularly interested in anyone else's opinion, it's hard to tell. So everytime he barked, "Bring me a beer." Reigo said, "No." Very politely and calmly. And TCG didn't hear him and the rest of us FELL OVER. I mean, snorted. Reigo kept bringing the beers. The rest of us kept laughing...even the serving kids laughed, instead of getting all bent out of shape and...oh, but then TCG started in on the flash on the camera.

None of the little kids could take pictures, because he said not to.

Once upon a time, when my grandmother was dying and was mean and cranky and sneaky and difficult, TCG said, "I'm going to be the nicest old person."

I wish...I pray...I'd pay COLD HARD CASH to have that in writing. And when the time comes? Will one of you please print this out and make me read it?

Sunday Punny Sunday

Hubster and I are the custodians of, and personal servants to, an enormously fat, grey tabby cat. A cat who has developed an obsession with scrambled eggs.

Understand, we do not feed table food to the animals. At all. Ever. We spend a great deal of money on special-needs dog and cat food and I'm not about to upset the balance of nutrition provided by those freaking expensive pellets by sneaking scraps of pork fat to the little carnivores among us.

But the tabby... a few months ago he snuck a bit of egg from my breakfast plate when I got up to answer the phone - and has been a cat possessed ever since.

Every morning he follows me around, giving me the eye, assuming - knowing - I have eggs.

Oh, if only I would share! The torture he is subjected to at my hands...er, fork... is unbearable! Somebody, call the ASPCA.

Probably the only reason he hasn't extracted his revenge by killing me in my sleep is that he knows as The Woman goes, so go his chances of ever again sinking his tiny teeth into buttery, tarragon-infused, yolky yumminess.

This morning Hub and I eschewed the Waffle House (possibly the first time in the history of the English language the words "Waffle House" and "eschewed" have been used together) in favor of breakfast at home.

I made French toast. Tabby thought I'd made eggs...because he ALWAYS thinks I've made eggs.

Down we sat to enjoy The Most Important Meal of the Day when Hub asked: "Why is Tabby giving me the stink eye?"

I explained the egg situation and said....

Are you ready for this?

I said: Maybe we should send him to Oeuf-er Eaters Anonymous.

Hahahahaha-haaaaaaaaaaaaa-hahahahah.

Then I snorted and nearly choked to death on orange juice.

I'm not completely convinced Tabby didn't have something to do with that.

I wrote an explanation...UPDATE!

CG1
I wrote an explanation of how I screwed up America's ultimate middle-class casserole last night. French's Green Bean Casserole. Never had it. Inedible.

When I hit "publish," I got "url not found," and the post is gone.

Not gonna happen.

***Time Lapse ***

CG2 Note: This was a comment, but I figured I'd use it to beef up CG1's post. We've got each other's backs like that.

 My SIL and I were talking on Thanksgiving about how much we hate, despise and loathe green bean casserole. I'd never tried it before moving south...and this is my first public admission that I've never successfully consumed a full portion.

Every year I serve myself a polite little scoop, but end up pushing it around my plate and hiding it under the extra Parker House roll everyone knew I couldn't eat, but put on my plate anyway. Little do they know, the reason I TAKE the second roll is because I need it to cammoflage little scoops of inedible casseroles.

I'm not judging GB casserole connoisseurs. At all. Clearly the problem is with me, not with the millions of normal Americans who can't get enough of its crispy-onion goodness.

Although, it could be the way it looks up at me from the plate. French's would have you believe that everyone's GBC looks like the image above, when really, it looks like this:

At my house we call that "The Dog's Dinner." Not because we would feed it to the dog, but because it looks absolutely repellent.

The good news is that even if we are at odds with the mean and norm, we are not  - by a long shot - alone in our hatred of GBC.

Exhibit A: The "I HATE Green Bean Casserole..." fan page (anti-fan page?) on Facebook.
Exhibit B: The "I hate *fill in the blank* more than green bean casserole" CBS Sports fan page.
Exhibit C: The Cooking Light message board - admittedly not the best place to find supporters of cream of mushroom soup and fried onions, but still....

Green Bean Casserole! More fattening and less enjoyable than a stomach virus!

It's So Tasty Too!

On this, the day after Thanksgiving, are you tired of turkey? Sick of stuffing? Unable to glimpse a green bean without gagging? You're not alone.

It is a little known fact that the term, "Black Friday" originally referred to the zombified dilation of people's pupils when faced with Thanksgiving leftovers.

And now a word from our sponsor -
Are you tired, run down, listless? Do you pop out at parties? Are you unpoopular?

Well, are you? The answer to all your problems is in this little ol’ bottle, Vitameatavegamin...It’s so tasty too. It’s just like candy!

Anyway, around Chez City the day after Thanksgiving means pork. Pork chops, pork tenderloin, pork and kraut - anything but poultry.

I've been making pork chops with apples and fennel for several years, but never bothered to commit a recipe to paper. Luckily, the Food and Wine website offers such a darn close version of my non-recipe that I'll never have to bother measuring and documenting and all that left brain stuff.

Pork. It's what's for dinner tonight, along with twice-baked potatoes, roast acorn squash and leftover cranberry relish - because I never, never, never, never ever get tired of the 'cran. Smacznego!

Pork Chops with Apple, Fennel and Sage

1. 8 boneless, thin-cut pork chops (1 1/2 pounds)
2. Kosher salt and freshly ground pepper
3. 1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
4. 2 tablespoons unsalted butter
5. 1 leek, white and light green parts only, thinly sliced
6. 1 fennel bulb—halved lengthwise, cored and thinly sliced crosswise
7. 1 Fuji apple—halved lengthwise, cored and thinly sliced
8. 8 small sage leaves, coarsely chopped
9. 1 cup hard cider

1. Season the pork chops with salt and pepper. In a very large skillet, heat the olive oil until almost smoking. Cook the pork chops over high heat, turning once, until browned around the edges and just cooked through, about 3 minutes total. Transfer the pork chops to a plate and keep warm.
2. In the same skillet, melt the butter. Add the leek and cook over moderate heat until tender, about 3 minutes. Add the fennel and apple and cook, stirring occasionally, until softened, about 4 minutes. Add the sage and cook until fragrant, about 30 seconds. Season with salt and pepper, transfer to a platter and keep warm.
3. Pour the hard cider and any accumulated pork juices into the skillet and boil over high heat until thickened, about 4 minutes. Set the pork on top of the fennel and apples, pour the sauce over the pork and serve at once.

Y'all do WHAT????

This family eats at my parent's house at six o'clock. P.M. Forget that noon shit.

Gives us plenty of time to start drinking early in order to better appreciate all this familial luuuuv.

Happy Thanksgiving to the planet...it's a good place to be.

Not a Real Post

I know it's not Friday, so I have no excuse for bailing out of a "real" post.

But, let's face it, we're three weeks into NaBloPoMo and this shit is getting difficult.


Gobble Squared, Kids.

It is genetic...

...the thing that makes guys different from girls. We, obviously, are not talking physical attributes here; although I have a HELL of a lot to say about that, too!

My dad is an only child. This is not a good thing. My husband has a sister, but he is the oldest and the one who shone while growing up. (That's not necessarily a bad thing, unless you're the sister.)

We live in a small town. My friend's grandparents are buried in the same cemetery with my grandparents. I'm related to half of everyone I know, and related to someone who is married to the other half of everyone I know. You grow up this way and you...belong. It's that simple.

A couple of months ago my dad went to an old friend's house, after a funeral, where all the children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, etc, were gathered. My dad doesn't get out much anymore, hasn't done anything for anyone lately, and isn't overly concerned with the well-being of the planet.

His comment, afterwards? "None of those kids know who I am."

Now, I'll give you he has been a part of that family for most of the last century, but time...she be a' passin'. And considering he hasn't made any gestures to be a part of these latter generation's lives? My first thought was...his comment should have been, "I don't know who any of those kids are."

But I thought I was just being pissy.

The Not Nice Kid has been in a boot and on crutches for a month, and although she has been officially "released," we still have exercises and ice and ibuprofen. So this weekend, she played basketball with her school team. (She really was hoping she'd get to sub with the boys, but we have to be careful about that now. Political correctness and all that. The girl kicking the boys asses doesn't go over too well anymore.)

I know I'm the mom, but I'm not prejudiced. She really IS that good. So midway through the game one of the refs comes up to me, (when he realizes the woman in the stands making fun of the basketball kid ("Girl shots!!" That's my line...) was probably the mom) and says, "My son saw a game y'all played last week and came home and told me about her. Says SJ has a girl who can play with ANYBODY!" I laughed, because I hear this all the time and I can't run and spit at the same time because it takes too much coordination, and agreed. Then someone did something and the ref went off to ref. 'Cause, you know, that's what refs do...

He came back a little bit later and asked, "Where did she come from?"

Then someone did something and he went off to ref some more.

Finally, after figuring out how old he was and where he went to high school, I explained to him that The Big Boy played on the local high school team that won a state championship in the 70's, with a star player who is a local legend. (His name is Otis Boddie and he was AWESOME. Daughter at Auburn and she got the genes ;-)

The ref knew immediately.

When I came home and repeated the story, TBB wasn't paying a lot of attention because he's cool that way. But when I said, "That ref said he'd been looking for her....", TBB raised up and said, "Looking for me?"

No. Not looking for you. ASS.

But that's IT!!!...what makes men step out in front, so much more easily than women do. They always assume someone is looking for them. AND THAT'S NOT A BAD THING...I'm trying to teach these girls this. Step out!! You're the one!! But the point is...I'm having to teach them! They weren't born with this automatic assumption...the one that says, "The world revolves around you!" "You are the one!" "You light up my world!"

Sorry. Debbie Boone regression there.

"The things that make me different are the things that make me." Winnie the Pooh. Who would have been a better parent than I am ;-)

I did that thing...

...that thing you always assume YOU'll never be stupid enough to do.

I sent a text to the person I was texting about.

The text read something like, "I wish I could just block NegativeRant's posts. AND ISN'T THAT FUCKING TREE POISONER GUY FROM TEXAS?"

There is, of course, history here. I had been running interference for NR for some time. The team no longer ate or partied together, because of the parents who prefered not to associate. Me? I don't pick sides, and then THAT became an issue with NR, as one disagreement turned into another disagreement and it sort of ended up...with me or against me.

Not gonna happen. I am the ultimate fence-straddler, unless I am married to you in which case...bring it on ;-)

And then we get up one morning and there is this totally irrational rant on Facebook and instead of just keeping my mouth shut, LIKE I HAD DONE FOR THE PAST YEAR, I sounded off to The Nice Kid. She had gone through my FB a couple of days before, deleting negative people. We didn't delete NR, my choice, but I knew TNK would get a kick out of the post.

So I grabbed my phone and sent the text and...I sent it to NegativeRant. You know, the text wishing I had blocked her negative rants.

Y'all, I apologized. Out the ASS, I apologized. Don't know what the response was, except that it was negative and TNK told me to forget about it. She deleted the entire thread.

Since then I've seriously considered...is there a way to ask for confirmation before you hit "send?" I'll bet out of the million texts I've sent in my life, there aren't ten I'd mind anyone seeing...and it was one of those I mis-sent. On the other hand, things are a lot more peaceful and the kids say it's nice not having to always be on guard. I miss a friend. I don't miss the drama.

THIS is why I'm happy in my hole. Nope, I do not willingly leave the house more than a few time a month. Happy in my hole.

Think I'll add that to my list of awesome life theories: #1...You can't save every chicken. #2...Do 55 and fuck it. And now? #3...Happy in my hole.

Inventing Insults

Our old friend Hunky, husband of Dory, posted this story about the bastards in Congress on FaceBook.

Debt Supercommittee Members Brace for Failure

The assholes are giving up before they've even tried.

Tom, being the lovely good guy he is, called them "Jackwagons."

In a fit of pissed-off-ness, I asked if "Jackwagon" is the polite term for a useless, leaky douchebag.

Which struck me...did I just make that up? I wonder if anyone has ever compared a useless apparatus - like a governing body - to a dysfunctional gynecological gadget.

My rage at Congress temporarily forgotten, I Googled my brand-new favorite term...and found it has been applied to lawyers and politicians for years, and most recently to Mark Zuckerberg.

So now I'm on to the next new insult:
Stone Cold Speculum?

OK  - Stop the presses.

Now, I just Googled "gynecological tools...." and it auto completed, "gynecological tools for mutant women."

I....I'm speechless. I have no words.

WTF?

Saturday Slap in the Face

Hang onto your banana clips and leg warmers, girls of a certain age.

I was minding my own business, studying the latest issue of People Magazine, the annual Sexiest Man Live edition, doing research, when I flipped to the article, "Sexy at Every Age."

I looked at the guys in their 20s...meh. With the exception of Robert Pattinson they all looked like they had 11:00 curfews.

30? Jake Gyllenhall, Leonardo DiCaprio - Okay, now we're getting somewhere.

The guys in the 40s category looked even more familiar: Jason "Handsome Rob" Stratham, Clive Owen, John Stamos, Jon Bon Jovi - be still my Tiger Beat-ing heart.

Then I got to the 50s category where, back in the day, I rarely recognized actors...and there he was: Ralph Macchio.

The Karate Kid, Johnny from The Outsiders, Jeremy from Eight is Enough -  is 50 years old.

That can't be right...... Ah, but it is.

So, if you'll all excuse me, I'm going out back to dig a big hole. I need to bury the last illusion...delusion...I had that I'm still reasonably young.

Friday Funny (from the fields)...

In the world of hi-tech gadgetry, I've noticed that more and more
people who send text messages and emails have long forgotten the art of
capitalization.

For those of you who fall into this category, please take note of the
following statement...

"Capitalization is the difference between helping your Uncle Jack off a
horse and helping your uncle jack off a horse."

Is everybody clear on that?

Sitting in the parking lot...

There really was a post attached to this...concerning corn nuts and white wine in a school parking lot. Damned if I remember the point.

Reboot

I am seriously considering undertaking the following steps this weekend:
1. Mix up a big nasty batch of Master Cleanse 
2. Buy, cook and consume vegetables in large quantities
3. Refrain from alcohol and caffeine for the weekend
4. Get a massage, a steam and drink many liters of water
5. Sit down and read both newspapers
6. Take vitamins
7. Take naps
8. Seriously attempt to meditate
9. Moisturize
10. Not leave the house (except for the massage)

Normally my weekend routine goes something like this:
1. Eat a lot of bad stuff
2. Eat a lot of good stuff
3. Drink a lot of wine
4. Drink a lot of Diet Coke and coffee
5. Run around like a maniac trying to accomplish way too many things
6. Start worrying on Sunday afternoon, what madness the week ahead will bring
7. Beat myself up on Sunday night for all the things I *didn't* accomplish

I hate to admit this, but the older I get the harder it is to bounce back from  a week on the road. Especially when I travel with people...I tend to pick up their bad habits and add them to my already impressively long list of Things I Really Shouldn't Do.

Like eat sausage for breakfast, an Italian sub for lunch and then top it off with ribs and wings for dinner.

Can you say bloated? I knew that you could.

You're gonna have to trust me here....

Due to popular request (hahahaha! That would be from elementary school moms) I posted a recipe on Facebook yesterday. Keeping in mind, City Girl and I are all ABOUT some recipes...in fact, we'd probably be better at running a restaurant than we are at blogging, just because we'd get to EAT! And play with food! And go on Pinterest and find awesome tablescapes! None of which, I'm guessing, has anything to do with running a restaurant but until we ran out of funding we would be SO happy....

Right there's the problem...I couldn't run a restaurant if you bought me new Nikes. I'd be bankrupt two days before I opened. But COOK? I might not could do it, but I'd go down eating ;-)

The thing about this recipe is that it has two things I normally would never consider using...a crockpot and cream-of soup. Why? I have NO idea. It's just that...crockpot. It seems so...so...cream-of soup. I don't know where I got these notions, but I've carried them around for a long time. Then, about five years ago, I got to noticing that there were a LOT of recipes for crockpot things that sounded...good. And THEN....I got to noticing that I wasn't home very much. Two kids playing sports, going to school 20 miles from home and playing entirely different things, didn't leave a lot of down time.

The Big Boy used to joke, when I had one kid and spent HOURS on supper every night, that I'd go into the kitchen, open a bottle of wine for dinner, make the bread for its first rising, put something on to simmer, have a glass of wine, set the table and have a glass of wine, do something with some meat and start another vegetable, have a glass of wine, get everything ready to sit down and then...open a bottle of wine for dinner. He's such a card.

So I bought a crockpot and it sat in the garage, unopened in its box, for two years. But I kept seeing the recipes, so finally one day I took it out and...voila!!! I'm hooked. Dumbass Award of the Year to the dumbass who left her crockpot in the box for two years. That would be me.

Cream-of soup? No idea where that prejudice came from, either. It just always seemed so...common. HAVE I MENTIONED THE DUMBASS AWARD? Common isn't bad! Common may be common because it WORKS!

So here, courtesy of a friend who kept insisting this was good is...TA-DAH!!! Your grandmother's chicken and dressing and I'm not kidding you...this is as light and moist and savory and rich and perfect as everytime your grandmother made it. And if you come from my family, that's the ONLY time it tasted like that because my mother? Cuts her chicken and dressing in squares. Like...dry squares. I cannot explain the cream-of-chicken soup. Can't do it. You'll just have to trust my friend Lisa.

Crockpot Chicken and Dressing

2-4 chicken breasts
8-inch pan cornbread
8 slices day-old bread or four fat biscuits or four fat rolls
1 medium onion,chopped
1/4 cup to 1 cup chopped celery
4 eggs, beaten
24 oz chicken broth
2 cans cream of chicken soup
1 t salt
Pepper to taste
2 T sage/poultery seasoning
3 T butter

Crumble breads. Mix in all other ingredients, excepting butter. Spray crockpot with cooking spray, pour chicken and dressing into pot and dot with butter. Cook two hours on high or four hours on low.

Now. I cook the chicken, then use the cooking broth for the recipe. I cut the chicken into chunks and mix it in with the dressing. If you're using pre-cooked chicken, you need two 14-oz cans of broth. Lisa's recipe called for less seasoning but...Lord I love me some sage in some dressing, so trust me. Two tablespoons sage.

Please don't do what I did and not try this. This is so good that now I keep a ziplock bag in the freezer and save leftover cornbread and biscuits, for when the notion strikes. If you buy frozen chicken breasts in the bag? You can pull out a couple of breasts, make a pan of cornbread if you don't have enough saved and...two hours later. The Supper of Champions.

I promise.

Tune In, Drop Out, Get on a Plane

Well, kids, I'm off again - about to board a plane to the bustling metropolis of Cleveland.

Actually, I like Cleveland. There's really nothing not to like about Cleveland - I think the place gets a bum rap.

Unlike Detroilet, which was as depressing as I expected when I visited a few weeks ago.

On Thursday I'll be in Silicon Valley. I *would* tell you that I'll be in San Jose, except that certain elements out there insist on singing a certain old song whenever I mention San Jose, so I TOTALLY am not mentioning San Jose.

So let's review where I've recently traveled for work: Cleveland, Detroit, Kansas City and, soon, San...Silicon Valley.

Wow. That's really not a sexy lineup, is it?

These cities are where the customers in my program are based, and I'm thinking that if I'd been devious instead of loyal, forthright and true (like a St. Bernard..or are those the Mounties?) I'd have recruited customers in Miami, Manhattan, Seattle and San Diego.

Next time. The next round of customers will be in Vancouver, Chicago, Tampa and Toronto - places I've either called home and want to return to, or cities I've long wanted to visit...and possibly move to. (Hub and I seriously discussed making a run for the border when George W was reelected).

More from the road later this week. :o)

Amen, Sister

Things that make you go "Whut?"

Flipping through the channels and the Travel Channel has a program, Extreme Barhopping, listed. Caught my eye (you think?)...but when I clicked on the info, it reads ".....$10,000 drink that comes with handcuffs."

I'm pretty sure I've had this? I just don't think it was marketed quite this way. In fact, I know I got married at least once with said logic ;-)

Maximum Elevenness

In celebration of Nigel Tufnel Day, we're turning it up to Eleven, Baby!

Here at the world headquarters of CGCG we have 11 pipers piping.

We're reading David Llewellyn. 

We're sucking down Slurpees - from the 7-11, natch.

Because we're in Rocket City, we're remembering the Apollo 11 mission.
(Is it a coincidence there was a full moon last night?.... Well, probably.)

And because no Eleven is as big, bad, loud or Spandex-wrapped as Nigel's, we are watching this Spinal Tap clip on continuous loop.

For those about to rock, we salute you.

Rocket City

Today's post highlights the town in which I work: Huntsville, Alabama.

For those of you who listen to Morning Edition on NPR, you probably heard this story earlier today. For those of you who don't - and I know we only have six readers - here you go:

"Driving into Huntsville, Ala., it's clear what this city is all about: A giant Saturn V rocket looms ahead in the skyline. This is the city that made the Saturn rockets that took the Apollo astronauts to the moon.

"We're the only place in the world that still has expertise about going into deep space," says Huntsville Mayor Tommy Battle. He says the moment the Saturn V took off and put man into space, it turned what was then a rural farming community on its ear.

And the city has been on a high-tech growth spurt ever since. The place dubbed "Rocket City" is now a metropolitan area with 400,000 people, a high-tech enclave in a poor state. 


But with NASA downsizing and the specter of automatic defense cuts looming, Huntsville finds itself in limbo...."

Read the rest of the story here.

At one point Huntsville was home to the highest per-capita concentration of PhDs in the country. It may still hold that designation. God knows you can't go to lunch without overhearing a conversation about...hell, I don't know what they're talking about. That's how I know they're crazy smart. (How's that for logic, huh? They don't teach that at MIT. Them's street smarts, right there).


More Hunts-vegas

Just in case Debbie Elliott and NPR are a little too erudite for your taste, I give you Rocket City Rednecks.
Have you seen this show on the National Geographic channel?

Three physicists and a retired NASA machinist building...stuff. Bomb-proofing pick 'em up trucks with beer cans and foam core to prove an armored Humvee doesn't have to be so slow and heavy...fueling a rocket with moonshine...you get the picture.

I have to admit the program does not portray Huntsvillians in the best light - they lay on the redneck routine pretty thickly. But, truth be told, the lead Redneck isn't from Huntsville, he's from "out in the county."

You know, kinda like CG1. :o)

(And that's what you get for making fun of people who eat messy sandwiches with a fork and knife).

Be afraid....

....be very, very afraid before you become our friend.

This will be a short and to-the-point post because in a minute I'm going to lose perspective and sit here and cry over a mongrel cat for the rest of the day. Don't be bothering me.

We used to have Pumpkin Parties for the kids. Started with five kids in my parents front yard. Last one was...three? four? FIVE??? years ago, with 150 people. Haven't gotten around to it since then.

The first party, we accidentally had a litter of kittens. Got rid of them all. Second party, a friend BROUGHT kittens. Got rid of them all. Third time? No charms awarded; I had to post on the invitations..."NO KITTENS. I promise ;-)"

Today I had one of those kittens put to sleep. Old. Frail. Cranky. Sick. Sicker. The Nice Kid came home from school, coughing and spewing. She took him to the vet for me...said vet is two miles from the house...I couldn't do it. I was still sitting here thinking I could change my mind when she walked back in the door, box in hand.

Dead cat in the box.

I had her put him in the deep freeze. I'll bury him tonight.

A little later we were in the kitchen swatting flies, which are EPIDEMIC here. Having said that? If I were a fly, I'd live here. Non-stop buffet. Just about any room you choose. And one of the kittens kept jumping at the fly swatter.

TNK kept swatting at the flies and yelling at the cat. And I told the cat..."Keep it up!!! We'll put you in the deep freeze!!! WITHOUT taking you to the vet first!!!!"

We fell over laughing. And now we're crying some more.

Ouch.

It started out as a very short list...

This would be, the list of things I didn't sign up for. Three kids, 20 years apart, pretty much guarantees I would be responsible for just about anything at some time or another...intentionally or not. I'm good with that...some of those things have actually turned out to be pretty cool. (This does NOT include the time I found out that if you put a dead snake on a grill and then go back 15 minutes later and raise the lid THAT FUCKER IS JUMPING AROUND. Not one of my better moments.)

But I did NOT, anytime, anywhere, anyhow, sign up for something dead under the sink. It COULD be dead under the board that is the flooring for under-the-sink but I have NO INTENTIONS of finding out.

There are flies. They are small and dumb, which is good, except that by sheer number they are winning this fight. I cannot find where they're coming in, although I've sprayed around all the doors and windows and UNDER THE SINK and...they keep coming.

So between the smell and the flies, I've used about $6 of cider, mixed with another small investment in cinnamon sticks and whole allspice, simmering on the stove. Great...now The Institution smells like DEAD APPLES. And it BUZZES.

So I'm out of here. There is a lovely Mennonite trading post about 30 miles north of here, and last year they had awesome mums and fall offerings and they always have cheese...lots of cheese. Cheeses to make your heart sing. So J Friend and I are off to check out the foliage and the trading post, and then find a floor cleaner at a retail institution somewhere. About 3:30, I will text The Nice Kid and tell her, "When you get home? Pull out all that stuff under the kitchen sink and see if we need to do something about that rotted floor."

Moms are sneaky like that.

Pantone Pansies

This admittedly isn't a *great* story, but it does begin with "So there is this stalker...."

For 44 years, and through two practice husbands, my name has been City Jones. My father was Big City Jones, his father was Grandpa Jones. My people are Joneses. I am a Jones.

Believe it or not, Jones is an uncommon name in this part of the country. What can I say? It's Welsh.

Hubster's last name is Johnson. There are at least one hundred Johnsons in this ZIP code, including two with the first name "City."

When Hubster and I married I did plan to hyphenate my name. But after a few years of procrastinating, we decided that I should just stick with Jones. I'm a modern woman with a unique name, in a town with little surname variety. I like my name, and becoming The Latest City Johnson held zero appeal. Most importantly, Hubster was, and continues to be, FINE with it.

Apparently, not everyone in town is fine with it, not that it's anyone's goddamnedbusiness.

A few weeks ago we were at a charity thing. We don't usually go to Things. Normally, we get an invitation, we send a check, and we don't attend The Thing.  But this was a Good Thing, a seemingly enjoyable Thing for a good cause.

And it seems that I've been hit in the head with an anvil since the last Thing, erasing the bad memories of Things Past and clouding my judgement. So off we went to the Thing.

Once there we ran into a lot of people we like very much but rarely see, which was lovely, and we fell in love a small, beautiful object being sold as part of the fundraising effort.

Hub ran into a friend so I excused myself to execute the purchase. As I was...transacting... with the very nice Volunteer Lady, Small Town Debutante (cue the fugue) whom I do not know well, and who I didn't even recognize the last time we ran into each other - took over the conversation.

STD: "Here, let *me* give you the information, Volunteer Lady. This (points at me) is City Johnson, although she says her name is City Jones."

"That's because my name IS City Jones." I told Volunteer Lady, trying to ignore STD.

"Oh, that's right," she touched me and continued directing Volunteer Lady, "She HY-phenates it. But, as you can see, there's not enough room on that little ticket for the whole, unusual name, so just write Johnson."

I turned my attention to STD, "My name *is* Jones, not Johnson or Jones-Johnson."

"Oh, honey, don't be offended, it's just such a funny name." Stop. Touching. Me.

Volunteer Lady whispered, "I think it's a pretty name."

Aaaand the spell was broken. I thanked Volunteer Lady and walked off to fish Hub out of the crowd.

"We need to go before I punch STD in the face. Why did we come to this Thing?"

"STD? Really? Well, she does owe you. Remember you ripped off her head and shit down her neck 11 years ago when she wanted you to sign her petition to color-coordinate all the landscaping in the neighborhood."

And there it was. I had to own it. I did, indeed, overreact to the petition that would have allowed her and a select group of Taste Mavens to tell me what color flowers I could plant. And as Karma dictates, I had it coming. Fair enough.

It took her a long-ass time to get around to it, but she got back at me. Damn, I wish I had that kind of patience and memory and time....

Wait a minute. How did she even recognize me when, just a month ago, I had no idea who she was? This, truth be told, probably offended her more than the Pantone Pansies incident.

And not only does she knows who I am, but she knows the entire story of my name (to hyphenate, not to hyphenate) AND she pronounced it correctly, which is no small feat.

How much time and energy has this woman put into thinking about me?

So now, instead of being offended by her drunken attempt at putting me in my place, I'm a little creeped out.

Is this her hobby? Does she keep dossiers on the women in town who don't go along with her program?

Maybe she has voodoo dolls of us Pansy Mavericks...That certainly would explain this pain in my ass.

It's A Wonderful Life!!

Ignoring the useless dish and the telephone pole and lines...this is the view out my back door. Those black dots are cows. The crop in front of them is...well, hell. Short grain. I'll remember later.

City Girl and I had lunch today. The food was good and I have mussels to cook for supper. The Nice Kid joined us and it was such a nice day her constant interrupting and laughing and telling stories that had nothing to do with what we were talking about was nice. And for the record? Yes. City Girl cuts up her sandwiches and eats them with knife and fork. Never having been to McDonalds with her? I cannot verify the frequency....

But somedays everything is just...right. And today was one.

I love this life ;-)

Friday Funny

"Friday Giant Happy Smile" is more accurate.


Even if you aren't a Doctor Who fan, this will make you grin. I promise.

(Have I ever led you astray?)



How I miss David Tennant....

A couple of years ago...

...I bought a Nikon SLR. I love this camera. I've loved cameras for a long time...if you know what a Canon AE Program is, you get to move to the front of the line.

When it became apparent that I wasn't raising rocket scientists, but I have a child who may potentially make it to the cover of Sports Illustrated in one of two ways, I started lusting over an SLR. A tennis parent had an awesome Nikon, but she also has family $$'s so while I wasn't lusting to QUITE those heights, I was lusting.

Two margarita lunch did it one day.

LOVED that camera. Til the day it stopped working, and I sent it back to Nikon. They returned it, marked "repaired." It wasn't. At all. I sent it back AGAIN, Nikon kept it for a while and then sent me another camera. A newer version of mine, refurbished. That was okay.

Until it stopped working. Sent it back a couple of weeks ago. It was returned. Marked "repaired." It isn't.

Not ONLY does it not work AT ALL, as opposed to working hesitantly when I sent it in, it was returned with a snarky photocopied sheet which is probably titled "Flash for Dummies." With highlighted paragraphs.

Oh, don't you EVEN.

I paid Nikon $159.22. I paid The Mailing Room $18.78 to ship it. October 6, originally, which means I haven't had a camera for over a month. Yesterday? I got an email from Nikon Service, informing me that they could not procede with emailing me a paid shipping label until I provided them with the invoice repair number and the service order number.

I went into my account on THE NIKON SITE and retrieved said numbers.

Got another email this morning. They need the serial number on the camera.

I just sent it. With the comment that "...it appears to be the same as last week."

I don't fight, people. I'll just buy another brand. And, like with poor service in a restaurant, I won't ever come back. You can make book on it.

This HAS taught me, however, that my 4G Droid? Takes AWESOME pictures.

*smile*

I'm coming! I'm coming!

...actually, I'm just breathing hard.

AHHH hahahahaha. That would be me, cracking myself up.

Actually, I'm coming down from one of those days where I'm looking around wondering...what the HELL is wrong with everyone???? Where did all these mean people come from? And why? Why be mean when you can be artificially nice with less effort?

I smile at everyone. I don't mean "sort of." I smile. WalMart. Foodland. Hobby Lobby. The co-op. Today? RiteAid. If my ordinary, mother-of-the-year look doesn't get you, then surely some crazy 50-something bitch wandering around retail land grinning like the Cheshire car should. If you don't want to be my friend, get out of the way.

And you would think that smiling at someone, as you pass them, headed to the booze, would make the world a better place. Second time in life this has happened to me...a well-groomed middle-age white female. Headed UP the aisle, on the left side. Only today, I was looking for something and she wasn't. And she was headed toward me, on the wrong side of the aisle. I KNOW she saw me. No one else on the aisle. She wasn't budging. Today? Neither was I.

We met. Nose to nose carts. I was looking at her, and I wasn't smiling. Me, who ALWAYS backs down from a fight unless I'm married to you. (Okay, maybe not ALWAYs, but most of the time.) And I swear, she looked me straight in the eye and said, "Am I in your way?"

Last time this happened, I muttered something and left. Today? I AM SICK AND TIRED OF SMILING AT SHITTY PEOPLE. I'm tired of it!!! There is NO reason not to be nice to mean people; it takes no effort. But today?

I smiled. I smiled real big. And then I said, in a very polite voice as I pulled my cart over and, wearing my pearls and my cowboy boots, "Traffic to the right, bitch. Traffic to the right."

It is highly possible this woman is head of the local Red Cross. Or chairman of the women's auxiliary somewhere. Or like, an anonymous benefactor. But today? SHE WAS ON THE WRONG SIDE OF THE AISLE.

And I'm tired of smiling at mean people.

;-)

NaBloPoMo 2011 - Let the Games Begin!

Last November, CG1 and I got off to what she called "an inauspicious beginning" when we failed to post on the VERY FIRST DAY of NaBloPoMo.

But not this year! You wanna know why we're here in our place with bright shiny faces long before midnight on the first of November?

Because we're celebrating five years of friendship with the bloggers we met during our first NaBloPoMo misadventure.

Five years with Fabs, Dory, Hunky, Mel, and Alejna.

Our relationship with you all has endured longer than Elizabeth Taylor's first three marriages...longer than the Sex Pistols...and certainly longer than Kim Kardashian and Kris Humphries.

This NaBloPoMo is for you - We love you guys!