Tuesday, September 30, 2008

Random Thoughts of Bargains

I can smell a bargain a mile away. I had to live with the cheapest SOB on two legs for 19 years of misery and had to learn to be thrifty to ever have anything neat in my house besides a cooler for a coffee table or the plastic bookshelf as my entertainment center. So I learned the magic of Junkin'. This post will be the informative post of random bargain info you have always wanted to know, but were afraid to ask.

Good ol' Brenda, the Queen of good intentions herself, tagged me and since I am unathletic and can't run, she caught me. So for your viewing pleasure I will give you seven shots of Randomness about me and my Bargain Guru-ness. Above is my favorite piece and BEST FIND EVER. It's not crooked, just lousy photography. It's an Apothecary Chest from an old oilfied office of my best HS friend's dad. I paid $10 for this baby. I fought harder for it than my kids during the divorce. Not really. He didn't even know I had it...

Whoops! How did this get in here? Okay, well, this is what you might find in the GOOD bargain stores with the GREAT deals. Take you a sticky pad and set it around wherever you stand. Once on, they can never get off. Literally. This is who was scaring me and making me crazy a couple of days before the hurricane blew in. He and some of his buddies took refuge in my kitchen and had a mouse convention with popcorn, Raman noodle packets, and hookers. Above is the popcorn and one wasted convention-goer. I hope he got what he paid for and died happy. I also caught the hookers. I know they were hookers because they small and petite and flashy-like. Whores.

2. This is a picture of my NEW FIREPLACE SCREEN 3D helped me get for my birthday!! Amazon rocks and even Mr.Picky loved it. Thank you, thank you Deb! Can YOU say you have ever gotten a fireplace screen for your birthday? I didn't think so. I had been looking for months for one and when browsing through Amazon, I spotted this and thought, "HEY! Deb gave me a GC and so this screen only cost me like $50. I know. I am a Bargain Shopper Deluxe.

3. Speaking of Bargain Shopping, above is a frame I bought in an antique store for $10 that I think probably belonged on a buffet or dresser. I added some cardboard cut to shape and hot glued fabric to the cardboard. The crosses on there are to keep Tiffany and her wet-nurse Deb and their vampire selves away. Actually the crosses are magnets and plastic. Hot glue. (Please ignore my personal obese photographer that is wearing Amy's dirty shirt she left for me because she didn't want to do laundry, or it was too small in the boobs, I forget. The photographer still had on pj's from this morning and needed something to hide that she hadn't put a bra on. Sloth.)

4. Another bargain: Plate rack from the Salvation Army in the ritzy part of Dallas $5. Plate on top that no one will ever eat off of: 75 cents from the Soul's Harbor. Two bottom plates brand new from Pier One: $2.20 each. All the crap on the hutch, dollars at flea markets and junk shops. Just try to get the same color or like colors for displays. Because I am Martha Stewart. Only not a gagillionaire, mean, been to prison, and I can't cook. The hutch was a bare piece of furniture that we refinished. I went in the store to look for furniture and Rick came with me because it said NUDE on the front of the building and he thought I was taking him to peep show. Much cheaper to buy nude. But if you have to wear clothes, you can still get good deals. I crack myself up!

5. Four matching leaf frames from Big Lots: $3 each. The pictures inside aren't pictures. They are a napkin I found at the junk shop where the crazy schitzo lady hangs out and talks to herself. I just cut it to fit and again...hot glue. Napkin: free. mainly because I bought some other junk and the schitzy girl was stressing the guy behind the counter out and he missed ringing up the 10 cents. I look for her bike with the long orange flag on the back because she always helps me get better deals.
6. I bought this coffee table for $20 at my favorite Junk Store and stripped it, painted it with my kitchen paint, sanded it and stained it. When you go to buy a refurbished distressed piece and they are asking like $750-PAY IT!! That was hard and I sweated more than I would like to whine about. Notice the SkyMall magazine on the beautifully finished table top. And Gus with his devil eyes.

7. Okay, I know you are sick of this, but it's the last, I swear. I got this bed at the Soul's Harbor in Waxahachie. It's a headboard and footboard and still in my garage because I haven't had time to move it into the guest room. Or the energy. Ready? $20. For both. AND metal side rails. Wheeler Dealer Extraordinaire.

Okay I lied. One more. This is a collection of platters in my dining room. Aluminum platters. Cool platters. Cheap platters. You can find these for $2-10 at the junk shops. The hangers cost me more than the platters. Always choose junky, dirty, have-to-dig-around-in-boxes stores instead of the fancy Antique Shoppes. That's where all the bargains are.
So now you know how cheap I am. Or maybe you already knew.

I Am Such A Loser

All the women in my family are Domestic Goddesses.

They love to cook, clean, organize, and they hum when they do all these things.

I only do these things because I have to. And I never hum when doing them.

My sister, Amelia Bedelia cooks almost every night. Home cooking from scratch. Fried, baked, yummy dishes. My mom makes the best pies with homemade crusts. My grandmother and aunt have their talents of cooking extravagant meals, have closets that hold labled color-coded boxes and never have to rummage through drawers looking for scissors. Even Erin keeps her house so clean, you can eat off her floor. I do good to prepare a skillet meal that you dump in the pan and stir and serve 10 minutes later.

So when Amy was here this past weekend, she and Rick were talking about cooking and she says, "If you go the stuff, I will make you chicken fried steak." Rick was absolutely giddy and immediately left to go the store. She prepared the delicacy and Rick ate until he was sick. Then he did the unthinkable.

He called Amy when she got home and asked her to send him the week's menu she would be preparing. He said, without using words, that I am failing in the Good Wife competition. So she called me to get his email and when she told me what it was for, I laughed. After I told her she was a jerk for being so domestic and making me look bad. Then I hung up and immediately felt like a big fat loser.

As I watched Rick listen to Amy and mom talk about food and the preparation of it, I saw his eyes glaze over and realized I suck as a homemaker. I have cheated him out of wonderfully cooked meals and organized closets. I have never greeted him with my pearls and A-line skirt and heels and I don't even own an apron. I don't have his smoking jacket draped over my arm and his pipe waiting, packed with his favorite tobacco. I am sure he would love it, if he smoked a pipe.

Because his schedule is so sporadic, he may be home at 6, but most of the time it's 7 or 8. So I have used that as an excuse to do the quick dinners that can be prepared in 30 minutes or less. Meals like spaghetti, tacos, and frozen lasagna. I CAN cook, I just would rather not. I am terrible. And now, because I saw the reaction from Rick, I have to do better.

I had put a roast in the crock pot before I left for work yesterday and once home, made mashed potatoes, and broccoli with velveeta cheese sauce. Baby steps, people. The tea was ready, the table set, and I even contemplated using candles, but I didn't want to set any unreachable precedents.

The kids emerged from their rooms, following like bloodhounds, the smell that had wafted up to them . They step into the kitchen and say, "Who is coming over?" Again, stabbed with the reality that I suck.

The roast was so tender that it fell apart and splashed it's greasy broth all over the new shirt I had just gotten on Saturday. I burned my hand on the cheese sauce for the broccoli. And my hand is still cramped from peeling and cutting the potatoes.

Man, this Domestic Goddess crap is hard.

Good thing I am good in bed.

Monday, September 29, 2008

Just A Drop

Rick and his mom, Norma(notice the no window coverings...)

I just wonder if anyone else has this issue:

My great-beyond-words husband uses all my expensive shampoo.

He is bald.

Every night when I get in the shower, there on the bench sits my shampoo bottle, open. Every night his cheapo good-smelling Suave sits closed. Every night after my shower, I ask him, "Did you use my shampoo again?" Every night he says,"Just a drop."

My hair is very thick and neither me, my mom, nor my sisters can wash their hair daily. We are every-couple-of-days washers. No oil. I know, hate us. But I will trade for skinny legs, because I can wear a wig, so shut it.

Anyway, I buy a huge bottle of shampoo. The kind that costs $30 at the salon. The kind that if I wasn't so damn lazy I would get up, go into my bathroom and specifically name. But for now, it's the white bottle shampoo. The white bottle shampoo that should last me 3-4 months. The bottle that I have to replace every month. The bottle my bald great-beyond-words husband uses to wash his hairs with every morning and every night.

I can count the number of hairs on his head and I am not God. I can shave his head with a number one and it takes 3 minutes. I can see my brushes lie untouched in my drawers because he doesn't brush his hairs. And I can count on going back to my salon and buying the 387oz (again, making that up because I am too lazy to go see the real ounces) bottle in a couple of days.

The effects of loving a bald man who loves to shampoo. What's a girl to do?

Sunday, September 28, 2008

Best Birthday Week EVER!! with new pix

Here is the newly added picture of my new tshirt AND my new nails. BTW, I have VERY large hands. Okay, not really. Just extremely small bosoms. But they work. (for shoes) heh- kidding again. The tshirt says WILL WORK FOR SHOES. And basically, I do just that.

I just had my best birthday week ever!

I just dropped my mom and sister, Amy, off at the airport.
My Big Daddy, Rick, had them fly in for my birthday and I could not have asked for a better gift! I was so surprised when they walked into the restaurant that I cried. The really ugly-face cry. Amy has pictures and I am sure she will share tonight when she lands. But I don't even care. It was that great of a surprise. I am shocked that no one blew it and that I never had the slightest idea they were coming!!!

My house was trashed, my floors unswept. But, I didn't even care. Amy made me look bad by cooking chicken-fried steak and mashed potatoes and we sat around with our pants undone and laughed and visited.

On Saturday, we got up and went to our favorite store and Brown Street Cafe for their strawberry almond salad and egg salad sandwiches. My daughter Kalee wanted to look at the local junk store for a small table to put Jacob's TV on, so we all went slumming at Soul's Harbor. Inside was the local Schitzo who carries on never-ending conversations with herself and my poor mom and sister were able to share in the entertainment she provides. She, of course, makes friends with Amy and wants her opinion on the used straw cowgirl hat she found. The same hat I had looked at for my cowboy room. Schitzo places it on her head and dances around the store saying, "I am a root'n toot'n cowboy" along with "If I fall, I will get pregnant," and "Everyone keeps staring at me like I'm crazy". Ya think? We all smiled our poor-pitiful-girl smile at her and quickly left with our purchases of junk, just in case she had a gun in her koala bear backpack.

I wore my new shirt today that I won on Deb's Don't judge this book by it's cover. I LOVE it and most importantly, Amy can't fit her ginormous boobs in it, so she didn't even try to sneak it in her bag. You will have to wait to see me in my shirt since Amy has all the good shots and my boobs look bigger in her pictures.

So my weekend was full of great surprises and wonderful company. Kalee and the babies came in and John David came in from Stephenville. Trevor got lost, I guess, and never showed up. The dogs were even less irritating than normal, but my mom still refused Gus since he has a wiener. She wanted a girl.

I should've asked for her to take both dogs for my birthday. My memory is slipping in my old age. Thanks Amy, mom, Kalee, John David, and Rick! I loved my birthday surprise!!! And thanks Deb for the shirt!

Friday, September 26, 2008

My Weekly B&M


I am not a dog person. I know, I hate myself, so save it.

I WANT to be a dog person, but I am shallow and the love I start out with for them soon fades to seething hatred. I know I am horrible. I love dogs when they are someone else's. I do not inflict any physical punishment on dogs, I just give the stare. The OMG-WHAT-WAS-I-THINKING-WHEN-I-GOT-YOU,-YOU-MAKE-ME-WANT-TO-HURT-MYSELF stare. It never works. Dogs don't get it.

In January, after my Daddy passed away, I got my 11 year old son a dog. Cooper was having issues sleeping alone and I was not at that time able to give him the motherly support he needed because I was dealing with my own issues. So I thought a dog would be the answer.

We adopted Andy through the Rescue organization. He was cute in an ugly kind of way, was potty trained and was 4 yrs old. He didn't bark or chew and he was great with the kids. And I hated him. He got on my every last nerve. He had only a couple of irritating characteristics, but I could not get over them.

He was slightly neurotic and wouldn't go outside if it was the least bit cloudy because he was petrified of storms. If he was outside and wanted in, he would jump 5 feet in the air and do this high pitched freak-out whine thing that sounded like he was hyperventilating. This would cause an ungodly amount of slobber to drain from his mouth and the first step out the back door was covered in dog spit. It was unbearable. And it was ME he bonded with.

I tried everything my vet and my friends suggested. I gave him Benadryl and he ran around the house outside 68 times nonstop like a psycho. I gave him herbal dog anti-anxiety pills with no results. He was only happy and good when he was in the house. Right beside me. The one who despised him.

My MIL came over and I offered Andy to her and she accepted. WHOO HOO! Our house was calm and my nerves began to mend. Then my mom called me.

"Find me dog. I think I want a dog."

So, I get online and search the ads and email and make the phone calls to find my mom someone to keep her company. I drive over an hour to pick him up. His name was Gus. He was a shih tzu, black and white, just like our favorite dog, Baxter who met his untimely death when someone hit him with their car. In my yard. Totally traumatic.

Gus was adorable. Playful and at a year old, was over the baby-sitting phase. I was so proud that I had scored so well with this choice. I called my mom to give her report.
"I got you a dog!"
"Really?! What kind?"
"He's a shih tzu, like Baxter was."
"I don't want a boy."

So now Gus lives here. With our family. And Andy.

My MIL decided Andy was too lonely and needed the space to run and basically returned him with no receipt. She decided that she would take no in-store credit and exchange him for Gus.

So now I have 2 dogs.

Two dogs that have chosen to bond with me. Two dogs that follow me everywhere, sit on my feet wherever I sit, whine at the door when I close them out. Two dogs that crunch their food with their mouth open and drink their water slurpily and have it drip off their face onto my hardwoods. Two dogs that rustle and tumble and knock things over. Two dogs that smell and lick each other and hump one another incessantly. Two dogs that are in love. And they have chosen me as their third in their doggie love triangle.

I am officially their bitch. And I moan the entire time.

Thursday, September 25, 2008


I want to say thanks again to all who commented, sent cards, texts, sang to me on my voicemail, wrote on my FaceBook that I can't remember the password to, and for the gifts. This Blogging thing ROCKS!!!!

As I attempted to thank each of you individually and read your posts for the day, I noticed EXERCISE was mentioned as the new topic for many of you. And if you are new here, I am completely allergic to doing anything that would make me sweat and become beet-red. But, as I attempted to find something to wear yesterday to go shopping with my poor naive wonderful sappy husband, I have concluded there is NO other solution to the growing pudge and widening lower half of my already larger-than-life lower extremities. Realizing I have to exercise, my post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) set in and the flashbacks began.

Because I finished college later in life, in my 30's, I was usually the oldest student in all my classes. And because I didn't want to do my PE credits online because I insanely wanted to have the entire college "experience", I took WEIGHTLIFTING as my credit.

I arrived at the gym early since I had no one to twist my hair for and pop my bubblegum for and because I am an unadulterated brown-nose. As the students began to trickle in, they, of course, take a look at me and go to the opposite side of the room. I glance up after 10 minutes past when the class was supposed to begin, to see a room full of 19-20 year old boys. Big athletic boys. One of them looked at me and said,"Are you the teacher?" to which I responded with a mature, "PPPFFFT".

The panic set in and the realization that I was WAY out of my league with these boys was completely overwhelming. The coach arrived and called roll and gave us the introduction tour of the equipment. I am not even paying attention, thinking the entire time how I am going to have to drop this class and do something else. My heart rate was about 160 and I was thinking A) I am going to fall out and these boys were going to witness the old fat lady die before any exercise was ever done, or B) I am actually going to have to work out in front of these boys, all of which I could have given birth to.

Class ended early and I approached the coach and said something to the effect of, "Probably going to drop this class", "Way too old", "No one my age or sex here" to which he responds without even looking up, "I figured." scrrreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeech. "Excuse me?"
He looks up now and coyly smiles and repeats himself, "I figured you would drop the class."
I have no idea what possessed me, but suddenly I was determined to finish this stupid class, if it killed me, which as I let his office, I was sure it would. But I would die under the heading"Old Fat Woman Dies Trying to Work Out With Football Team". It would be glorious. And completely insane.

So, the semester began with free weights and the boys, all of which I guess were impressed that I hadn't bailed, were so fun and helpful and it quickly became my favorite class. I was their entertainment, looking like Lucille Ball as I did the lat pull down bar and raised up to change stations, only to have the bar swing and hit me in the back of the head and knock me over into the treadmill. I had issues with every machine and luckily was able to laugh and thy laughed right along, AT me. They would take turns being my personal trainer, teaching me the correct way to hold it, breathe, and position my flabby body. Those 3 days a week turned me into a strong toned mamma with forearms that resembled Popeye. It was grotesquely satisfying. I had made great friendships with these boys and was even invited to some of their keg parties. Since I feared being cheered into doing a keg stand, I never went to any, but was very touched they wanted me there.

The semester final was coming up and I had really learned a lot in the class, even befriending the coach who took pity on my during the timed leg lifts on occasion. I showed up on final day and he took us outside. UH OH. This did not look good. "Run three miles under 24 minutes. GO!" the class took off and there I stood in the dust cloud my boys had left behind. I smiled, patting him on the back and said,,"Whew! They were ready! I will just go inside and do the tread-"
"GO!" He says, pointing to the pack of athletes.
He nods his head.
"I am directionally challenged. I don't even know where they are running! I will get lost!" The tears are welling and my blood pressure begins to sky rocket.
"You've got 20 minutes left."
"If I drop from a heart attack, know I will haunt you til you die."

I take off like a shot- okay really I begin to walk- and see the boys turning the corner of the building. I get to the corner and go inside to the cool air-conditioned setting and wait in the comfy chair in the lobby. After 15 minutes, I walk to the other side of the building and go out the side door that is approximately 100 yards from the gym where the Nazi coach awaits. I begin to jog towards the gym, thinking the entire time how I will choke the SOB with his whistle lanyard and stuff his body in the lockers. By the time I make it the 100 yards, I am huffing and puffing like I just ran a marathon and I can feel my face illuminating red. The boys are waiting for me at the door, all sweaty and have their hands on their heads like all good athletes do. I make it up there and they are so impressed they are speechless. I look at my favorite boy, Daniel, and wink and out of the corner of my mouth say, "I have been waiting on y'all in the lobby."
"Were you working out in the lobby?"
"Shut up. No, I ran from there to here."
"I will kick your ass if you tell.'
"Yeah. Ok"
Somehow the threat wasn't effecting him the way I had intended.

So we all passed and I cheated and am alive today to tell you because of it. I am actually considering starting weight training again, which in and of itself is more exercise I have done in 2 years. God help me. Really.

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

Yes, It's Today

Alright, okay, settle down now. Yes, today is the day, 43 years ago, that God decided to bless me and place me into the greatest family, born to Joe and Kay, and as oldest of four daughters.

It's a difficult birthday, being the first one since my daddy passed away. He always called me and convinced me that I wasn't really the age I was, because that would mean he was getting old. I miss him so much.

I want to thank ALL of you for the wonderful well wishes and gifts. And mainly for your friendship.

I am off to spend the day with poor Rick who has said we would go shopping. He has no idea what he is in for.

Thank you again. I love y'all!!!!!!

Monday, September 22, 2008

The Envelope, Please

I was awarded this very important looking award from my BBB, 3D at Postcards from the Edge without even begging for it, like I normally have to do for all my awards. It's called the
I wish you lived next door to me, but since you don't, this blog will have to do Award. (okay, I totally made that up.)

Actually, it's nameless, but it is Portuguese and it translates: This blog invests and believes, in the proximity [meaning, that blogging makes us 'close' -being close through proxy]. So to pass on the love, which , BTW, has no rules to the number of people you pass it on to, I will do my own thing. Shut it, it's my birthday week. I bestow this great honor to the following, wishing we lived close so we could hang out in person and do each other's hair and paint each other's nails:

Marilyn at The Farm Blahg

These girls make me laugh and are unbelievably supportive. I really would love to get together with them.
Speaking of getting together, how many of you would be interested in having a GIANT SLUMBER PARTY next September? Too avoid high costs, we could have the party at my house in Dallas. I can sleep 16 comfortably, 45 uncomfortably. If enough interest is expressed, we can vote on a date and start planning. And I will start cleaning. We can just hang out and drink, eat, and visit, or actually have fancy activities like a restaurant dinner and a play or concert. I am lazy and go for the one that I don't have to actually dress up for, so just let me know what YOU would like and we can start planning. (BTW, there are 2 airports in Dallas, Love Field and DFW. I am 35 minutes away from both of them.)
Let me know how interested you are and we can start deciding on who's house we will TP. Just kidding. I am much more mature than that. Ok, no I'm not. The last time I TP'ed, I took my youth group from the church and was exiled when the deacons figured out who did their houses. And I was married to the preacher then...can you say AWKWARD? I knew you could.


As you all know, my birthday is Wednesday. ( Just go with it if you didn't know...) Because I make the rules, I celebrate the entire week and choose what it is we will do and when, because it is officially My Birthday Week.

Rick asked me on Fri night what I wanted for my birthday. Now, any other time I would have pulled out a list that was 7 ft long and full of unnecessary wants I have. But now that I have Carte Blanche on choices, I got nuthin'. I can come up with no neat expensive items that I must have. What is my deal?! So I just told him that he needs to give me some time to think, which really means to sit and thumb through all my neato SkyMall magazines and decide what useless item I want.

Since the little ones were at their dad's this weekend, Rick and I decided to go see the boys in Stephenville. My 21 year old son works at a steak place as the cook and we picked up Trevor, my 20 year old, and went to eat. Watching John David behind the counter cooking and becoming that much closer to his dream of owning his own restaurant made me tear up no less than 8 times. The steaks were phenomenal and he looked so grown up back there in his apron. He even came out to mingle with all the customers and the kudos and pats on the back were rampant. I wanted to jump up and shout, "That's my boy!", but I refrained.

Stephenville is a college town, housing Tartleton Sate University and it's 3000 students. On our way back to the boy's apartment, Trevor is showing us all his favorite hang-outs which consisted of restaurants and two bars. We passed Chi-hua-hua's and Trevor says, "That's Chi-hua-hua(pronouncing it chi hooa hooa's) I said, "Isn't it Chi wa-wa's?" He informs me, "Mom. It's Stephenville. They don't have real Mexicans here."

John David and Trevor are 17 months apart and are as different as night and day. They live together and like The Odd Couple, have many obstacles to overcome as roomies. Their apartment was spotless. No dishes in the sink, nor clothes on the floor. John David's bed was made perfectly and the toilet was sparkling. I teared up again thinking that my baby boys were really growing up and didn't need me anymore. Then I opened Trev's door. Scanning the bare mattress and 4 ft deep clothes covering the floor, I felt a tinge of satisfaction, knowing at least my baby still is a pig, with or without me.

Kalee and her husband spent the night at our house with the babies and I got to spoil Grayson and Kaydi Jo all day Sunday. It was wonderful.

Speaking of my kids, is it just our family, or do others have this issue? When my kids are caught doing something wrong, and I catch them and stand there with my eyes and mouth open wide in astonishment, they all use the word "WHAT?" with the inflection at the first part of the word, indicating I am the one that has lost her mind. Here are just a few examples:

Kalee, when she was about 7, got up on Christmas morning at 4am, woke her brothers up and commenced to open and play with all her toys from Santa BEFORE waking me. Hearing the sounds of squeals and loud toy noises, I stumble into the den see all my kids intensely playing. Kalee looks up and says, "What?"

John David, when he is about 6, uses the "What?" when Trevor runs in screaming that he has just been shot in the ass by John David and his new BB gun.

Trevor, around the age of 5, at midnight, walks past the bathroom, through the living room where I was watching TV, unlocks the front door and goes outside to pee off the porch. When he comes back in and is met with my infamous look of stun, he also says, "What?" before heading back to bed.

Chris, Amy's son, my nephew, said the exact phrase when he walked into the kitchen where Amy and I sat, holding the arm to an antique rocking chair in his hand. Apparently to his 5 year old conclusion, WE were the ones with the issues.

And now the genetic defect has reached my grand children. Grayson, who will be three in November, got hit in the head with a bouncy ball and fell saying, "DAMN!" Kalee quickly looks over to him and he nonchalantly says, "What? I can say that." She had the same open-eyes-open-mouth expression.

Hee hee. This is the moment I have looked forward to for 18 years. heh heh.

Friday, September 19, 2008

My Weekly B&M

Let me preface this B&M by saying that just because it's about my husband does not it in any way reflect that I have bad feelings for him. He is the love of my life, as irritating as he can be!

I met Rick at the hospital while caring for his ill father. I was going thru a divorce, finishing the last semesters of my RN and working 40 hours a week. We were friends from the beginning and I got to know him on that level for 6 months before we began dating. He took me and all 5 of my kids and supported us emotionally, financially, and spiritually and willingly, and added my niece to that equation for over three years. He is the kind of man women wish their husbands were like. I thank God daily for him.

As perfect as he is, he still sometimes makes me do the death-stare-with-one-eyebrow-raised look, only with a slight grin. He unintentionally makes me laugh, which never gets old.

He never laughs out loud when he reads my posts. Now I have shared some of your posts with him and he laughs out loud. Cackles. Chuckles. And on Amelia's Nell Carter post, he cried laughing along with me.
But when he reads mine: n o t h i n g
I finish my post, slide my laptop over to him and go out on the back porch so I can watch him through the windows. He reads, he thinks, he adjusts his reading glasses, with no expression on his face. I usually tap on window and say, "Don't ya think that's funny?!" to which I get a quick nod. I have even gone as far as yelling, "Now THAT sh*t is funny! Why are you not laughing?!" to which he says, "I'm laughing on the inside" and pats his chest. He tries to make it up to me by coming outside with me and saying some ridiculous bullsh*t like, "You should write. That is really good. Does this mean we can't have sex tonight?" Is it asking too much for a grin? a chuckle? a nod of agreement? Hell, I am not expecting him to lay his head on the table and pound his fists while tears of laughter run down his face. Just give me something!

He is an "UMMMM" user. He runs a very successful construction company and has millions of things going on in his mind. I made a pledge to him after talking with him on the phone, that he is allowed only 3 UMMMs in one phone conversation. After the third "UMMM", I say, "LOVE YOU! CALL ME BACK WHEN YOU THINK OF WHAT YOU NEED TO SAY! BYE!" Here is an example of one of our conversations:
Rick: "Hey, honey. What are you doing?"
me: "About to walk into a patient's house. What's up?"
R: "Just wanted to ...ummm......see.......um.....Damn! I think I missed my turn!....um...Are you going to....um........Shit! There is no way I can get my trailer in there!...um.....Guess who I ran into today?"
me: "Honey, I have to go soon. Who did you run into?"
R: "........um......What's her name?"
me: "RICK! FORTHELOVEOFGOD spit it out! FOCUS!!! I have to go in and see someone sick with Alzheimer's."
R: "Okay, okay! Ya don't have to get testy! Call me when you are done. Love you. Bye."
me: "loveyoutoobye.

He is incredibly RANDOM: The Randomness of his conversations are hilarious. We can be in a group of people talking and visiting when he states, "18,765." All verbiage stops and all eyes are fixated on this man. "Sorry, Just figuring something in my head." And all conversation resumes as if this is common. And it is. Holidays, Parties, Vacations, you name it he is always thinking. I know you are wondering, and no, he has never moaned anything like that out when we are "busy". He is focused. But immediately following....it's "mumble mumble 9584, 24,780, mumble mumble." I just smile and ignore it.

He carries more junk in his pockets than the average woman carries in her purse. This man comes home and piles his computer bag down and puts his receipts, phone, earpiece, pens, pencils, credit card wallet, change, money, gum, chewing tobacco, wedding ring, watch, reading glasses and sunglasses into his cap. The cap sits over-flowing with his stuff and it takes him 10 minutes to pack it all up again when we leave the house. And cargo shorts may have gone out of style, but it beats him carrying a man purse, which is the next option.

He can sleep anywhere anytime. He works long hard hours and wherever he lights, he closes his eyes and his mouth drops open. It's a comfort to look over and see he is peaceful and resting. I have found him sleeping like a baby on his back on the hardwood floors his boys are installing, amidst the roar of the sander, the nail gun, and the loud Tejano music playing on the radio propped up in the window. If he gets still in one place for too long, he's out. Until his phone goes off and wakes him up. Going to the movies is NOT a fun date for us.

He has this obsession with jiggling my fat. All my fat. This is the peak of his irritating habits. With his open hand he cups me and jiggles and won't stop until I make him. He does it to my breasts, my legs, my butt, my arms, my pudge. He does it in passing, when we stand together, in the shower, when I cook, when I am on the phone, in the car, standing in line, etc. Wherever he can reach me, he is jiggling me. And since we've been married, he has about 20 lbs of extra fat to jiggle. It drives me bonkers.

So if he isn't asleep at the kitchen computer, looking thru his hat that holds his junk, talking on the phone saying "ummm" to someone else, not laughing at my posts, or randomly shouting out numbers, he is beside me, supporting me, encouraging me, loving me, helping me, and jiggling me. God, I love this man! I am not bitchin' or moanin' AT ALL.

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

My Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World

Greetings from Land of Stress.

Here in my world stress is a constant. Stress motivates me and keeps me going for the most part. A consistent flow of stress is good for me. I get up every morning early and get my kids off to school, pick up my house and work my job of nursing.

At present, I have been hit by the Katrina version of stress. Now, I can barely drag my fat ass out of bed because I can't sllep well at night. I no longer even ask if Cooper has put on deoderant or brushed his teeth, even though the yellow glow illuminating from his mouth would suggest those teeth have not seen his toothbrush in days. My house is beyond gross and I don't even care. And my poor patients are thankfully being seen by my LVN, but the paperwork is piling up on my very unorganized desk with no effort being made to change that coming in on my part.

As I sit behind my computer and become Jill jill bo bill, all that stress goes away and I laugh and joke and become my "normal" self. I want to somehow thank whoever invented the idea of blogging, my sister Amelia Bedelia for MAKING me do a blog, and you guys who read me and enjoy it. Without this blog, my family would have changed the locks and I would be living under a bridge in a cardboard box, wearing dirty ragged clothing, pushing around a hijacked Walmart shopping cart and talking to myself.

Without going into details about my company for the fact that it could jepordize the lawsuit I have had to file, my life is about to drastically change. I say this as not a "good bye", but instead a "Does this woman EVER get off this blog" plan. I know I am a better wife, mother, daughter, sister, and friend when my world is not tilting drastically on it's axis. Blogging keeps it in balance for me.

Lucky for my husband, I usually do most of my blogging at night and come to bed happy. My husband says, "A happy blogger is a good lay" and will probably get a Tshirt that says so.

Speaking of Tshirts, join us over at Don't Judge This Book By it's Cover for the great contest for a FUNNY tshirt.

And while you are at it, to cheer me up and help me not go scan the parking lot at Walmart looking for a nice basket model, click on my crown link and vote for me for Drama Queen. You will be in my court of royalty and the perks will be enormous.

Since this post is so NOT funny, I encourage you to go to this and read the story J'ollie and I did in the comments. It will make you smile. I promise. Plus, Navpress is wanting illustrations for the publication and Stephen Spielberg has called for a movie deal. Really.

Now go vote, then go read. Please.

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

My Nickname

Alrighty O-
Just want to thank you millions of fans for following me and supporting me as I did my first Guest Appearance on Deb's blog.
I got 313 comments!!! (pelvic thrusts towards Dooce)
Okay, only about 40 of those were LEGITIMATE ones, but 313 just the same. There was some taunting, Top Commenter battling, and our own version of Twittering going on there, but the whole idea that Deb would return back to her Hotel and find 313 comments to ME on HER blog made me wet myself. Really. We sort of blew up the site and switched to Twitter and that's where the converstion ended. Only because "Mean ol Deb" found where we were hiding and sent us all to our rooms. So if you have any extra time and nothing to do, I invite you go and read the comments and unravel the mystery of why I had to go change clothes midway through.

We have planned, unbeknowst to Deb, that we are meeting again same place at 8pm tonight. Click here to join us. I promise lots of fun and downright dirty with mud, blood. boobs, and lots of cussing clean competition. Tiffany will be leading the pack of wolves us tonight. Fun for all!

I actually have a post today, and now that I am done advertising, I will get the show on the road!

Today, class I want to discuss NICKNAMES. Say it with me. NICKNAMES.

Now, some nicknames are specific to you and others, more vaguely generalized. The vague ones, such as "Boy", "Girl", "What's Your Face", and "Hey You" are mainly used when speaking in general to some one. Such as, "Hey, Boy, how much for the doggie in the window?" Or, "Girl, that dress is divine." We add more personalized meaning to nicknames like "Sweetie", "Honey", "Sugar Pie", or "Snookems" to show fondness. We say names like "Bozo", "Nimrod", "Douche Bag", and "Ass Hat" to show our scorn.

A nickname that sticks, such as "T.O.", "Boss Hog", "Princess", and "Big Mama" are given in adoration and is defined by our attitude, our job, or even the postion we hold.

Except for me.

I always wanted a cool "defining" nickname. Having a nickname meant I belonged to someone and that person calling me the nickname thought I was speacial enough to have one chosen. I was called corny names by my dad and grandparents like "Jilly Bean", "Jilljillbobill", "Jilldee" and sometimes even "Jillzee", but those, even though said in love, never were real nicknames. Was there a name that someone would call me that I never tired of?

NOPE. I got stuck with "JILLDO" by the same guy whom I had a major crush on, but then threw up on on the mountain in high school.

And there was "EAT". Now, remember I was fatty when I was young. Jr. high and high school, I was thin and hotttt. The nickname "Eat" was given to me by my crush's best friend. I was horrified. OHMYGODHETHINKSI'MFAT!!!!!!!!! OMGHE THINKSIEATWEIRD!!!!!! OMGWHATTHEF***DOES'EAT'MEAN?!?

Finally, after months of being called "Eat", "Spanky"(yep.HIS gaywad nickname) tells me why after all this time he and all his extremely much cooler friends call me "Eat".

"Do you remember when we went skiing?" He asked.
"Do you remember that I was feeling sick all the way there?"
"uh huh"
"And we stopped on the side of the dark road to let Randy pee?"
"And you got out backward with your ass first and I was poring out my beer coke and it splashed on your legs and without even turning around you mule-kicked the shit out of me which sent me flying through the air because you thought I was throwing up on you?"
"You are 'Eat'. Eat up with the dumb ass."

So whatever nickname you have been dubbed with and hate, it HAS to be better than the 2 I am still known by to my high school friends.

So quit 'cher cryin'!

Jilldo or Eat

Monday, September 15, 2008

Where Am I?

I am not here today. I am here. So click and read!!! And for the love of gawd, COMMENT!!!! I HAVE to have more comments than Deb usually does. She says I'm ten years older than I am and won't bring me a pretzel. I must show her! (Guest Blogging is so over-rated! There was NOTHING in her Greenroom. No doughnuts, coffee, NUTHIN"!!!)
Have fun, Deb! We miss ya!

Sunday, September 14, 2008

I am Alive

I have survived.
At first I was afraid, I was petrified. Kept thinking Ike would let the water come up inside...

Anyway, all is well and minus a few tree limbs and lots of standing water, we are okay.
Thank you so much for the well wishes, prayers, emails, phone calls, and concern you, my beloved sistas, showed me. I owe you all and will gladly repay the favors.

Today is clean up day and the kids and Rick are so excited. Or not.
Remember to do a couple of things:
1. Fill out the Secret Santa Info and join in the fun we will have!
2. Remember that I am guest hosting tomorrow on 3D's blog while she is out of town.
So go there and show me some love with lots of comments and let her know how wonderful I am so she will bring me back a pretzel from the Red Sox game. Just lie if you have to!

Peace out, homies. Love ya!

Saturday, September 13, 2008

In Case I Die

As I frantically try to read up on all my favorite blogs before the power goes out and batten down the hatches around here, I was thinking, I have no idea what I will say today. I don't have Photoshop, so I can't do anything funny like Tiff from Stuck in the Sticks.(sorry no time to linky)

And because I am a drama queen and think there is some remote chance that here, south of Dallas, might be in the path of stupid ol' IKE and I have a chance of being a statistic, I want to let everyone that I have ever commented on and that has commented on me, that I love you. Even mean adorable Dana from LIFE IS GOOD. (again, sorry no time to link) Just in case the house falls on me and all that is left are my striped leggings and glittery red shoes sticking out, I want my blog family to know how important you are to me.

I am not getting mushy, because I hate that snot thing, but I am really bonded to you guys and if I survive, am looking forward to getting to know the new "blood" I have met thru SSS. And speaking of SSS, if I am never found in all the rubble, whoever draws my name can mail it to Amelia because she probably would have eventually whined until I gave it to her anyway.

So, quickly, before I lose power, I saw this on The Mom, Jen's, blog this morning. She is over on my blogroll under Cheaper than Therapy(again, forgive me, no link). She had this wonderful idea to tell what you are doing this weekend using the word THERAPY. So here are my Hurricane Plans for today:
T: Take all my ferns in and Talk one last time to my friends (sob).
H: Help my husband clean out the other side of the garage to get all his sh-stuff from his truck in and Holler at my kids to help instead of watching TV.
E: Eat. duh. Explain to my kids how much I love them and how sad they would be if I was crunched under a giant beam and how they should have been nicer to me.
R: Rick. I am going to hold his hand and kiss him and tell him how lucky he is. Regret that I haven't even gotten to show you my cool toenail polish. Yes Tiff, I was planning on giving you a warning.
A: Accept the fact that I won't ever be a size six again and be happy with the double digits. Act like I know what I am talking about when I speak about math or computers, cuz I really don't.
P: Pee on the Toilet. Important to add "on the toilet", since I am sure when you die, you pee yourself. And poop. Sometimes, but I have already done that today, so I think I am good. And you're welcome for the info. Prepare lunch, lasagna, to be exact. I want to go out on a good Martha Stewart note.
Y: Yak as I am cleaning out the hall closet under the stairs to die, I mean hide in, because there are dust bunnies in there as big as footballs and I want my last breaths to be clean ones. Yammer on and on about how if I was still alive, I would be the next Dooce and make millions and have all my blog friends live in the community I have built for them, so we can hang out at our pools and drink and laugh while our nannies take care of the kids and our maids are cleaning our houses, and the chefs are making our favorite meals. Amelia, 3D Deb, Georgie, Tiff, Tena, Sue, Jen, Karen, Leslie, Dana, Sidney, Swirl, Coral, Deb, Gin, Tracy, both Hollys, Elaine, Poppet, Janie, Stalker, Brittany, Ronda, Rhonda, Amy, Lisa, Mariah, Chris, Carrie, Krista, Jill, Danielle, and all my new friends would be there, taking turns having the nightly bash at their house that I would build for them. It would've been so FUN!!!!!

Okay, things are getting crazy here and my husband is on his way back from doing payroll and I have to act like I have been working and not writing. The winds have picked up and it's raining harder. Claire has asked a friend to come over and the crazy fool is actually getting out in this weather. Stupid parents. Oh well, just another set of eyes to watch me pass from this life. Better go put makeup on so I can look good in the coroner pictures they might have to take of me. God, I hope my cellulite butt and legs aren't going to show...

I LOVE YOU ALL!!!!!!!!! Good bye!!!!

Friday, September 12, 2008

My weekly B&M

It's that time of the week!! The time where I have the opportunity to unleash all the bitchin' and moanin' I have pent up inside on all of you guys. Have your splash guards ready. You don't want this crap in your eyes.

I went Monday for a pedicure and a fill, just like any good diva does. Stress at work has put me in Lock Down and quite frankly, if I don't HAVE to talk to you, I am probably not going to. I really can't muster at this point even small talk. So to avoid lengthy conversations with my usual girl Savannah, I decided to just throw my money out of the window and go to a salon in the town I was working in.

********Now, before you go on reading, let me give you a little background on my bad working experiences with 4 of the Asian population. Basically, they cheated me and had me work sweatshop working hours and conditions and then decided not to follow thru with their end of the deal. Now I have some wonderful friends who are Asians and because I love them, race is not an issue. Because I loathe these four, meeting new Asians makes me leery and I get sucked into the typecasting more easily. I know I am terrible.**********

I arrive at the selected salon and the 2 girls inside were very friendly and very happy to see me come in, as I was their first customer of the day. I told them what I needed and one said, "Pick you color," for my pedicure. Normally I get the french, but since it was cool and Fall is approaching, I decided to go with color. My very hip and cool daughter had just gotten the newest craze with dark, almost black, polish on her toes. After my initial shock of the Gothic look, I decided it looked kinda cute and maybe I would try the dark thing.

I couldn't bring myself to even pick up the black polish, but the browns were close enough for me. So I chose a chocolate color and handed it to HER. I didn't get HER name, because, honestly I didn't care. She wouldn't even accept the polish I had chosen, and instead using her Vanna White skills, showed me a display of nail polish. "Dese the new colahs. Dese much better." Oh, ok, so I took a look. Nope. I liked what I had chosen better.
Me: "I like this one." Trying again to hand her the polish.
HER: "You like dese more. Go better wit your skin."
Me: "REALLY. This is the color I want." And maybe I did place it rather forcefully in her hand, but she took it.

She turned and began to yammer in her native tongue something that apparently was the War Cry to begin the Vietnam torture. She began by not heating the water or turning on the jets that make all the relaxing bubbles. Nothing. Not even smell goods sprinkled in there. Just water. I let this slide, thinking at least she wasn't going to boil my delicate white feet flesh off. My phone went off in my purse down on the floor beside me and I leaned to pick it up. She didn't offer to hand it to me, obviously amused that the short round white lady with her feet in the plain jane non-bubbly water might tumble out of the high throne she sat in.

Alrighty then. She is taking this color thing a little far! She began the sloughing and got a little carried away and I flinched. "Oh, dat hurt you?" she asked without even raising her head to look at me. No, precious, I was just admiring the cloud of dust that you created as you buffed off my entire layer of epidermis. I just nodded my head to none there with my 'don't make me kick your sweet and sour ass' look on my face.

Thankfully, another patron arrived and sat next to me. A wave of relief passed over me as I thought that she would be a witness if whatever-her-name-was decided to take the torture to the next level. The dust settled and she began the cuticle phase. She only made me whimper once, but couldn't hear me over her foreign rants to her co-worker next to her. Man, she is sooo cussing me right now, I thought.

Normally, at every other salon I have been to, when a patron moans in a good way, the employee continues to do whatever made that patron moan- for a long time. In the same spot. Oh no. Not mine. She hit a good place and out escaped the moan of "Awww, yeah, right there". She immediately stopped. Surely she did not just do that intentionally. Surely she thought it had hurt me. So she proceeds to a different area and finds another one of my g-spots there. "Mmmm," I said, closing my eyes for added dramatic effect. Again, immediate stop. I opened my eyes and was at this point pissed. "That felt good there. Do that place more." Okay, maybe I should have said please, and maybe I should have smiled. Regardless, she didn't do it more. She instead went to the top of my foot where no "good spots" live. By this time I am glaring at her. The lady next to me is asleep in her chair as her girl is rubbing and massaging with the oils and tenderness and love I longed for. It looked so good. I was almost salivating watching.

The torture continued as she slapped my fat calves a little harder than what I was used to and kneaded my doughy flesh with added vigor. Then it was time for the polish. Great. The whole reason she hated me. The color she didn't want to use. She tried to open it and couldn't. She said something to her co-worker (probably, "Can you open this ugly ass color that I think will look ridiculous on her fat lily-white feet?") but neither of them could get it open. I held out my hand to try and she slammed the color, as hard as I had done to her, in my hand. Touche. I tried with my right hand and tried again. Nothing. Left hand. Nothing. By this time I had resolved myself that if I had to bust the f'n thing open and she had to paint it on thru the broken chards of glass, I was GOING to have that damn color on my toes!!!

So I used my teeth. There. Opened! With teeth marks on the top. Good. Just in case the CSI/CIA people needed it for dental identification purposes when they find my charred remains in the alley behind the salon. She painted it on and she was not happy. I had no idea what she was saying, but I am pretty sure the words "murder", "lots of white meat", and "tastes like chicken" were said.

I was released from the chamber and went to pay. Needless to say, I, who have been crowned greatest tipper in the world, did NOT leave my captor anything but a dirty look.

I share that story to say this, when you perform a service for someone and expect monetary compensation for that service, you should try to strive for customer satisfaction. If you don't care about the customer, then get a new line of work. I know this personally. I serve people. I have to care for them and tend to their needs. It is job security when my customers are satisfied.

I don't care whether you work in retail, medical, personal, or financial areas- your job is to SERVE. Hence the word service. Please be kind. I am not asking that you ask me to dinner or even ask about my kids or how my day is going. Just have the right attitude. You are being paid by me to assist me. And freakin' be happy about it. Don't get all pissy when I want something you think I shouldn't have or don't want to do. Again, my money, my choice. The customer is always right. Most people don't abuse that privelege. If you do, shame on you, too.

Your attitude is crucial in whether or not your customer is happy.

And especially don't threaten to make eggrolls out of your customers.

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

Toothless Fairy

Because I am a nurse in Home Health, I do a lot of driving. To places that I am scared to go alone. From the 'over hills over dells' boonies-away from any sign of civilization to the million dollar high rise with the 10,000 sq ft pent house. I've been everywhere man.

Today was the country mouse's day. I head towards the country from the highway, arrive on graveled streets, which eventually turn into dirt roads, which finally become four-wheel-drive-only accesses. Through the mud. Lots of mud.

After my unintentional Dukes of Hazzard driving tricks, which included spinning out, doing doughnuts, and fish-tailing, all without the song and Bo Duke by my side, I arrive at my patient's house. A tad bit frazzled.

Country mouse is precious. He has had throat cancer and uses a voice stimulator to speak. This device looks like a small flashlight and vibrates so that when held to his throat, allows him to speak. His voice sounds like he is gargling and it takes practice to understand what he is saying. I always feel bad having to have him repeat things because I have no clue what he just said, so I just nod and say something intelligent like,"Uh huh."

I have to document all the "stuff" that requires skilled care of a nurse, so I ask him, "Hey, Bob, what exactly is the name of this?"(pointing to the stimulator). He's hard of hearing, so I have to repeat it. "What do they call these things?" He shrugs his shoulders and hands me the stimulator. I am looking all over it for some name on it because quite frankly, I feel like a complete moron writing, "Voice vibrating thingy" or even the word "Stimulator". Surely to God there has to be a medical name for the damn thing.

As I am turning it over in my hand, he reaches over and flips the switch, which causes it to start vibrating. It startles me and he thinks it's hysterical. He is sitting next to me and throws back his head, opens his toothless mouth and from his tracheostomy hole...he laughs. The sound is that equal to a cat hissing. Hiiiiisssss hiiiss hiss hiss hiss. Hiiiiiiisssss hiiiiissss hiss hiss hiss.

I was taken aback and startled with: A. the sound, B. the realization that I have never heard him laugh before, and C. the fact that he was like 6 inches away from me on the couch. Now when I laugh, sometimes I "snot" out of my nose. Not some gross lugey-ish snot, just the clear stuff. I then D. panicked that poor hysterical toothless Bob was going to snot. On me. Out of his hole.

He is crying laughing by this time, and normally I would be reveling in the fact I made someone crack up, but not at that moment. I lean back as far as I possibly can so that if there is anything shooting out, it doesn't hit me in the face. I know I had the wild-horse-eyes as I am trying to smile and keep an eye on his hole. But he was ugly/cute and I soon laughed too.

So I head back after apparently making my patient's day. The drive from the mud to the dirt road is thankfully uneventful and as I drive from the gravel to the smooth road, still miles away from any sign of life, I see something in the road.

The body of a large black lab lay on the curve of the road, right in the center. I stopped my car and did the, "Awww. Poor dog." Then tried to figure out what my next move would be. I could drive into the ditch to avoid smashing the poor beautiful dog or I could move him to the side so someone barreling around the curve won't squish him. So I get out. I walk over and look down at old Blackie looking so peaceful lying there. No blood. No guts gooshed out of a gaping hole in his abdomen. I bend down to see if I can see broken bones so I can know which legs to grab onto to move him. No bones out of whack anywhere I can see. Must be on the other side, I think. I touched his front and back paw and old Blackie's head pops up. I am so startled (see a pattern here?) that when I jerk back I almost fall backwards. Old Blackie stands and stretches, yawns his toothless yawn, with his butt up in the air. All the while I am standing clutching my chest gasping for air with pee running down my legs. Okay, really I didn't pee, but I could have. Old Blackie was without a doubt old with gray around his eyes and muzzle and he slowly meanders up to me wagging his tail as if to say,"Thanks, lady for not smashing me while I snoozed in the middle of the road."

WOW! I made two toothless beings happy today. It was a good day!

Monday, September 8, 2008

The Name Game

I saw this one Tena's site (My Therapy) one day and thought how cool it was and then today, Deb (Postcards from the Edge) did one that was similar. So I am combining them and writing them out for your viewing pleasure. You must do this. It is funny.

Your real name: Jill

Your Gansta name (1st three letters of your real name plus izzle, favorite ice cream & Fav type of shoe): Jilizzle Chocolate Brownie Fudge Flip Flop puts the fear of god in ya, huh?

Your Native American name (fav color, fav animal): Pumpkin Spice Shi Tzu great warrior

Your NASCAR name (1st names of grandfathers): Jim Dan Driskell get 'er done

Stripper Name (Fav perfume/scent, fav candy): Body Milk Dud gawd, it screams sex

Soap Opera name (middle name, street you live on): DeAnn Estate died and came back 2 seasons later

Star Wars name (1st 3 letters of last name, 1st 2 letters of firt name): Korji Luke's first

TV Weather/Anchor name (5th grade teacher's last name, major city that starts with same letter): Haynes Houston now back to you, Jim

Spy name (fav season, fav flower): Autumn Hydrangea her hands are deadly weapons

Cartoon name (Fav fruit, article of clothing you are wearing now): Blueberry Capris Elmer Fudd's first

Hippie name (what you ate for breakfast, fav tree): Special K Willow groovy name

Super Hero name (2nd fav color, fav drink): Green Apple Mojito can trip over tall buildings with a single bound

Witness protection name (parent's middle names): Kay Manuel very forgettable

Goth name (black, name of one of your pets): Black Lily screams death which is what I like

Movie Star name (1st pet's name, 1st street name): Boots Jordan Dating Kevin Costner

Iraqi name (2nd letter of first name, 3rd letter of mom's maiden name, 3rd letter of dad's name, 1st letter of a sibling's first name, last letter of mom's first name): Ivela Sadam's first

Rock Star name (first pet, current car): Daisy Altima Married to David Cassidy

Okay. Now class, join in and have a laugh. Plus, it's a post you don't have to come up with. You are welcome. Don't forget to sign up for the Secret Santa Soiree where we exchange names and everyone gives their gift to me. Huh? Oh, yeah. We exchange them with one another. Just click on the Christmas box and follow the instructions. And you can send me a gift if you want. I don't want to cheat you out of the blessing of giving. I am sweet like that.

Sunday, September 7, 2008

Join Our Gang

My wonderfully sweet best bloggie bud , Georgie, has had this GENIUS idea that we could do a gift exchange between us, the bloggie gang we have. If you are reading this, you are a member of this gang. In this gang, we have no initiation,we don't have to be HOTT, don't have to have so many sparkly awards and a certain amount of followers. You just have to want to be a part of this really neat idea.

It's called the Secret Santa Soiree or SSS. I of course, wanted to call it the Secret Santa Minnow, so we could call it the SS Minnow, but noone but Gilligan agreed.

I actually wanted an initiation too, but since we live like all over the planet, it would be difficult. I had my tennis shoes ready to throw over the powerline and my du-rag bandana on my head. I had chosen the color pumpkin spice instead of red so not to be gunned down by the real gansters. I had my car seat laid all the way back, but I kept dozing off at every stop sign. My music was cranked, but the deep bass of "I think I Love You" by David Cassidy and the Partridge Family didn't have the gangsta impact that the "Pop a Cap In Yo Ass, MF'er" did. I tried to come up with a sign we could flash at one another to let us know who was in our gang, but the sign language sign for "I love you" kept being mis-interpreted for some hawaiin "hang loose" and the "hook 'em horns" sign. So I gave up the idea for an initiation.

So, to be a part of this gang and give, and more importantly, GET something, click on my Christmas-y looking square thingy over there----> to join. Just follow the rules that Georgie has designed and you will be notified who your SSS person is. BTW, if you get me, notice that I included the colors of my rooms, just to make it easier to buy for me. I am nice like that.

Please do this so I don't get my sister giving me my present. Amy will give me the present I gave her one year- a real deer hoof that someone actually made into a pin cushion. It has hair on it and everything. It is disgustingly funny. That's why I gave it to her. Because, again, I am nice like that. And she still has it. And, because she's crafty, she probably uses it. Maybe. Or maybe she kept it in her drawer with the hopes of one day re-gifting it back to me. She's a grudge-holder like that.

Okay, click and fill out and become a gangster. NOW. Or I will pop a cap in yo ass, Mo Fo.

Saturday, September 6, 2008

Doing a Line

As scheduled, my weekly bitch and moan for the week:

Dear person ahead of me in the 20 items or less line,

If you are going to stand there and think that I, the person with 2 items, AM NOT going to scan your half full basket holding 35 items, possibly 36 under the bath towels, you are sadly mistaken.

Don't give me that look, when I make eye contact, that tells me you want me to say something to you ABOUT those 35, possibly 36, items, because quite frankly, bitch, I might. But you do look rather mean with your self-made sleeveless T-shirt and cut-off shorts. And I, even though so not athletic, possibly could outrun your scarred up, dilapidated flip flop wearing, bird legs. I know we can discuss this as mature adults.

I would not even give it a second thought if you had even 21 items in your basket. But 35, possibly 36?! Come on!!! I saw you look at the sign, look in your basket and obviously NOT count how many things you had, not know how to count or read, or not even care that you were disobeying the unwritten law of the "20 Items or Less" line and assume they didn't mean you or you would have changed lanes.

I am a rule follower-written and unwritten. I go the speed limit, wear my seatbelt, come to complete stops, don't cut in line, and don't crowd the person ahead of me in line. And I know my Line Etiquette. Some my mother taught me, some I figured out on my own.

You on the other hand, are rude and uneducated not versed on Line Etiquette. Let me get a pen and paper and draw it out assist you.

You are probably the same person who puts your stuff on the conveyor belt WITHOUT putting the divider bar made to separate my groceries from yours, which makes me have to stand there and make sure I don't get charged with your crap items, BECAUSE YOU ARE TOO BUSY SCANNING THE NATIONAL INQUIRER TO PAY ATTENTION. That is not proper.

And, if you want keep what little teeth are in your head are are polite, step back when I put my PIN number in or sign my name. You make me nervous and I automatically assume you are going to roll me in the parking lot when I leave and steal my card. That is rude.

When you have a ton of items in your basket (like you do today) and are not in any hurry and the person behind you has 1 or 2 items, it's polite to let them go ahead of you. especially if they are old, or their item is heavy, or they give you the look that you are a f'n idiot and apparently can't count.

When you hear the person behind you gasping and grunting because it's hard for them to hold their 2 big items, don't turn around and look at them with that "Go get a basket" look, because for your information, there weren't any baskets available when they came in. That is cruel.

And I also want you to know, heifer precious, that I saw that you were completely entertained that I was having to wait on you as you hummed when you piled all your worthless shit purchases on the short counter, taking your sweet time, and adding a package of gum and 2 candy bars, which brought your total items to 38, because lucky for you, that was a sales flyer in your basket under the towels.

And thank you for leaving your basket right in the line AFTER I put my items on the counter. You are a bitch sweetheart. There may be hope for your worthless good for nothing ass you yet.

The Lady behind you at Walmart