Love is patient and kind, especially with crackers and grits.

Fifteen years ago I woke up nervous, excited, and scared. Nervous that I'd say the wrong thing, excited about what was about to happen, and scared that my hair would go flat.

It was the day I got married.

Planning a wedding is a lot of work.

You work for months planning the wedding, thumbing through magazines. What will the bridesmaids wear? Who will be your maid of honor? Where will you have the reception? How are you going to fix your hair?

Here's the thing. Whether you are rolling your hair or using the straightening iron, the work has just begun.

There are bills and jobs, adjustments and disagreements, misunderstandings and forgiveness, and woven through it all is love and, if you're lucky, a lot of laughter.

Marriage is work, but it's the kind of work that makes you want to get up early the next day and put in extra hours. This is the kind of work that requires all of you and sometimes more than all of you.

Fifteen years ago I had a lot to learn. Still do.

My husband has taught me more than he knows. He has taught me how to dream, how to see the world differently, and how to make some of the best cookies in the world. (He's still trying to teach me how to properly open a box of crackers; I always open the wrong end.)

I've taught him more Southern sayings and words than he ever wanted to know. I've taught him that it's useless to make a biscuit without good flour and that it always takes longer to cook grits than the instructions read on the box.

Fifteen years from now, I'll remember (scratching my head) all the things I did the morning of our wedding. Rolling my hair. Knowing where to stand. Talking about the flowers and the dress.

I pray, with the grace of God, that I can remember another fifteen years of love and commitment. I hope I can still quote lines from Seinfeld and that we will both always remember to laugh.

But I'll still worry about my hair.



Happy Anniversary, Hubs.
Here's to fifteen more years of eating Triscuits from the wrong end of the box.

Why my cat could inspire the Republican Party

Spring brings me all sorts of things. The need to cut the grass, a stuffy nose, and the daunting task of teaching Maggie manners.

Really, it's pointless. The grass grows again anyway and Maggie is a cat. Cats are the far-left liberals of the animal world. It's all about them and it's all about RIGHT NOW.

Oh, how that could segue into a whole 'nother topic of cats and dogs and red states and blue states.

Back to my little liberal.

Maggie likes to go outside. Not on the grass or the dirt. Just outside on the concrete patio (the covered concrete patio) where she can feel the wind in her fur but not the earth on her paws. It is a lot like those cheesy hiking tours where people like Paris Hilton can wear their new hiking boots and feel like they're roughing it while staying on the trail and eating a granola bar.

So, Maggie cries at the back door, peeking out the door's window, until we let her out. If the temperature is between 70 and 71 degrees, she stays outside. If not, she cries to come back in.

If the temperature drops too low, she doesn't even bother to stick her head out, but looks at me like,"Hello? Are you kidding me? The arctic temps are bad for my epidermis."

I'm not even sure cats have an epidermis.

Now that the temps have maintained within her comfort zone, Maggie wants to go out all the time. This is when she met her nemesis.

A frightening, furry, big-eyed bunny.

Makes me shudder to think of it.

I noticed the cute little creature a few months ago. He sneaks in the yard under an opening in the fence, hops across, then squeezes under another opening at the opposite end of the yard.

We have no flowers or carrots or Mr. MacGregor's garden-type vegetation for him to eat, so I wasn't sure why he stops (or hops!) in.

Now, I think I know.

Take a look at this.

That's Maggie and the bunny in a stare down through a window in desperate need of some Windex. Cue the Western music.

The two of them sat like this, in their animal stare contest. The bunny won. Maggie got bored, slowly walked over to the tile, and plopped into an instant nap. The bunny hopped away to his exit and high-fived his friends on the other side of our fence.

A lone crusader with new ideas, bold tactics and secret supporters behind the scenes. I'm thinking he may be a libertarian.

In Memory

To those brave men and women
who rest in that sacred place
and to their families
whose tears have kept its grasses green,
thank you.

Take a moment to watch this from Trace Adkins.

Of Levers and Lazy Days

School was officially over yesterday which means I don't have to get up early anymore. Yes, I'm nine.

Whenever you ask a kid what is the best part of summer, they start with, "I get to sleep in."

I believe this says something about the school day schedule because at nine, "sleeping in" should not rank above things like "no homework" or "looking at Mrs. Higginbottom's mole during math class."

Not that I ever had a teacher named Mrs. Higginbottom, but if I did, I wouldn't want to look at her mole all day.

I did, however, have Mr. S.

Mr. S, bless his heart, was my high school physics teacher. Those students on the college track took either physics or chemistry. Like all good students, we chose wisely.

The chemistry teacher is tough.

The physics teacher is not.

Take physics.

Critical thinking is a strong point of high schoolers.

I already had Mr. S for Algebra 2 and did not learn a thing. (Except to get my best friend to share her homework with me.) Clearly, my high school years were the pinnacle of my education.

Besides the fact that Mr. S wasn't tough, there was something odd about him. He sat at his desk and read from the physics teacher's edition and fell asleep. In the middle of the sentence. Of course, we'd all giggle and talk, then drop something and watch him wake up.

Guess who would do the dropping.

In addition to my fine education, my high school years were the pinnacle of my growth as a compassionate human being.

Mr. S would wake up from the noise, look around through squinted eyes, slurp in the drool, and continue to read something about a lever or a fulcrum or a pulley. This would go on for the entire hour until the bell rang and we'd all run off to AP English.

I later realized that Mr. S. could have suffered from narcolepsy, which is both sad and shocking. I mean, didn't the principal notice the math and science teacher nodding off? Wow. Those are tax dollars well spent.

Or it could be that Mr. S. was just like the rest of us, waiting for summer so that he could sleep in.

Dreaming of levers and fulcrums and pulleys, the three things I learned in high school physics.

The Weekend. In list form. It's the best I can do.

So, it's Monday morning and time for the weekend recap. We're an exciting bunch here at our house, so no need to get a snack while reading this post.

1. Saturday morning Hubs and daughter ran in a "run" which is different from a "race." This is good because my daughter would have beaten Hubs in race. Since it was a "run" they ran together, side by side. I could segue into an analogy of family bonding, but it's Monday morning.

Notice who did NOT run? The only time I run is when something is chasing me.

2. The rest of Saturday was spent working in the yard, planting bedding plants, edging. Thank goodness we have sprinklers or the poor little petunias may die. I am terrible with plants. If something doesn't cry, whine, or meow, I forget to feed it. Sad, but true.

3. Horseback riding. Not me. Daughter. She is learning with a friend and loves it. I am learning with her and love it. I'm not riding, but I have to know all there is to know about saddles and bridles and these really heavy things called hooves that can hit you in the leg or the head or whatever is in the way because you didn't listen to the teacher.

I want to listen to the teacher. I like my cranium.

4. Which leads me to a quote I've been saying lately. I've managed to work it into several conversations and it is starting to become my Seinfeld "Hellooooo."

Know where this quote is from?

"He'll be crying himself to sleep tonight on his huge pillow."

Leave the answer in the comments.

Sorry, no prize. This is a low budget blog.

I do have a friend who kind of knows Amy Grant. Oh, Linda. Will you make me cool?

Edited to add: Kudos to TexasRed for being the first correct commenter on my quirky quote. The quote is from "So I Married An Axe Murderer."

Here's the clip, also known as the Heid Speech, which is better than Hate Speech.

The Amazing Race

Today I am over at the cafe writing about one of my favorite shows on television, The Amazing Race.

Did you realize that you are part of an amazing race?

Put on your running shoes and join me at the cafe!

Interpretation of Dreams

This morning at breakfast the three of us discovered that we all had nightmares the night before.

My daughter dreamt that we had mean turkeys in our house. One was "guarding the fireplace."

When I asked her why she dreamed about turkeys, she said,"I don't know. It's not even November."

I had a dream that there were bears running loose in the field behind our fence. I called the authorities and they told me that the construction crew had to handle it. Well, I knew that wasn't going to happen. So, in my dream I drove around trying to find the bears while calling the park service on my cell phone.

I managed to find a huge grizzly. He got away. Drat.

Hubs had a dream that he was deep in the thick bamboo of an unknown location when suddenly a friend yelled, "ATTACK!" A helicopter flew over and nearly killed them all.

I'm guessing I shouldn't serve spaghetti for dinner anymore. What do you think?

Plagiarism makes me a bit cranky.

As you may have noticed, I've posted a Copyscape warning on my blog. Unfortunately, I have been forced to do so.

There are serious legal and ethical ramifications for those who plagiarize. Plagiarism is different from linking to a post you like or to referencing another blogger. When a blogger links to something I've written, I am flattered. When a blogger copies everything I've written and claims it as their own material, I'm not so flattered.

Plagiarism in the blogosphere involves cutting and pasting all or part of another blogger's material, posting it on your blog with no reference to the original author, thereby claiming the material as your own.

It is illegal. It is serious.

If you're a blogger, beware of those who plagiarize. Several bloggers are talking about this issue right now.

If you are a reader and/or blogger who finds a post you would like to share, please link to the original author.

Blogging is fun. Most of us blog to share our lives and maybe even share some thought-provoking ideas. The blog community is almost always friendly, but when plagiarism is involved, well, that's no fun at all.

More on this topic in a later post.

A day at the Post Office

Yesterday I came to a fork in the proverbial road. I had a box to ship in time for Mother's Day and I had two choices.

The road less traveled (The Post Office) or UPS.

I chose the road less traveled.


Since moving to New Mexico, I have learned that Newman, ironically, gets packages to my family on the east coast much faster than the man in brown. Plus, the local UPS store guy gives me the heebie jeebies. I am sure he is perfectly nice and that his mama loves him, but there is something about him that I just can't figure out.

Most of the time Hubs makes the trips to the post office. Yesterday was different. He was busy and I was forced to go or else my mama may not get her cute little gift bag on time.

As I stood in line in the post office, a little old man in Wrangler jeans approached the counter.

"I want to talk to the Postmaster."

"What do you need, sir?" the postal worker asked.

"I need to talk to someone about the person who is delivering my mail."

I could tell from the man's tone that he was not about to offer any commendations or recommendations of a promotion for his mail carrier. I couldn't help but snicker to myself. I love this guy.

"You need the supervisor," the lady behind the counter replied.

She quickly darted into a secret passage which leads to bins of mail and postal workers on break, the place in the back where insufficient postage stamped mail goes to die.

"I'll wait. It'll be at least thirty minutes," the disgruntled man said.

Again, a snicker from me.

In less than thirty minutes, a man in a uniform emerged from the secret passage and approached the upset customer.

I stood there paying for my mama's package to be mailed and minding my own business, ahem, when I overheard the upset, old cowboy loudly share his grievances.

"I want to know who delivers mail to this address," he said, pointing to his own mail.

He continued, "Is it a woman or a man? If it's a woman I don't want to say anything but if it's a man, I am going to chew him out!"

He hates the postal service and he's a gentleman. Double love this guy.

"It's a man, " said Official Grievance Taker Worker.

"Well, he refuses to pick up my mail and I had to drive all over town to pay my bills..." the man went on.

I paid my postage and the lady at the counter wished me a nice day. We both grinned and gave each other a wink. The old cowboy continued his complaints.

I walked out and found a dog sitting outside the post office. Thinking that the dog belonged to a postal customer, I waited. People filed out of the building, pet the dog, and walked away.

Within a few minutes, the old cowboy emerged. We stood there together with the dog, looking at the tag and committed to finding its owner before leaving.

"I got a kick out of your story in there," I told him, "the post office is one of my least favorite places on earth."

He chuckled and explained his postal problems in grim detail. We stood there chatting and petting a stray dog.

The owner finally came out of the post office, scolded the dog and informed us that the dog was supposed to stay in her truck. (Tip to owner: next time, don't roll the window down so far.)

The cowboy and I said goodbye to each other and I couldn't help but snicker again. If I had known how entertaining the post office could be, I just may visit more often. (Okay, maybe not.)

And that's the day that I bonded with an old cowboy in Wrangler jeans in desperate need of a shave and a better mail carrier (or man, as it were.)

It's the little things. And sometimes the big things.

It is amazing what an evening away from the mundane can do for you.

We decided to take an overnight trip this weekend to a town that has stores with merchandise and stuff.

I KNOW. I'm living on the edge.

Our first stop after checking in the hotel was Barnes and Noble, my favorite bookstore. If anyone from the Library Powers That Be is reading this, please take note. I spent a long time in B & N because it is inviting, it has shelves clearly labeled and employees who smile and make eye contact. Plus, no mildew smell.

You know, this has nothing to do with anything, but wouldn't it be the creepiest movie ever if someone merged the public library with the post office in a sick and twisted plot about dusty books and unclaimed mail?

No? You mean it's just me?

Drat. I thought I had a bestseller there.

So, anyway.

After our trip to the bookstore, we went to Old Navy and found some cute clothes for my daughter. She also found some jellies that she has been asking for. I had flashbacks of 6th grade right there next to the Old Navy mannequins. I warned her about the whole sweating phenom, so she has been officially informed.

It was about time for some dinner, so we browsed the GPS and took a chance on a Thai place we had never heard of nor seen. We pulled up to the place and I got out to take a peek inside. As soon as I smelled the aroma of basil fried rice and saw the crowd inside, I turned to Hubs and gave the thumbs up.

In a word. Yum.

Then we were off to Target, the new Target, where I got a Starbucks and took my time browsing the aisles. It was like heaven without all the singing.

(The Target Deprivation is Palpable.)

After a restful night, we were soon headed back home, but not until I decided to go the other Target in town, the old Target. Yes, two Targets. There is a difference. At least that's the story I'm sticking to.

We loaded the car and headed home for real this time. After a quick run through a Krispy Kreme drive thru, we were set.

A quick trip away with Starbucks coffee, good Thai food, two Target trips, good books and a taste of the South in a fried pastry.

I'd say "Priceless" if it were not over done.

Instead, I'll say "Thanks, I needed that."

Compassion India

Instead of listing a Fave Five today, I want to direct you to the Compassion Bloggers who have been in India all week.

I've been following the Compassion Bloggers since the Uganda trip. Each time I have learned something new about the poor, the lost and about myself. If you are sponsoring a child or not, I encourage you to read their posts from this week.

Yes, it can be a difficult read but I promise, you'll be blessed.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some reading to do...

Staples of Southern Food: Pyrex dishes and third helpings

Through the years, I've learned a few things about my people. First of all, I call them my people. Not everyone does that.

My people taught me a lot. Some taught me through example and others taught me through direct instruction. (Thank you, Mama and Granny.)

Most of what they taught me involves food. No big surprise there.

Here are a few things I have learned.

1. A rule in our family is that no one can ever leave hungry.

They don't necessarily have to arrive hungry. This means that anyone who arrives on the property and sits down for more than 15 minutes must be offered a drink, then some food. If they come for a meal it is mandatory to prepare at least twice as much than can be consumed.

2. This should have been number one. A Southern woman's number one fear is to run out of food. Some people could blame this on The War or The Depression. Who really knows.

I can tell you this, the only thing worse thing than running out of food is not looking natural at your funeral. This makes sense because most Southern women would rather die than suffer from the humiliation of company not having a third helping of broccoli casserole.


3. Southern women are not allowed to sit down while people are visiting. Once the meal is on the table, it is proper to sit long enough to share in the blessing, but the Southern woman must be in a seat close to the kitchen. In every Southern woman's chair is a hidden spring that makes her hop up and down and fetch tea and more rolls for everyone.

And butter, of course.

4. Southern women love to make things in Pyrex dishes. We give them as wedding gifts in sets of various sizes. After many years of keeping (no kidding) about 8 Pyrex dishes, I decided I didn't need them all. Even if a person has two ovens, there is a limit to the number of casseroles I can bake all at once.

I kept a few of them and donated the rest. Somewhere in a Goodwill store there is a Southern woman blowing the dust off a 9 x 11 and saying to herself, "Jackpot!"

5. All Southern women have at least 2 recipes for broccoli casserole. Some of us prefer Cheese Whiz and others prefer shredded cheddar. You can see us at the church potluck sitting on opposite sides of the fellowship hall.

6. We also like to make a 7 layer salad. Salad is a misleading name because layered salad includes mayonnaise, bacon and sugar. If we could put butter on it and keep the iceberg lettuce from wilting we would.

7. You could make the layered salad in a 9 x 11 or in a nice trifle bowl, another common wedding gift for the Southern bride.

And that, my friend, is just a taste of the many food rules of my people.

In case you're wondering, I prefer shredded cheddar. Medium, not mild or too sharp, and freshly grated.

(Edited to add: I don't have two ovens. If I did, I would have kept all of my Pyrex dishes.)

Politically Incorrect Recipes: Ribs and Beans

I've vowed to make something different for dinner around here, trying new recipes and pulling out the old ones from my recipe box. My poor family is getting tired of pot roast and baked chicken.

Planning dinner should be stress free. Goodness knows I've got enough to worry about with the swine flu.

Now the government says that I'm not supposed to call it the swine flu because people are afraid to eat pork. Those poor pig farmers are feeling the pain of the swine phobia even though the professionals tell us we can't get the swine flu from consuming pork.

So we are supposed to refer to the Swine Flu as the Mexican Flu which means now I'm just afraid to eat tacos.

Don't start emailing me, Sensitive Reader. That last phrase is known as sarcasm and, unlike pork, it is served up quite regularly here at This Ain't New York.

Here are a few recipes I made last week that were delish. Depending on the relationship you have with your butcher, they are Virus Free.

Jalapeno Ribs with Baked Beans
AKA "Support The Frightened Pig Farmer While Contributing to Global Warming Dinner"

Sweet Jalapeno Ribs (Crock pot Recipe)

3 pounds country-style pork ribs, trimmed
1 medium onion, chopped
salt, pepper, garlic powder (or your favorite seasonings)
1 (10 oz) jar red pepper jelly
1 cup A-1 steak sauce

Sprinkle ribs with equal amounts of salt, pepper and garlic powder. Rub in seasonings all over ribs. Place ribs under broiler 18-20 minutes with oven door partially open. Turn once. (Watch them carefully so they do not burn.)

Meanwhile,combine jelly and A-1 on med heat in a saucepan. Stir until just blended and jelly is melted.

Place browned ribs and onion in crock pot. Pour jelly/A-1 sauce over ribs. Cook on high for 5-6 hours or on low for 9-10 hours, or until ribs are fork tender.

Once ribs are done, begin cooking beans.

Baked Beans

2 (16 oz) cans pinto beans, drained
4 slices bacon, cut up in bite size pieces
1 small onion, chopped
3/4 cup packed light brown sugar
1/4 cup ketchup
1 Tbs. mustard
1/4 cup Worcestershire sauce
rib meat

Cook bacon and onions together until onions are soft. (It is easier if you cut up the bacon before cooking.) Pour off excess grease. Mix in remaining ingredients, along with 1/4 cup of cooked, shredded rib meat. Bake at 350 for 30-40 minutes, or until bubbly.

Serve with ribs and a huge piece of cornbread.

Suey!

Hi from the edge of the earth.

Well. This little writer's block has turned into a full blown bloggy break. I just wanted to check in and let y'all know that I haven't fallen off the face of the earth.

And, by the way, why do we still say that? We've known for...like hundreds of years that the earth isn't flat and that it isn't possible to actually fall of of the planet. Maybe it's time to update the phrase.

I'm just sayin.'

Of course, I'm not the one who will be coming up with a new phrase anytime soon, what with all the writer's block and all.

And y'all, my neck has been sore and stiff for a whole day. I woke up with it yesterday and thought it was just one of those weird sleep things. But it won't go away and now I think I might have the swine flu. Which is not a good thing because the thought of catching something from a hog just sends shivers up my spine.

And that would mean I have both aches and chills. So there you go. I'm just waiting for the fever to spike and you'll see me sporting one of those surgical masks.

Since I have thrown good segues off the edge of the earth, let me go ahead and say this. It irks me to see people wearing those surgical masks incorrectly.

Hello! Mr. Businessman on the subway! It is supposed to cover your nose, too. This isn't an episode of ER where you just kick in the door and hold the mask loosely up to your face so that you can yell at the med student.

There. I feel better.

Except for this crick in my neck.

I'll see y'all tomorrow...

Compassion Bloggers: India

All this week you can read about what the Compassion Blog Team is doing in India. Be sure to check their main page to read all of their posts.

Please pray for the bloggers. Pray for their safe travel and health.

Pray for their hearts. The poverty in India is difficult to even imagine. They are witnessing it firsthand and that can be a hard task indeed. What they will see is unfathomable.

Most of all, pray for the children they will meet and for the many more who will be sponsored through the words and images these bloggers will share.

Look! At Post!

Don't get too excited.

I sat down at the computer several times this week to write something. I got nothin.' Really.

Unless you want to hear me rant on somethingorother or hear about how I made Rachael Ray's shish kabobs but not really the shish because I used beef and shish is lamb. (I learned that from Rachael. I thought it was all the same.)

I guess I could post the recipe for the beef kabobs but then that would be even less exciting. I'll save that for another day. I have a few recipes I'd like to share with you and I'll just post them all at once.

It'll be like a little bloggy cookbooklet.

It has been a long week, even though nothing really exciting has happened. Then again, that's how life is. Living. Sometimes something funny happens which (for us) immediately becomes blog fodder or sometimes we learn a lesson that we'd like to share.

Most of the time, however, life is just living. Taking the kids to school, going to work, shopping for groceries, buying birthday gifts, cooking dinner, doing laundry, and yes, scooping the litter box.

If I ever resort to blogging about the litter box, please email me a message begging me to stop.

I do have one little thing to add to this otherwise snoozeville post. I am lovin' 24 and I am hatin' that Tony totally betrayed me.

Tony, if you're out there, you can just talk to the hand- the one that scoops the litter box.

Y'all have a great weekend!

Because this is my Father's world.

This post was originally published April 18, 2008.

For you people who did not attend or do not plan to attend some kind of Earth Day or Arbor Day or Earth Day/Arbor Day Combo (do not have children in elementary school), um... can I come live with you?

Daughter's class had a field trip to A Combo today and I agreed to go along. You see, my field trip attendance streak is something akin to Seinfeld's vomit streak and I do not want to mess it up. I have not missed a single field trip since she was the tender age of three thankyouverymuch.

I've been to aquariums, museums, the pumpkin patch, the rodeo, McDonald's, the theatre, and many, many playgrounds with lots of sand.

Oh, and the rodeo and McDonald's was a combo of its own; the McDonald's visit included a drug bust.

Try being a chaperon on that trip and explaining to the moms who were at work or at the spa or wherever they were why we had to literally form a human wall between barefoot children playing in the human gerbil play equipment and guys from the hood being patted down by the Police.

And yelling, "LEAVE your Keds in the shoe cubbies, kids! Someone might start shooting!"

Or why you chose to sit in the booth because it provided more bullet protection.

Big Kindergarten Fun.

A field trip is like going through rush in a sorority that no one wants to pledge.

By now, I should be a Kappa Delta Mama Jama.

Here's the thing. I love spending time with my child, but I am also paranoid. I can always picture that some creepy person is out there. They are lurking in the shadows or behind the slide and I am going to be there to protect my child. Therefore, I must go to help the poor teacher who has obviously lost her mind.

Plus, you never know when you need to form a Human Wall.

So, today was no exception. I joined the class, along with several other parents, as we toured the Earth Day/Arbor Day Combo and learned how to care for the Earth.

You might be surprised, but I could be considered a crunchy conservative. I believe in God and I vote conservatively, but I still want to protect wildlife and take care of the planet because I believe in the God Who created it.

I'm just sayin.'

The exhibits today were excellent. I learned a lot. Daughter learned a lot. It was a lot of fun and no one was arrested. At least, not to my knowledge.

After all of the instruction on saving the birds from balloons and how to measure the diameter of a tree, I made sure daughter was lined up for the bus and I left to get ready for Girl Scouts.

We had our own little Combo event to take care of; we planted flowers at school.

The girls were so sweet and it was all going well until our little smart third grader found a baby bird, fallen from the nest. Everyone rushed to comfort him and we watched as he opened his tiny bird mouth, gasping for air.

We wrapped him in a pillowcase to keep him warm, thanks to the quick response of our other troop leader. She also phoned a local wildlife rescue agent who was ready to take the baby. His nest was on the edge of the roof, too high for us to return him.

So, we watched. His breaths became more labored and the girls peered over him. The grown-ups there just glanced at each other, knowing what was about to happen. And then it did. The little bird stopped breathing completely.

The girls had been playing and planting their seedlings. I didn't want to upset them right then and there, so I ushered them over to another activity and promised to watch over the bird.

I quietly took him to the car, still wrapped, planning to bury him when we got home.

I did finally tell the Scouts what happened. Most of them handled it very well. I assured them that they did help the little bird. They were with him when he died.

We came home and daughter watched as I dug a deep hole in the back yard. Her two friends next door joined us, and we buried the tiny baby bird. One by one they gingerly placed small stones in the fresh dirt and we stood over the spot in respect for a tiny, precious life.

It was surreal. Watching the end of a life given by The Creator after spending the day celebrating His Creation.

A day of celebrating His Creation with booths run by people wearing flip flops and hoping that they know The One who created the planet they are desperately trying to save.

And that through His Creation they will see that they are the ones He is so desperately trying and wanting to save.

Yeah, I'd say it was A Combo kind of day.

Works For Me: Eleven Times Table Trick

You're at the right blog, in case you thought you were lost. This is still me. The I Don't Do Math me.

But I have to share this little gem of math trickery with you! It is gold.

Gold.

Your kids will love you for this one.

Here's how to multiply 11 by a two digit number without your old Trig calculator.

Sample Problem- 11 x 23

Take the original number (23) and imagine a space between the two digits.


23


2_3

Now add the two numbers together and put them in the middle:

2_(2+3)_3


That is it - you have the answer:


253



If the numbers in the middle add up to a 2 digit number, just insert the second number and add 1 to the first: (This sounds more complicated, but will make sense once you try it.)


Sample problem- 11 x 99

9_(9+9)_9

(9+1)_8_9

Answer: 1089


Sample Problem 2- 11 x 89

8_(8+9)_9

(8+1)_7_9

Answer: 979

Math without math. What's next?

I'll still stick with English but, my word, this is cool. Even for a grammar geek.


Check out more tips over at We Are THAT Family.

You could say "Copy That" if only you weren't surrounded by all that copyrighted material.

The strangest epiphanies can happen over some good chips and salsa.

My daughter and I were out for dinner with Nancy and her sweet girl. The four of us were munching on tamales and sopapillas when the subject of the library came up.

"My Mom would never take me to the library," my poor, neglected child said with a sigh and a giggle.

So I asked Nancy to pay the check and then I ran to the car and sobbed.

Not really. They hadn't brought us the check yet.

I answered the pitiful comment, "I really need to get over that... besides, I still like the bookstore."

My child's reading skills are where they should be so she is obviously getting some good reading material from somewhere. The somewhere is the library from which Hubs checks out the books.

Let me tell you something about Hubs. He is quite comfortable in the library which is more than I can say about his feelings concerning buffet lines. In fact, he used to work there.

I married a librarian.

He is going to run in here screaming if I don't go ahead and set this straight. Technically, he was a college grad awaiting another job who worked at the library. Temporarily. For a full year.

As you can see, my aversion to libraries is ironic considering who I married. Let me add here that Hubs never once worked for the post office although he was allowed to go in the back, behind the counter and find a letter he had just mailed in order to put more postage on it.

The other night Hubs decided to tap into my borderline psychosis by explaining to me the many duties of a librarian, specifically the Reference Librarian.

Apparently, the Reference Librarian is an expert in her field. One must undergo tedious instruction and certification for this title. She has skills that others dream of.

In his words, "she is like the Special Forces of Librarians."

Hubs decided to google Reference Librarian and found some terms and definitions on Wikipedia that must have been written by the Book-stacking Black Ops themselves.

Here are a few:

Librarians are experts in the contents and arrangement of their collections, as well as how information is organized outside the library.

Wow. I can't even find my keys.

Library users are encouraged not to be shy about asking a reference librarian for help. Even though most librarians stay busy when not serving a patron, their primary duty when they are at the desk is to assist library users.

Really. I thought they were there to make me feel organizationally inferior.

Using a structured reference interview, the librarian works with the library user to clarify their needs and determine what information sources will fill them.

I'm so glad the reference interview is structured. The library itself is just a total mess.

To borrow a medical analogy, reference librarians diagnose and treat information deficiencies.

But do they always wash their hands between readers?

Here are a few skills that a Master's Degree in Library Science will provide. (Unlike those Bachelor Degree Librarians, the Physician's Assistants of Book Stacking.)

The librarian can look up a brief, factual answer to a specific question.

The librarian can use the catalogue to find out whether the library owns an item with a particular title or author, or that contains a short story, chapter, song, or poem with a particular title, or to compile a list of books by a particular author or on a particular subject.

Not that they are particular.

And here is my favorite skill of the Reference Librarian, one which I've never experienced personally.

The librarian can often take the library user directly to the shelves with books on a certain topic without using the catalogue.

Which is like the Jack Bauer of Librarians. You know, without the violence and all.

So I guess if I could start to see the library the same way I see the CIA or the FBI or my family doctor then maybe I could get over my aversion and my child would not be so deprived of literary access.

Nah. I think Hubs' Wikipedia search backfired. Now I just see the library as an exam room with torture devices.

Kind of makes waterboarding sound like a trip to the bookstore.

Friday's Fav Five #2

Susanne hosts Friday's Fav Five every week. She is faithful to help us all make a list and we know that I need help with that, don't we?!

1. Easter. The meaning, the promises, the One we celebrate. No words can really describe.

2. My family's silliness.

Mama always says, "It's never boring at your house." That is her nice way of saying that we're crazy. I love that my husband puts up with my poor organization and that Wal-mart is just 5 minutes from my house. He often quotes Brighton Beach Memoirs- "All I'm trained to do is go to the store."

Lucky for me, that's not true. He takes out the trash, too.

KIDDING!

3. Tuesday Mornings. I have coffee with a friend and then Bible study with a great group of ladies who love The Lord and His Word. That combination is really getting hard to find these days.

Sometimes we only love the part of The Word that refers to love and forgiveness and not all the ugly, convicting sin part. Easter is a reminder for me that Christ died on the cross so that I would be forgiven because goodness knows I needed forgiveness. He knew how terrible I would be but suffered for my sake anyway. Without understanding the ugly, convicting sin part of the Bible, I can't really appreciate or understand the love and forgiveness.

I'm grateful to be part of Bible study where we strive to know all of God's Word. It's really a blessing.

4. On a much lighter note! I'm getting into gear with Linda's encouragement. I'm walking and enjoying it. I'm also learning more about Hubs' music interest because I've been using his MP3 player.

I had no idea he listened to Black Eyed Peas. Unless it is a subliminal message for me to cook some.

5. The fact that we never really went back to tea. :>)

And is it just me or would it not have been cool for Starbucks to give away coffee on Tax Day? Not that it would help me here.

I could just live vicariously through all of you who have access to a real Starbucks. My daughter calls our local coffee shop the "Secondhand Starbucks." It cracks me up!

Please know that they aren't serving used coffee.

At least not as far as I know.

Have a great weekend!

Thanks, Susanne. I needed that.

Such A Time As This

I'm over at the Internet Cafe today, writing about God's purpose and timing.

Ever wonder why you are where you are in your life? I know I have. Ever wonder if you can truly make a difference in this world we live in? You can. Through Him.

Grab a cup of coffee and meet me at the Cafe. See you there!

So they say I'm a radical.

People had tea bags pinned to their clothing. Small flags waved. I saw Harley t-shirts, American Legion caps, cowboy boots and designer handbags. The faces were unfamiliar, but I felt like I'd known them all my life.

Retired couples stood hand in hand, some of them settled on park benches. Moms brought their young children. Citizens of all ages and backgrounds stood in front of our county's courthouse for our local TEA Party, proclaiming protests and holding homemade signs. The phrases were all different but the messages were the same.

Listen up, Big Brother. We the People are not happy.

Someone took the stage- a trailer of hay bales parked behind a GM pick-up truck.

We prayed. Right there. In front of a government building.

Then a man stood and led us all in the pledge of allegiance to our flag. Men removed their hats, we placed our hands on our hearts, and joined together in a sacred promise. My country's flag waved in the New Mexico wind and it was in that moment that I knew I was part of something. Something big. Something small, but something.

Speakers began to take the mic.

No more big spending.

We're taxed enough.

Stop signing bills you haven't read.

I've paid my taxes, Congressman. Have you?

We signed petitions. We wrote messages to Washington with Sharpie pens on massive posters.

Not a single person burned a flag or a bra or a poster of a public figure. No one yelled obscenities (not that I heard.) People were opinionated, very opinionated. People spoke with passion but no one was violent or obscene.

No one was anti-American.

Instead, they spoke against the path their country is on, the methods their government is using and the arrogance their officials display. Someone quoted Reagan, then Jefferson, then Lincoln. We clapped and cheered. Some of us even hooted and hollered.

It was a protest against big government spending. It was a demonstration for so much more- for freedom, capitalism, fair taxation, life, liberty, fiscal responsibility, our troops, our veterans, our children, and our future.

Within an hour, the rally was over. I left with a new spring in my step. I am not alone. There are people out there who think like me, who still believe in their country even when they are disappointed in their country's leadership.

This entire post is probably sounding a bit sappy but there's really no other way to share this. I'm just being honest.

This morning there are bloggers and reporters who want you to believe that the majority of the protesters at these TEA Parties were irrational and dangerous. I am sure that there were some out there who acted inappropriately, but I think they are the small minority.

I'm glad that there are still people who are willing to stand up for something. Today I made a promise to myself, to my own child and to my country, to stand with them.

If that makes me a radical, or just plain nuts, so be it. Besides, I didn't need Homeland Security to tell me I'm nuts. I already knew that.


"All tyranny needs to gain a foothold is for people of good conscience to remain silent." - Thomas Jefferson

Just a note...

I'm back from our local TEA party and I promise a real post later. I need to organize my thoughts and facts so that I can write something other than, "It was awesome" and "It rocked."

You know, stuff like that.

An update soon...

I've always been a coffee drinker anyway.

If you've read this blog long enough, you know I can be a bit, um, shall we say opinionated? You may be shocked to know that most of the time I've used restraint.

Yeah, I know.

But I decided a long time ago that the blog would not be my forum for rants or tantrums unless it involved a good discussion concerning self-rising flour or sending a timely thank-you note.

I have a family. I have a daughter. And I have just a wee bit of paranoia.

Watching 24 hasn't helped.

But today I wanted to share with you where I will be tomorrow, April 15, the Big Day for Big Brother.

I'm going to a Tea Party.

When all of the hoopla began, I wasn't sure I wanted to take part. I am opinionated. I can be emotional, but most of the time I try to logically respond to those opinions and emotions. I thought when the day came for the underground conservatives to make a public outcry, I would just sit it out.

I've changed my mind.

People are talking. People are blogging. And even if they don't want to admit it, our government is paying attention.

They make think we're crazy or stubborn or radical. Maybe we're a nice mix of all three.

We complain that they don't understand us, that we're being ignored, but how can we expect them to listen if we never have anything to say?

If you are interested in attending a Tea Party tomorrow or just learning what they are all about, I encourage you to read for yourselves. The great thing about this country is that we have the freedom to gather together and speak our minds or stay home and sit it out. At least, we do for now.

After a lot of thought and worry and a private tantrum or two, I've decide to go to our local rally. Maybe I'm crazy or stubborn or radical. Maybe I'm a nice mix of all three, but I'll be there with my strong cup of coffee in one hand and my country's flag in the other.

The best way to a woman's heart is through the self check-out line.

I hope y'all had a wonderful Easter with your family. We had a nice weekend of being silly, playing games, lounging and eating. But, mostly eating.

When a holiday is approaching, I usually plan my menu in advance. I'll add or change a few things at the last minute, but I usually know ahead of time what I am going to cook.

This time, I couldn't decide on our Easter dinner menu until the very last minute. (And by dinner, I mean lunch, because I'm Southern and the meal was on a Sunday. That's a whole other post.)

I grew up eating ham and potato salad on Easter. Mama knows how to make a good ham. I think it is one of her specialties. I didn't inherit her expertise. Besides, ham is not at the top of Hubs' food list, my daughter can take it or leave it, and the salt just makes me bloat.

So, I went with something else.

Turkey and dressing.

Yeah, I know. It's not November. But my family can eat turkey and dressing any time of year. I can eat dressing any time of day. I love it. The homemade kind. Cornbread made the night before. Homemade chicken stock. The kind of dressing that's so good it will make you slap your mama.

Good thing my mama is five states away.

I went to THE grocery store on Saturday with all of the other last minute planners. I was joined by patient husbands who are only trained to go to the store and buy things like "one can of chicken broth" and "all-purpose flour" only to go home and get yelled at because they bought the off brand of broth and some freakish organic, unbleached flour which will not work for a pound cake!

Bless their untrained hearts.

I filled the last cart in the store with everything I needed for our Easter dinner and headed home to cook.

Sunday morning we got up, checked what the Easter bunny had brought for our daughter, then headed to church. I have to say it was one of the best Easter worship experiences I've had.

We returned home and I realized that I should have started cooking that morning. It's a good thing the Easter bunny visited or else we would have starved. Those peanut M & M's are packed with essential protein.

In the meantime, I was getting everything ready for us to color eggs and have an egg hunt. I had forgotten to get some plastic eggs at the store the day before in my hurried attempt to escape the crowd.

Hubs went to Wal-mart. He returned with plastic eggs, a half-eaten bag of Doritoes and the final season of Seinfeld. He must have known how long it would take me to cook that turkey breast.

While he was gone, I realized that I had used all the white vinegar in a load of laundry a few days earlier. We were going to have to have pastel eggs.

Hubs offered to go to the store again.

Oh, yes he did. I think it gives him a chance to practice at self check-out.

Our Easter dinner (which is usually lunch) was an early supper, but no one seemed to mind because they were allowed to eat Easter candy when normally I would say it was going to spoil their dinner/supper.

We finally ate two days' worth of cooking in a manner of fifteen minutes.

As we cleared the table, Hubs said,"Thanks for making a dinner that was all complicated."

Which is his tender way of telling me he appreciates the hard work.

He's a grateful man with an incredible appetite for Doritoes and Peanut M&M's, remarkable speed at self check-out, and patience for a wife with poor list-making skills.

Bless his trained heart.

Happy Easter

I'll be taking a long blog break this weekend to spend time with my family in celebration of Easter.

May all of you have a wonderful Resurrection Day this Sunday!

A lesson on rising costs in the dairy aisle.

I learn a lot in the grocery store.

If I'm standing at the check-out line, I learn everything there is to know about Jennifer Anniston's latest love triangles, Valerie Bertinelli's bikini comeback, and the fact that I never want to suscribe to a few magazines which shall remain nameless.

I learn that milk costs an arm and a leg yet somehow I manage to afford my Diet Coke.

I learn about people. I learn about me.

Today I was looking over my grocery list, noticing the other women pushing their way down the aisles. Some of them were about my age. Others were older ladies with freshly done hair and polyester pants. Some of the ladies were younger with kids in tow.

One of them in particular caught my attention.

I was looking at the milk. Yep. $ Arm and a Leg.

She was looking at yogurt. She had two young girls with her. One looked to be about two and the other, five or six years old. From all appearances, another baby could be born any day now.

This mom was on her cell phone. From her side of the conversation, I could tell she was chatting with a close friend. In between sentences, she leaned down, politely asked her friend to "hold on" and corrected her kids.

"Stop whining."

"Yes, you can have one of those."

I retrieved my milk from the cooler and moved on my way.

We met again several times. Each time she was still on the phone. I could hear her two year-old become louder and louder, whinier and whinier. As her cries echoed in a crescendo through the store, the mom became more and more exasperated.

"What's wrong with you? Be quiet."

She wasn't angry or mean. She wasn't abusive or neglectful. She was just busy.

I wanted to tell her,"Hang up and listen to your children. They are crying out for your attention, even while you browse the potato chips!"

Then I thought to myself how she may have been with them all day. Her conversation with a friend could be her break. I don't really know what her day has been like. After all, she has a two year-old, a five year-old, and one on the way.

I considered my own time with my daughter. The many days I felt tired with a two year-old at the hem of my capri pants. The moments in the grocery store when I just wanted to be able to shop alone. To think before I buy that carton of milk for an arm and a leg.

I thought about the times I've been on a computer or in front of the TV when she walked in the room. The moments I just needed a minute, but the minutes turned into hours.

We all need a break sometimes. We need rest. We need quiet. But those quiet breaks should be chosen carefully.

The moments we miss now could be the ones we cherish later. I don't want to miss a thing.

I want my daughter to know I love her, to know I'm here for her, to know she takes priority over a phone call or a blog post.

One day she may need to come to me for something extremely important. It may be about boys or drugs or her relationship with Jesus. It may just be about math.

Whatever the matter is, I want her to know I'm fully and completely available. I never want to put her on hold.

What could happen if I don't give her my time when she needs me? What would that cost? It may cost a good grade on a math test, our close relationship as mother and daughter, or even her life.

If the time I take with her costs me a phone call, a nap, or a fleeting blog entry, it's worth it.

She's worth it.

I never want to forget that.

Checking google searches

Several of you asked how I find the google searches for my blog. I'll try to explain the best I can.

First, you need to have some sort of site tracker. I use site meter. Without that, there really is no way to track the people that visit your blog unless you are Chloe on 24. I'm sure that technically there is a way, but my very limited computer mind doesn't know how.

If you do use site meter, go to your summary page. Look to the left for the tracking section. Click on "By Referrals."

This should take you to a list of all the most recent referrals to your blog. It will show a list of "referring URL's." You may recognize some of your regular readers here. For example, if I visited your blog from my site, you would see my URL on the list.

A referring URL from a google search will have google in the URL. To see a detailed description, click on the link.

This should take you to the page that popped up when your reader did a google search. You should see your blog somewhere on the page.

If you have any other questions, leave a comment or send me an email. I hope this helps!

A Day in SmallTown

I have no doubt that God has a sense of humor. He must. And if He doesn't, then I'm in big trouble. Humor is what gets me through the day. Laughter releases tensions and sadness in one big snort.

And sometimes that snort is through my nose.

My day started out meeting my sweet friend at our local coffee shop. I also believe that, in addition to a sense of humor, God may also appreciate good coffee. Or at least He appreciates that I need it. I'm so thankful He gives us the desires of our hearts because sometimes my desire involves a good espresso and steamed half and half.

The folks at the coffee shop know me. They know I like a breve and they know that sometimes I need a large AKA Molto. (I love that.)

The two regulars always comment that they don't recognize me when I come in. They are used to my side profile at the drive thru. Proof of why a mug shot always includes both the side and front profiles.


After my friend ordered her skinny latte, I ordered my molto (notsoskinny.) Coffee is my splurge. I've cut back since Linda has inspired me to move but, coffee is where I am going to indulge.


The two of us caught up on all of the exciting things we've done in SmallTown over the last week, like ride by cows, then headed to our morning Bible Study. It was awesome, as usual.


Since I was all dolled up with nowhere else to go, I thought I'd get a few errands done. So I drove to Wal-mart Express Lube for an oil change. It was my intention to have the oil changed and do a little Easter shopping all in one stop.

Genius, right?

The wait for an oil change was 2 hours. I'd hate to know how long it takes at the regular place that doesn't offer express.

So I left and drove to a little shop I've found here with cute gifts, in search of a particular basket stuffer- MissMatched socks. All they had were the adult and women sizes which I found interesting. I am pretty sure that women are adults and since I can't picture men wearing MissMatched socks, the women are the only adults wearing them. I hope.

I asked about the girls' sizes and the cashier said, "We are all out. We had a rush for those at Christmas."

(insert thoughtful pause)

"Sooo.... you're not going to order any more?"

"Let me check."

The manager walked out.

"She's looking for the kids' MissMatched socks. Are we ordering anymore?"

"No. We don't sell enough of them. We sell more of the women's socks."

"Oh."

(insert disappointment)

I left with confusion and wonder over the thought that the little kids in SmallTown don't wear polka dotted socks but the grown women do. And they don't match.

After no oil change, and no goodies for my child's Easter basket, I climbed back in the Honda and just laughed out loud. Thus is life in SmallTown. You have to go with the flow even when sometimes there is no flow.

There was still time before I had to pick up my daughter from school. Surely I could get at least one errand done. Surely there was an Easter basket goodie out there. I headed to the local craft store convinced that I'd find something. A cheaply made weaving kit. An overpriced piece of sofa art. Anything.

I found a few things. Stickers. Craft supplies. And even a cheaply made weaving kit, which I didn't buy.

My day was done. I'd pretty much accomplished nothing, except for writing a blog post about Little MissMatched socks. I hear that some folks get hits from companies when they mention them a lot on their blogs and sometimes they even get free stuff in the mail.

And since my most recent google search involved Martha White cornmeal dancing, please indulge me...

Little MissMatched socks
Little MissMatched socks
Little MissMatched socks

My plan today? Revist the express lube and plan to spend 2 hours at Wal-mart.

And look for that email from Little MissMatched socks.

;>)

More Funny Google Searches

I am often amused at the way people find my blog.

The most popular searches are:

Wal-mart Hubcaps
pantyhose
Do women in New York wear pantyhose?
Charleston Green
How to unstop a sink

My new favorite is-

Martha White cornmeal dancing

Good cornmeal gives occasion to dance, but if there is a special one, I'd like to know.

I've been hanging out with Maggie far too long.

So, it has been over a week since Linda began her challenge to get us moving for 30 minutes, 5 times a week.

It took me 9 days but I finally moved.

I started walking this evening, my tried and true exercise of choice. The wind nearly blew me away. Maybe if I walk against it, it will burn more calories.

My plan is to keep this up, hopefully every day, not just the five. If I skip a day, I tend to let another day go, then another. Before you know it, I'm back to being a sloth.

It's no fun being a sloth.

Have a great weekend. If you see me on the sidewalk, honk!

It even reminds me to feed Little Ricky.

Excitement arrived today. I signed it in on a greasy clipboard.

Today was delivery day for my new washing machine. The appliance guys moved my old tired machine to the garage, hoisted the new one into the laundry room, hooked up the hoses, and then they were on their way.

I had no idea how high-tech this thing is until it rested next to my old dryer. This thing. It is FANCY.

There are buttons and settings and quiet controls. I can choose whether the buttons beep or don't beep. I can pre-select things I never knew I wanted to select in the first place. And this is not even the high-end model.

I couldn't wait for the appliance guys to drive away so that I could try it out.

It's official. I've become Lucy Ricardo.

If only I could call Ethel to come over and we could try out my new washer. But then we'd just do something crazy with the buttons, and the hoses would pop off, sending water shooting up in the air and all over Ricky's brand new suit.

Then I'd have some explainin' to do.

Instead, since I don't have a neighbor named Ethel, I'm not married to a Cuban, and I don't hang out around the house in high heels, I think I'll just do a load of laundry. Or two.

I may throw some red socks in with a load of whites to see if this machine is as smart as at looks. You know. Just for kicks.

Works for Me Backwards Edition: Catalog Shopping

Today is a backwards edition of WFMW, a day when we get to ask each other for tips. I love these because I can always use some help!

Y'all know that I pretty much live in the middle of nowhere. We have a small mall. (Sears and JCPenney share a wall. Not really, but you get the picture.)

Most of the small shops here are for teenagers who don't eat. Only my daughter's Barbies could find something in there.

The closest shopping is at least a 2 hour drive away. I can't really do that on a regular basis.

I am going to have to depend on catalog shopping, something I dread. I need to try on clothes most of the time. Or at least deal with a company with easy returns.

So, what catalog stores do you love?

Who has the best shipping deals?

Great return policies?

Which ones usually have clothing that runs true to size?

A woman in SmallTown and her worn out yoga pants need your help.

Chick-fil-A: A medley

I saw this video on a friend's blog.

Cracked me up.

And made me crave a Number One.

And I thought the term "Old Maid" was insensitive.

We're an exciting bunch here at my house. Most nights you can find us playing a game of Sorry or Uno but when we're really edgy, you'll see us gathered around the coffee table playing Old Maid.

I played a lot of Old Maid as a kid but somehow I missed the significance of the images on the cards.

Did you know they are all circus freaks?

You did? Well, I bet you sat at the front of the class.

We have a new card deck with a vintage look, so technically the pictures on the cards are new and made to look old. Not that it is important. Just keeping you in the loop.

Here are a few of the characters.

The Fat Lady, Midget Man, Dancing Bear, Standing Elephant, Bareback Rider and Trained Seal.

There are enough politically incorrect images there for every special interest group to rally.

And tell me one more thing. Why is a sweet old lady hanging out with circus freaks? Did the carnies reject her?

It's just wrong. So wrong.

Seasons

On Friday, we had blizzard conditions. In less than 24 hours, the sun was out, the snow melted and people were at the mall, including me. Saturday's temps reached close to 70.

Freaky.

It is supposed to be spring here even when it doesn't feel or look like it. It snows in March. Nothing is really blooming. The only resemblance of spring is a neighbor's daffodils.

This isn't the spring I know.

I miss the azaleas and the dogwoods. I miss the spring I've always known. I miss life as I knew it.

Then I read an incredible post this morning reminding me that there must be winter before there is spring.

No matter what season you are in in your life, this wonderful post by my friend (and fellow Georgia Peach) Carol will encourage you.

I think it's a great way to start your Monday.

I usually like my blizzard with Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.

It ain't no sissy storm.

We're under a blizzard watch. West Texas will get far worse weather than us. Our area is expected to receive up to eight inches with wind gusts up to 63 MPH and nearly zero visibility.

And suddenly I've become Jim Cantore.

Maggie, of all days, decided that she wanted to go out on the porch. She scratched and scratched and I warned her. She finally figured it out when I opened the door and snow blew in on her.

Yeah, Maggie. That's how the tougher cats live. Now go curl up on your fleece blanket on the couch. I'll join you in a minute.

My mother-in-law missed seeing this snow by about two days. She loves to visit winter. Only this snow looks too dry for snowman making and the temperature outside is a balmy 18 degrees.

Plus, with a visibility of zero, I may just make a snowman out of Maggie without knowing it.

Extreme weather conditions give me a chance to work on my Spanish.

Right now I am listening to the sweet sounds of laundry. The washing machine is up and running and I am keeping my fingers crossed. I planned to shop for one today but my daughter and I are catching up on things around here like just vegging out on the couch.

I'm also getting ready for what they say could be blizzard conditions. My only experience with blizzards is from Dairy Queen and Little House books. So I plan to stock up on coal, kerosene and ice cream.

And, yes, it is Spring Break. Someone please tell Al for me.

My in-laws and sweet niece are headed home today. I have to say that my in-laws are brave to fly the friendly skies with a 2 year-old. That, or they have suffered head injuries. I didn't fly anywhere with my daughter until she was old enough to read Sky Magazine, which was good because it helped Hubs relax.

Even though it has been a while since I've had a toddler in the house, it was a total joy. I had forgotten the things they do and say, the looks they give you when you've said "no," and the sweet way they take your hand just to walk into the next room.

It's just squishy sweetness.

And I'd forgotten how badly I wanted Barney to be extinct. My niece loves Barney and Baby Bop. I realized during the visit that I had never really watched Barney voluntarily. My daughter wasn't into the Purple Guy but she made up for it with Dora.

To this day I have a post traumatic stress reaction whenever I see a backpack.

I'm still waiting for the episode when CPS shows up because who on earth sends their kid out into the woods with a monkey and even expects her to pack her own bag?

Hello, Papa? Mama?

Every few episodes Abuela makes an appearance but it is only because she is waiting for Dora to bring her something. Grandma needs her pills.

The least she could do is bake some cookies.

Which reminds me that I should go and get ready for this blizzard. I need to check that we have plenty of staple foods like Diet Coke and snacks. I just might make some cookies. Unlike Abuela.

Mi Cookie es Su Cookie.

I refuse the Ma Ingalls look.

You know what's really great when you've let the laundry go for days? The washing machine stands up in defiance, shakes its agitated fist and quits.

But not until after you've washed an entire load of wash.

In the words of Bill O'Reilly, the spins stops right here.

I put a load of wash in the machine, went back to discover that they were all nice and clean but soaking wet. The spin cycle had died and gone to Maytag heaven.

So now Hubs and my father-in-law are tinkering in the garage, trying to fix it to hold us over a few days until we can take the time to buy a new washer.

Since I haven't bought a washing machine in 15 years, I'd like to know what y'all think. What do you like? Brands? Models?

Any tips? I'd love to hear!

Thanks, Internet Peeps.

While you were sleeping

So, it's 4:00 in the morning and the rest of my time zone is asleep. For whatever reason, I am fully awake. I tossed and turned, then turned and tossed until Maggie realized I was awake and she was suddenly starving.

She hadn't eaten in 4 hours, so she was totally in Survivor Mode. I figured at that point, I may as well get up or get mauled by a 12 year old cat who is declawed. And by mauled, I mean patted to death with her fuzzy paws. It can be quite frightening.

Maggie beat me to the kitchen. I gave her a dose of the highly addictive Elegant Medleys and I grabbed a Diet Coke for myself. Nothing helps you sleep like 16 oz. of caffeine. Then I unloaded the dishwasher.

Are you still here?

Really?

You can imagine what is on television right now. Really terrible news anchors, a Golden Girls marathon, and infomercials.

They are still trying to recruit people for The Hair Club for Men which is now called The Hair Club. Apparently, Gloria Steinem is still working on the feminist agenda and women have infiltrated another exclusive group.

On a completely unrelated note, we have been having a fun visit with my in-laws and niece. She is a total doll. She has played and played with my daughter. It is sweet to see them together.

It didn't take her long to start saying "dat" while pointing to the cat food bin in the laundry room. (Yes, sweetie that is where we keep Maggie's stash. Please don't narc on Aunt Mel.)

Maggie, on the other hand, has decided that when there is a toddler in the house it is best to remain hidden and to only come out for feedings. It's a lot like the zoo without all the smell.

Oh, and according to the infomercial, if I call now, I can speak to a hair therapist and learn how I can go swimming or stand in a wind tunnel and still have good hair.

I'm starting to think that The Hair Club President is not only a client, but also southern.

Friday's Fave Five: Spring, Glorious Spring!

Susanne has been graciously hosting Friday's Fave Five and I have planned on joining in for a while. Somehow Friday would come and I just wouldn't have my act together.

Imagine that.

Today is different. Not the having my act together part.

Here are five of my favorite things from this week.

1. Today is the first day of Spring which makes me just giddy. Even though Mama told me on the phone yesterday how beautiful the azaleas are in South Georgia and how, "bless my heart" I can't see them this year.

Sigh.

The good thing (see, I can see the glass half full) is that I may not be able to see the lovely things bloom but I also don't have to pressure wash my porch.

If you don't know what I'm talking about, indulge me for a moment. Pine pollen forms a blanket of yellow snow that you don't want to make a snowman with nor, ya know, eat. The only way to clean your porch is to wash it off which just makes a yellow sludge. It's lovely and wonderful for the allergies.

So, I'll avoid the pollen while in New Mexico and just enjoy the neighbor's daffodils.

2. Today is the day my in-laws and sweet niece arrive. My niece has a basket of books waiting for her, some new and some passed along, and a cuddly something for her to squeeze. That's all I'm saying because she may read this before she arrives. She's only two but she is smart as a whip.

3. Popsicles. My daughter loves them and this weather just begs for a popsicle after school. I found a new variety which I think may become a favorite- Breyer's Pure Fruit Berry Swirls.

4. Bible Study. I am part of a wonderful group of ladies meeting each week and focusing on the Word. We meet for only an hour but the study is pure "meat." No fluff. Just good stuff. We pray and lift each other up. It is great to be among women who are seeking to honor God.

5. Bunnies. I love them. Spring gives me an excuse to love them even more.

What was your week's Fave Five? Be sure to visit Susanne and share!

Morning Coffee

It was a Tuesday, my regularly scheduled morning to meet for coffee with a friend. I arrived at the coffee shop a few minutes early, filing in line behind the other customers.

I settled into my spot, looking up at the menu, the one I've memorized. I don't know why I bother to read it; I always order the same thing.

The two of them were just ahead of me, reading the blackboard menu.

Her white hair, recently styled, softly waved against her porcelain skin, a complexion so striking next to the plum-colored sweater. With glasses and squinted eyes, she considered the menu. She drew her hand to her face in a thoughtful gesture. I saw the glimmer of a diamond band. She slipped her other hand through his arm.

He leaned in close to her face and they whispered.

He wore a plaid shirt, which I am certain was freshly pressed. Thin and tall, he stood. His face was weathered from years of working in the harsh sun. He gently patted the fair hand resting on his arm.

I wondered how many times they had stood at a counter through the years. A toddler tugging her mother's skirt, a lanky teen towering over his father's shoulders.

I thought of the many things they have ordered. Sandwiches and soups for a lunch, counting coins during hard times. A scoop of ice cream on a scorching summer day. A special dinner on an anniversary.

I considered that they must know each other's likes and dislikes. She knows how he takes his tea. He knows how she likes her coffee.

The couple finally decided and a lady across the counter filled their drink order. They wrapped worn hands around Styrofoam cups, turned, and walked away.

As I watched them leave, I smiled to myself, looking forward to the many days with my own sweet husband. I hope for moments of just standing in line together, ignoring the world around us and looking to each other.

We'll stand at a counter and read a menu. I'll slip my hand through his arm and wait. He'll order my coffee and I'll fix his tea.

Irish Breakfast with sugar. Lots of sugar.

Because He Said So

"I was in traffic, the radio on, slowing down at the stoplight, when I saw something on the car in front of me. It was bumper sticker. I could just make out the words..."

Meet me over at The Internet Cafe today for a reminder about perfect peace.

He calls me his Paper Tiger.

The Unfortunate Cheese Paper Incident caused quite a stir. I received several funny comments and a few emails. I caught Hubs reading a sympathy card.

While I was out on Saturday, Nancy brought over a surprise gift. In the bag, among a few other treats, were some cute cocktail napkins. I can't photograph them well enough for you to see and read them on here. (Thus the reason Nancy also passed along her Photoshop book.)

The napkins have a cartoon of a quirky blonde bombshell which looks exactly like me (cough, cough) and a funny quote next to her.

The original quote on this napkin is,"Excuse me? Did you talk to me before I've had my coffee?"

Nancy, in her cleverness, took her very best Sharpie and wrote over the packaging for the napkin to read, "Excuse me? Did I make Hubs' lunch before I'd had my coffee?"

And, yes. I had.

Honestly, I am not fully awake until about 8:30 AM which is unfortunate for my family's lunches and for those poor saps I pass on the road on the way to school. Look out for the yawning blonde bombshell in the Honda Pilot.

Later in the week my in-laws will be visiting along with my sweet niece. My mother-in-law sent a list of my niece's favorite foods, including cheese, but only when the paper is removed.

I'm starting to think I should just buy block cheese and slice it myself.

This is what happens when you share your life's goofs on your blog.

I always knew I was cheesy.

I'm here all day. Thankyouverymuch.

Live blogging from my couch

Hubs and I are channel surfing. Well, he is surfing since he has the remote and is complete control of the entertainment situation. I have the LapTop, so we're even.

We're watching a show about the bot fly. Wish I had not eaten that Lean Cuisine Sweet and Sour Chicken.

OK. He's watching. I'm looking away.

LaLaLaLa....not looking. Not listening.

Convinced him to change the channel. What's up with the Sunday night schedule?

Now we're watching a show with cheesy entertainers. Lady dancing. Man dancing. Now there's a man sitting on a stool on a stage wearing a white paper hat.

I look at Hubs.

Hubs says,"I wonder who painted that stool? It's gonna bug me."

Changes channel again.

"We'll come back for the credits."

Join us on Saturdays when we watch Lawrence Welk.

She offers more than meat to her household.

I want to be the Proverbs 31 Woman.

I try to layeth my hands to the spindle, even though I don't own a spindle.

I try to seeketh wool, even though it makes me itch.

I riseth up while it is still night and giveth meat to my household.

This is where I fall terribly short.

Here is the email I received from Hubs yesterday:

I really appreciate you making my lunch and everything. I know it's much more than most wives do...and I don't want to seem like a picky eater, but I usually like to take the paper divider off of the cheese BEFORE I make the sandwich. Of course I can take it off after...it just makes it tougher with all the mayonnaise already on there, or I've already halfway chewed it. But you know, no big...I'll take what I can get.


I hope my own works are not known in the gates.

Or at least not in the office.


;>)

Hair Update

Even with all of your brave and creative advice, I can't do it.

I'm either trying my stylist once more or going to a different salon.

Just can't do the AWKWARD.

Not to mention hurt feelings.

Another one goes down in wimpy, salon history.

Bizzaro World At Your Local Cut And Curl

The 6 weeks period has long passed. It's time for me to make the call, carve out a few hours of my time, write it in red Sharpie on the calendar, and make sure I have the checkbook.

Time for highlights.

There's this problem. I am not exactly sure I want to go with my regular hairdresser. I've been to her several times, long enough for her to "get to know" my hair and my quirks. The hair probation period is over.

Her work has been ehhhh acceptable, sometimes even cute. Enough to justify that entry in the checkbook?

Notsomuch.

There is another stylist I know who does amazing things with hair. I've witnessed the mastery of her cosmetology training firsthand. Her cuts are sublime! Her highlights are spectacular!

The problem is her location. She's in the next station.

Yep. The Switch.

No woman has ever successfully made The Switch from her regular stylist to another stylist in the same salon.

Maybe we've had a cut or color done by someone else when our stylist was unavailable or on vacation. Maybe. Even that is cutting it close. We've claimed a hair emergency while our stylist was out. A wedding. A class reunion. A funeral. (ours)

Yet, not one woman has ever walked into a salon, said "hello," to her old stylist, and boldly sat in the chair next to them.

It is not possible.

Urban legends speak of women who have tried to make The Switch. Somewhere in the story a woman runs out of a salon crying hysterically with unprocessed hair and a trail of foils in the parking lot. It's a switch beyond George Costanza's evil devices.

So, here is my dilemma. Keep going to my stylist? Try another salon? Or become part of an unimaginable paradox and make The Switch?

George, if you're reading, I am open to any advice.

My Love/Hate Relationship With Reality TV

I realized while talking to a friend the other day, that I have issues.

Granted, I knew before that I had issues, but this conversation revealed an entirely new one to add to the long, disturbing list.

I really do not like Reality TV.

With one exception being The Amazing Race, you could name any reality TV show here and I would find something wrong with it. It gets on my nerves. It is so staged. The people are not really real.

OK. They are real in the sense they that are upright and breathing, but other than that, they are not real. Seriously, have any of the contestants on The Bachelor served as committee chairperson for the bake sale?

I don't think so.

Which is probably why none of them are married yet. (The way to a man's heart is through a good bundt cake, or something like that.)

American Idol? I can take it or leave it. I like music and love the idea of someone's dream coming true, whether they are forced to drive a Ford or drink Coca Cola for the rest of their lives or not.

Give me a good drama, a really good drama and I am stuck in front of the tube for a solid hour, or a solid two hours, if it is a special presentation. Add in a conspiracy theory, some government agents and the American flag, and you may as well just hook up that Neilson's ratings box.

I am an X Files geek. I loved Alias. I love 24. Reality TV is so fake but the Smoking Man and Jack Bauer's superhero powers are believable. Hello.

Only Days of Our Lives could top the drama. I haven't watched it in years because it is, you know, a bit on the trashy side, but Days had me hooked in college. I can't wrap my mind around people surviving on an island without Starbucks or good soap, but everyone knows the Brady family can survive anything. (That Victor is so smug!)

24, on the other hand, is starting to make me doubt my entertainment choices. I watched it this afternoon on the wonder of the DVR. I was almost as disappointed in my 40 minute investment (fast forward thru commercials) as I am in that Roth IRA I own that is in the tank.

Not disappointed enough to stop watching, mind you. But I have a few things to say.

First of all, Agent Walker is still wearing that bandage from the bullet that grazed her neck. Would someone pause during the car chase and check that wound for her? Thankyouverymuch.

The whole infiltration of The White House? Puh-lease.

My husband is going to love this- Yes, honey. I am agreeing with you. No one's cell phone ever needs charging. Ever.

And Jack? When you are chasing bad men and tazing traitors, it's OK to take off your tie. I'm just sayin.'

The only thing left to happen on 24 is for Jack Bauer to suddenly marry Marlena, revealing that he is the real Roman, unraveling yet another DiMera conspiracy.

Now that's reality TV.

Marshmallow Chic

I love drug store make-up. Always have. Well, at least since I was about 13 years old and actually allowed to wear it. First came the lip gloss, then a little blush, then a little eye make-up, and lastly foundation. And by a little eye make-up, let me remind you that I was a teen in the 80's, so technically a little was a lot.

But enough about Bonne Bell.

I was at Walgreen's yesterday checking out the Sunday circular. Lipsticks. Buy one, get one half off. You can't beat that. I bought some lovely shades of pinks and corals with names like "Born With It" and "Rose Hush."

Lipsticks always have clever names. The idea is for you to think that you will actually look like Angelina if you wear it. You're all excited when you buy it. Then you get home, put it on and realize that the new color either washes you out or makes your teeth look yellow, which forces you to run back to the store and get whitening strips and tan in a can.

It's a vicious, cosmetic conspiracy.

After I filled my little basket with falsely advertised goodies, I strolled through the Easter aisle. I've got to get a move on. Easter is over a month away. The aisle was filled with the usuals. Marshmallow chicks, hollow chocolate bunnies (the ghetto chocolate bunny), plastic grass, and those disgusting candy dispensers that mimic an animal laying a egg.

In the middle of the aisle was a display of a new kind of Easter treat- boxes of prunes. I don't know about you, but if the Easter Bunny had brought me prunes in my basket, I would have cried.

Please, people. Don't put prunes in your child's Easter basket. I don't care how healthy you are trying to be. Just add some nice granola to the jelly beans.

Besides, giving your child an entire box of prunes with the ghetto chocolate bunny is a risk you don't want to take. That's an accident just waiting to happen. There's no porta potty at the egg hunt.

On a different and much less disturbing note, I think the cosmetic companies should visit the Easter aisle to name some of their lipsticks. There are so many interesting and fun items in all the shades of Spring.

But, "Paradise Prune" isn't one of them.

Southern Family Recipes

I put on a pot of coffee this morning, rubbed my eyes and got out all of the ingredients. Cold buttermilk, Crisco shortening, White Lily self-rising flour, and Jimmy Dean bulk sausage.

It was late morning and I was still sleepy, but I'd promised my family that I would make biscuits and gravy for breakfast. By Folgers, I was going to do just that.

Sift flour, cut in shortening, pouring in cold buttermilk, gently mixing and rolling dough in my hands and carefully dropping the biscuits in the pan. I love the feeling of making biscuits, the cold sticky dough, nearly as much as I love eating them.

Slice bulk sausage (only Jimmy for me), fry and drain on a printed paper towel. Add a little flour to the leftover sausage grease, stir to make the roux and add milk. Slowly. Stir. Add two sausage patties, crumbled, to the milky gravy, simmering until nearly perfect. (If I do say so myself.)

Then I call my family, the most precious in the world to me, and we pull out our chairs, scoot up to the table to the smell of warm biscuits, hot gravy and sausage, cold butter, and sweet strawberry preserves.

Saying our blessings. Thanking God for all He's given us. Like cold buttermilk, Crisco shortening, White Lily flour, and Jimmy Dean sausage.

And all of the memories that go along with them.

What's in the bag?

TRS of Single Solitary Things tagged me for the purse meme a while back. I am so slow at these things, but alas I am posting.

The idea is to describe all the things that are in your purse. It is a good thing the meme does not ask the husbands to describe what is in their wife's purse. My husband would make up weird things that could be in there. He would never really know what is in there. He says it's scary.

I just changed purses to the pink and green Vera Bradley I bought last Spring. It has been in the 80's here in SmallTown and I needed some bright cheery colors. The winter blahs are, well, blah.

So here goes. What's in my purse-

1. My wallet. It is red. I bought a red wallet a few years ago because I was tired of searching for it in a big bag. Unless I carry a red purse or cut my hand and bleed profusely in my purse, I will always be able to find this wallet.

2. Several tubes of lipstick in the peachy, pink and reddish families. Plus, one neutral. Always Be Prepared is not just the Boy Scout motto.

3. Receipts. Lots of them. Mostly from the grocery store because the cashiers INSIST on handing me the receipt instead of putting it in the grocery bag. Of course, they are not to blame for the fact that I never clean out of my purse.

4. Monopoly game cards from the same grocery store. (We have one major chain grocery store here. I'm in a rut.)

5. Lint. I will never understand how lint gets in my purse. Where does it come from? It's not like I carry a beach towel in there.

6. Various pens which may or may not have ink in them.

7. Cover Girl compact in Creamy Natural.

8. A Kleenex. (unused.)

9. Cell phone that needs charging.

10. Trident whitening gum, peppermint flavor.

That's about it. Boring but not scary.

I was hoping I would find a money clip with hundred dollar bills but that would be in some other woman's purse. And I don't make a habit of looking in other women's purses. You could get arrested for that.

Want to play along with the purse meme? Leave a link in the comments.

I may have splinters in the windmills of my mind, but I know a seven when I see one.

Mama has a photo album filled with faded pictures of my childhood. It's an old, magnetic album purchased long before archive-quality glue and acid free paper. The pictures have been in the album so long that I wouldn't dare try to rescue them from the yellow pages for fear that they would just fall apart.

Most of those pictures capture me on the swing set or posed on the bicycle, dressed in Bug Off jeans and bright knee socks with sandals. One picture in particular is of me pretending to be one of my all-time favorite comediennes as one of her all-time best characters.

Carol Burnett as Mrs. Wiggins.

I loved Carol Burnett. I spent many afternoons after school copying her characters- Mrs. Wiggins, Stella and Eunice.

One of my favorite scenes from the show is the skit of Eunice, Mama and Ed playing Sorry, as Eunice says "a nice little parlor game." So when Hubs recently came home with a game of Sorry for our family (ours is the updated SpongeBob version!) I couldn't help but think of Eunice and her little yellow men.

Hubs didn't remember the Sorry skit for the show, so when we started to play and I'd say, "Sorrrryyyy!" and "Sliiiiiiide," he looked at me like someone had blown out my pilot light. Eventually I found the skit on YouTube and Hubs and daughter watched.

Before no time, my daughter searched for a bell in our house for us to ring during the game. Hubs started to say, "Sliiiiide" just like Ed, and I just had to laugh out loud.

I told my friend Nancy about it all over coffee this morning and promised to send her a clip of the old skit. She said that she'd really like for me to set up a video camera and record my family playing the game.

I told her that would not be as entertaining as Carol Burnett. Just odd.

And being the loving, loyal friend she is, she agreed with me.

To my sweet family, I love playing nice little parlor games with you, making memories at the coffee table. As for me influencing you into doing new weird antics and strange expressions, Sorrrryyy!

Go here to watch the first half of the Sorry Episode; look for Part 2 in the side banner.

Tired

I am a passionate person. I feel fully, give freely and commit completely. You will never wonder where I stand on an issue. If there is a choice to make, I can make it. Whether it is a paint color, new pair of shoes or a politician, I know what I like and I know what I don't like.

Unfortunately, the people around me know, too.

This may seem like a positive trait, especially to those who stand in the paint aisle for hours looking at swatches.

But it's not. Let me tell you. Having a definite opinion means that when there is an issue at hand, that opinion flames up. That passion for the cause drains every ounce of energy, mentally and physically.

It'll wear you slap out.

What I'm trying to stay is that I'm tired.

I'm tired of the news.

I'm tired of wondering where my family's savings is going. Wondering how (not if) my daughter will bear the debt of a spending spree so flippantly approved with the stroke of a pen.

I'm tired.

I'm tired of people trying to make me feel guilty for using plastic.

I'm tired of people saying I'm a bad mother for using chemicals to clean my house.

I'm tired.

I'm tired of Al Gore screaming that he's too hot.

I'm tired of watching my government completely ignore half of the country and pandering to the half that got them elected.

I'm. Tired.

So if you stop by here and I sound like my feathers are ruffled, well it's because they are.

And if you stop by and I'm not here for a day or so, it will be because I just took myself a nap, a respite from the madness.

Right after I put all my money under the mattress.

It's not what's for dinner.

Your comments about mail order meat made me laugh out loud. I never knew how fun beef could be.

The other day there was a knock at the door. I could see some sort of truck out front and a man standing on our doorstep. I usually don't open the door for strangers unless they are dressed in brown, but I could see the work truck in the street.

I opened the door and a gentleman asked me,"This is going to sound strange, but do you eat steak?"

Blank stare from me.

He pointed to a logo on his shirt and said,"I'm from insert quirky company title here. Would you like to buy some steaks?"

I completely interrupted, "I'm not interested."

"Are you sure? Steak? Fish? Chicken?" he pleaded, "it's half price."

"No thanks," I said and closed the door.

He turned and walked next door to the next unsuspecting housewife.

First the emails. Now they are trying to sell meat to me door-to-door. Really. This is getting a little creepy. Who knows what kind of E. Coli outbreak could be in the back of that truck.

Besides, my mother always taught me never to take meat from strangers.