Polk Salad DD

If We Make It Through December
ev'rything's gonna be alright I know
It's the coldest time of winter
and I shiver when I see the falling snow

If We Make It Through December
Got plans to be a warmer town come summer time
Maybe even California
If We Make It Through December we'll be fine

Got laid off down at the fact'ry
And their timing's not the greatest in the world
Heaven knows I been working hard
wanted Christmas to be right for daddy's girl

I don't mean to hate December
It's meant to be the happy time of year
And my little girl don't understand
why daddy can't afford no Christmas here

"If We Make it Through December" - Merle Haggard


Life on a budget.....it ain't for sissies, folks! Yes, we're on a strict budget. We have been on this budget for like 375 years already!!! Seriously - not a joke. On the 1/2 full side, I will say that we are no worse off than the year I was RAKING IN THE DOUGH while staffing a large call center somewhere in the world that may have had something to do with some vicious, nameless hurricane. That was a great year! So is this. Because, even though I'm not theoretically employed, I can stretch a buck! Likewise, when I have it, I sure can spend it. Granted, it's been a rough year. Losing a child is emotionally devastating....and EXPENSIVE to boot. Also, the cost of having cancer is roughly quadruple the national deficit. If I actually had all of the money I owe to various hospitals, clinics, doctors who I never heard of but who apparently are entitled to thousands of dollars for telling some nurse to give me a Tylenol, etc....I could buy Dubai, or at least a new car. So, pray tell, what strategies does one employ to remain solvent in such difficult times? Easy-peasy! Here is my official idiot's guide to saving a buck.

Everything ends in salad. Chicken today - chicken salad tomorrow. Tuna today - tuna salad tomorrow. Eggs today....got the rhythm? Word to yo mother, beware the fish salad. I don't know what I did wrong, but it wasn't my finest moment. Virtually EVERYTHING, though, can be made into some type of edible salad something or other. All it takes is mayo and relish....apples and walnuts if there's company coming. It's delicious, too, except Kevin never seems to be around on salad nights? What's up with that? That, and we are all a little skinnier, but there's absolutely NO correlation! (OK - I'll come clean. Kitty ate the fish salad, which led to the blog about cat S*&$)

Show me a mom with an extra 5 bucks and I'll show you a modern day Madame Curie! Where is that Coach that taught chemistry now, huh? Tell me I'm "chemically challenged" will ya! My lab is my bathroom - sometimes even the laundry room. A dab of this, a squirt of that.....al la peanut butter sandwiches, and....POOF! Got 57 body washes hanging around with about 2 Tsp of lather left in the bottom. No problemo! Grab the funnel out of the Hubs "man space" and get ta mixin'. So what if we bathe in gray lather and smell a little bit like cumin all the time? Who cares if we washed our clothes in the last of the Palmolive this week? Out of Burberry? Just dab some Downy behind each ear. Angelina wore Billy Bob's blood around her neck for years - just make mine Snuggle. Think out of the box people!

Forget location, the key to cheap life is logistics, logistics, logistics! I route plan. I don't make willy-nilly trips all over town....I ration my gas! Seriously, Kevin needed a haircut for like 2 months one time, but I wouldn't let him go until my library books were due - same side of town = same day of errands. Similarly, you can forget the health club membership. I'll just put my doggies on the pavement. I was driving across town to walk on the middle school track. Too far. Then, I was driving everyday to the new park. Closer, but no cigar. Now, I just walk right out my front door and hoof it from here. Sooner or later you may catch me walking in place in the dining room! Think you need a weight machine? A weenie dog weighs about 15 lbs. Just hold one doggy under each arm....and squat (and up), and squat (and up). Piece of cake! I even have Opie the pug doing yoga with me. He's very mellow....talk about downward facing dogs, though (you so saw that one coming).

When life gives you a lemon.....make a lemon salad!

Allow me to introduce you to my friend, Victoria ('s Secret, that is!)

Say hey, good lookin' whatcha got cookin'?
How's about cookin' something up with me?
Hey, sweet baby don't you think maybe
We can find us a brand new recipe?

I got a hot rod ford and a two dollar bill
And I know a spot right over the hill
There's soda pop and the dancin's free
So if you want to have fun come along with me.

Hey, good lookin' whatcha got cookin'?
How's about cookin' something up with me?

"Hey Good Lookin'" by Hank Williams

Yesterday was a stressful day! Hospital, grocers, CEO of the Moon limo service for munchkins, spending 4 hours cooking food that magically disappears within 10 minutes (kids around food = leprechauns within 100 miles of a rainbow - "Have ya seen me Lucky Charms, laddy?"). Still, any day that I can have a crowd of chillrens here is a superb day, in my opinion. We entertained the following individuals last eve: Kev & I, Cart, Dill, Dano, Wingo, Parker, Brit, Park & Brit's unborn daughter, Grandma Marsha, Grandad Ted.....I think that's all? There were surprises! Park has a fierce new tat. Brit's tum tum is sooooooo cute, and I love her choices in baby names. Grandad brought me approximately 2 decades worth of pre-cut firewood. Daniel is speed texting a new girl that he knows only by her first name, while Dillan tells us he's texting someone who lives on the Arkansas border, is 4 years older than he is, and has a 2 year old son.....deep, cleansing breaths. Count backwards from 100.....there now!

Boobie Update! Boobie Update! We now interrupt your regularly scheduled blog to bring you this exciting and "titillating" information. John Wayne is legally changing her name to....... Michael Jackson!!!!! Though human hands have shaped and re-shaped her structure, she's looks pretty awesome, very feminine, and just needs a tan! YESSSSSS! Good-bye, stitches. So long, stacks and stacks of gauze with symmetrical holes cut in the tops. Adios, steri-strips, sticky medical tape, & triple antibiotic ointments. Smell you later, horrid "sleeping on one's back" regime. Welcome back to my life, side sleeping au natural, weird exercises to keep my "pockets" soft, Mederma (tm), and .....in just 3 short weeks......UNDERWIRE BRAS FOR THE FIRST TIME IN OVER A YEAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I must say. This truly is the silk purse that I've crafted from my cancerous sow's ear. Dr. McHottie (he's latino so I'm hereby changing his moniker to Dr. Rico Suave) sculpts with the hands of a master! He's the Michelangelo of boobies! He talked me into silicone! He brought me into the light! Enough of that.

Suffice it to say that things are going great! I feel good. I look....eh, better, at least. My hair is growing into a nice little party-in-the-back mullet. I didn't lose those two toenails after all. My Mexican rice was REALLY GOOD last night (as were the black beans with chorizo and cilantro AND the cheese enchiladas) and Daniel almost ate an entire Dutch oven's worth. What could be better? I think I'll make a pie today!

Say "Cheese" John Wayne!

Rub, rub here, rub, rub there
Whether you're tin or brass
That's how we keep you in repair
In the Merry Old Land of Oz

We can make a dimple smile
Out of a frown

Can you even dye my eyes
To match my gown?

Uh-huh!

Jolly Old town!

Clip, clip here, clip, clip there
We give the roughest claws

That certain air of savoir faire
In the Merry Old Land of Oz
Ha!

That's how we laugh the day away
In the Merry Old Land of Oz

"Merry Old Land of OZ" Songwriters: Arlen, Harold; Harburg, E Y

Attention good people! Friends, Romans, Texans.......

There will be no blog today. I repeat, there will be no blog today. Temper, temper! "Do not arouse the wrath of the great and powerful Oz. I said come back tomorrow!" Today, yours truly has to kick it into high gear in order to get to the hospital for a post-op follow-up that will, hopefully, include stitch removal and....drumroll......wait for it.......REMOVAL OF JOHN WAYNE'S EYE PATCH(she was my sick girlie who recently underwent a year's worth of treatment - also, this is all a BRILLIANT code I developed for breast cancer terms, so just use your imagination and read between the lines)! I can hardly wait to see how she looks! It's like - back in the day - on "Day's of Our Lives", when that guy with all the bandages was rescued off the pier by Victor Kiriakis and hidden in one of his mansion bedrooms and we waited like all summer to see who it was and it turned out to be Roman Brady but when they took the bandages off it wasn't the actor that used to play Roman Brady but some new guy that smirked too much and talked in a fake low voice and said "Doc" every other word? Whew! Yep, that's exactly what it's like!

So - I will report in tomorrow on how the girl's are looking and what they're allowed to do and not do. Maybe (this is a stretch!) I'll get to throw the lunch lady bra in the trash.....now that's a horse of a different color!

Muah! Muah!

Dr. Moon-Paging Dr. Moon...Code Blue on Kitty, Dr. Moon

Smelly Cat, Smelly Cat,
What are they feeding you?
Smelly Cat, Smelly Cat
It's not your fault

They won't take you to the vet
You're obviously not their favorite pet
Smelly Cat, Smelly Cat,
It's not your fault

You may not be a bed of roses
You're not friend to those with noses
I'll miss you before we're done
Or the world will smell as one

"Smelly Cat" as sung by Phoebe on "Friends"



Everyone relax! This is going to be a relatively short blog today about absolutely nothing. I know you all had nightmares about my pseudo politically charged recycling rant yesterday & for that I am very sorry. I just don't know what gets into me some days?? Hee hee. Anyway, I have absolutely nothing to say today....so we will briefly discuss my brilliant use of sarcasm and how it gets me into sooooooo much trouble with the Hubs! Warning: Contents to include foul language. I don't actually curse that much (oh, c'mon! I don't care which protestant church ya'll go to, everyone of you knows that you pop out an S-word or even an F-bomb every so often: backed over your kid's $200 bike lately? forgot to set the oven timer on that casserole that's expected at your mother-in-law's house in 15 min? See?), though I do say the words IN MY MIND. And, since this is a view into my mind, we have to include the expletives for authenticity's sake. Now that you're all nodding your head in agreement, you'll realize that I missed my calling and should've been a defense attorney....

My husband does not like me to swear. He does not like me to smart off at him. He does not think it is cute, sexy, endearing, or anything similar. When I try it, he thinks it comes across as crass, vulgar, and low-class. But, that's really me! I am the queen of dark sarcastic humor! I can't control it! So, I say it in my head (or scream it into a pillow)...case in point...I went upstairs to do some piddly, unimportant thing over the weekend, only to find that my almost 10 year old Ragdoll cat, Penelope Cruz Moon, had shit on Carter's bed. There's no other way to say it, AND, I warned you! It was completely disgusting! Now, Kevin is not a fan of cat shit, esp on his beloved son's bed and I was not excited about the prospect of him seeing it. He isn't crazy about my love of the feline species as it is....he's even less gracious with Kitty's (I am the only one who uses her proper name!!!)recent gastrointestinal anomalies. So, there I am. Scrubbing, spraying, vomiting in my mouth just a little. I hear something! I freeze! I hold my breath! Yep - that's what it is.....footfalls on the stairs. HE'S COMING! QUICK! PICK THE SHIT UP (literally)! But wait - there's not time! So, like the ugly little troll in that scary story about the billy goats and the bridge, I yell, "HALT! WHO GOES THERE?" Actually, I think I just screamed, "DON'T COME UP HERE - KITTY JUST TOOK A SH...A POOPIE ON CARTER'S BED! RUN! SAVE YOURSELF!" His response...."Whaaaaaa???" Me, again, in a relatively calmer tone, "Kitty is sick, dear husband, and I doth intend to clean this abomination up thoroughly so it doesn't makest thou ill." He replies, "Uh...Kitty's sick? What do you mean sick?" OK - this is the point where the conversation retreats inside my head. SHITTING ON BED IS THE ONLY KIND OF SICK THAT KITTY GETS!!! I have no idea what I said back as I went into my Stepford Wives mentality and said whatever he would've preferred I say. I think I even put on pearls and stiletto pumps afterward and vacuumed the carpet al a June Cleaver. What I said on the inside, however, was the REAL me...."What kind of sick? Uh, oh! Didn't I tell you that she joined a gang? Yeah - she joined a gang and, unfortunately, was just the victim of a Feline drive-by. Kitty is a gunshot victim and I'm removing the bullet on top of Carter's bed, since I really like to see his bed COVERED IN KITTY ENTRAILS!!!!"

I just thought it, OK. I didn't actually say it! Then I vacuumed....and made a pie! Shhhhhhhh - don't tell the Hubs! He thinkest me perfect!

I Feel So Used (and re-used, and re-used, and re-used...)

I've a clock that won't work
And an old telephone
A broken umbrella, a rusty trombone
And I am delighted to call them my own
I love them because they're trash!

Oh, I love trash!
Anything dirty or dingy or dusty
Anything ragged or rotten or rusty
Yes! I love it because it's trash!

"I Love Trash" written by Jeff Moss/performed by Oscar the Grouch

Well, here we are. It's Monday. All the leaves are brown and the sky is gray (sorry Mama Cass - I hate to jumble together two of your poetic masterpieces right after quoting Sesame Street). What to write about today? I really wasn't sure. As I stumbled downstairs this morning, smugly smiling my "I'm the BEST unemployed house-Frau in the world" because I FINALLY remembered to set the darn coffee maker last night, I paused to throw Kev's gummy bear candy wrapper in the trash (yes, that's correct - professional banker, father/step-father of 4, college degreed, well-mannered, 70's guitar playin', James Taylor lovin' man of mine......who's favorite candy is now and forever....gummy bears!!! And he only eats the Haribo brand? wtf?). Anyway, as I bend over to toss out the little gold package 'o treats.....the thought occurs to me that I'm still tossing into the same trash bag that was in the kitchen last week! Yep, that's right. We're down to just one bag a week! If ya'll want to throw a parade in my honor, go right ahead. Just make sure that my float is made from 100% RECYCLABLE items...since THAT, my friends, is what we're going to talk about today! You can also give me an award for the most unlikely and awkward segue in history......

I recycle. Quick! Keep reading! Don't close me down yet! I didn't always. Actually, I kind of did, but I've just done much better at times - much worse at other times. The reason I am passionate is because I: a) am now at an age where I am starting to see the sins of non-recycling generations past b)know that it puts you into a mental state where you really think about all the ridiculous packaging involved in our US products c) am actually slightly competitive after all, as long as there is no hand to eye coordination involved & d)I really think that St. Peter's checklist has the following items listed (among several thousand others, of course)...kind to babies/ old folks/animals (check)...always tried to do the right thing (check)...recycled (check!!). I am also of the opinion that I still have very much to learn, but that if little ole me out here in Forney, Texas can recycle herself down to one trash bag a week, anyone can! There are a bajillion sites you can go to that show you what to do and where to do it, but they all make it sound so COMPLICATED that you immediately feel you can't possibly be successful without a PhD in trash. I thought that maybe if I could dumb it down enough for me....maybe my tips would work for you, too! Read on, oh earthy ones!

I know what it's like. I know why you don't recycle. I do. It's because you have to get up at 4am in order to leave by 6am so you can be at work by 8am. Now, in my former life, only about 15 min of that 4-6am allotment was spent perfecting the nude pouty lip appropriate for office. The remainder was given toward things like unload/reload of dishwasher, transferring last night's wash into dryer, making munchkin lunches, & just trying to get enough coffee in me to hold my eyes open! I also know what it's like to cover exactly 29 miles in 2 hours (one way, folks), only to get to work and realize that you - who could just as well have just driven to California (that's how it seemed, anyway) - are the only one who seems to be able to get to where you're supposed to be on time! I know what it's like to pull into the driveway at 7pm knowing that if you don't close your eyes at 10pm there will be no way you will survive another day (tick, tick, tick)...but that won't happen because there's a project due at school, there are no clean uniform clothes, someone let the cat out, and they seem to really think that you LIKE to hear the word Mom/Dad at high decibels for hours on end (always reminded me of those kittens who sing Jingle Bells in meows?)! See - I told you I understand!! That's ok. You won't believe me now, but one day you will miss all that mess. You'll think that you were the bomb.com back then. You'll tell Paul Bunyan-esque stories about how you walked 25 miles to work each day. You'll secretly still have nightmares. But, mostly...you'll be proud and the laugh track that will accompany these memories will highlight your dreams. Sorry for the wild tangent! I just wanted to qualify myself as credible in assuming that, perhaps, you don't recycle because there just isn't time. This is where I come in! Now - this is where the blog really speeds up!

Start small. Only do, say...newspapers for a month. After saving (AND RECYCLING) papers - watching them stack up in the corner of your dining room does NOT count - becomes second nature, add something else (warning - no one else in your househould will want to help you at first, so invest in rubber gloves. This way, sticking your hand down in a slimy, stinky trash bag to get that one can isn't quite as gross!) Now....call your local city hall. They should have recycling bins for free. If not, the next town over will have a drop off location - no one cares if you live in that town or not, just find out what they will accept and what you need to bag it in and then just drop it off to or from work. Let's continue under the assumption that you have a bin & are ready to start collecting all your stuff and setting it out each week. Make sure you know what your municipality will accept. It should be on their website, or again, just call them. Most cities accept newspapers, #1/#2 plastics, clear and colored glass, metal cans (soft drinks, canned veggies/fruits with the labels removed), and cardboard. Our drop off site in Forney ( we do curbside and have a drop off location) also accepts these things plus (this is the one I love!) junk mail and random office papers!!! Isn't that cool? We also have newspaper drop-off bins at our high school and several local churches. Try just adding a couple of these things each month until you have it mastered! It's infinitely better to recycle a few things superbly than to dive in too fast and decide you can't handle it at all!

Now that you have the recycling rhythm, try my tips. Tip #1 - before you put any plastic item in your grocery cart, flip it over and make sure it's a #1 or #2 plastic product. If it's not....keep looking. There will be another such product for the same price that falls into this category. Pay attention to the packaging - I don't know why something in a tube needs to be wrapped in plastic AND placed into a box INSIDE one of those hard plastic thingies that cut you when you try in vain to rip them open! Tip #2 - Take it back, jack! Do you have TONS of plastic hangers from Wal-Mart? How about those glass vases from the florist? Both scenarios are easily repairable. Wal-Mart will take back the hangers - just drop them off at customer service...or set them down next to the big container for recycling the plastic bags (more on this in a sec). After my daughter's funeral, we had about 200 (seriously)clear glass vases from florists around the area. It took a few days, but I finally found one that would gladly take all those once used vases off my hands. If I had possessed the mental capacity to list them on Craig's List, I'm sure I could've made a profit! Tip #3 - take your own bags to the grocery store and insist that you be able to use them for bagging your items! This is my current pet peeve and the thing that I have not yet perfected - though I'm trying. You DON'T have to buy the bags your grocer sells. You can bring any sort of bag you want: other plastic bags from that grocer or another, duffel bags, large purses, anything you want! My favorite thing to do is to go through the self-checkout line and bag my own. I've noticed lately that the self-checkout lines are never open when I'm at my local grocer. So...one day when there wasn't a line around the block in customer service, I asked why that was so. The response: it is this grocer's policy to staff a checker who can help with corrections and such for all of the computer challenged patrons who attempt to use the self-check aisles. These would be patrons who haven't quite mastered the touch screen philosophy. Since this grocer is purposefully understaffed in order to save money - I totally understand this, too (and I'm not being sarcastic) - they currently aren't employing said person, thus - no self-checkout. I then tell the snotty little c/s person that I intend to bring my own bags, then, and will accept absolutely no lip from the surly cashier who doesn't want to use my bags because they don't fit on the bag carousel (images of pretty plastic horses wearing lipstick run through my fertile mind). She tells me that they will GLADLY use whatever bags I choose to bring with me (I take mental note of her name and rank)and proceed to check-out. While I know all the checkers are hiding under the conveyor belt things when it's my turn, at least I feel like I'm doing something that matters! Change doesn't come easy,super centers!

One final tip - find a company that supports recycling efforts and patronize, patronize, patronize! My absolute FAV is http://www.terracycle.net/. They make amazing things like backpacks out of Oreo wrappers and binders from stuff they find in landfills. You won't believe it! Get used to the delayed gratification idealization. When you come to terms with the fact that good change is accomplished in tiny little steps, and that the end result will only be evident to you in the future, it really helps one's mindset in many areas of life. Now....for those gummy bear wrappers...wonder if I could make a bikini for my dog, Lucybird Johnson (a weenie bikini!!! get it?) Have a recycling tip for us? As always, all constructive comments and brilliant ideas are welcomed! One day I might even cover composting, thrift store shopping, and garage sales!!!! Easy - ya'll calm down!

Me & Fergie Ferg Love You Long Time

You are the Dancing Queen,
young and sweet,
only seventeen
Dancing Queen,
feel the beat from the tambourine
You can dance,
you can jive,
having the time of your life
See that girl,
watch that scene,
digging the Dancing Queen

"Dancing Queen" by ABBA

So, I don't get out much anymore. It's understandable. Especially in the last year or so, I really haven't felt like a party girl. First I was bald - can you imagine? I don't think I have EVER heard the phrase "OMG,dude, look at that HOT, bald, older, married woman in the corner." Then, I sported the GI Jane cut for a while. That was fine, until very muscular women started winking at me (and there is nothing wrong with very muscular women who wink at other women, either, so let's not even start that debate. Just wasn't my focus, ok?). Finally I have enough hair that I can pretend like I intended for it to look this way. So, imagine my horror when I found myself in a social situation recently - a BAR nonetheless! No idea what to say. No idea what to do. Basically, just no idea! Let us go on a journey, shall we? Take my hand. I will be the ghost of lady's nights past....let's go back.....back.....back. All the way back to THURSDAY NIGHT!

OK - I started to turn down the invitation. After all, I just had reconstructive surgery last Friday. I currently have enough steri-strips and gauze pads on "the girls" to clothe a mummy(I affectionately refer to one of my girlies as John Wayne, since she has to wear an eye patch for a little while). Kevin looked at me rather knowingly when I asked him if he would throw caution to the wind and try not to worry about me too much - as if there's a market out there for married 42 year old women with post chemo hair, stretch marks, and one good boob. Plus, this post surgical bra coordinates better with a hair net, a set of clear gloves, and a name tag that says "Gertrude" than it does nightlife attire. Still, I've been stir crazy. It really seemed like a very innocent outing, too. Little music, couple of drinks, blanket under the stars, all my favorite bff's....great band...hmmm? Sounds to me like all the right ingredients for a GIRLS NIGHT! So, against medical advice, I lost the lunch lady bra for the evening, donned a uber soft and flowy sundress to hide my multitude of girl over 40 sins, slicked down my bouffant hairdo, and hit the road. Fasten your seat belts - it's going to be a bumpy ride!

The concert was GREAT! But ya'll know how it goes. After the party is the after party (don't worry, no hotel lobbies were harmed in this outing!)So...picture me and my bestest BFF trying to finagle a GIGANTIC cooler - I feigned injury so she had to do all the work! (I'm the dork that made homemade tuna salad sandwiches for everyone - with apples and walnuts no less - in case anyone got hungry. I'm still embarrassed just typing that line! Still - we did take sandwich breaks a few times. Ain't nothin' but a mom thang). We parked the cooler on wheels outside of the club, left our large blanket on top of it, and walked into....party central. Now, once upon a time, yours truly would have known EXACTLY how to behave. Why, I had a fake ID when I was 16 (Thank you, Debbie Talasek)! You could find me at Confetti's, Monopoly's, and especially Zebo's! I was a dancing queen. I could bat my eyelashes with the best of them. I was like Scarlett O'Hara at the Wilkes annual picnic when all the boys argue over where she was going to sit. I'll bet, however, that Scarlett wasn't walking around trying to count the heads of all the gentlemen who were theoretically old enough to be her children. Talk about depressing! Try striking up a conversation with someone (male or female) when their opening lines range from "Uh, have you, uh, like, heard of me" to "OMG so like my friend Whitney was talking to this ugly girl and she like rolled her eyes at us so like Whitney said oh no you didn't and then the ugly girl said bword lets take this outside and Whit said OMG your manicure is as nasty as you are and then the ugly girl went to find all her other ugly friends"......et al. You get the picture.

Dilemma upon dilemma. Issue #1: How to dance in place at bar. Good song comes on ("Boom, Boom, Pow" and I do know all Fergie's lines). See me standing there. Have NO IDEA what to do with my hands. Arsenio Hall whoop whoops? Raise the roof with palms up? 80's finger snaps? I just don't feel comfortable bending over and rubbing my butt on other women! That, however, seems to be the preferred mode of dance. So, I just sort of swayed softly from side to side, holding my big mom purse and smiling ever so sweetly. Besides, keeping my arms slightly bent means that you can't see my excess elbow skin - a true sign of someone who should not be in a bar. Issue #2: My age men should not be allowed in bars! PREDATOR ALERT! PREDATOR ALERT! Granted, there did seem to be a couple of really decent, nice folks there, but c'mon! There was a weird little old man TAKING PICTURES OF SCANTILY CLAD GIRLS WITH HIS CAMERA PHONE! Oogey! Don't worry - I was neither (girl or scantily clad). Issue #3: What to do on dance floor. I didn't dance, don't worry. Still, to get to the ladies room, one had to navigate through the center of the dance floor! AWKWARD. As you shuffle your feet with teeny tiny steps and try incorporating a Space Invaders inspired sideways crab walk to make yourself as small as possible, everyone mistakes this as an invitation to dance with you. Again, out of nowhere comes a cacophony of bent over butts and anonymous crotches - it's the attack of the nether regions! Run! Save yourself! Finally, I found a tiny, third-world-country type of unexplored pathway right next to the DJ's area. I would cling to his little podium and circumnavigate the entire area. Plus, on my way back at one point, I discovered that he keeps baskets and baskets of saltine crackers back there! Heck yes! Give me free crackers any day of the week! Cha ching!

Now, I'm not a big drinker. Too much and I just get sleepy, anyway. Thus, I won't be closing 'em down anytime soon. It is quite funny to be one of the few, the proud, the somewhat sober. Drunk people are very much like old people. They assume that you can't hear either and yell VERY LOUDLY AT EVERYONE. Drunk people start thinking that they are WAAAAAY more attractive than they actually are - unless the other party is also intoxicated. Drunk people either love everyone or hate everyone. Drunk female people think that you want to see their boobies. Don't worry, John Wayne, I'll keep all the crazy people away from you. It was FANTASTIC people watching! I had a great time on my lady's night out excursion. Hopefully I can do it again after John Wayne loses her eye patch. In the meantime, I will be practicing my dance moves. Next time, when I need to pee, watch out. I might break out the funky chicken, or cabbage patch my way to the potty! And......Mr. Radio personality, I know you only told me that I looked like Halle Berry after my friends informed you of all my tragic stories, but still - Thanks! Made my night!

My Heart Belongs to Sam Hill....or is that Cooter Brown?

Spend my dollar
Parked in a holler 'neath the moutain moonlight
Holdin' her up tight
Make a little lovin'
A little turtle dovein' on a Mason-Dixon night
It's my life
Oh so right
My Dixieland Delight

Whitetail buck deer munchin' on clover
Redtailed hawk sitting on a limb
Chubby ol' groundhog
Croakin' bullfrog
Free as a feeling in the wind
Home grown country girl
Gonna give me a whirl
On a Tenessee Saturday night
Lucky as a seven
Livin' in Heaven
With my dixieland delight

"Dixieland Delight" by Alabama


Today we will focus on that enigma that is Southern colloquialisms. It is our heritage, gifts from our forefathers from this side of the Mason-Dixon line. And, it is disappearing faster than polar bears, the ozone layer, and celebs who die from prescription drug addictions all combined. Equally concerning is the rate at which we Southern chillrens misuse, misquote, and similarly butcher these age old pearls of wisdom. I first came upon this EXCELLENT blog idea from an April 2009 Dallas Morning News article by the man who is the GENIUS humorist Steve Blow. Sure, Mr. Blow covers all sorts of amazing human interest stories in his column, but to me he is simply hilarious when he hops on his Southern soapbox and uses that brilliant sarcastic wit. I love this thought so much that I could write a book on the subject......but wait! No need! Mesquite's own Bill Cannon did that recently with his "A Treasury of Texas Sayings." Though I have not read Mr. Cannon's book, I'm sure he also covers several of the chiches that I will include in this entry. I practice the Golden Rule of blogging! I would want others to give me proper credit for all my intensely amazing stuff, so I shall do the same. And, even though these are my original takes on the euphemisms, gettin' sued ain't no fun, right folks? Also, there are WAAAAY too many of these quotables to examine, so I just picked my favorites. Like Bobby Brown (and Britney - who is a Southern Belle, ya'll) says, "That's my prerogative!"

First we will tackle the area of misuse. If you're going to use a Southern cliche, please, please use it right! This may mean that even the way yer Momma taught you wasn't quite correct. I live in a small town in Texas. Last winter I was at a high school football game (it's a religious experience here) when I overheard a young 'un say that someone at a party was "drunker 'n Cootie Brown." OK...first, cooties are something that you get pretend shots for in kindergarten ("circle, circle, dot, dot....")The correct verbiage is "drunker 'n Cooter Brown." Not Cootie, not Tooter, and certainly not Pooter Brown. Secondly, I did some research and, though no one can identify the original Cooter, apparently he was very drunk, but not so much so that he didn't know his own name. How about this one...(said YEARS ago at a local high school in a different town by a TEACHER no less!): A young man walks down the icy sidewalk outside with no coat and is obviously FREEZING. Said person turns and says, "And here I thought shivering was dead!" I assure you that shivering is alive and well, as is CHIVALRY, which is what she should have said IF the young man were to have been performing a gentlemanly and charitable act toward a young maiden (mentally picture the old coat over the mud puddle trick). Similarly, years ago I was serving cupcakes to my daughter's 1st grade class in honor of her birthday (back when we were allowed to stop class and do things like this). As I was nearing the back of the classroom, a precious little girl with icing all over her mouth pulled on my sleeve and proclaimed that my cupcakes were so good that she felt obligated to "slap her fanny." Now I have to shoulder the blame - I could not correct her - she was just too cute! 75 years from now when the entire state is saying "slap your fanny" it will be my fault! Of course, what she meant to say was, "so good it'll make you slap your mammy/pappy" (depending on the version you were taught). Finally, though I didn't personally observe this transaction, a good friend chimed in to tell me about the time her son saw another little boy scratch his privates while playing on the playground one afternoon. My friend's son looked at her at said,"Ewwww! He must have an itch in his getalong." Itch - hitch, tomato - tomahto...out of the mouths of babes. At least they're forgivable!

While plenty of our charming Southern phrases are dying a slow, cruel death, others are alive and seemingly well, in my house at least! For instance, let's examine Mr. Hill, Sam Hill, that is - as in, "What in the Sam Hill is going on in here?" To my understanding, it started with someone's idea (probably some kid's mom)of substituting a more palatable version of the word hell with hill. I have no idea who popped Sam onto the beginning. While not misquoted, the phrase "sick as a dog (dawg)" is technically abused when you consider that a sick dog either pukes or gets the runs. Therefore, you should really only proclaim yourself to be as sick as the proverbial dog if you are experiencing severe gastrointestinal issues which are propelling from an orifice. My absolute favorite saying comes straight from my Daddy, Mr. Ted Stilwell himself! Upon encountering a rather healthy female walking away from him, he was known to say (if the view wasn't to his liking), "looks like two pigs tryin' ta git out of a toe sack." I think the term burlap sack can also be substituted. Of course, we take many Southern liberties here. My husband is infamous for shaving w's off of words, hence we look out of "winduhs", sleep on "pilluhs", and grow "yelluh" roses. See, even bankers get bitten by the sweet, syrupy, Southern language bug!

Those are the most common foibles, in my opinion. I'm sure you have your own set of perplexing word combinations that you might like to share with us. We'd be mighty glad for you to add your pet peeves to our comments. There are some that defy logic to the point that I need someone much smarter and wiser than myself to translate. For instance, my mother used to tell me (when I misbehaved) that she was going to "knock the pea wadden out of me". Of course I never misbehaved, so I'm sure I only heard that comment once in my entire life! Maybe that's why I don't understand it? Is that pea or pee? What is wadden? Some sort of cotton batting? My mother also used to ask me if I would enjoy a trip to "Fist City." In my imaginative only child mind, Fist City MUST look exactly like Dodge City did in "Gunsmoke." There was surely a saloon and a Miss Kitty to entertain the cowboy troops. I thought a trip to Fist City might be quite delightful, actually. My mother also refers to low-down, no good, rotten, dirty scoundrels as "Jake Legs." Perhaps one of you could tell me who this Jake fellow is and what in the Sam Hill is wrong with his leg? IDK? So, there it all is - in a Southern nutshell - the life and times of the Southern sayings. Let's use them. Use them often - Use them correctly - but please use them. I assure you that Fist City is an endangered species and I here there are only 2 Jake Legs left in the wild!

I Prefer the Term Turquoise Debris, OK?

Yeah, and I like my women just a little on the trashy side.
When they wear their clothes too tight and their hair is dyed.
Too much lipstick and, ah, too much rouge
Gets me excited, leaves me feeling confused
And I like my women just a little on the trashy side.

You should have seen the looks on the faces of my dad and mom
When I showed up at the door with my date for the senior prom
They said, "Well, pardon us, son, she ain't no kid!
That's a cocktail waitress in a Dolly Pardon wig!"
I said, "I know it, Dad. Ain't she cool! That's the kind I dig!"

"Trashy Women" written by Chris Wall & performed by Confederate Railroad


I am not white trash! Am not, am not, am not! Just in case you were wondering. Let's settle this right here and now. Sure, I'm a Southern girl. Sure, I grew up poor. Sure, I'm as as small town as they come. But, white trash? No way, Jose! Let's do some myth debunking, shall we?

1. I do not live in a trailer....actually, there's nothing wrong with trailers. Have you seen any lately? They're BEAUTIFUL! Moreover, I just read an article about this new line of modular homes that are uber eco-friendly and solar powered. There is also a company with a line of modular like homes that were constructed from old railway cars - the more cars you buy, the bigger your home. Still, if you've ever been called a TPT (trailer park trash - which is a completely different beast than white trash) then you understand the stigma. And, ok.....I'll come clean. When Momma 'n them done brought me home from the big Baylor hospital, it was to a ding dang trailer house (a singe wide). And, ok....so even after Daddy had the old church on Buckner Blvd. moved out to acre #1 of 3 and converted it into our house, that very single wide did continue to sit on acre #2 of 3 repurposed as a storage facility (we were like, early recyclers with our country version of a PODS self-storage cube!)...still nothin' trashy 'bout that there. And, ok...maybe my first husband did live in Creekside Mobile Home Park when we started dating (it was a very nice trailer park - no trash 'tall!) You know, there are trailers in California that sell for a million dollars. Look it up! And yes, I'm 42 and I still call my daddy "Daddy" (I think that may actually be a semi-accurate line from Tanya Tucker's "Delta Dawn").

2. I am not covered in tats and piercings.....though I'm not categorically opposed to either. I really, really, really want a "Marilyn" (isn't that what the beauty mark piercing is called? Or is it a Monroe - I can never remember), but Kevin said he would definitely divorce me if walk in with a facial piercing. Not, however, for the white trash symbolism, but more for the over 40 (SHHHH!) married white girl looking ridiculous reasoning. Similarly, I ADORE the tiny diamond nose stud. I may go for that one some day soon. Lord, please let HBO decide to turn my blog into a miniseries so I can support myself after Kevin leaves me! I don't have a sleeve, a 1/2 sleeve, a tramp stamp, or any Asian letters (I am CONVINCED that those symbols everyone sports that supposedly say "Peace", "Serenity", and "Forever Love" are really a sinister plot on the part of China to overthrow our government and that they really say things like "pig farts", "I like to drink urine", and "I <3 Wayne Newton"). Now, I do have a tiny little inner ankle tat of two roses on a vine and have contemplated either a fleur-de-lis or my late daughters name or initials in a delicate script, though no definitive action has been taken thus far. To come squeaky clean in the category, I need to tell you that my adult sons have the following tattoos (cumulative total): a Celtic armband, a Victorian cross with his sister's nickname in the center, a "Z" on the bicep - both have that one, and the piec de resistance....a portrait of a brother's hand holding a sister's hand commemorating his sister's life (I was vehemently opposed to that one swearing it would look exactly like a huge dog turd.....a huge dog turd I would have eaten if I was a bettin' girl, because it is truly a work of art). So, see....no white trash tats goin' on 'round here. Ain't no shame in my tattoo game!

3. There is no one on any branch of my family tree that goes by "Bubba"....Nope, not a one! I thought this one up one side and down the other, nine ways til Sunday, and came up with nary a Bubba. True, we do tend to use the double name game. I think they're very nice, though. One of my oldest and dearest friends is Mary Kay - I have always thought that was a BEAUTIFUL name. I have a cousin named Mary Alice (I do love the Mary + names!!) Then there's her brother, Tom Bill (we just call him TB). On the other limbs, I remember hearing vaguely about Jean Norton, (though I can't recall who that is....hmmm?) Also, we have a Flossie Nell. Then, out West there's Chance Lane and Kelly Don. There was also a lady in town named Wild Bill when I was growing up, but I don't think that was really her name, nor was she a blood relative. We also do the nickname thing. I have an Aunt Hitsy though I don't know that she actually hit anyone. There was also a woman who went by Butterball. I even have an Uncle Spider on my Dad's side and a Great Uncle Goat on my Mom's! And, we can't end this category without mentioning my son's friends, Cheese and String Cheese (they're brothers) or my late daughter's BFF's, Squints and Fro. See! I told you, no Bubbas! No one shot the jukebox around here!

Winken, Blinken, and Michael Jackson?

Three o'clock in the morning
And it looks like it's gonna be another sleepless night
I've been listenin' to your dreams and gettin' very low
Wondering what I can do

Maybe I'm being foolish'
Cause I haven't heard you mention anybody's name at all
How I wish I could be sure it's me that turns you on
Each time you close your eyes
I've heard it said that dreamers never lie

You've been talkin' in your sleep
Sleepin' in your dreams
With some sweet lover
Holdin' on so tight loving her the way
You used to love me
Talkin' in your sleep with lovin' on your mind

"Talkin' In Your Sleep" by Crystal Gayle

I had great difficulty sleeping last night. That is an understatement, as it leads one to believe that I might actually have slept somewhat at some point - which I assure you did not happen. Sure, I snoozed like a 2 glasses of Shiraz baby whilst downstairs on the couch cuddled up with Mr. Berk and, occasionally, the ever-fickle Lucybird Johnson - resident cuddle ho who will gladly burrow down with anyone who will let her stick her tongue into one or both of your nostrils. I accomplished this feat as the second new episode of "The First 48" was illustrating the perils of being in a bad, bad section of Memphis in broad daylight. First I decided that I really do like commercials. So much so, in fact, that I should probably just tuck the remote under the blanket with me and let 'em roll. Next, I decided that the current episode wasn't all that interesting. It was the first one in about a month that didn't take place in South Dallas, or even Garland....so I really needn't study the perps face so I could recognize him if he were to attack me at the .99 food store next week. Before you can say "shot by my baby daddy" I was sawing some serious logs.......until I took my act on the road and stumbled up the stairs into the bed.

Do you ever have nights where your brain is more like a bad, bad computer that won't turn off? Every time I clicked on shut down I seemed to just restart. Over. And over. Faster. And faster. But, before that......first I had to wash my face and brush my teeth...and floss. My claim to fame is that I haven't missed my daily pre-bed floss since August of '08. I was so tired, however, that I decided sleeping in the tshirt du jour was a fine alternative to a nightie. Or pj's. Or even one of Kev's 10 year old super-soft tshirts. So, with wild abandon, I shucked my shorts and jumped beneath the covers....neglecting to don my sleeping panties. That's right - we ladies have specific pantaloons that we wear during the day (Victoria's Secret for some - Wally World's "Secret Treasures" for us po folk) and others that we entrust with our sweet dreams. Suffice it to say that me, sans Granny panties, made for an itchy, albeit bitchy, night. If the Memphis perp had somehow broken in to attack me last night, at least there would have been no visible panty lines beneath the sheets! No? OK - not so funny. Anyway, there I go.....to drift off to sleep. NOT!

First of all, I was thinking of Chynna, of course. I'm always thinking of Chynna. I try to think fun thoughts - silly thoughts - laugh out loud amazingly zany Chynna thoughts nowadays. I did , however, walk in on Kevin earlier Wednesday eve as he was watching "Deadliest Catch", which I profess not to like (I do use my amazing peripheral vision sometimes, though), and caught a snippet of a bio on one of the fishermen whose little sister - the youngest of his 4 sisters - had died from a lengthy illness. Hearing this kid's phone call back to his mom concerning how his sister is finally beautiful and in a place where no one can ever laugh at her again sort of sent me into a tailspin of backpedaling images. Sort of sad. Sort of introspective. So, yeah, my mind was preoccupied with Chinks and the degree to which I miss her so incredibly badly. But, gotta keep it light, right? So I tried thinking of funny things. Like how she recorded her voice on Carter's Blues Clues voice alternator saying "Knock, Knock" only to find that when we slowed it down she sounded exactly like Grandma Marsha! Like how I HATED this one rap song only to put my Ipod on at the grocery store to find that she had both downloaded said loathed song, AND had it paused on said loathed song and on VERY HIGH VOLUME! Like how the boys used to tease her relentlessly for no reason at all about her friend, Shelby Jackson (who was actually a delightful and beautiful young girl). They even made up a song. You sing her name all run together fast (shelbyjackson) and then make a clicking sound on the side of your mouth - then repeat. (shelbyjacksonclick....shelbyjacksonclick....shelbyjacksonclick) That make me think of Michael Jackson, which made me think of his daughter Paris, which made me think of the Louvre, which made me think of the art museum in Houston, which made me think of the beach at Galveston and whether the new Marlow's gift shop will be as neato burrito as the old one......and so on. I remember focusing on how underrated Sherri Shepherd is around 2am. I carried on a nice conversation with my cat, Penelope Cruz, at about 3:30am. I listened to Kevin impersonate all of the 3 stooges with his Forney Philharmonic Snoring quartet at one point. I even mentally redecorated my bedroom twice - once with a Tiffany blue theme and once with 40's vintage wallpaper. It was a very busy night. Then there was the sudden onset hacking cough (me, not Kev). Not a congested cough. Not a phlegmy cough. More like a dry, high-pitched, tiny toddler cough (eck! eck!). I coughed, I wiggled, I repositioned my undergarments, I fought a full 12 rounds with my post-surgical bra that I'm not allowed to remove, I coughed some more, I went downstairs for lemonade.....it was a battle for my sanity. I lost. Still, I'm leaning toward that Tiffany Blue. I wonder if Sherri Shepherd watches "The First 48"? Ya think?

Sign on the Dotted Line

Daniel is travelling tonight on a plane
I can see the red tail lights heading for Spain
Oh and I can see Daniel waving goodbye
God it looks like Daniel, must be the clouds in my eyes

They say Spain is pretty though I've never been
Well Daniel says it's the best place that he's ever seen
Oh and he should know, he's been there enough
Lord I miss Daniel, oh I miss him so much

Daniel my brother you are older than me
Do you still feel the pain of the scars that won't heal
Your eyes have died
but you see more than I
Daniel you're a star in the face of the sky

Daniel is travelling tonight on a plane
I can see the red tail lights heading for Spain
Oh and I can see Daniel waving goodbye
God it looks like Daniel, must be the clouds in my eyes
Oh God it looks like Daniel, must be the clouds in my eyes

Daniel by Elton John

There are things that we teach our children. When they're born to us, we sign a contract with God. It's the fine print attached to that secret prayer all mother's pray right before that incredible moment. We know it's the best moment of our life. We hope it's not the worst moment. We know a miracle is about to happen, but we don't understand how it's possible to give life to another tiny human being. So, we're scared. So, we're frantic. So, we make the deal. We sign the contract with ink made of blood, sweat, tears, and a little amniotic fluid. We make the promise. God, I promise to take care of this baby. I promise to teach this baby the things you want me to teach. I promise to love this baby. I promise to show this baby the right way in this world.....if you'll only help me. If you'll only give me a healthy baby. If you'll make sure we get 10 fingers and 10 toes. I'll never ask for anything else. We know, even as we say that last line, it's a bold-faced lie. I've told God a million times since then that I would never ask for anything else...if he would bring a child home safely when it's past curfew, if he would let a child live, if he would help a lost child find their way back...God answered every one of my prayers. Sometimes not quite in the way I had hoped, but they were answered all the same.

We teach our children the rules. So, so many rules! There's the Golden Rule. There are the Bible rules. There are the school rules, the inside rules, the outside rules, the traffic rules, the bike riding rules, the TV watching rules, the snacking rules.....whew! We make sure they brush their teeth. We make sure they get enough sleep. We check behind their ears after bath time. We take their temperature when they're sick. We do everything within our power to make sure they are healthy, happy, and blessedly naive in a cruel world. These are the things that we must do. These are the things we promised we would do. But, all moms are different. All moms have different interests, different constitutions, different beliefs. We make the world go round. We invented diversity. Look up the word unique in the dictionary. There will be a picture of a good mother. There should be, at least. On the day of my baby boy's 20th birthday, I wonder if he knows the things I did to mold him? To shape him? I wonder if it will ever kick in? I wonder if it already has - or if that will happen when he sees his own baby for the first time one day (many, many years in the future!) I can see now, with the benefit of age and experience, that I did virtually the same things that my mom did for me. My way wasn't necessarily the right way. Your way may have been the polar opposite. That's ok. At least it was your way. In case you're reading this, Daniel, here is what I did to help you be the best you that you could be:

1. A can of formula never touched your lips 2. You never had baby food from a jar 3. I used cloth diapers 4. We joined the Le Leche League 5. I was a vegetarian (to set a good example, of course) 6. I read to you every day 7. I took you and your brother to the Smithsonian at least once a month 8. We joined PETA 9. I adopted a Montessori style system to teach you things at home 10. We took long walks in the woods 11. We had picnics in the back yard 12. I sang you to sleep every night 13. I held you all the time 14. I stayed up with you at night when you could only sleep a few hours at a pop 15. We raised chickens and collected our own eggs 16. We grew cherry tomatoes and pumpkins 17. I protected you 18. I cherished you 19. I'm not sorry I did any of these things!

Who knows....maybe my approach was a bit extreme. Daniel says I'm a card carrying "tree hugger" to this day. He still thinks recycling is dumb. He still thinks I'm weird because I read so much. He refuses to eat sweet potatoes even though that was his favorite baby food. There are still many things about me that he just doesn't get. I think that's just part of being 20, though. I had a GREAT realization recently. When your adult child doesn't have any money because he was on his way out of Wal-Mart and he gave his last $20 to an organization that runs a safe house for domestic abuse victims.....that's when you know you might be onto something. Next thing I know, he'll be saving cans for me....or eating more vegetables....or taking me on a picnic. Yeah, right! Pigs will be flying out of my derriere at any moment now. Still, at least I tried. I remember the promise. I do.

I've Got the Smelly Cat Blues, et al

Take this job and shove it
I ain't workin' here no more
My woman done left and took all the reason I was working for
Ya better not try and stand in my way
Cause I'm walkin', out the door
Take this job and shove it
I ain't working here no more

"Take This Job & Shove It" by Johnny Paycheck

Let's lament, shall we? I present to you today an age old story told by every woman of every era since the beginning of time (presumably I just lost all of my male readers, right?). Now, as most of you have, I've spent time on both sides of the coin. I was a working single girl. Then I was a working married girl. Then I was a working married mom who went back to school. I've been a stay-at-home mom. I've been a working married mom. I've been a single working mom. I went back to being a working married mom. Now I'm a stay-at-home "person" without the mom part. I will tell you this much - I have NEVER worked as much as I work when I'm at home! Can I get an AMEN?? Why do we do this to ourselves? Is it that we feel obligated to prove our self worth by perfecting the art of homemaking? Do we feel shamed by being unemployed (as many are right now) so we have to toil and trudge in front of the world lest we be cast aside as worthless? And, what about that public perception? I, for one, have never seen a bon-bon. I do watch one soap opera, ok, but only while cleaning the baseboards with a tooth brush (and never on Tuesdays or Thursdays 'cause nothing important ever happens on those days). Now, my purpose here is not to start a debate on who works the hardest. I feel fortunate right now to be at home. I know it will not last forever. I will still be the same person when I return to the workforce - have the same interests, tell the same jokes, have the same fears. There is no work vs. not work battle in my world. I just think we are all the bomb.com, ok? What I really want to address is the female role in a family. You see, I have worn some perplexing hats over the years. This has only become more bizarre in this last year.

#1...Personal Chef - It seems, on the surface, at least, like cooking for two would mean less time, less money, and less hassle than cooking for a whole brood, right? WRONG! I've never stressed over mealtime the way I do when it's just the two of us! What to do? Are we really doomed to a life of baked chicken and instant mashed potatoes forever? Why is it so difficult for me to master portion control? I either make enough for one or enough for 10 - there seems to be no middle ground. "Hey, Kevin, want another one of my super-yummy sandwiches? No??? OK, I'll make you what you want and I'll make me what I want and I'll see you in about 6 hours after I've gotten everything prepared, plated, and cleaned up." Thank goodness for Wednesday nights! I love when the masses convene here and I can cook for my little pseudo army!

#2...Uncertified Vet Tech - TLC should come and film a Mystery Diagnosis episode at my house! I have 3 dogs and a cat that all live inside. It's like having 4 little children who never grow up! I have my own personal Neverland ranch goin' on here! Everyone has an issue, too. Mr. Berk is a little weenie dog/chihuahua/God-knows-what mix. He passes gas on a continual basis. He has a very sensitive stomach - you never know when little Vesuvius is going to erupt! He has bouts of explosive diarrhea about once a week. If you are ever at my house and see him cowering in the corner - yell for me immediately. We have about 37 seconds to get him outside. I have found that one Immodium tucked into a hot dog works wonders on Mr. Berk. He also has very crooked teeth and a cross bite, so food and various bacterias inevitably get trapped in his chompers. Chynna used to brush his teeth every night. Suffice it to say that this falls toward the bottom of my list of daily chores. Sorry Mr. Berk - I will try harder. Say cheese! Now we have Opie. Ope is a pug - he snorts, he sneezes constantly, he is a heavy breather, he snores like a freight train, he gets eye boogers constantly......and his nickname is "Pisser". I can constantly be seen walking around behind Opie with a bottle of Pine-Sol and a dish towel. Pugs can't stay outside for long periods of time when it's hot, so he's my little companion for the summer. Walk, walk, walk - spray....walk, walk, walk...spray. On to the next patient - Lucybird Johnson - also a weenie extraordinaire. She really doesn't have any bad issues: she's adorable, she has perfect teeth, & she does the sweetest little trick called the "tootsie roll". She will, however, eat anything. Metal....plastic....stone....a $20 bill....books....shoes...grass...blankets....entire socks - little miss cast iron stomach can digest anything. If you come to my house you'll be looking for your stuff when you leave because I will have hidden it from Lucy - I am currently designing a complex ceiling grid where we can pull down hooks for purses and shoes! Finally we have miss Penelope Cruz Moon - my almost 10 year old cat and currently my source of greatest frustration. There's nothing wrong with Kitty. She's just getting old. She's a beautiful Ragdoll cat with hair that literally grazes the floor (and, hence, the litter box....just wait, we're getting there). Her eyes are crossed. She's never been outside, unless you count the time that Chynna and I were out of town and she was mysteriously lost for 3 days and was somehow gang-raped by a group of hoodlum tomcats. Anyway - kitty is having some digestive issues. I don't want to gross anyone out, but have you ever tried to bathe a cat? It ain't easy. I found it necessary to shove her nether regions under the bathroom faucet yesterday and scrub my little heart out. Next, I practically had to sit on poor Kitty as I took a barber's comb and my sharpest scissors - I call it the Booty Cut. I am soooo tired of trying to wipe her little kitty butt - so I decided to rid her of the main issue- all that long hair. So, Kitty got Farrah inspired wings all around her pooper. I hope it helps! God bless anyone who has tried to groom a cat.

There have been countless other specialties in my practice lately. Take for instance, snail farming. Carter decided to collect snails the other day and he fully expected me to create a habitat where they would live happily ever after and procreate. Imagine my horror when they both disappeared the next day. Who would guess that two little snails could move a People magazine off of a shoebox? (Cue the Ant/Rubber Tree Plant song). Then, of course, there's my current position as Cemetery Interior Designer. I am CONSTANTLY at the cemetery hanging charms, ribbons, rearranging, repurposing, repositioning. I can't stand for anything to look dirty or disheveled. I'm also a professional dry cleaner. "Hey Mom - I don't understand this at all. I got ketchup on this shirt a month ago and when I washed it yesterday it wouldn't come out." I'm also a financial whiz - I can tell you at any moment what's on sale this week and where...and I probably have a coupon you can use. I am a human TV Guide, too. Since I was sick last year, I finally got to sit down in the evenings and watch TV, for lack of enough energy to do anything else. I know exactly when my favorite shows come on, where the first runs are, where the repeats are....and what's in store for next season! I'm also an official celebrity stalker. My BFF's are Rachel Ray, Kyra Sedgwick, and Jennifer Love-Hewitt (they just don't know it yet). Jennifer, if you're out there somewhere, PLEASE get rid of dumb old Cameron Manheim and hire me instead! We could make beautiful BFF music on Ghost Whisperer - really, we could! Deputy Chief Brenda Lee Johnson, don't you need a secretary or a housekeeper or something?

OK - I have effectively vented for now. Perhaps I dive into these predicaments to keep my mind from wandering to those dark places? Perhaps I am just a little mentally off and too much of a perfectionist? Perhaps , though, I just like for my family to have a wonderful experience when they're here & maybe I think a furry little body to cuddle up with on TV night is a wonderful thing. So, I'll keep stretching it to the max and probably develop a few other specialties between now and then. And, maybe I'll try making some bon-bons this weekend!