Welcome New Readers!
I hope you enjoy my blog!
As you can see, this is my sixth year of blogging. I'm kinda surprised I've found enough to blog about in one year, mcuh less six! I blog about my life, my opinions and thoughts on certain subjects and what-not.
For those who know me, you may see that I've shared a story about you, though I did change up just enough of the details (like the name, cause really, that's most important, right?) For those who don't know me, yes, these crazy things really happen to me and I change just enough details so I can protect the guilty.
Feel free to jump around; get to know me, my crazy family, and our friends.
As always....
En-Joy!
Monday, February 20, 2012
Playing Catch-Up....Again
After not sleeping on Saturday night, I have been playing catch-up. I hate that game, especially when it comes to sleep.
First, Tigger decided that he needed to go to church with his girlfreind, Miss Mac. Had he had his license, that wouldn't have been an issue. But because he has no interest in driving whatsoever, I had to drag myself out of bed and carry him. Then I had to go back home and fight sleep in order to go back and get him. Fun Times.
When I did get back home, my phone starts ringing off the hook. Actually, off the nightstand, but I digress. I wasn't in the greatest of moods. I'm told that I am not at all pleasant to speak with when I am sleep deprived. I thought it best to send those calls to voice mail.
Darling Hubby then started to complain he was hungry. That meant I had to get up and give him my debit card. I don't know how it happens. He gets paid one week and I get paid the next. Somehow he tends to eat the most when it's my week to get paid. This makes me even grouchier because I just want to know what he does with his paycheck. I've seen our bills. Unless he has a boat, or a sports car or another family somewhere, I can't fathom where all his money goes. In the interest of peace, I hand it over.
But
Now I'm so riled up, I can't get to sleep.
I sit on the couch and sulk. The tv is on pause while he's gone. I am "remote-ly challenged," so I watch the Direct Dish logo bounce around the screen.
Zipper and JB use this as the opportunity to get in my lap.
Zipper, now 14, is thin and somewhat feeble, but will muster up enough energy to occasional have a sprited wrestling match with JB. Younger by 7 years, JB is the fat cat, thanks mostly to overindulgent self-feeding. He outweighs Zipper by a good 10 pounds. He has silky fur and loves being being petted so much, he usually starts without you. He loves to roll over and have his belly scratched, but can't stand this posture for very long. Probably can't breathe.
Recently, one of them yacked on the couch, and Darling Hubby was none too happy about that. He has since started a campaign to keep them off the couch. I don't have the heart, so I make him shoo them from the couch. Besides, I'm not the bad guy, right? But the moment that he leaves the room, both jockey for my attention, and my lap.
I nod off on the couch, only to be awakened by Darling Hubby, who is mad the cats are on the couch with me.
I have to go back to the bedroom, because Darling Hubby is watching something called "Dale and Tucker vs. Evil." It is every bit the cinematic masterpiece the title implies. There I watch David Tutera make over tacky bride after tacky bride. In between I see commercials for "Big Rich Texas" and "Jerseylicious" and wonder, "Where the hell do they find these people?" First there are all the people airing out their dirty laundry Saturday night, now there are all these ladies, (using the term loosely) yelling at one another, while holding guns! Yeah, I know that's ' Jersey for ya, but I expected a little more from the country club set.
I nod off again, and when I wake up, it's almost time for Desperate Housewives. I am hooked on Desperate Housewives. Kit-Kat and I muse what we will do when it finally goes off the air.
There is a new show coming on ABC in March. I, personally, am looking forward to it. It's called "GCB." I later found out that stood for "Good Christian Bitches" but after getting scads of hate mail, ABC changed it to "Good Christian Belles," which to me is just as bad. They finally just called it "GCB." It looks like it's about a bunch of "desperate housewives" from Dallas and centers mainly around the cliques at their church. Oh Boy! (Some of us know how dramatic that can be now don't we?) So we get a whole bunch of new folks and their problems with a dash of religion thrown in for good measure!
Kit-Kat says she doesn't want to "get attached" to any more ensemble shows, but I bet she will.
I wonder if their church will be like the one I grew up in. In my lifetime 2 out of 5 of the pastors that have led our congregation have had an affair with their secretary (and one of them even divorced his beautiful wife to marry the cow! More on that at a later date) so I can just imagine the storylines of a ficticious congregation!
Anyway....
I am fighting sleep during DH. It's really good, so I'm surprised that it isn't keeping me awake. I barely make it to the next week's preview.
I slept until 6:00 a.m., missing my "designated shower time" and wind up taking a cold shower. I am still on time for work, but I am none too happy.
Which leads me to now, my lunch hour, where I am again fighting sleep.
Enzzzzzzzzzzzzz..............
First, Tigger decided that he needed to go to church with his girlfreind, Miss Mac. Had he had his license, that wouldn't have been an issue. But because he has no interest in driving whatsoever, I had to drag myself out of bed and carry him. Then I had to go back home and fight sleep in order to go back and get him. Fun Times.
When I did get back home, my phone starts ringing off the hook. Actually, off the nightstand, but I digress. I wasn't in the greatest of moods. I'm told that I am not at all pleasant to speak with when I am sleep deprived. I thought it best to send those calls to voice mail.
Darling Hubby then started to complain he was hungry. That meant I had to get up and give him my debit card. I don't know how it happens. He gets paid one week and I get paid the next. Somehow he tends to eat the most when it's my week to get paid. This makes me even grouchier because I just want to know what he does with his paycheck. I've seen our bills. Unless he has a boat, or a sports car or another family somewhere, I can't fathom where all his money goes. In the interest of peace, I hand it over.
But
Now I'm so riled up, I can't get to sleep.
I sit on the couch and sulk. The tv is on pause while he's gone. I am "remote-ly challenged," so I watch the Direct Dish logo bounce around the screen.
Zipper and JB use this as the opportunity to get in my lap.
Zipper, now 14, is thin and somewhat feeble, but will muster up enough energy to occasional have a sprited wrestling match with JB. Younger by 7 years, JB is the fat cat, thanks mostly to overindulgent self-feeding. He outweighs Zipper by a good 10 pounds. He has silky fur and loves being being petted so much, he usually starts without you. He loves to roll over and have his belly scratched, but can't stand this posture for very long. Probably can't breathe.
Recently, one of them yacked on the couch, and Darling Hubby was none too happy about that. He has since started a campaign to keep them off the couch. I don't have the heart, so I make him shoo them from the couch. Besides, I'm not the bad guy, right? But the moment that he leaves the room, both jockey for my attention, and my lap.
I nod off on the couch, only to be awakened by Darling Hubby, who is mad the cats are on the couch with me.
I have to go back to the bedroom, because Darling Hubby is watching something called "Dale and Tucker vs. Evil." It is every bit the cinematic masterpiece the title implies. There I watch David Tutera make over tacky bride after tacky bride. In between I see commercials for "Big Rich Texas" and "Jerseylicious" and wonder, "Where the hell do they find these people?" First there are all the people airing out their dirty laundry Saturday night, now there are all these ladies, (using the term loosely) yelling at one another, while holding guns! Yeah, I know that's ' Jersey for ya, but I expected a little more from the country club set.
I nod off again, and when I wake up, it's almost time for Desperate Housewives. I am hooked on Desperate Housewives. Kit-Kat and I muse what we will do when it finally goes off the air.
There is a new show coming on ABC in March. I, personally, am looking forward to it. It's called "GCB." I later found out that stood for "Good Christian Bitches" but after getting scads of hate mail, ABC changed it to "Good Christian Belles," which to me is just as bad. They finally just called it "GCB." It looks like it's about a bunch of "desperate housewives" from Dallas and centers mainly around the cliques at their church. Oh Boy! (Some of us know how dramatic that can be now don't we?) So we get a whole bunch of new folks and their problems with a dash of religion thrown in for good measure!
Kit-Kat says she doesn't want to "get attached" to any more ensemble shows, but I bet she will.
I wonder if their church will be like the one I grew up in. In my lifetime 2 out of 5 of the pastors that have led our congregation have had an affair with their secretary (and one of them even divorced his beautiful wife to marry the cow! More on that at a later date) so I can just imagine the storylines of a ficticious congregation!
Anyway....
I am fighting sleep during DH. It's really good, so I'm surprised that it isn't keeping me awake. I barely make it to the next week's preview.
I slept until 6:00 a.m., missing my "designated shower time" and wind up taking a cold shower. I am still on time for work, but I am none too happy.
Which leads me to now, my lunch hour, where I am again fighting sleep.
Enzzzzzzzzzzzzz..............
Sunday, February 19, 2012
My Freakin' Back Hurts So I Can't Sleep
So it's 1:00 a.m. and my back hurts so bad, I cant sleep. I'm tapping this out with my stylus, if you can believe that. I've been reading up on The Gold Digger and watching this show on the Oprah network called "Unfaithful." People sharing their stories of how they cheated, got away with it, got caught,went to councelling, and stayed married. Interesting! Well, it beats a freakin' infomercial.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Confession Time: I'm Addicted
...to a blog called Diary of a Gold Digger.
I stumbed across it, very much by accident, while reading another blog to which I had become addicted.
It tells the tale of a woman, who finds the perfect mate with not-so-perfect parents. From time to time she shares snippets of her youth. It is with these posts that I relate the most. She is apparently very close to my age, because some of the stories she shares remind me of my own childhood in Alabama.
Today's post she talks about finding kittens in the hay shed at her grandparents farm. This could be a story from my own life! With the notable exception of her granparents' farm being a dairy farm and my grandparents' farm being a poultry farm, nearly all other details seem the same! Right down to the Hee-Haw overall shorts.
(me in the green, obviously, and Brother in the blue)
My brother and I spent each summer at my grandparents' farm in rural Alabama. We spent those days fishing, tending the cattle, chasing the baby chicks and frolicking in the shavings shed. (The hay barn was off limits.) There was Ole Mama Cat and she kept us in a seemingly never ending supply of kittens that would all grow up and run off. She'd give birth in the hay barn and before long there'd be kittens crawling all in the hay. Despite our best efforts, very few would be tame enough to catch. Those that we did catch, would later come tumbling out, looking to be petted and fed.
We had a duck take up residence in the shavings shed once. She had 12 ducklings and didn't take kindly to meddling children.
Have you ever been bitten by a duck?
They may not have teeth, but it hurts just the same.
She stayed on the next year, and laid several more eggs. My grandfather didn't really care for the duck, but he demonstrated that he was more than tolerable of her (or maybe less tolerable of the tortured cries of his granddaughter) when a snake invaded her nest and attempted to eat one of her eggs.
I learned early on that chickens were for eating and they didn't last very long off the farm. Each year I'd beg for a chick to carry home with me and each year, I'd be disappointed as my chick would become lonely and sick. I'd either return it to the flock or bury it in the flower garden.
When I was little, my grandparents had 3 garden plots. As time went on, they could no longer tend a garden, and I missed the steady supply of fresh produce that was once so abundant , I took it for granted.
The one behind the hay barn where my grandfather only grew corn. Rows and rows of corn, with a long post in the middle that my grandfather hung the body of a crow. Believe it or not, nothing is a better scarecrow than the body of one of their fallen brethren.
A large garden, down by the road. My grandfather turned chicken manure into the soil every winter. It yeilded the best produce for miles around. The most memorable was the cabbage heads as big as basketballs. Even today, long after my grandfather is gone, that land has the lushest, greenest grass.
A smaller garden by the "little house," my grandmother's term for the two room cinderblock building. They would retreat to it between chores and used it to stay the night when they caught chickens. It had a couch with a tv, a stove and fridge, a table for 4, a bed and a bathroom.
We'd go out to "find the cows" every day. My grandfather would count them and then go find any that were missing. Every spring there was a new herd of calves that would run and jump and kick up their hooves. We'd sell them off the following spring as yearlings, but there were always new calves to take their place. The never ending circle of life.
There was a pond on one side of the property and we'd spend the end of each day with a line in the water. I have many pictures of the crappie that we'd catch. The kids up and down the road would climb the fence and try to fish that pond and my grandfather would run them off. On weekends in the winter, my grandfather would take us dove hunting underneath a grove of trees. There we learned to be patient and still.
Like the "Gold Digger," some of my best memories growing up were on that farm. I hate that my children have never known that simple, easy-going childhood.
En~Joy!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On a related note, here is this year's Valentine's gift from Darling Hubby.
He loves me so =)
I especially love the lion!
I stumbed across it, very much by accident, while reading another blog to which I had become addicted.
It tells the tale of a woman, who finds the perfect mate with not-so-perfect parents. From time to time she shares snippets of her youth. It is with these posts that I relate the most. She is apparently very close to my age, because some of the stories she shares remind me of my own childhood in Alabama.
Today's post she talks about finding kittens in the hay shed at her grandparents farm. This could be a story from my own life! With the notable exception of her granparents' farm being a dairy farm and my grandparents' farm being a poultry farm, nearly all other details seem the same! Right down to the Hee-Haw overall shorts.
(me in the green, obviously, and Brother in the blue)
My brother and I spent each summer at my grandparents' farm in rural Alabama. We spent those days fishing, tending the cattle, chasing the baby chicks and frolicking in the shavings shed. (The hay barn was off limits.) There was Ole Mama Cat and she kept us in a seemingly never ending supply of kittens that would all grow up and run off. She'd give birth in the hay barn and before long there'd be kittens crawling all in the hay. Despite our best efforts, very few would be tame enough to catch. Those that we did catch, would later come tumbling out, looking to be petted and fed.
We had a duck take up residence in the shavings shed once. She had 12 ducklings and didn't take kindly to meddling children.
Have you ever been bitten by a duck?
They may not have teeth, but it hurts just the same.
She stayed on the next year, and laid several more eggs. My grandfather didn't really care for the duck, but he demonstrated that he was more than tolerable of her (or maybe less tolerable of the tortured cries of his granddaughter) when a snake invaded her nest and attempted to eat one of her eggs.
I learned early on that chickens were for eating and they didn't last very long off the farm. Each year I'd beg for a chick to carry home with me and each year, I'd be disappointed as my chick would become lonely and sick. I'd either return it to the flock or bury it in the flower garden.
When I was little, my grandparents had 3 garden plots. As time went on, they could no longer tend a garden, and I missed the steady supply of fresh produce that was once so abundant , I took it for granted.
The one behind the hay barn where my grandfather only grew corn. Rows and rows of corn, with a long post in the middle that my grandfather hung the body of a crow. Believe it or not, nothing is a better scarecrow than the body of one of their fallen brethren.
A large garden, down by the road. My grandfather turned chicken manure into the soil every winter. It yeilded the best produce for miles around. The most memorable was the cabbage heads as big as basketballs. Even today, long after my grandfather is gone, that land has the lushest, greenest grass.
A smaller garden by the "little house," my grandmother's term for the two room cinderblock building. They would retreat to it between chores and used it to stay the night when they caught chickens. It had a couch with a tv, a stove and fridge, a table for 4, a bed and a bathroom.
We'd go out to "find the cows" every day. My grandfather would count them and then go find any that were missing. Every spring there was a new herd of calves that would run and jump and kick up their hooves. We'd sell them off the following spring as yearlings, but there were always new calves to take their place. The never ending circle of life.
There was a pond on one side of the property and we'd spend the end of each day with a line in the water. I have many pictures of the crappie that we'd catch. The kids up and down the road would climb the fence and try to fish that pond and my grandfather would run them off. On weekends in the winter, my grandfather would take us dove hunting underneath a grove of trees. There we learned to be patient and still.
Like the "Gold Digger," some of my best memories growing up were on that farm. I hate that my children have never known that simple, easy-going childhood.
En~Joy!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On a related note, here is this year's Valentine's gift from Darling Hubby.
He loves me so =)
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
On Death and Dying
I've had a lot of things that reminded me of my own mortality lately.
Namely this horrid ear/sinus infection.
Despite feelling as if I was dying, my doctor assured me that while one day I may, but this wasn't the day.
I've always had an unusual relationship with Death. I've been both horrified and enthralled by it. To say I fear it, at times is an understatement, while at others, I think, "it's gotta be better than here."
And funerals...
I've always wanted a "standing room only" funeral. You know, where you stand in line for hours, waiting to speak to my loved ones. Maybe to share how I had touched your life.
My uncle Fred's funeral was like that. I don't recall being really all that sad, because if there was a man on this earth who I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt was in Heaven, Fred was that man. To hear of all the lives he had touched, over his 70 years here on earth, was extremely uplifting and made me envy the fact that he was already "home."
I used to pester my friends with questions like, "If I died, would you come to my funeral? Would you be sad if I died? Would you miss me after I was gone?" Weird huh? I don't ask anymore. It makes me sound a little disturbed. But those questions remain.
I guess I was just looking for validation that my life had mattered.
That I had meant something to someone.
That my life meant so much, that I'd be missed.
My friend Brad died right out of high school, as did my friend JoDeann.
Brad was a hellavua jock: he was a great pitcher, an avid hunter and fisherman. For all his rugged qualities, he could also be tender and sweet. He was always there for me when what ever guy I was dating was a jerk. He'd listen, advise, and let me cry on his shoulder. He had even told me that one guy had been cheating on me and that I deserved better. He asked if I wanted him to beat this guy up, because he would. That was the kind of guy he was. The day he died left a deep, painful scar on my heart. He died on Leap Day, a day that only comes around once every four years. On his birthday, I put flowers on his grave, just as I have every year for the past 25 years. Two roses, one red and one yellow.
JoDeann was an equally as talented sportswoman: she could play anything (and usually did) and my childhood is filled with memories of climbing trees, riding bicycles, building forts. Nearly every picture of me or my brother, from when I was 11 to beyond graduation, had her in it. When she died, I felt like I'd lost a little sister.
Not a day goes by that I don't miss them both terribly. And I think that I see them out in public. You know how that is. A car, just like theirs goes by, or you see someone with the same build, same hair color, same style or mannerism. I have to remind myself they are gone. (Which is pretty funny. Me standing there with my eyes closed saying "Brad's Dead, Brad's Dead, Brad's Dead..." over and over again.)
I hope I will be missed like this one day.
Namely this horrid ear/sinus infection.
Despite feelling as if I was dying, my doctor assured me that while one day I may, but this wasn't the day.
I've always had an unusual relationship with Death. I've been both horrified and enthralled by it. To say I fear it, at times is an understatement, while at others, I think, "it's gotta be better than here."
And funerals...
I've always wanted a "standing room only" funeral. You know, where you stand in line for hours, waiting to speak to my loved ones. Maybe to share how I had touched your life.
My uncle Fred's funeral was like that. I don't recall being really all that sad, because if there was a man on this earth who I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt was in Heaven, Fred was that man. To hear of all the lives he had touched, over his 70 years here on earth, was extremely uplifting and made me envy the fact that he was already "home."
I used to pester my friends with questions like, "If I died, would you come to my funeral? Would you be sad if I died? Would you miss me after I was gone?" Weird huh? I don't ask anymore. It makes me sound a little disturbed. But those questions remain.
I guess I was just looking for validation that my life had mattered.
That I had meant something to someone.
That my life meant so much, that I'd be missed.
My friend Brad died right out of high school, as did my friend JoDeann.
Brad was a hellavua jock: he was a great pitcher, an avid hunter and fisherman. For all his rugged qualities, he could also be tender and sweet. He was always there for me when what ever guy I was dating was a jerk. He'd listen, advise, and let me cry on his shoulder. He had even told me that one guy had been cheating on me and that I deserved better. He asked if I wanted him to beat this guy up, because he would. That was the kind of guy he was. The day he died left a deep, painful scar on my heart. He died on Leap Day, a day that only comes around once every four years. On his birthday, I put flowers on his grave, just as I have every year for the past 25 years. Two roses, one red and one yellow.
JoDeann was an equally as talented sportswoman: she could play anything (and usually did) and my childhood is filled with memories of climbing trees, riding bicycles, building forts. Nearly every picture of me or my brother, from when I was 11 to beyond graduation, had her in it. When she died, I felt like I'd lost a little sister.
Not a day goes by that I don't miss them both terribly. And I think that I see them out in public. You know how that is. A car, just like theirs goes by, or you see someone with the same build, same hair color, same style or mannerism. I have to remind myself they are gone. (Which is pretty funny. Me standing there with my eyes closed saying "Brad's Dead, Brad's Dead, Brad's Dead..." over and over again.)
I hope I will be missed like this one day.
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