White Trash Shoes

You Might call them that.

Or you might call them dancing shoes. I don't know. Put them on, watch this. Now join in.

 Hey, you could be the missing sister.

Disco I love you but cannot forgive you

Sometimes, there are no words for joy, Except a silly grin and a tapping foot.

Need a new car? Let me save you some time.

Thumbing through an old copy of Car and Driver in a waiting room, I read an article by John Phillips that basically stole all my reasons for reading car magazines. Well, some of them anyway.

 I frequently read passages of car descriptions out loud to whoever's home, as I think the writing is extraordinary. My fav interactive mag is Winding Road. I talk about it here.

The Phillips article left me chuckling... funny enough to make me rip out the page. Sorry, next dude who wanted to finish that article on Cash for Clunkers.

So, because I want to save you a few hours of research in your car purchase situation, here are a few insider views on cars you may want to avoid..or not. Compliments of John Phillips at Car and Driver.

Of a BMW 3-series’ shifter: “As slick as the jumpsuits worn by the Captain & ­Tennille.”

Of the Pontiac Aztek: “A body that resembles Janis Joplin’s during her most devoted heroin years.”

Of the Hummer H2: “A professional tailgater’s vehicle that can be driven strictly by feel and sound, with road rage offered as standard equipment.”

Of an Oldsmobile Custom Cruiser: “It should have been called the Emetic because the body motions will induce the sort of vomiting necessary to save the lives of recently self-poisoned persons, namely this vehicle’s buyers on or around the date of their third payment.”

Of the Daewoo-built Pontiac LeMans:“Sufficiently awful that it will cause you to abandon your family and open a souvenir shop in Tucumcari.”

Of the Chrysler Concorde, whose front wheels intruded on the footwells: “The dead pedal’s position will suit those who have recently received a prosthetic left leg made in Somalia.”

Of the Plymouth Prowler’s stiff ride: “Great car if you enjoy viewing the passing landscape in moiré patterns.”

Of the Chrysler Crossfire’s similarly unyielding ride: “Very much like an epileptic seizure, except you unfortunately remember every single detail afterward.”

Of the Geo Metro convertible: “All the structural integrity of hollandaise sauce atop filet of eel.”

Of an early Porsche 911 Turbo: “A particularly spirited drive in the hills will necessarily be followed by a week of prunes and Quaker Oats.”

Of a Renault Le Car (one of my first reviews): “Guaranteed to end your social life and lead to a lifetime of bed-wetting interrupted only by savage bouts of window peeping.”

Of an Alfa Romeo Spider: “With steering this sloppy, expect to crash minutes after departing the showroom, although the car will likely self-immolate or rust into fine red dust before it can truly maim you.”

Of the first Oldsmobile Bravada: “I memorized the rollover warnings on the visor and performed every banned maneuver in hopes of wadding this rebadged armadillo into a metallic pellet that could be readily gathered by a pooper-scooper.”

Of the Bugatti EB110: “Exuding all the charm of an industrial air conditioner, it nonetheless will remain rare because no one will want one, no one can afford to maintain one, and the company’s likely swan dive into receivership won’t leave enough cash to buy an industrial air conditioner.”

Of the Bugatti Veyron: “It won’t enhance your sex life because it causes all of the blood to rush to your head.”

Of the GMC Typhoon: “Less a typhoon than a tsunami of hurry-up engineering guaranteed to leave in its wake a tidal wave of shrapneled valves, rods, cam lobes, and neighbors who finally feel it’s safe to let their kids out again.”

Of the Daewoo Nubira: “Like a George Foreman grill but greasier.”

Of a Caterham 7: “Like driving a rural-route mailbox into which vandals occasionally toss lit cherry bombs that first deafen and then somehow induce pneumonia.”

Of the Dodge Shadow: “Who would have thought that someone could create a car guaranteed to make your wife shout, ‘Wow, my mother was right!’ ”

Of a Ford Bronco: “It’s like a morbidly obese NFL defensive lineman with 14 concussions and 12 knee operations and his 42nd birthday a week off.”

Of the Factory Five Roadster: “In the rain, it exhibited all the poise of a Zamboni on the Rubicon Trail.”

Of the Merkur XR4Ti: “It looks like a ­geothermal event bulging up through the tarmac.”

Of an early Maserati Quattroporte: “The dash and its attendant control layout resemble a trailer park following an Oklahoma ­tornado.”

Of the Daihatsu Rocky: “One of the few cars apparently capable of simultaneously summoning dive, squat, yaw, understeer, oversteer, a trade deficit, acid reflux, impotence, and a military coup in Ecuador.”

Of the cockpit smell in a Hyundai Pony: “A curious mixture of wet dog, WD-40, and 
liquid Maalox.

It's all about the hunt.

In a post that may have been written by her husband, or her therapist ( if she had one),
Linda realizes in a split second...
 her life has been all about the hunt.

Hold up your ornaments! I may wanna steal them.

Yes, we did it again.
 Women gathered under one roof to drink Sangria and rob each other.

It was the annual p-ornament exchange party.
 Well, there were 2 PORNAMENTS anyway... thanks to my partner in crime. ;-)

If you havent heard the story yet... It isn't this. 


These are some previous years posts on the subject Here and HERE: and more at other places that you can find..like some hater's page probably. But bottom line is, I love this hostess and she has a great sense of humor- as does her Mom! And I always meet some cool new friends every time I go to her parties- so this is an event I look forward to every year.

Details, shmetails... all you need to know is that this was the year of the Black Santa. ( read into that as much as you will. I'm zippering it over here.) Yes, a Black Santa come to give you all the presents you may desire...With Hot Sauce in one hand and a Sheep in the other.

 and also... I admit it. I totally defaced the collectible Atlanta Braves ornament, and probably made some black men proud with my artistic interpretation on ornament #2. Beacause even though I sat in Jane Fonda's old seat and admired Chipper Jones' ass up close and personal for one blessedly long ball game, I am not a baseball fan... or a collector.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah and Cheery Kwanza.

 It started calm. There were mini wine glasses and a martini one.. and some cute alligators with boas- the feather kind... I made a light up shirt out of a $5 Target tee and a string of battery operated twinkling lights. BIG hit. ( all these ladies think I need to start my own business. I guess I make a pretty good elf.)
 

looking pretty innocent in his box, eh?

  

lift his shirt.....

 Here' s those boys who run the diamond... all those analogies about sex and baseball?

They're true.

as our happy gift recipient found out!

Andrea, the party hostess and I are ASTONISHED! ;-) 

I should have made more this year and brought them to the "after party".... a friend's birthday gathering that I pretty much crashed. Oopsie.

                                    This is the host.

  

and this is the  Birthday girl.. who looks like she's gonna need some glued on help to celebrate her birthday tonight. heh heh..

Reading in bed, clothing optional.

If it's about writing, authors, books or words in general? I posted it over here. Click and read. you won't be sorry.

Music with a Purpose. Served up Two Ways.

I believe in the magical quality of music. Of the healing power of positive words. So when I found out about N.E.D. I had to share it.
This group is not just full of talented musicians and songwriters, but they are a rock band with a purpose.
N.E.D. was named for "No Evidence of Disease" -- a phrase that every gynecologic oncologist hopes to tell a patient after undergoing cancer treatment.

This band's made up of six gynecologic cancer surgeons with a mission to enhance knowledge about the disease, bring hope through rhythm for women undergoing treatment, and raise awareness & money for the fight against women's reproductive cancers.

Their CD is slated for release on September 8th to coincide with Gynecologic Cancer Awareness Month and they include informational booklets about gynecologic cancers entitled, “What Every Woman Should Know.” Net proceeds from the sale of the CD will be donated to the N.E.D. Cancer Foundation in association with the Gynecologic Cancer Foundation (GCF) to educate the public about gynecologic cancers and support promising research.

Here's one of my favorite songs: False Pretenses
Listen to more here. and fan them on their FaceBook page.

I'm wishing them all the best in this endeavor.


Some of my bunko mates and I brought on our own healing night of music last night.....

when we braved the stairs outside the Japanese restaurant where we had a great dinner- to enter the Korean karaoke house. It was set up so different than how Americans do it, and since I've never been to Korea.... it was all new to me.

The last bunko- karaoke night was years ago and got us booted from a local coffeehouse, and the last time I was with some of these gals we saw a fight break out...

So maybe little Momma singstore owner knew we were trouble and that was why she rushed us into the big room with no delay.

We were led to the largest karaoke room. Everyone who comes in gets their own room and system. We had a nice long couch and table and two large monitors. The speaker system was awesome and the flashing laser light show pretty cool, although we had some trouble with the controls on the complicated remotes... getting some Korean lyrics and a very very slow tempo on a few songs but nothing we couldn't work around.
After a few hours of fun, we were ready to head back home, crawl into bed and set the alarm to get the kids on the bus in the morning, most of our worries left behind in a dimly lit, well padded and very private fifty dollar room.

One of a few things I'm trying to not dwell on.

Here's the backstory if you're new here-
or if you're like my husband who only hears the words that come after steak, beer, bed, free or panties.
I wrote a (steak) novel- actually three, but here- to minimize dwelling potential- we're only talking about the one my agent read, liked, edited and last week pitched to a bunch of (beer) hot NYC editors.
It's summer, so of course I have plenty to do to keep me busy (panties) during the waiting period- which I have been told can be three days, four weeks, five months, six years or somewhere short of forever. So I wait. And I check my horoscope and the tarot and throw chicken bones like rune stones. It's just that, I am so freaking good at dwelling... that I've about given myself a (free) crazypersonbreakdown- which is good for prepping a body for bathing suit weather, (steak) and pretty good for sleeping long periods of time or drinking large bottles of wine.

I blame the crazypersonthing on (panties) travel, planning, packing, (beer) kids and all their messes and friends and problems and arguments, money difficulties, (steak) the IRS, running another literary business, (beer), replacing household appliances, hiring workers and (bed) prepping our house for sale, while trying to figure where to move, how much to spend and when. Add in (free) difficult work and personal relationships and a growing dislike for (panties) your location in the world, and you pretty much have a recipe for disaster. Or at least the perfect combination of events that lead someone like me to buy a first class ticket on the train to crazypersonville, Xanax included.
I'm not complaining. really, I'm not. I'm just stating the facts. I'm just sharing in the way one might share one's thoughts, feelings, ideas and current status with her loving caring extended family over a Sunday Dinner. (though in my family? We ignore all the bad shit, only talk about the done deal stuff that won't hurt anyone's feelings and definitely never mention hopes or wishes or desires because that's all just dreaming and God knows where dreaming gets you... nowhere little girl with her head in the clouds, and guess what? No one ever wins the lottery or beats cancer either.)
( beer, panties, bed, free, steak)
Mostly it's my fault for taking too much on. For feeling superior over normalcy, for desiring more and more- not the material stuff, just the wrapping up of the regular stuff. If I had a real job in a real office I would be the one with the uber-neat cubicle, the one who was never late, who stayed overtime and always always cleared her desk before she left for the day. You, as my co-worker would hate me for making you seem incompetent, and I would spend all my free time trying to get you to like me. Going places with you I never wanted or needed to go, planning events that would please you and offering, always offering to pay, to drive, to negotiate, to make things simpler. In my head, you'd be my friend, and I'd think it was all normal, sane.
But it isn't. Which brings me back to dwelling- which makes me think I have way too much brain time on my hands because I now have twenty pages of new novel experiences and insight to the characters in the work in progress, all from my crazypersonville experiences of the past few months, and honestly? This may be some of the best work I have ever done- and that's not fucking crazy to dwell on.
Is it?

Shopping Advice, Ladies.

Probably doesn't need to be said, but for the record: ROSS has some of the cutest and some of the nicest sundresses I've seen for under $15.

At my local stores (2) I scored a cart full of dresses for me and my daughter, 5 pairs of sandals for her, and at least 4 pairs of shorts and 3 tees for the picky teen boy. All items are well made and nothing cost more than $14.99. The most expensive maxi dress was only $12.99 and most of the shoes were $8.99, with more markdowns on the way.

It appears the recession is good for some of us.
Check it out and tell them Linda sent you.

It wasn't me. Thank God.

Growing up with three sisters, I always had someone to blame- for the broken vase, for the dirty dish in the sink, for the wet towel on the floor. Our mother frequently referred to this classic Family Circus cartoon... understanding exactly how that worked.


Last week, someone tried to kill a venomous snake and instead killed our downspout and housing.
Someone tried to play soccer with little girls and ended up breaking one of their wrists.
Someone forgot how to pedal their bike and wasn't wearing a helmet.
Someone didn't finish their homework.
Someone tried to hide the mess in the closet by simply closing the doors.
Someone left a multi-colored pen in their pocket then washed a full load of whites.
Someone forgot which store and even which mall held the necessary item they needed to buy.

Someone didn't go to graduation.
Someone forgot they weren't supposed to ride the bus home, but wait in the parking lot.
Someone tried to get out of church.
Someone didn't save the reading list.
Someone ate all the chicken in a biscuit crackers.
Someone ordered the wrong pizza.
Someone messed up the TV settings.
Someone didn't clean up their room.

and for once? Guess what...
 it wasn't me.

Only in a restroom in Cusseta, Alabama.

Writers see the world... differently.
It looks kind of like this:
EVERYTHING IS, HAS, WAS, WILL OR CAN BE A STORY.

Just as everyone you meet is a potential character and every conversation you hear may be stored away for later use. Having a writer as a friend can be dangerous, partying with fellow writers fills my well. (Hello Southampton friends!)
It is so nice when people "get you," when explanations are unnecessary and when you can experience truly witty parlay.

So, it will come as no surprise to my writing friends that I found a story in a restroom in Cusseta, Alabama last week.

Stopping for gas and potty break with 2 gal pals, I waited in the dimly lit white washed pine sol scented back hall for my friend to finish up in the "one seater." It seemed like an ordinary gas station/convenience mart, gas pumps, checkout counter in the round, coffee, energy drinks and steamed franks for the road.

And trust me there was nothing special about the ladies restroom. Single unlidded toilet, one sink, electric hand dryer mounted to wall, small waste basket...
All details I took in mid squat, until my eye was drawn to the small yellow bag littering the floor. First thought? Why didn't my friend who was just in here pick this up?
Then I noticed the receipt under my foot.
I finished my business then picked up both. The bag was from Dollar General. The receipt went with the bag.
First thought. Some lady was in a hurry for feminine hygiene products.
But no.

Receipt was for the Dollar General on Hwy 29. Store #10320.
Purchase: one Early Pregnancy Test Kit
cost:
$1.00
tax .07
paid in cash

The plot thickens.

I'm seeing in my mind's eye the harried girl who ran in here, the first stop before she had to go home, before she had to return to school. The worried woman who filled up her car, then made her way to the restroom before she had to go home to the husband she's cheating on? The hopeful and excited single woman who hopes a one dollar test is just as good as the real thing because this might be the answer, this might change everything...

and then, you KNOW what I want to do.

I washed my hands, took my time with the dryer positioned over the full waste basket, watched as it blew the loose paper towels, saw it uncover the purple and white box, and something else beneath... and then I thought about what I would say to my friends- and I hesitated. I thought about what people would think about me if I ...
and I left.

Because as much as I wanted to reach in that trash can and find out if the pee stick said yes or no... I would rather never know, because now I'm able to write two different endings for two different women, a multitude of stories. (and seeing as I have this horrible problem with manipulating truths- I don't do it well- I don't have that ultimate statement standing in my way.)

Odder still, was that the 3rd girl in our group who was waiting in the hall for her turn in the ladies room was regaled by a story of confusion, sadness,and despair told by a woman who'd found this gas station by mistake. She'd left a divorce counseling session and was crying so much and was so upset that she had been driving in the wrong direction for miles.
It was a good thing she needed gas and a bathroom, she said, or she might have ended up in Florida.

Lordy. I love Alabama.

This is why I speed.

Tom says it's a testicular pleasure. And while, as a woman, I can't quite get on board with that reason, I cannot deny the sexual reference, nor my need for speed. Maybe it's the pleasure it brings me, when the driving fast is combined with the illegality of it. It's like sex- but not like this kind of sex. It's like all the best parts of sex: the power, the control, the excitement, the pleasure, the adrenaline rush, the possibility of getting caught, the newness every time, the rise in blood pressure, the release, the chance to do it all over again.
Just please don't tell the 15 yr old who is vying for his learner's permit this week.

On my FACEBOOK page, I linked an small speeding article written by the talented and amazing Tom Chiarella from Esquire in a section about minor violations... why we do them and what's the cost? Read it, read the whole magazine, for good ness sake and sure, if you want? Friend me.

Frankly, I know I speed more than is necessary. I'm usually not doing it because I'm late, except for that time my pedicure ran over and I almost missed my plane to London, and then I compounded the speeding indiscretion with driving solo in the HOV lane. What the hell.. in for a dime, in for a dozen, I say. I wasn't stopped for either. And they held the plane for me.

I used to drive according to whatever was on the radio. Even now, I find myself cruising along minding all regulations when the Spa channel is on, but when I twist the dial to garage rock or alternative and hair band satellite stations.. all bets are off.

I have my favorite speed spots. I know where the potholes are and where the Sheriff tucks his long white car in the bushes. I know a nice long stretch of smooth blacktop from Atlanta to Myrtle Beach where 110 feels like 40 and a curving road on the way south where I can pass car after car after car even if the lines look like doubled yellow.
I have learned to turn the music down and appreciate instead the growl of the engine, the whine and shudder of downshifting gears, the blast of air in my face and the whipping of hair against bare shoulders as I'm slammed back in my seat.

What's the secret password? And "unfriending."

So, because I friend EVERYONE on Facebook, I was faced with the new problem of "unfriending" someone, actually a few someones... but I wanted to be sure they didn't know. Repercussions and all that. So, in googling for an answer to my, "Will someone know if I unfriend them on FACEBOOK question," I found a whole page of people asking for help in stealing passwords.
Yes. Stealing.
Passwords for email accounts, for Facebook and Myspace, for instant messenger accounts. I don't know why I was surprised, I'm sure people hack into accounts all the time, but it seemed so creepy. And the funny thing was people were replying to other's requests and giving relationship advice, like, " Have you tried therapy, asshole?" to "Just trust him, man." And, "You should be asking her about this, not trying to read her mail."

I couldn't help thinking movie plots... girl meets boy, girl and boy connect, girl and boy marry, boy meets up with old frineds on facebook, neglects to check the married box and starts up internet love affair, girl suspects and wants to hack account to prove herself right, girl falls for hacker who exposes cheating boy...

Or something like that.
But it's probably already been done.

And also, you CAN buy software that does effectively hack passwords and keystrokes, and site visits... I won't tell you where. I'm just sayin'.

At any rate, I unfriended and ungrouped and uncluttered my FB, but I was still thinking about the password thing, how I use lots of different ones for all my accounts, how I have to write them down, because I am afraid if I use the password keeper on the computer, I will forget the password to open IT, and then, I will be screwed.
When I forget a password and if I can't find where I wrote it, I have to set it all up again, which in this day requires a security question. Most of them are stupid and I lie.

"What street did you grow up on?"
I say MAIN STREET, because even if I get Alzheimer's, I will know MAIN STREET.

As I was thinking about all of this a friend told me how she had forgotten a password she thought she'd never have to re-use and was mortified when she had to call in to retrieve it, and the security question the guy was required to ask her was, "To whom did you lose your virginity?"
We laughed, but I think she was a little offended when I asked her if she knew the answer.

It appears my bottom line may be a great deal higher than other people's bottom lines

As I sit down to pay the monthly bills, organize our files and accounting information, I glance at the dusty budget book shoved behind the seldom used fax machine.
I used to be so good at that.

When we lived in NH, where most everything was cheap-- probably their way to entice people to move there-- I was on a budget/money clinging kick. I kept track of every penny that came in and went out. I had a household budget book with designated categories of expense from frivolous entertainment to fuel. I kept every receipt and was able to submit my husband's travel expenses within hours of him deboarding a plane.
It was early in the marriage, and we had agreed that each of us would do the things for the family that we were good at. For me, it was being the Mom. It was organization, decorating, shopping, and planning- from meals to trips to birthday parties. I'm like a mini-Martha who doesn't cook as much.
For my husband, it was earning the paycheck, dealing with corporate assholes and generally anything that had to do with large machinery.

Since NH, and CA, and CA and PA... we have had our share of financial ups and downs, and even when it it took every bit of our savings to move to GA, we still never worried. We never went hungry and we never thought we wouldn't or couldn't succeed. We may have had a few battles about what was budgetarily important, but in the end, we never stressed about something as stupid as money.
After all, it's the world's most renewable resource. You can just make more. (says the woman who has not held a "real" job since 1993, worked 3 jobs so she could take 2 months off and backpack through Europe, filed bankruptcy after an ex- beau ripped her off and left her with a house and a dog and 2 Iguanas, and has been through 2- count 'em 2- tax audits)
Yeah, what the hell do I know?

Recently, it came to my attention, that our lack of stress and lack of concern about money means we have more of it. God is mysterious like that.
Not balancing the checkbook, not cutting coupons, not being the guy in the grocery store with the calculator figuring out the best value per ounce... NOT doing those things allowed the positive energy of wealth to flow our way ( f you want to go all new- agey on me). Whatever the case. I am free from the money worry. Either it's there or it isn't.
We pay off any credit cards monthly, have one car loan and are paying down the house. We put money aside for kids and school and odd bills. We don't think about retirement funds or shitty stocks.
We are hopeful for a future chunk of change that will foot future bills and buy us into a better area, but we aren't sitting around thinking it will come from a lottery ticket or a casino trip... or from some tax change/government help.

Know this. You can't buy love or happiness or health. You can buy the way TO them, you can even buy "band-aids" that look and for a short while might seem to be the same thing. But at night, alone in your bed when you take that minute to rewind your day... it isn't hard cold cash you'll remember.

I know people who are so focused on their money that it constantly eludes them. People borrow and don't repay, people steal and people owe. The money is scared to go back. All that negative energy... that kind of person will always struggle, and probably not just in their finances. Some people are so conscious of their bottom line, of their gross and expenditures, that it cramps them. They are like the woman who waits so long to wear the fancy dress, that it no longer fits her. Me, I'd mow my lawn in it.

Sure, there are real money issues, and we have some concerns with Obama in office. Seems like we may be penalized for our 'free' money values, for my husband's hard work in a growing and quite lucrative field. For our restraint in incurring senseless debt.
In these belt-cinching times, our pants are hanging loose, but that doesn't mean we're bending over and asking for it.
I just know that when I pulled out that dusty budget book and read the entertainment column, I wasn't ready to give up my $19 Blockbuster membership or the $26 gym, but in May, after my year is up? I may feel okay about dropping the $39/month massage.
Because it will be sandal season, and girl? Everyone knows shoe shopping cures all money woes. Especially when there's a two for $39 sale.

The Benefits of Married Sex

Am I the only one who thinks Hollywood is taunting the singles out there by releasing this movie right before Valentine's Day?
He's Just Not That Into You
(which I think should be.... SHE'S Just not that into YOU, pal.)

He's Just Not That Into You trailer


Sure, I know quite a few single folks who are single by choice, but for those who are still looking for Mr. or Ms. Right, I will bet they all agree- Valentine's Day sucks.

Even though I never read the book,( see an excerpt here), just thinking about all those dating woes...the misunderstandings and the starting over is exhausting.

Yes, there are benefits to being married. Even if some days you have to remind yourself over and over why you said I do.

For instance,
The benefits of Married Sex.

The expectation is lower. Both in regularity and spontaneity.
You don't have to drive to get it.
You bought the sheets and probably changed them.
There is no need to brag about your body's glory days. He was there.
Night eye cream can be HOT!
Stretch marks acquired from birthing his child are very very sexy.
You can skip the erotic dance moves and candles and get right down to business if you want.
There are a lot less questions.
Saying "not now" is not a rejection, merely a postponement.
Morning breath is forgiveable.
He knows how to lock the door and when the kids interrupt, he'll understand.

A non-traditional Christmas tale, which still might have a moral.

She had been dating him since college let out for the summer. She was calling him the summer boyfriend, the guy who was friends with her girlfriend's boyfriend, a guy her own sister used to have the hots for. Convenience and revenge made for an interesting coupling.
He repaired speedboats, played basketball and could dance- well. For those things she could forgive his moodiness, his mumbling, his desire to spend more time with the guys than her. Summer turned to Fall, and they were still an item. She went to his family functions, hung out at his house, teased his dad about liking the WWF.
It seemed only natural that she would buy him a gift at Christmas. She'd listened to the dropped hints, checked his clothing sizes and splurged when a sale came up at a popular men's store.
Two weeks before Christmas he broke up with her over the phone.
She unwrapped the clothes, tore up the boxes and returned everything to the store, telling the clerk her boyfriend has decided to ask for skis instead, what a crazy guy, huh?
Then she took the money, bought booze and drugs and went to an old high school girl's holiday party, sharing a ride with her sister's fiancee- a guy who had always been nice to her and now was even nicer that she had booze and drugs and was willing to share.
The ex-boyfriend turned up at the party with a bunch of loud mouthed guys and she left with her sister's fiancee, a guy who touched her thigh in the back of the car and tried to kiss her- promising he'd never tell.
She slapped him and warned her sister, but six months later they were married. At the reception, the band played Bad Moon Rising and she made out with one of the groom's brothers in the limo- a man who told her he was divorced.
By Christmas, the sister's marriage was over, he'd left her a week after returning from the long honeymoon, leaving a goodbye note on the counter next to the garage door opener. He and his brother- the not really divorced at all one were going into business together, and his girlfriend wanted him to move in.
Merry Christmas.

Taking Grandma to a Neil Diamond concert?

There’s this thing about public gatherings, especially concerts. They are noisy and messy, complicated and exciting. They can be wonderful adventures or terrible disasters but they always, always yield a tale or two, sometimes what happens at a concert can change your life forever--that guy in row thirteen, the t-shirt vendor from LA, the scalper who upgraded your shitty ticket minutes before the warm up band started.
But sometimes, attending a concert doesn’t change your life- it merely alters it for a short while- kind of like LSD.

Last night, I went to see Neil Diamond at a newish arena by my house. The four gal pals I went with have all been there for other concerts. We are all old enough to figure shit out and basically knew what we were getting into- and except for failing to make restaurant reservations, we thought we had the thing nailed.

As always, hindsight is 20-20, so let me offer a few tips:

• Parking across the street in a grocery store parking lot is a good idea- if it's not raining and you are not wearing new spike heeled boots AND have not just drunk 3 pitchers of Texas Margaritas in less tha an hour.
• You should know: The average age of Neil Diamond concert goers is approximately 95. (Think walkers, oxygen tanks, blue hair and the subtle undertones of urine-stained pants and imminent death.)
• Even though the signs and the site and the tickets say no cameras or video or water bottles, you can still sneak all that crap in and take pictures with your phone and make very very funny voice recordings while waving your phone in the air like you don't care. the video camera light might be a giveaway...
  
• Floor seats are great for dancing and for getting up to go the bathroom, but there is no place for your coat and you won't find a cupholder on the back of a folding chair, which means you will definitely spill your $12 drink.
• Those leather pants you bought to wear to Duran Duran five years ago are probably not going to get the same attention at the Neil Diamond concert. Just sayin'.
• You may want to think twice before helping Neil sing. Like when he starts to sing a soulful rendition of Play me.. "She was morning And I was night time I one day woke up To find her lying Beside my bed I softly said..." and a big pause here...
  in which you yell in your best cheerleader-from-the diaphragm-20 rows back voice: COME TAKE ME! Your friends and only the cool people will laugh and hoot.
• Double Premium cocktails in tall plastic cups get you more drunk than single generic cocktails in fancy glasses.
• Old guys in front of you do not want to hear you scream "WOO! Woo-Hoo! We love you NEIL!"
• Old guys in front of you will get their arm smacked by their old wives when they turn around and say to you, "Lady, is that really necessary?"
• You will find this so funny that you will continue to do it-- all concert long much to the amusement of the two cool chicks behind you.
• Old guys who tour stick to the same playlist as previously published. No surprises.
  
• You finally figure out that you need a better cover story when trying to get backstage, or more money to flash around.
• Try to remember that while you are in party-mode, the rest of the world is in school and work tomorrow mode and your tiny little boring Georgia town will not have a decent bar open for miles, even when you press your face against the glass door of the bar in which an employee meeting is taking place and beg. ( We still love you, Bob.)
• If you end up at a smoky bar on the outskirts of town, be sure to feed the jukebox, text friends in other time zones, do tequila shots off body parts and always, always, dance with the dorky dude in the striped shirt.
  

When Did Christmas Cheer Become Mandatory?

I can do all the things that need to be done for this holiday with my eyes closed.. and without being particularly cheerful.

Baking for child's school bake sale. Done. Even though I used VERY expired baking soda in the cookie dough.Purchased,wrapped and mailed all out of town gifts including one unique gift certificate substitute:without complaining about the cost or time spent or traffic. Done.

Attended relatively tame p-ornament exchange party and a quiet bunko Christmas party where I managed to not piss anyone off or get thrown out of anyplace. Pretty much a first, and no, that's nothing to be cheerful about. *yawn*

Seeing as I had to select and then help my husband buy my Christmas gifts... I am not expecting any surprises this year... and after a ho-hum tree and house decorating weekend, I can't help but feel a little like... Is this it?

The only thing that is saving me from hanging up my stocking for good is my church.
Every year they open my heart to giving in a new and special way. I only hope that I find a way to do that for someone else this season.
And that's nothing to yawn about.

Being spoiled is a good thing. When you're the Mom.

My husband says I'm spoiled. I am. And it's mostly his fault.

He gives me more than I deserve and tells me I've earned it, when I think I am just doing my wife-mother-homeowner job. From expensive clothes and jewelry to a new car and trips away... he is a good good man.
This weekend he took me here, to this suite, to see the Atlanta Falcons kick some Panther ass. Meow.I say my husband is mostly responsible for spoiling me, because I grew up with three sisters and my parents gave us alot, but let us know what a lot meant, and later, I had boyfriends who spoiled me in their own ways.. usually that meant me getting my way, and them sacrificing their needs before mine.
God, put that way, I do sound spoiled, selfish even.
Let me say, I am grateful for everything I have ever received and like to give in return. My husband and I are alike in that way, and we hope we are raising children who think similarly.

There may be a difference in "spoiling" when it comes to guys and girls. I never really figured out the whole boy thing- which was very confusing when my son was born and I was new to a strange town, living 3500 miles away from family. Those were some long phone calls.
I still think I favor him more than my daughter, because I grew up knowing that the woman has to handle a lot more than the man. The man, he goes to work and does work things. He comes home and has his drink and his dinner and his TV. ( yes, yes, I am exaggerating.. relax)

The woman- she does all the rest.

So, when I tell my son to do all his chores, sure I check on him, but I also give him some slack- not expecting perfection or even great attention to detail. With my daughter, who is four years younger... I come down much harder, asking her if she thinks she's completed her task well or merely good enough. She needs to learn good enough isn't always enough, if you don't have a woman behind- spoiled or not- you picking up the slack.

A bunch of ladies, a suburban house...just another p-ornament exchange.

In a confused world, of upheaval and change, everyone needs a smile, a happy face, a kind word.

So this year for the p-ornament exchange, I thought this was the way to go.

He's cute, right? But wait. open his coat.

And wind him up.


This is Susan opening the pornament.


Before Mr. Happy Pants made it all the way to Adair who broke his dick.
Next year.... wire AND three kinds of glue.

Poor Mr. Happy Pants.