Scene from a Summer Balcony

The Setting: A late summer afternoon on a plant covered balcony.

The Players: Mr. and Mrs. Satan and their dog, FurGirl (lollygagging).

SATAN

(Blabbering on about something or another and swatting away flies when, suddenly...)

Hey! Wait a minute! Do you hear something?

ME
(suddenly alert)

Could it be...?

(The faint strains of calliope-like music are barely audible in the distance)

SATAN

It IS! IT IS!

BOTH OF US
The Ice Cream Man!

(We simultaneously spring to our feet.)

FURGIRL
(What the HELL IS GOING ON?)

(Begins panting/running in circles.)

SATAN

Where's the MONEY?!? We must have CASH for the IceCreamMan!

ME
(Running frantically around the dining room searching for my camera.)

SATAN

Do you have money! I need MONEY!

ME

(breathlessly, still running in circles searching)

In my purse! There's money in my purse...!

SATAN

(Now also running around frantically.)

Where is your purse?

ME

(Tripping over the now hysterically excited dog.)

DAMNIT, FurGirl!

Dining room! Chair!

THE THREE OF US
(Panting, running.)

SATAN

I've got it! I've GOT MONEY!!

ME

(I spot my camera, grabbing it from a barstool.)

THE THREE OF US

(Plunge, like a herd of elephants, down the stairs toward the front door and congregate, in a panting wad, on the front porch.)

SATAN

(Searching up and down the street)
What the HELL?

ME
Where did he GO?

FURGIRL
(What IS IT?! WHAAAAAT???)

SATAN

Well, that bastard.

ME

SUM BITCH!

***

I call this one Dreamsicle Denied:

(And he had his cash money and everything.)

Hairspray!

Ever since I heard of the plan to remake the John Waters classic 1980's cult film, "Hairspray", I just had to wonder who in the HECK they were going to find to fill the plus sized pumps of Divine.

Today, I wonder no more:

Guess who? Yep, that's John Travolta on the left in the dress. At 53 (and what IS the world coming to when Vinnie Barbarino is 53 I ask you), Travolta is still breaking new ground. And snaps to him, I say! You gotta love a guy that's not afraid to get in touch with his feminine side.

Read all about it at the Daily Mail.

Decisions, decisions...

Well, it's happening and I knew it would.

Now that I'm, temporarily at least, out of the nine-to-five grind, my body is struggling to settle back into its natural rythmn which up-all-night. I was always a night owl as a kid and definitely so as a teenager.

For the first week or so I was off work, I stuck to my usual schedule which is to wake up between 7 and 8 a.m., if left undisturbed. But this last week, my true colors have emerged. Come 10 p.m., I start to feel all perky--bright-eyed and bushy tailed, even. This morning at 1 a.m. I was all busy learning how to design my own blog banner. By 3 a.m. I had settled down enough to read myself to sleep with "Long Day's Journey Into Night".

But, still? Three a.m. is a tad on the late side.

I'm not sure when I would have awakened left to my own devices. As it happened, a flurry of construction activity next door did the trick at around 9 a.m. At first, I thought I was dreaming about hearing loud motors and the sound of LOTS of wooshing water. Upon becoming more conscious, I realized that, indeed, I was hearing the sounds I thought I was dreaming, and a peek out the window told me the loud motor sounds were coming from huge cement trucks, and what I thought was rushing water was actually the sound of rivers of liquid cement streaming down metal half pipe troughs into large wooden forms.

At the moment the scene looks like this:



Both the buildings next door are going condo (yay!!) and both of these concrete pads are still wet having been poured just in the last hour or so. If I had to guess, I would think they are going to serve as foundations for garages or carports.

In any case, poor FurGirl was damn glad to see me awake having long since passed her usual morning pee-pee time, I found her big furry body pressed against the bedroom door, her nose a little desperately poked into the space between the bottom of the door and the floor sort of like, "Help! Somebody?! Mommie died and I gotta GO!"

So, yah. Today's dilemma? To sleep all day or not.

Hmmm. It's a puzzlement.

(Doncha just wanna SMACK ME?)

William & Stephanie take New York

Today I'm back with more news on our burgeoning fashion guru, William Sledd, and his intrepid and talented cohort, Stephanie. I can report that the duo right now, THIS MINUTE, is in the Big Apple hobnobbing with the R&F and various style icons (I'd tell you who, but then I'd have to kill you. And you know I love you guys.) Also? William's channel is now the fourth most popular on ALL of YouTube.

Don't miss this piece by Yahoo! News featuring William as a "Person of the Web" and introducing him to even more of the world. Also, at the same site, be sure and watch the videos that are included, especially "Extreme Makeover: Thrift Shop" wherein William gives both himself and Stephanie a fashion makeover at our very own local Salvation Army for a whopping $14; and also, you guys out there be sure and take in "Five Things Men Should Never Wear".

Go William and Stephanie!

Happy Birthday Diana, David, and Me

Today I mark a few important milestones.

First, my stepson, David, turns the big two-oh. That's right, the youngster of the family is no longer a teenager. And no one is more surprised than me. With two older brothers who seemed to virtually zoom through their teenage and high school years, David on the other hand, seemed to me, comparatively speaking, to stay a kid almost forever. I used to joke that he'd been a sophmore for "almost three years" or that he was, say, thirteen STILL. In fact, I regularly referred to him as the Amazing Slowest Growing Kid in the Universe.

Well, the joke's on me today, isn't it? Our little David has finished his freshman year of college, and this week is moving into his first swinging bachelor pad with two buddies in his college town. After only one year on campus, the Slowest Growing Kid in the Universe cannot be bothered to move home between semesters.

Happy birthday, kiddo! You can stop now. Twenty is plenty old enough, I take it all back.

Nextly, today is also the birthday of my cousin, Diana. Since she is the same age as me, older only by a scant three months, I'll be keeping the number to myself. The daughter of my father's brother, Diana was my major running buddy and co-hort in crime during holidays and long hot summers on the southern Illinois prairie where our Grandmother lived (and still lives). Together we secretly climbed the incredibly high TV antennae tower mounted on the top of Grandma's house, ventured as far as we dared into deep dark fields of tall corn, and endlessly doctored our baby dolls, Wendy and Sarah.

Happy birthday, Diana. I hope I see you this summer.

And then there's me. Today is significant for me because six years ago today, I finally, once and for all, shook the demon nicotine off my back. Since I read at the time that it helps to quit on a day that is personally significant, I picked this day, the birthday of both David and Diana, for the first day of my re-birth as a smoke-free person. So far I have:

-Enjoyed 2,191 smoke free days wherein I was not Mr. Marlboro's bitch.

-NOT smoked the 65,730 cigarettes I normally would have.

-Saved the $8,216.00 that I would have spent buying said cigarettes.

-And, finally, and most importantly, saved 7 months, 1 week and 6 days of my very own life.

It hasn't always been easy, but it has truly been worth it. If you are a smoker reading this and you think you can't quit? Think again. I was the biggest ciggie-butt junkie on earth. Seriously. I was that person who wouldn't even ride in a smoke-free CAR. No, thanks, I'd rather walk.

So, set a date, screw up your courage, and slap on a patch. You can do it.

Lastly, this post is dedicated to Dr. Frank Etscorn, a graduate of Western Kentucky University, just up the road in Bowling Green, Kentucky. A behavioral psychologist, Dr. Etscorn is a professor at the University of New Mexico and is also the inventor of the nicotine patch, without which, I would seriously be puffing away until drawing my last breath. Which I'm afraid would have been sooner rather than later. Dr. Etscorn was inspired to begin his research by his wife, a smoker so addicted that she would pause her Jane Fonda workout video to have a smoke in the middle of her workout (boy, can I relate).

So, thanks Dr. Etscorn. You saved my life.

Putting the Golden in Golden Arches

After a seemingly unending drive on Highway 45, we finally made it home.

I'd like to say the trip was uneventful, but unfortunately, a little incident in Jackson, Tennessee makes that statement impossible.

And let me preface this by saying that the S-Man and I? We don't eat at MacDonald's very often. In fact, we almost never indulge in fast food so maybe we were a little unprepared for our Jackson, Tennessee MacDonald's experience.

Actually, we had planned to eat at a Thai restaurant that we had enjoyed on the initial leg of the trip thru Jackson. Unfortunately, we found the place randomly closed, so we had resigned ourselves to something cheap and fast that would allow us to press on quickly.

The MacDonald's in question was one of the those with a "Fun" land in an enclosed glass case attached to the front of the restaurant. A really old Funland that had been faded by years in the sun and years of abuse by bacteria ridden toddlers. In fact, the S-Man and I were speculating on just how often the dedicated employees of MacDonald's might wipe down such a contraption to at least, on occassion, minimize the germs.

Yah, we laughed too.

Inside the restaurant at the counter, we gave our order to the almost motionless counter girl who is clearly annoyed that: a) We are there. b) We expect food. and c) We do insist on her preparing the drinks we ordered (heavy sigh on that one).

Eventually we (heavy sigh) get our food, find a seat, and begin choking down our dinners when it happens. A large woman of about thirty with a bowl hair cut that also happens to be giggling wildly charges into the restaurant from Funland. She runs toward our table still in paroxyms of laughter and, I immediately notice as she passes by, that she is leaving a trail of pee in her wake. By the time she arrives at the door of the ladies room, it looks like a faucet has been turned on between her legs and I can actually see a stream shooting out the back. The BACK.

Go ahead on and read that again if you need to, I'll wait.

The S-Man, who while he saw the rather strange sight of the charging lady, did not appreciate, shall we say, the full magnitude of the problem. He is still gnawing on his reconstituted chicken product when he notices I haven't chewed in a really long time.

SATAN
What?

ME
(watching, speechles, as the restroom door closes behind pee-pee lady)

SATAN
Hey! What's the matter?

ME
That lady that just ran buy?

SATAN
(chuckling)
She's a little old for Funland, huh?

ME
Yah, and she must have been having a lot of fun. Because she was peeing.

SATAN
She wasn't peeing.

ME
Trust me, the woman was peeing. Like a geyser.

SATAN
(realizes I'm not kidding)

BOTH OF US
(Stare at each other in horror.)

SATAN
(Unable to help himself, confirms by looking that, yes, there is a pee trail in the aisle next to our table.)

ME
(Still not chewing.)

SATAN
Pick up your cheeseburger.

ME
But...

SATAN
PICK. UP. YOUR. CHEESEBURGER.

ME
(I pick up my cheeseburger.)

SATAN
Okay, we're moving.

ME
(I begin to stand...)

SATAN
And for God's sake...DON'T! Step in the pee.

ME
Yah. I get that part, thanks.

We carefully make our way to the extreme other side of the restaurant where we finish what we can of our dinners. Eventually, pee-pee lady emerges from the restroom, still snickering. By now her what look to be thin cotton pants (that are lime green, by the way) are completely, COMPLETELY drenched. It's as if she submerged herself from the waste down in a swimming pool. Evidently, actually pulling down her pants in the restroom wasn't in the plan.

I don't have a snappy ending for this other than to say that it will be a while, if ever, before we visit another MacDonald's. And, also, I'm sorry to subject you to this but, damn, what good is a blog if you can't write about it when a giggling woman takes a whiz all over the MacDonald's lobby? [Edited to add: Hey, maybe her pants were drenched because she rinsed them out? Yah, that's it, she rinsed them out.]

Studies in Tupelo

Once again, yesterday was spent exploring the City of Tupelo. I found this mural painted on the side of a building that housed a restaurant called Romie's, a Tupelo institution, and also where we had lunch.

We were told to come early, and that proved to be good advice. The place was jammed with Tupelonians fresh from church and hungry. I finally got a helping of fried green tomatoes, a dish I had heard about and been around all my life, but for whatever reason, had never actually experienced until now. I have to say? I'm not a fan. I can understand overeager southerners being unable to resist the urge to pluck the first unripe tomatoes of the season but, in my opinion, the fully ripe tomato is worth the wait. For those of you who are unfamiliar, fried green tomatoes are exactly what the name implies: unripe green tomatoes batter dipped and fried.

In fact, here's a photo of my lunch. You'll note that the two main southern food groups are represented here: your browns and your whites:

Those golden discs peeping out from under the roll are the tomatoes. When ordering off a menu of authentic southern homestyle cooking there really is only one choice: fried chicken. When ordering off a southern breakfast menu? You need to try the grits. And while grits is spelled "grits", in the south that is a actually two-syllable word pronounced: "gree-yuts" (Just a little fyi for you there.)

I snapped a few photos of some of the more interesting locals around me at lunch. This gentleman looked to be enjoying a Father's Day lunch with his daughter:

And this woman was clearly at lunch with her husband, children, and grandchildren:

Both of these people are, in my opinion, typical southern upper crust. A little excessively well dressed, attractive, but with JUST a whiff of eccentric. I can easily picture the woman's beautifully decorated home, she's likely a wonderful cook, perhaps famous for her cobblers, probably active in her church. At the same time, if her husband were to, I don't know, say stray with her good friend and neighbor, Betty Jean Drexell? This lady in white might just serve him up a deadly slice of his favorite, lemon ice box pie, laced with arsenic, and calmly sip a nice cup of coffee flavored with a dash of, her favorite, hazelnut cream as he slowly chokes to death in the breakfast nook.

Later, she'd turn up appropriately red-eyed, perfectly coiffed, and stunning all in black complete with pillbox hat and veil at the funeral. And she'd be sorry it had to end that way, she really would. But, sometimes, these things just can't be helped (she'd say to herself as she patted her little granddaughter's head at the graveside).

My point is, you just do not mess with this particular type of southern woman. Just don't. Trust me on this.

As for the dapper gentleman. He's a retired bank president, isn't he? Obviously, the bow tie is his signature look. He has thousands of them that he's collected over the years. One in every conceivable color. In fact, it's a tradition that his daughter buys him a new one each father's day. And, each year, when presented with the elaborately wrapped present, they have a tradition where he guesses all manner of bazaar guesses about what's in the box. The Hope Diamond? A set of mud flaps? Toe socks?

Yes, he has a wonderful relationship with his daughter. And they've grown even closer since his wife died last year. But, while he loved Doris, if he were really honest, he'd have to admit that this last year on his own has been fairly exciting. Because, for the first time in his life, he can now indulge his fantasies each and every night. And what our friend Larry here likes to do in his impeccably decorated two story Victorian, after dark, when the shades are drawn, is to dress up like a Dallas Cowboy's Cheerleader.

Oh, sure, the habit started out dressing as just any old generic cheerleader. He'd pick up some pom-poms here, some extra-large sized saddle oxfords there. But, over the years, much like his bow tie habit, his cheerleader habit evolved. The outfits became more authentic--he HAD TO HAVE the matching cheer panty for each pleated cheer skirt, for example.

Eventually, he realized he was meant for greater things. He was meant to be part of a squad that included only the cheerleadng elite, the best of the best: The Dallas Cowboy's squad. For years, acquiring the legendary short-shorts, vest, and royal blue bra-tie blouse was only a dream. And then...and then. He discovered E-Bay.

And now? He has several identical versions of the coveted outfit (and matching cheer panties). And, just about every night, he gets the chance to morph from plain old Larry Sappington, Bank President, to:

THE FABULOUS BECKY BARRETT, DALLAS COWBOY'S CHEERLEADER.

And if you're Larry (or Becky)? It just doesn't get any better than that.

(And if you're me? You gotta wonder if there isn't something in the water around Oxford, Mississippi.)

Seen in Oxford

Click on the image for a larger version.

BlogHer Conference

I was excited to find a link on Erin Shea's blog today to the 2007 BlogHer conference that will be held this year in Chicago, IL at Navy Pier on July 27th-29th.

I'm still researching it, but at first glance, it looks like something I would really love to do. Although, it looks like the blocked rooms left are coming in at a steepish$189/night. Any bloggers near me out there willing to share a trip and a room? Let me know in the comments or e-mail me. Looks like full registration is coming in at around $200; but I'd love to have an opportunity to aquire some new skills and meet up with more people like myself.

Otherwise, we're still in Tupelo and it's late.

Time to catch a few zzz's.

Touring Tupelo & Oxford

It's been a long day of sightseeing today. First, we met Tupelo Jim at the Farmer's Market. Jim was very knowledgeable and took us on a wide ranging tour of the town. Tupelo's population stands at around 36,000. It has very little historic housing stock due to an F-5 tornado that raged through the town in 1936, flattening darn near every structure in the place. Thankfully, Elvis, a baby of just over a year old at the time, was spared.

Tupelo has a problem with railroad tracks. At least one train an hour cuts through the town from one end to the other including the busiest hubs, stopping traffic and causing all manner of inconveniences and delays. The people of Tupelo are clearly sick of the sight and sound of trains, but I think they're kind of cool. Here's the one that passed by the market while we were there.

Of course, no tour of the town would be complete without a stop at the birthplace of The King. The house in which Elvis met the world is unimaginably small, smaller I'd say than a regular sized trailer. It is a two-room shotgun structure which Elvis's father, Vernon Presley, constructed himself from a kit at a cost of $150 back in the late 1930's.

Elvis lived in Tupelo from birth to the age of thirteen when the family loaded up and moved to Memphis, which of course would become his permanent home. This statute, depicting a young Elvis at the time of his departure from Tupelo, stands surrounded by crepe myrtle in a little reflecting garden not from the historic shotgun where he was born. In the interest of research, I sidled up to the statue close enough to be hip-to-hip to the great one and, as it turns out, Elvis was exactly my height. At thirteen.

Next, we were off to Oxford, Mississippi, a distance of about 50 miles from Tupelo. The S-Man is a HUGE Faulkner fan and I, too, was interested in seeing the city that spawned so many stories. With substantially more southern town charm than Tupelo (partially due, I'm sure, to the fact that the tornado passed it by), Oxford seems a little more gracious and civilized. Situated around a traditional and charming court square, the downtown is small but full of thriving bookstores, high-end women's clothing boutiques and cafes. Here, the s-man swaps (well constructed and beautifully worded) tales with Faulkner's likeness on the square.

I found this resident kitty at The Square bookstore. Right after I took this photo, the cat gave me a distinctly "Do you mind?" look and disdainfully moved on to a comfy couch on the other side of the store. It's not easy being a celebrity cat in a bookstore smack dab in the middle of the town that produced the man that is, arguably, the greatest American writer in history.

We also toured the Ole Miss campus which was beautiful, but I was droopy by that time and didn't get any photos. In fact, I have no more time to write as we have dinner plans soon. More later.

Damn Good Pork-n-Taters

Just a quick stop-in to post the aforementioned pork loin recipe. I am in LUV with this dish which I've adapted from a recipe originally posted at All Recipes. I've adjusted the cooking time based on reviewer recommendations and added a few ingredients. The thing is pretty much no-fail at this point and is a perfect WOW dish for company.

I'm no ingredient snob, but if you don't have it, RUN to the grocery and add the largest container possible of Tone's Canadian Steak Seasoning to your pantry. I seriously don't know how I cooked without it. I use it on hamburgers, potatoes, pork, steak, damn near anything is improved by it. It is an absolute STAPLE for me now. Trust me on this.

Also, while this may look like a bunch of steps? It's really not. I like my recipes very specific. This is super easy and only takes about fifteen minutes of actual work on your part, all total.

Also? While you and I will know this recipe as "Damn Good Pork-n-'Taters" as in,

"Honey, will you sling me and Junior up another batch of some a that there damn good pork-n-taters and then brang me a Bud?" (This is Kentucky, after all.)

I highly recommend you refer to it to any dinner guests you might serve it to (while carefully extending your chin so that your bottom teeth extend passed your top) as the:

"Herb Encrusted Pork Loin with Roasted Potatoes"

3 Cloves Garlic
2-3 Stalks fresh Rosemary or Lavender or a combination (more, if you like it spicy)
2 handfuls Tone’s Canadian Steak Seasoning
¼ Cup Olive Oil
1 Pork Loin
1 Can Chicken Broth
3 or 4 Scrubbed Potatoes Chopped into 1-inch pieces (skin on)
½ Cup of Whatever Good Tasting Wine is on your Counter Today (I hear tell you can substitute red wine vinegar, but I’ve never tried it my own self.)

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Total cooking time is 1 hr 30 minutes.
2. Strip the leaves off the rosemary or lavender and place them along with the garlic, steak seasoning, and olive into a food processor or blender and pulse until combined (not long).
3. Put the loin on a rack and place in a layer cake pan; cut some criss-cross slits in the top of the loin and rub the whole thing with the processed mixture.
4. Pour the chicken broth into the bottom of the pan and place the whole shebang into the oven.
5. Baste w/pan liquids while cooking.
6. 45 minutes into the cooking time (which means another 45 remain) take the loin out and arrange the chopped potatoes in a single layer in the broth in the bottom of pan. Sprinkle the potatoes liberally with steak seasoning and return to the oven for the final 45 minutes.
7. Remove loin onto cutting board (and let it rest!) and remove potatoes w/slotted spoon.
8. De-glaze the pan over low heat on a burner (use low heat if you have a thin pan!) with the wine, stirring with a wooden spoon to remove all yummy food bits and then pour the liquid into a sauce pan and reduce for a while.
9. Mean time, slice the loin and arrange attractively. Pour reduced sauce over all. Or, alternatively, serve as a dipping sauce on the side.
10. Be really, really impressed with your bad-assed cooking self.

Busy in Bizzyville

Wow, who knew unemployment would be so incredibly busy?

Since the last time I posted I've:

-Met w/my friend, La Donna, and discussed a publication piece on choosing a day care, wrote the piece, met with her again, discussed revisions, and completed the 1,500 word piece. Both of these meetings involved treats, drinks, and lots of unnecessary fun and enjoyable discussion on other topics besides the matter at hand.

-Freaked out about, discussed, researched, consulted with my Dad, consulted with Satan, and otherwise felt super nervous about my retirement. The good news is that I now consider that matter (successfully) resolved.

-Cooked a super fantastic dinner of lavendar encrusted pork loin with wine sauce, candied carrots, roasted potatoes and home made biscuits that for some reason turned out distinctly more crackery than biscuity. Still, they weren't half bad. And the pork loin? To die for. I'll post that recipe soon.

-Cleaned my house really well. And by that I mean chipping the grease off the stove and polishing the stainless steel. Both tasks I loathe and avoid whenever humanly possible (which is alot).

-Met with the fabulous Nikki May about a site she's developing that I'll hopefully be linking to soon. This is one of those meetings I've been putting off because of all the stuff I had to do at my former place of business and that I shouldn't have been putting off because it was such a pleasure. We spent some time being long distance and second hand embarassed for the people who designed this god awful thing.

-Discussed at length my possible participation in a new Paducah women's roller derby league called the Melt Down-Town Derby Dames. I am a quad skater from WAY back, but I'm not sure I can compete with these hotties, most of whom are actually young enough to be my daughter.

Nonetheless, they are super sweet, cute as buttons, and give a great impression of people who would be glad to include someone in my geriatric state. Best of all, they wear fishnet stockings, tube socks, and all manner of fabulously eclectic garb whilst skating (thus rendering themselves nearly irresistible). Near as I can figure, women's roller derby is sort of the girlie version of Fight Club, but cuter, sexier, and not quite as violent.

If you or someone you know might be interested, here are the particulars on the Melt Down-Town Derby Dames recruitment party (which sounds like fun even if you're not planning to sign up):

Day Two: Levity and Larceny

Did I tell you guys there was an element of panic involved in being unemployed?

I did?

Well, that was so yesterday.

Because today is pretty much...

WOOHOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooo!

Kind of like how Steve Martin reacts in the movie "Parenthood" when his nervous kid FINALLY makes that game winning catch in right field?

Hey! That's ME! (to be read aloud in your best "Clucky Chicken" voice.)

I sprang from my bed this morning (and those of you who know me know: I'm just not a springer and SURE AS HELL I'm not a morning springer) and then I (get this) MADE THE BED.

Yes! Made the bed with the Chenille Number Five! And I didn't spit up!

Then! Then, I had a torturous session on the BowFlex. (Ouch! In a good way!)

Then! I self-righteously dropped off mine and Satan's cast off clothes for the needy at the Salvation Army.

Then! I took a few leisurely phone calls out on my porch.

And? WHILST I was out on my porch, I had to be honest with myself: What with all the recent goings on in my life, Satan (that sly bastard) has taken this opportunity to pull ahead of me in the porch wars.

Yep, there's no getting around it, his porch is prettier than mine this year. All blooming purple petunias and two kinds of roses and I-don't-know-what-all. This this isn't the first time this year I've made the observation either. Earlier in the spring, we had a conversation that went like this:

ME
(Surveying his wildly blooming porch.)

SATAN

(Smugly watering his Dahlias)

ME
(Examining a climbing vine heavy with purple blooms as big as my hand.)

(Then, reluctantly...)

Nice Chlamydia.

SATAN

It's a CLEMATIS.

ME

Whatever.

*

Of course, Satan having a better looking porch than me for any length of time is, quite simply, unnacceptable, and with my intrepid FurGirl at my side, I quickly swung into action.

First, I dug out the Mission Impossible soundtrack from the bottom of the CD holder where I'd stuck it when one of the kids abandoned it several years ago, and began playing it softly on the stereo. Next, I located Satan's prized Maui Jim sunglasses, liberated them from their velvet-lined case, and carefully placed them on FurGirl. I disguised myself by placing a set of stuffed reindeer antlers with jingle bells from several Christmases ago on my head.

We were ready.

As the MP theme continued to play in the background, FurGirl and I slunk through the door and out onto the forbidden zone of Satan's porch. FurGirl, a master of nonchalance, immediately busied herself sniffing her own butt while I quickly selected two profusely blooming and attractively potted petunias.

We were nearly home free when, suddenly, the silence was shattered by the unmistakable strains of the introduction to "Sweet Home Alabama" wafting from the far reaches of my sports bra where I had stashed my cell phone.

After a few paralyzed seconds during which a jumpy and distinctly (now) chalant FurGirl and I nearly shat ourselves, I sat down a petunia, reached into my cleavage, retrieved my phone, and checked my caller I.D.

It said: Satan.

"It's him!" I whispered to FurGirl who reflexively slung off the Maui Jims into a nearby pot of split leaf philodendron ivy.

ME

Hello?

SATAN

Hello?

ME

Hello?

SATAN

What are you doing?

ME
Nothing!

SATAN

What did you do before that?

ME

Nothing!

SATAN

Is that all you can say...nothing?

ME
(Shaking my head)

SATAN

Do I hear jingle bells?

ME

Of course not!

SATAN

Is that the...what...the Mission Impossible song?

ME

Gotta go!

SATAN

But I haven't...

ME

(click)

So there you have it. And the day's barely half over!

Freedom, Disaster, and a Resource

So!

Here I am: day one of a little experiment I like to call Ohmygodiquitmyjobnowwhatthehelldoido?

While there is certainly a level of panic involved, there's also that feeling you used to get when you found yourself in the deserted hallway of your elementary school, everyone else tucked away in their classroom, dutifully (or otherwise) engaged in righteous education-related activity, while you. YOU, on the other hand, are rather deliciously on your own without a hall pass, a potential (possibly naughty) adventure around every corner.

It's one-third goosebumps, one-third guilt, and one-third holy sh*t.

Unfortunately, the first adventure around my particular corner today was waking up to a dead home computer. D-E-A-D. I won't go into the details except to say, I'm just hoping and praying the S-Man comes home tonight, pushes a few buttons, calls me a "mook", and the thing roars back to life as per usual. If not.

Good Lord...if not?

If not, I'll think about that tomorrow, ala Scarlett O'Hara.

Not to be outdone, I'm coming to you right now thanks to my bestest good friends at my local public library. (I LOVE YOU GUYS!) Because for me? A day without the internet is like a day without rock for a Walmart crack ho with a skin apron. It just ain't happenin'.

I've run across another interesting resource for all you newbie bloggers out there (and I'm including myself in that group) hoping to make a nickel or two in the process. Problogger is a site dedicated to exploring ways online blogs earn money. Also, I found this section on Blogging for Beginniners particularly interesting for those of you in the extremely early stages. Lots of basic asked and answered questions on the genre.

And that's all for me--TTFN, as they say. If I'm lucky, the blog party will roll on tomorrow when I'll hopefully be coming to you, as per usual, from Bizzyville HQ.

If not, I'll be looking for volunteers to help me knock over a Best Buy.

Young Frankenstein (DVD TV Version)

We spent an enjoyable evening tonight watching the DVD TV version of "Young Frankenstein" on AMC. I'm not sure we would have found out any other way that, among other things, during a break in filming, Cloris Leachman's fake chin wart fell off her face and into her tuna salad (and she ate it); both Mel Brooks and Gene Wilder were hot for Teri Garr (fortunately, she liked to date Jewish men and ended up having a relationship with Gene); during the famous "Puttin' on the Ritz" number, the treat Wilder pops into Peter Boyle's mouth is an M and M; that Madeline Kahn was initially offered Garr's role, but turned it down in favor of her part as "the fiance"; that the same year YF was filmed, Gene Hackman turned down both "Jaws" and "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest"; and, finally, that the biggest problem on the YF set during filming was the notorious inability of Wilder to keep from cracking up during his takes.

It's all part of an AMC series that features iconic movies in "pop-up video" fashion, offering little known tidbits at the bottom of the screen while the movie rolls. And, trust me, there is no better way for a fan to see a movie they've seen a thousand times before than with the addition of fun facts about the film (alliteration points, please).

Other movies that get the treatment include: Fast Times at Ridgemont High, Back to the Future, and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, to name a few. Stay up-to-date on when your favorite is coming up by checking the DVD TV blog over at AMC.

Me and SJP

Unless you've been in a coma for the last week or so, you've heard about the launch of my good friend, Sarah Jessica Parker's new clothing line, "Bitten". For the two of you that haven't heard, Bitten is a line co-designed by SJP with the goal in mind of making fashion affordable for everyone. Most pieces are priced at around $19.95.

What you may not be aware of is the fact that the Bitten media blitz coincides with my last week of employment is actually not an accident.

It all started when me and SJP were discussing (via cell phone) the idea that I would quit my day job a year or so ago (it may surprise you to learn that I've been contemplating this change for QUITE SOME TIME).

It went a little something like this:

SJP

But...aren't you worried about money if you quit your job?

ME

Yah, sorta.

SJP

How about I send you a large sum of money?

ME

Now, SarahJessicaParker, we've discussed this before, I simply CAN'T accept money from you.

SJP

I wish I could change your mind about that.

ME

I'm afraid my decision is final.

SJP

But, a girl just CAN'T get by without some source of income.

ME

I know. Looks like my wild shopping days are over (*sniff*).

SJP

Okay, that's it, I'm coming down there.

ME

No...NO! I'll be okay (*sniff*)! I will at least have a little pocket money.

SJP

Oh?

ME

Yah.

SJP

How so?

ME

There's always the cash that I scab from the S-Man's pockets when I do the laundry.

SJP

Don't be ridiculous, that can't amount to much.

ME

It can add up to, oh, sometimes as much as twenty dollars a week if I'm really lucky.

SJP

You can't possibly shop on that!

ME

(pathetically)

If only a girl could buy something decently fashionable for twenty bucks!

[highly significant pause]

SJP

BIZZY! You're a genius!!!

ME

I am?

SJP

Yes, you've INSPIRED ME...

***

And the rest, as they say, is history.

I am the Forrest Gump of fashion.

Call me if you want to head out to pick up a few pieces from the Bitten line.

And, remember, Sunday is laundry day.

Here's where Bitten will be available in our area:

West Park Mall
134 West Park MallCape Girardeau,MO63703T:573-334-7354
Mon-Fri: 10:00am-9:30pmSat: 10:00am-9:30pmSun: 12:00pm-6:30pm
Get Directions
University Mall-Carbondale
1237 E. Main StreetCarbondale,IL62901T:618-529-1262
Mon-Fri: 10:00am-9:00pmSat: 10:00am-9:00pmSun: 11:30am-6:00pm
Get Directions

Gore Watching

Al Gore made an appearance in a Chicago bookstore last week to promote his new book. According to The Tribune, however, the event looked suspiciously like a campaign stop.

Jump on the bandwagon.

Now I'm Here

Wow. It's been a really crazy last few days.

I'm feeling sort of overwhelmed right now, but I wanted to check in and say, yes, I'm finally unemployed and I'm feeling lighter and lighter all the time.

It was kind of touch and go there for a while. And yesterday, my last day, was just really crazy making. You know that part of Poltergeist at the end when Jo Beth Williams comes out of the bathroom into the hallway and realizes that the bedroom is trying to suck her kids into hell? And so, she starts running down the hall to rescue her kids from hell and then the hall morphs into this REEEEALLLY long hallway? And she runs and she runs for this inordinately long time to get to the end of it?

That's kind of how my last day was. I just kept finding things I needed to finish up and then finding other stuff and the hallway kept getting longer and I felt a little like, no, it's really not going to end and then boom.

I was driving home in my car.

And I had this feeling like I had been strapped to the electric chair and the Governor called and gave me a reprieve and then they unstrapped me and let me go home.

And I was free.

After that, I went to my cousin, Cindy's, house where her husband, David, made us HOME MADE chicken noodle soup and cornbread and home made chocolate oatmeal cookies and we talkedabouteverything and then our friend Kim got there and we talkedabouteverything and I couldn't believe how lucky I was.

Still can't.

Kick the S-Man for me, would ya?

Ya'll.

I am so all about you, my faithful readers.

Wherever I go. Whatever I do. I'm thinking of you guys.

Always.

And so, tonight, when The S-Man, David, and I walked thru those familiar wooshing doors at the Southside Walmart and saw, to our wondering eyes, what had to be the worst, the most amazing looking crack ho in the tri-state area, and maybe MAYBE EVEN the lower forty-eight (and I am so not kidding). I immediately choked back a sob as we passed, all six of our bugged out eyes riveted on the sight:

ME
(chanting in a whisper)
Good Lord. I don't have my camera. I don't. Havemycamera. I don't...

David
Ohmygod.

SATAN
Did you SEE that?

CRACK HO
(Talking nonchalantly to the geriatric Walmart greeter.)

ME
(in a hissing whisper)
David! Do you have a camera phone?

DAVID
(hissing back)
NO....remember, mine is broken! Ohmygod, I can'tbelieve...

ME
This can't be happening to me.

SATAN
Why do you need...

ME
I HAVE TO BLOG THIS. I HAVE TO. Get out your camera phone. NOW.

SATAN
You can't post a picture of that! Look at her! If she finds you, she'll kill you!

ME
(as we round the corner out of eye shot of the crack-ho)
This is a post worth dying for, I tell you! Look again, man, for the LOVEOFGOD! My hit counter will spin like a TACOMETER you get a shot of that! There's a freaking foot of butt cleavage hanging out of those shorts!

DAVID
Did you even see her stomach?

ME
(beginning to sniffle pathetically to Satan)
I'm telling you, if you ever loved me EVEN A LITTLE...

DAVID
(peeping back around the the fresh flower case)
It's collapsed her...stomach has COLLAPSED like a deflated ballon...it's actually...it's...hanging down lower than HER SHORTS...

SATAN
You can just describe her.

ME
You can't DESCRIBE a thing like that! You gotta get the money shot!

DAVID
It's not a stomach, it's a SKIN APRON.

ME
Yes! YES I KNOW! It's wearing a midriff top, low rise shorts, a naked skin apron, and is displaying three fouths of an ass crack so long that it actually starts at WHAT I THINK MIGHT BE HER WAIST no less, and now, NOW, this very NIGHT, my satanic husband picks this moment to morph into BillyFreakin'Graham.

DAVID
(still peeping and talking in a stage whisper)
I'd say she's, what? Eighty percent naked?

ME
(To Satan.)
Okay! Okay. I won't post her face. I wouldn't anyway. I would never, EVER consider it, okay? Of course not. Not me! Just get her from the back. FROM THE BACK! That's all I'm askin'...

SATAN
(Pointing down another aisle toward the garden center.)

ME
(I glance down the aisle. Two identically sized 4-X short-bus heifers with bowl cuts peer lovingly into each other's eyes.)

What is this, Misfit Wednesday?

(As if on cue, just as I utter those words, what looks like an escaped stiff-legged zombie from Night of the Living Dead lurches past us with a cart.)

(Satan and I stare at each other incredulously.)

DAVID
(Still peeping)
Hey, guys! It's on the move!

All Three of Us
(Now peeping together.)
(Watch as the Crack Ho, who incidentally, not that it really matters much in the scheme of things, is also NOT wearing shoes, saunters over to Customer Service pretty-as-you-please.)

DAVID
Is that a..what..a scar would you say?

ME
(To Satan.)
I'm giving you one last chance...

SATAN
No.

ME
I swear to God? You're dead to me.

In Which I Discuss Logos. Alot.

I’m enjoying immensely the flap over the recent unveiling of the 2012 London Olympics logo.

In case you don’t want to jump the link, I’ll spare you by pasting in a copy:

Can you even? I know I can't. Sorry about the size, I perhaps should have pasted it in smaller, it's just a wee bit IN YOUR FACE, no? (Not to mention, I love that they added the "TM". Oh yah, we're all dying to steal THAT brilliantly conceived image and pass it off as our own work, aren't we?)

Designed by a company called Wolff Olins, the logo is supposed to spell out “2012” (I didn’t catch on to that until I read it in the article). Aside from the fact that it’s, in my opinion, one HELL of a bad concept, the thing has actually triggered seizures in several people shown the video produced to promote the new design.

I continue to be fascinated by logo design and the process by which a company or organization distills themselves into one easily identifiable image. We are, of course, knowingly or otherwise bombarded by these logos like the golden arches, the Nike swoosh, “Coke”, the yellow shell of Shell Oil, etc. all day every day. These small, in most cases, simple, images trigger a whole host of reactions and expectations be they positive, negative or both.

Consider this logo:

Makes you want to spit up, doesn’t it? A fairly extreme and sort of one-of-a-kind example, I’ll admit.

Done right, a great logo can serve to elevate a so-so organization (unless you're a Nazi), while a crappy one can instantly make an otherwise good company or group look like a big bunch of doofuses. Such is the lesson being learned, unfortunately, by the 2012 Olympic Committee. And, it's easy for me to say it's awful because, well, it IS awful, but not so easy for me to put my finger on just why precisely.

I touched in the sidebar on my love for the Bahamas Logo, which I consider a genius design:

Does that make you think of steel drums, sandy beaches, and drinks with umbrellas or what? I’ve never been particularly interested in the Bahamas, but every time I see this logo? A little voice inside my head whispers, “Ahhh….The Bahamas. Interesting.” This though I can’t really put my finger on why that font, those colors, and those shapes say “happy” to me. Any more than I can exactly say way the 2012 London Olympics logo says "run like hell". Although I do question the color choices--fushia and yellow say "Olympics" how?

Consider the Subaru logo:

Another of my favorites probably, not too coincidentally, because I drive a Subaru. I have to say, though, I do remember circling the car at the dealership and seeing that logo on the hood and thinking, “Yah.” Now, don’t get me wrong (no matter what Satan might say), I did not buy the car based on the logo, but if it hadn’t appealed to me at first glance? Who knows? It was certainly a link in the chain to SOLD for me.

Here's a logo that actually makes me think of my Mom:

Do I buy and use Dove soap? Oh, heck yes. Also, other Dove products? Yes. How big a role does that image play in my choices? I'm thinking pretty huge.

As I look over the logos I like, what they all seem to have in common is roundness. Rounded fonts and images. They are soooothing. Pleasant. Very FM. While the London Olympics logo? Jagged. Pointy. Ouchy. It says to me (in a loud, raspy parrott voice): Hey you! Come to the Olympics where the atheletes are all smoking crack and having really scary flashbacks! Waaaawk!

In conclusion, I'd just like to say: Damn. Logos velly, velly, intellesting. Wish I had more time to study on them.

Oh...WAIT! I do have time!

I QUIT MY JOB!

!

Ch-ch-changes...

Just a quick entry to let you know that I'm still around and, also? I quit my day job.

So there.

I'm very hopeful this will give me more time to blog, but I'm still unsure what I will feel led to do next. Sometimes I think I should write less for fun, you know?

On the other hand, I've become sort of powerless to stop blogging. It's turned out to be a major sub-symptom of the writing bug in general. Sort of like when you have tonsillitis: your throat hurts like hell AND you have a fever.

The S-Man and I were talking about my upcoming jobless situation recently and it went something like this:

SATAN
So! Soon to be unemployed, eh?

ME
(shrugs)

SATAN
When's the last time you were unemployed anyway?

ME
Hmmm....let's see, that would have to be 1987. May of that year, I think.

SATAN
May of '87. Twenty years ago, then?

ME
Yah. Twenty years. Wow.

SATAN
Slacker.

Copywriter

I've talked to alot of people lately who are new to the blogosphere and just beginning to explore the wide, wide world of online publishing. And, to that end, I recently stumbled across this site called "Copywriter", a blog dedicated to helping those who are interested market themselves and their blogs.

I've just begun to scratch the surface of this resource, but I've already gotten some great tips and I've subscribed to the newsletter. The sight is definitely geared toward business marketing, but ultimately, these tips easily translate to promoting a personal blog if that's what you're into.

And, anyway, aren't we all selling ourselves? One way or the other.

Dissecting Hillary

I was riveted by this great article from the Times Online. A fascinating look at the unusual friendship between Vince Foster and Hillary Clinton and the events that lead up to his suicide. A heartbreaking story.

I don't know...

...you think I'm dealing with my problems the wrong way?

Nah!

Me either.

Mini Saturday ReCap

It was a great Saturday during which I enjoyed an unexpected and inspirational visit from my cousin, Cindy, and the S-Man and I had our friends, Steve and Karen, over for a very enjoyable dinner of guacamole, chicken tacos, salad, and fresh blackberry pie.

I'm feeling a little overwhelmed about my "To-Do" list right now. I'm making some major changes in my life and I'm having the but-how-about-I-just-take-a-nap-instead reaction which I'm really hoping will pass soon (it usually does).

In other news, according to William Sledd's most recent video, June is Gay and Lesbian pride month. So, if you have time, hop on over (noise) and show William a little love.

So, yah, short post today. I hope to be back soon and have more time to do some of those fun posts that have been rolling around in my head forver.

[Edited to add you simply must check out "Listaholic's" list of the top ten worst celebrity boob jobs. Ouch.]

A Good Day After All

This has shaped up to be a pretty great day. I had my doubts, though, in the pre-dawn hours of this morning when I was rather rudely awakened by the sound of poor FurGirl yacking up what turned out to be a putrid brown pile of goo. Bleary-eyed and disoriented, I sprang from the bed in a half conscious panic to herd her outside in case there was more coming.

After that, I tiptoed back to the bed, eyes half-mast, in the hope of recapturing another hour or so of sleeping in and also to make sure to circumvent the goo (which, by now, was starting to smell kind of bad). I toyed briefly with the idea of cleaning up the mess, but oh my gosh, there would be NO getting back to sleep after that gross-out fest, I told myself, as I nodded back off for a few minutes before having to get up yet AGAIN and let FurGirl back in and repeat the whole tiptoeing/half-mast process back to the bed (yes, my powers of staying asleep are mighty).

As I nodded off a second time, I smiled a little, because, just before I drifted off, I could hear the unmistakable sounds of FurGirl enthusiastically lapping up her own puke and by the time I awoke for good at a more civilized hour, the dog was asleep, the brown goo was gone, the sun was shining, and it was like the whole thing never happened.

Ah, the joys of dog ownership! You'll never find a cat stupid enough to eat its own vomit.

I had lunch in the big city of Metropolis with friends Rhonda and Grasshoppa (so named because of her tender age) which was quite enjoyable and then Grasshoppa graciously helped me download a new ringtone (color me redneck, but the intro to "Sweet Home Alabama" always makes me smile) and toured me around her groovy new place--she has even laid herself a brick patio! (I'm not sure I ever had that much energy.)

Then it was on to see my stylist, Amberly, who completely whipped my hair into way better shape.

If only my hair looked like this every day.