And the Winner Is...

Best death scene EVER: Pee Wee Herman (paging Mr. Herman...Mr. P. W. Herman...I can't remember his real name) wins the best death scene ever when he is staked through the heart by Buffy in his pivotal role as the right hand man to the main biter in "Buffy the Vampire Slayer." Classic death scene...

Best Farewell Scene: The Princess Bride's Billy Crystal and Carol Kane frantically wave goodbye to the Dread Pirate Roberts and his cohorts. "Goodbye, goodbye! Have fun stormin the castle, boys."

Best Revenge Scene: The Princess Bride's Inigo Montoya: "My name is Inigo Montoya. You have killed my father. Prepare to die."

Top Tear Jerker: I Am Sam. If you can watch this movie and keep a dry eye then I hear by dub you heartless.

Unbelievable Ending: Pan's Labyrinth. SPOILER!!! There is no way I'm going to believe that she was actually...well...you know...instead of what I really want to believe which is she went to live...you know.

Best "I Didn't See That One Coming" Scene: The Butterfly Effect, but not the "politically correct" ending, the original ending where he goes back to the time of his birth and ends it once and for all. Oooo...I SO did not see that one coming.

Saddest Romance: Somewhere in Time. Oh, I wept...I sobbed. I couldn't watch this movie again because it so totally broke my heart.

Best Hand Holding Scene: Yes, I'm sure you've already guessed; Jack and Rose on the Titanic when he is teaching her how to "fly."

Movie Most Quoted in Chat Room Conversations: Monty Python's HOLY GRAIL. "I fart in your general direction."

Humor me, now, and tell me what's in your wallet...er...what's your best scene. I'm sure I have tons of others, but for some reason my fried brain doesn't remember them at all at all.

Let's Go To The Movies

Actually, with the fast growing pace directors are taking with the cranking out of books into movies, I am probably the last person you want to be taking to the movies. Book movies annoy the hell out of me. They truly do.

It all goes back to one of the first movies I ever watched in the theater, "The Black Stallion." Fortunately, I went in opposite directions and saw the movie before I actually read the book. The movie was fantastic. Heat, sand, beaches, islands, lagoons, and of course, The Black, met every expectation a true horse lover could have. I was riveted. And when Alex Ramsey rode The Black, injury and all, down the final stretch, I was in my seat, grabbing the reins, and riding down that stretch with him. Only sheer will power kept me from leaping from my seats as The Black made one last tremendous leap that carried him over the finish line. And as fast as a leapin lizard, I carried myself to the local library and checked out "The Black Stallion" (yes, I know books should be underlined, but I haven't yet mastered the talent of underlining in blog posts...rest easy...I am working on it). Needless to say, the movie which had won over my heart in the opening credits, now paled in comparison.

Flash Forward a few decades.

Like the chicken and the egg, I can't remember which came first: Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, or Lord of the Rings. And yes, I know I can do a quick search and find the dates, but I'm lazy, and am writing this late in the morning as opposed to early in the morning. My time is limited. I first read Mr. Potter's story in 1999, so when the movie soared to the big screen, I scooped up my children, bought popcorn and snickers (best combination in the WORLD), and lined up with the crowds. Movie crowds don't bother me, it's part of the ambiance that theater going is supposed to have. I once watched Batman (part one) while sitting on the stairs of the movie aisle. Anyway, I digress. The movie, while filled with sparklies, troll snot, and unlimited boogeys, fell short of the thrill behind the book, however, I did enjoy it. It could have been due to the length of time between the reading and the viewing, but I did enjoy it. HOWEVER, parts 2, 3, 4, and 5 cannot share the same fate. While the effects, and Richard Harris's excellent rendition of Dumbledore, were pleasing to the viewer's eye, the book purist in me demanded accuracy! Persephone actually moved to a different seat for The Prisoner of Azkaban after enduring only thirty minutes of elbowing, underbreath muttering, and exclamations of "Hey, that wasn't in the book!" Unfortunately, I am addicted, and the July release of Mr. Potter's sixth year will have me lined up in the theater, towing my unwilling victims...er..daughters with me.

Let's get this straight. For some reason Hollywood cannot do fantasy right. They've had a few accidents such as The Labyrinth (sheer brilliance), The goonies (applause), and Excalibur (a moment of silence). Okay, perhaps a few more, but I am talking about REAL fantasy...you know...like dungeons and dragons (and the nerd in me rears its ugly head again...back nellie, back!). Hollywood (sorry Jeremy Irons) has not been able to do a decent dungeons and dragons type movie ever. And while I am in NO WAY comparing dungeons and dragons to Lord of the Rings (blasphamy), I had my doubts and misconceptions when I discovered LotR was coming to the big screen. Did I let those doubts get in the way? NO FREAKIN WAY! I was giddier than a school girl sitting next to her first high school crush on the school bus...all trembly and shaky inside. How could I could seriously maintain my "school teacher persona in the public eye" control? Oh My Lanta! It was amazingly wonderful. Beautiful. Lovely. Aragorn (actually, I'm more of a Strider kinda girl than Aragorn, if you know what I mean). It was truly outstanding. Immediately after wards, being that I hadn't read the books since high school, I re read the series. And with a little bit of this, and a little bit of that, I grudgingly admitted that Hollywood had done a perty good job with their first attempt. Oh, and when the extended version came out on DVD...shudder...shake...drool...quake. Someone once said that the theater releases of the Lord of the Rings trilogy was just a trailer for the DVD extended versions. Oh, yes, they were right. While being a bit disappointed with Merry and Pippin's luncheon with the tree ents, along with a few other exclusions (adaptations), Peter Jackson did a helluva job. I envy those who watched the movies with absolutely no knowledge of the book for they definitely were treated to a fantastic movie.

Did Lord of the Rings cure me? Hell no. Just last year I took my daughters to see Twilight. And yes, my daughter would nudge and pinch when I began my mutterings...she wasn't in his room, she was in the car...oh..that didn't happen. Did that happen in the book? I don't remember that part. But I was pleasantly pleased. They did a good job. Personally, I think Bella kinda overdid the teenage angst head nudge awkwardness a bit, but overall, not a bad film rendition. HOWEVER, I did happen to see the trailer for "New Moon," and already I am chomping at the bit. Jacob did NOT phase in front of Bella when Laurent tried to kill her. Enough said! Well, not really. I do plan on seeing this one when it is released as well!

I'm a glutton for punishment. What can I say?

Today

Last week I made a momentous decision to visit the physician. Unfortunately, it wasn't Leonard McCoy (yes, I know, deForest Kelly is dead...he's dead, Jim), instead it was Fadi Abou Issa. He's wonderful. He's extraordinary. He's popular so I ended up seeing his practitioner instead, who was not so shabby, I might add.




Blood pressure: check

Weight: WTF?!?!? (ignore)

Pulse: a little high

By the end of the visit, she tacked on a list of things to do: blood work, x-ray of lungs, MRI of the brain, this, that, and those.

Today was the day of my MRI. Have you ever experienced one of those? I had a very long time ago, but apparently I had forgotten what it was all about. Of all the cotton pickin things I've had to endure throughout my life, this had to be the most unpleasant. They ... made ... me ... take ...

Pregnant Pause


...


...


...


off my bra. Ladies, and the occasional gent, I am not Alex Gobraless. God didn't gift me with a huge set of maracas so that I can waltz into the MRI area and whip that sucker off so that them suckers could spring out. Nope. He suuuuurrrrreeee didn't. The MRI tech asked,

"Ma'am, you're going to have to remove your bra."

"Oh."

"You're not wearing a sports bra, are you?"

(looks down)

(giggles...laughs...snorts)

"Nope, not me."

Braless, I give new meaning to the words...ba dong ga dong (or whatever...I don't listen to country but the kids have sung it to me before).

So we stroll down the hall to the MRI machine. Let me say now, I'm so glad I'm not afeared of small spaces. That sure was small, paw paw. Well, I get into position.

"Ma'am? You'll need these ear plugs, it gets really loud in there."

"Thanks."

"Shove them in good. It's really loud in there."

"Okay." ::shove...shove::

Then I'm instructed to lie down on the small, extremely narrow (my butt was just about to do unbuttly things), MRI table thing. I place my head into this cup looking device, and then he places two cylindrical things over my ears.

Because it's really loud in there.

My arms are crossed over my belly, and as I'm sliding in he hands me a rubber ball.

"This is the panic button, ma'am. Squeeze it if you panic. I'll come running."

Huh? Panic? What?

"The test will take 20 minutes. Be really still because if you move, we'll have to do it again."

It. was. really. really. REALLY. . .

Loud.

As a matter of fact I felt like I was screening the music for "Flash Gordon: The Movie. Remember that one? Sung by Queen? He saved every one of us... Well...that is what it sounded like. Not only that. It would give me a series of little electric shocks beginning with my head, then shoulders, elbows, and leaving through my fingers. I almost hit the panic button because I was sure that my MRI machine was defective. It wasn't. I didn't panic, either.

Anyway, twenty minutes later, and after composing hundreds of posts, singing the lyrics to Flash Gordon, and taking small shallow breaths in order to keep my badonga dongs from moving too much (no way was I going to sit through another one of those suckers), my MRI was complete. A lovely new tech escorted me to the bra room where I reigned those suckers in, and I was on my merry way.

Test results pending.

I hope this was all for nothing.

The end.

Of Monkeys and Trees

A tale of a tail of a monkey and her tree. Have a sit down and enjoy what you see!


Monkey girl decided to climb up the tree.



No matter how much sissy pleaded, she refused to leave.



She was stayin, this was her tree.



So we called on the big guns.


Look where that got us.



She's still in that there tree.




Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

The Mything Link

While being a youngling, my nose was often found buried deeply between the covers of a book. Most of those books written by Piers Anthony; I was a Science Fantasy nut (and yes, I say Science Fantasy...I'm old school like that). One series I read, which was a favorite re read for me, was The Incarnations of Immortality. An awesome blend of both sci fi and fantasy...truly delightful (I thought I'd add that phrase to make me sound more...mature). Anyway, in one of Piers's novels he stated that long ago dragons were good natured. They ate over-populated herds of wildlife, and lived peaceful existences...no peasants involved. However, their peaceful habitation was soon threatened by knights seeking stature and glory and a lay in the hay which in turned caused dragons to be hunted to near extinction. According to Mr. Anthony, hells denizens offered to hide the dragons in the pits of...er...hell. It was, in all truth physically perfect for the dragons...however...after living hundreds of years in hell, a bit of evil permeated their reptilian coated bodies thus "turning" them evil. So tell me, if you can, where have all the dragons gone?

(Long time passing)

Great beasts of legend can seemingly be traced to authentic scientific explanation. Seasons, sun rise, sun set, drought, famine, disease, and pestilence all laid bare on the table of reason and sanity. Still the stories of myth were based on truth of a sort, were they not? So, where is the link?

Mything Link Number One

Dragons. Hmm. Dinosaurs? Maybe, maybe not. Although dinosaurs were huge, with terrible claws and gnashing teeth, according to science, they did not coexist with us homosaps at all. Good thing too, I think we'd have become homo prey instead of homo erectus. Someone somewhere over that rainbow saw that there be dragons and that them there dragons would swoop from the heavens, grab a cow (figuratively or literally, you decide), and be off. They would unhinge their jaws and flame fields, crops, and houses with chronic halitosis. According to legend, there ain't nothin like the smell of a sulfur laden dragon. So, where is the link? Hmm? Volcanic eruptions? Molten rivers of lava? Ash obscured visions of slippery shadows from the sky?

Mything Link Number Two

Fairies. An excerpt from Wikipedia.com: A fairy (also fay, fey, faery, faerie; collectively, "fae", wee folk, good folk, people of peace, fair folk, and other euphemisms)[1] is a type of mythological being or legendary creature, a form of spirit, often described as metaphysical, supernatural or preternatural If you've never spent the time reading up on the myth behind the fairy, take a moment or two. It's fascinating. Really, it is. There are so many types, makes, meanings, where they came from, and how they got there of fairies. Contrary to popular belief, most fairies don't have wings. Apparently wings are a thing of rarity. Whoda thunk, huh? One myth has fairies actually coming to life as a demoted angel. Some fairies are good, some are not so good, but when push comes to shove, where did they get their beginnings? Is there, like the myths that have come to science, some scientific explanation behind the story? Where's the link little fairy bug, where is the link? By the way, another contrary to popular belief, most fairies aren't tiny or small, but gloriously tall and wonderfully built. Makes you wonder.

Mything Link Number Three

Elves. Heart stopping, beautiful, drop dead gorgeous...yes...all of those came to mind when Legolas peered out from behind his elven bow wearing his elven tights and doing his elven booty shake. Seriously, there was a collective intake of breath the moment his pointy eared head emerged onto the screen. Although the first elf didn't make an appearance in Science Fantasy until the 20th century, they have been here for eons. Legends have them as beautiful and golden as the handsome Legolas, bringing good deeds forth like manna from heaven, and as dark and brooding as the dark man himself, glorifying in deeds as dark as themselves. Most elves are human like, with their extreme beauty being the main distinction. Their existence can be traced as far back as...well...a really long time ago. Where did they come from? What's their mything link? Where did they go?

Where have they gone? How did they get here in the first place? Where did they come from? Real or memorex?

What is your mything link?

Happy Summer Solstice

Ye heathens! Celebrate...dance naked under the moonlight...running barefood across the sand...sleeping under the trees...harvesting a nice summer tan...reading your tea leaves and licking off the honey...

Random Post Redux 2, or Would A Rose Smell The Same?

Kel, over at A Hesitant Housewife hosts "Random Post Redux", where each Saturday, post a "previously used post." Here's mine. You can also head over to Kels and link up yours with her Mr. Linky, and read other previous posts by her, and others who play as well. Enjoy

This is one taken from my first month of blogging. Enjoy, enjoy, enjoy!

Would a Rose Smell the Same?


"A rose by any other name would smell the same," frustratingly claims William Shakespeare's Juliet. But would it? If a rose would be named "swamp gas mustard pod," would a person willingly stick his nose into its gaseous petals? Not without conjuring the image of what something named swamp gas mustard pod would smell like. Would Alexander the Great of Macedonia! sound as powerful if he were Ralph the Great of Puxico? Great God in the Heavens Above, if that is so, then my babies are all in a world of trouble.

Persephone, pronounced "per sef oh knee," was the first of my attempts at naming a newly arrived soul to this place called Earth (think about it...what if Earth were really called Dirt or Mud then we'd live in either the Dirt or the Mud). Now you tell me, was her life influenced by her name? She's a middle aged teenager in high school, in the gifted drama and art program, sings, doesn't dance (thank God), writes, and spends her time anguishing over the fact that she wants to be a vegetarian but despises just about every vegetable except potatoes, beans, and lettuce. Moaning about the fate of the whales and desperately wanting world peace are two of her favorite pastimes. She wants to be an actress on Broadway or a painter in the streets of the French Quarter when she grows up. Persephone is a wonderful child. It would be impossible for me not to love the person she is becoming. However, does the fact that she also shares the name with the dramatic wife of the infamous Hades, ruler of the underworld, could have influenced the events of her life? Can a name be so powerful?

Caylith, pronounced cay lith, was my second attempt at the name game. She was going to be named Mercedes so that I could call her Sadie so that she could grow up and be spunky and cheerful and a member of the cheer squad. She was having none of that. No, she was definitely not a Mercedes...or even a Sadie. She was Caylith, queen dragon! And let me tell you, Miss Caylith was definitely the ruler of all. By the time she could speak, she had the world wrapped around her finger. Everyone was hers to command, even strange children in the park. Caylith is in her mid teens now, and I have to say that she grows to be more like a dragon everyday (except for eating her meat raw). She's independent, outspoken, fearless, among many other traits. As is her sister, Caylith is also in the gifted drama class. Her ambitions include becoming a director (as if she could take directions from anyone else), starring in her own movies, and marrying Orlando Bloom, Johnny Deep, and Jack Black. Polygamy anyone? So once again I ask, could the name have touched upon the sequence of events that have become her life? Hrmmm...

Years later I once again find myself doing the name game again. I have had three more lovely children. Abigail, who was almost named Antigony, Atticus, who was suppose to have been born before Abigail but decided to come a year after instead, and Avery, who was almost named Vorenus (he is probably thanking the name gods day and night for that name change). While life is just beginning, I can see them growing into their names. Will Abigail become wise, ever knowing? Will Atticus become the strong capable father and lawyer? And will Avery become the debonair lady killer...soft spoken, well groomed, polite?

Who knows...after all a name by any other name would be just the same!

Rebels on the Uprising

The other day my enchanting husband turned to me and asked, "So, what do you think about this whole healthcare reform thing?"

What do I think?



I'm not quite sure, especially since the proverbial ball is still rolling so to speak. As far as healthcare goes, I've been a player in just about all spectrums.

Growing up dirt poor didn't offer the option of health insurance. My father was a shrimper, or a trawler. During the late spring and into early fall, he'd dip his nets into the nearby lakes and bayous of Louisiana to catch shrimp, and while the "in-seasons" were usually giving and bountiful, any extra cash had to be saved for the winter season where shrimping took place off shore, and wasn't quite as bountiful. The larger boats were able to go off shore and fish for weeks at a time, however, my father's small, double-rigger, was only able to go out for a week at a time, and definitely not in the deeper waters of the Gulf of Mexico. My mother would work on the boat with my dad in order to keep from having to hire a deckhand, and my older sister would "keep" house while they were away. I don't remember much of that, but I do know that no matter how strained the finances were, my mom made sure we were kept healthy and up to date on our shots. No health insurance, though, none at all. And we grew up without health insurance. Having five children of my own, I have no clue as to how she did it, but did it, she did.

Flash forward to my first years of parenthood. I call these the first years of parenthood. Being a single mom isn't all it's cracked up to be. Especially if you squandered away your high school education, graduated by the skin of your teeth, and refused to go to college. I became a single parent, a welfare recipient, and medicaid card holder at the age of twenty-two. Trust me, welfare will not make you rich, not at $172.00 a month, however, the medicaid card was priceless. The card...the keep your babes healthy...the safety net I held precious and dear to me. It wasn't all peaches and cream, however. Government sponsored health programs meant not being able to get an appointment on the same day you call the doctor, if your child started running high temperatures, the emergency room was your closest option. It also meant waiting three or more hours to see the doctor, who was actually a med student, however, this was a plus, because no one is more thorough than a med student. Still, I considered myself fortunate that I had this safety net as I struggled to better my life in order to better theirs. And of course, I did, but that is another story.

I am now a married, working (although I took this year off), mom. I also provide health insurance for my entire family at a cool three hundred dollars a month. Real bonafide health insurance. What does this mean? Alot, for me. It meant that ten years ago when I became ill, not only did I receive treatment immediately, I was able to go to a specialized facility. My children are able to see the doctor on the day they become ill, and I don't have to wait until after hour emergency room visits for an ear infection. However, there is a down side as well. If you were able to read up on Ms. Savant's story, her healthcare provider denied her request for treatment at a specialized clinic. My cousin was denied her request for a stem-cell transplant because it was her second one. And I'm sure there are many a scare story out there from you all as well.

I'm not done yet. Bear with me.

Now my oldest daughter is nearing the end of her childhood. She will be 18, soon, and a senior in high school, and soon, very soon, uninsured. As a mother, I want her covered. COVERED! Will this healthcare reform benefit her? Will it hurt me? Will it do what it's suppose to do? What will it do?

I couldn't answer my husband's question. I'm not sure what I think of healthcare reform. Think about it, history shows that anytime the word "reform" (reformation) rears up, somebody out there looses his head.

I still don't know what I think.

What do you think?

Housewife Savant or Shart Your Shorts

Ms. Savant is a favorite of mine that I've been following for quite a while now (at least a day or two). Her words are wholesome, wise, wordy, and whinning...er...winning. I began following her oh so long ago for inspiration. She was a jogger, a lifter, a real body builder that is until she wrote this little snippet...an ode to foods that I shudder to think of crossing my palate (and tremble with joy...pure unadultered joy). So why dedicate an entire day to her? Why indeed!

Ms. Savant battles Meniere's Disease, something I have never heard of until I crossed paths with her. It totally rocks her world, literally, too. Although I have done a bit of research, and she's explained it in bits and pieces...actually..LOTS of bits and pieces, you can read about it here when you have the chance. Still why an entire day just to her?

Mimi at Living in France has created a special day, today, "Shart for Solidarity." Why she chose to shart instead of barf, which is what Meniere's makes Savant do, remains Mimi's secret, but shart it is. She created a wonderful button to celebrate this day, and to show our support with our sharts to Ms. Savant. So, shart off! Shart on! But please be kind and wash them there shorts that contains the sharts.



Here's to you, to wong foo. May your sharts spare your shorts.

Hats off, Ms. Savant.

Go Read This

Kaye's blog, "The Road Goes Ever Ever On," is a blog I decided to follow a few months or so ago. I can't remember where or how I found her, I can only remember thinking that anyone having a header dedicated to world famous hobbits can't be all that bad, as a matter of fact, they must be amazingly witty, wise, and winsome. I've enjoyed following her. But today...well...probably posted yesterday, but I read it today, she took the cake.

Go there now. Read this post. It will get to you too.

Doctor, Doctor

Brutal confession.

I hate doctors. Not really them, just going to visit them. I hate the whole entire process. Walking into the office, signing in, waiting (gods, the waiting), having the nurse give you the run down, looking at the scale, getting on the scale, looking at the scale again, and then waiting for the doctor, again, but this time in a room small enough to house towels and a dishpan.

I have to go to the doctor. I need to pick up the phone and call him. I'm sick. Very sick. I've been sick since Friday when I walked into the kitchen to fix Avery's oatmeal and semi passed out. I say semi because I think I was awake the entire time. It was the first time in my life that I actually saw the room spin...and really spin. Like I was holding my head trying to keep the room from spinning. And although I'm not feeling as horrible as I felt on Friday, I think this episode merits a visit to the doctor.

I don't want to go. I want to sit here and pretend that the headache I've been having for the last three days isn't sitting in the background living on the edge (threw that phrase in there for you, Tammy). I want to sit here and pretend that the absence of that little pain in the center of my chest, the one that's been there for a bout a week or so, won't be popping up later on in the day. I think that one is due to stress (good answer, huh?). Yesterday, my entire body felt weird...like it was tired all over. I remember feeling that way ten years ago.

I'm kind of scared.

I'm really scared.

It's probably nothing.

I'll go. I'll go. Jeez.

Random Post Redux: They Call That Average?

Kel, over at A Hesitant Housewife hosts "Random Post Redux", where each Saturday, post a "previously used post." Here's mine. You can also head over to Kels and link up yours with her Mr. Linky, and read other previous posts by her, and others who play as well. Enjoy!



Original Post done March 18:

They Call That Average?

Annoyed would be the current description of my mood at the moment. Well, not annoyed, aggravated. No, no...not aggravated, irritated. Frustrated, maybe? No. That doesn't work either, asphyxiated?

There is a rumor going on that men think about sex, want to have sex, when ever possible actually have sex, and have nothing but sex on the brain twenty-four hours a day...twenty-five if you throw in a couple of leap years. This rumor also states that MEN want SEX more than WOMEN do. Furthermore, once you enter your mid thirties and so forth, your desire for sex decreases to only wanting it once or twice a month.

According to very outdated research:

13% of married couples reported having sex a few times per year, 45% reported a few times per month, 34% reported 2-3 times per week, and 7% reported 4 or more times per week (Laumann, Gagnon, Michael, Michaels, 1994).

AND

A survey by Durex, a leading research firm, found the frequency of sexual interaction varies significantly from country to country. The global average for frequency of sex is 109 times per year (2.1 times per week, or once every 3.3 days). The following summary shows how individual nations compare to the national average of frequency of sexual interaction per year.

Frequency By Country
United States 135
Russia 133
France 128
Germany 127
Britain 124


People from Thailand had the lowest average sexual frequency at 64 times per year, half the frequency of Americans.

Source: 1997 Durex Global Sex Survey

WTF? (I love that acronym)

I am a woman. Yes, for real. I'm a woman that likes sex, thinks about sex often, and wants to have sex okay, not daily, but maybe every other day.
I think about sex. Quite often, I might add. I think about the good sex I've had. I think about the good sex I want to have in the future. I think about the sex I've never had and wonder if it's as good as people say. (warning, there are going to be lots of "I's" in this particular passage because I'm feeling a bit self-centered today) I like sex. I like sex on a daily basis. Personally, me, myself, and I, do not fall in the average category. However, I do not fly solo, much, so my marriage does fall in that 45% range of "a few times a month." By the way, how much is a few?

Why?

Well, the usual suspects are at play here. Kids...yes...those adorable sticky, smelly, salt-nose encrusted specimens produced by my marriage. I have five of them, remember?( http://orbitingthegianthairball.blogspot.com/2009/02/would-rose-smell-same.html) There ain't nothing better than being in the middle of doing the nevermind and having a teenager run in, yes, without knocking, and ask if they can borrow money or your shoes. MY SHOES??? For crying out loud! Not to mention the fact that the lock on your door is broken and your two and three year olds take great pleasure in storming in just to see how fast and wide they can open the door. Don't forget about the nine month old that just LOVES to take power naps of five minutes or less and has the uncanny ability to know "just" when to wake up. HA. Now go ahead and include how unimaginably tiring it is to run after three, three and under, children all day, do minimal household chores, cook supper, run after two teens, and blog (had to include that huh?). Wow, I just wore myself out reading all of that. Then there is the male counterpart. You know, the one that is supposta be thinking about sex 24 hours a day? Well, he wakes up at five a.m., heads off to do manly work things all day, gets home at six, does the SSaS routine (figure that acronym out ha!), and is in bed for nine. In his defense, his job is physically demanding. It does get hot here...very hot and humid. It can drain a person physically...yes...it does. So anyway, I understand when he says, "Not tonight honey... I'm just too...snore...

In defense of my amazing husband:

I love my husband. And he's absolutely incredible and just where incredible should be! He is, without a doubt, the most giving of bedmates! I haven't a complaint. (But I didn't win the give-a-way sponsored by http://www.youwontgoblind.com/! No, I didn't so he just needs to wake his snoring behind up and take care of the situation at hand right now and no one can see this part because it is in ( ) and that makes it completely invisible).

Anyway. :regains self-composure: My point, if there is one, is that women like sex and think about sex just like men do. We do become disappointed when it only happens once a week. And we love those surprise in-the-middle-of-the-week romps! We don't fall into general "honey, I have a headache" stereotypes.

So, back to my current mood...

I don't

(pregnant pause)


have a headache.

There is nothing more fun than playing tag, and Ms. Pam, over at Pam's Perspective, has tagged me. However, this is a new tag thingy, one I haven't played yet. The rules are as follows:


~Open your first photo folder
~Scroll down to the 10th photo
~Post that photo and story on your blog
~Tag five friends to do the same.

















I think I'm going to do a better job of arranging my photo folders, I don't even think this shot has been edited.

This is my second born daughter, Caylith, and my second born son, Avery. It was Avery's first Christmas, and Caylith's sixteenth. The gap in their ages spans nearly two decades, however, the love they have for each other narrows that gap to nearly nothing. While Caylith is brash, opinionated, headstrong, and stubborn, she can clearly take and command center stage. And though she can be completely exasperating, she can also light up a room. The comic relief she provides for the rest of us is developing at a quick pace in her baby brother. His need to be the center of everyone's universe has exceeded the allowed baby boundaries, and the charm he exudes will often make one forget that in order to use his charm on you, he had to get you into the room with him, and in order to get you into the room with him, he used his lungs and howled high to heaven. Perhaps it is them both being second born children that makes them almost parallel in attitude,wit, and charm. Although Avery is still discovering who he is, I can see much of my older dragon child's personality peeking through.

Two dragons in one family.

God help us all.



Now for the tag~


Jillian over at The Infamous

Tink over at The Tink-n-Frog

Viv over at The V Spot

Brandy at You Don't Know

Persephone at This Tasty Jam is all Me

And one to grow on

La la at Music, Hugs, and Random Rants

Mimi at Living in France

Of course, I would have loved cheating and added Tammy and Anita, but Pam tagged them first. I also would have tagged Ms. Savant, but she's been tagged so many times, I do believe her backside has a permanent target pasted to it.

Anyway, whether they play or not, their blogs definately deserve to be checked out.

Enjoy!

A Little Bit of Me

We grew up in a sort of extended type of family. Imagine a huge yard. Really big. Don't ask for measurements, because agriculture isn't my thing, I mean architecture. In the front part of the yard was my aunt's house and ours, the back consisted of a huge vacant area, my aunt's washing shed, a swamp on the side and a couple of trees (not too many), and my grandmother's house. On the side of her house was another vacant area and my uncle's house, and in front, or to the side of his was another of my aunt's (her yard was fenced in, though, so it almost didn't count as part of the extended family thing). Across the road from my aunt with the fenced in yard, was my uncle. He was a rebel living across the road from us all.

All of these people, aside from my uncle living on the side of my grandmother, had children ranging from 19 years to newborn (my mother was a virtual baby machine...she had eight children...EIGHT...can you imagine?). Of course the older ones tortured and stole from the younger ones (me and my sisters), and the much older ones ranging in the almost 18 + department would go over to Joe's Pool Room and shoot pool and smoke (you name it, they smoked it...come on...it was the early seventies for cryin out loud). I longed for the day where I would get to walk to Joe's and shoot pool. Alas, we moved to a different town before I even came close. I missed out on Joe's. Hrmphf. Good thing, I suppose (grumble, grumble, moan, b*tch, complain).

Sometimes, late at night, we'd go and sit on the swamp side of my grandmother's house and tell ghost stories about the rou-ga-rou (a swamp monster of sorts that was a mean ass individual...he didn't stick to his swamp which made him even scarier). My cousins swore up and down that "once, while playing hide-n-seek, they went to look behind a shivering bush thinking to find a player only to find the rou-ga-rou. Their quick wits and swift feet were the only things that saved them. And, of course, I believed every word. Every word uttered. We were even convinced that a hole, which use to house my grandmother's clothesline, was actually a tunnel to satan's den. I swear, I even saw a red light coming out of that hole. Promise. Cross my heart and hope to lie. There was nothing better than scaring the bejeebus out of ourselves, and then lying late at night with the blankets tucked tightly around our feet, and blinking like owls in the dark because we were too "afeared" to sleep.

Yes, those were the days...late nights...ghost stories...and playing tag.

Speaking of tag, Vivienne over at The V Spot, has tagged me. According to the rules of the game, I am to reveal six things about me. I'll play her little game, my pretty, and her little dog too...er...wrong story.


1. While I may not have the best table manners in the world (I will take an occasional book or two to the table with me...but only sometimes), I cannot abide smacking...you know...chewing with your mouth open. A smackface will drive me absolutely bananas. My dad is a smackface, but out of respect for him, I endure it silently (although sometimes it drives me nuts enough to make excuses to leave the room...he's deaf...and he smacks REALLY loud). My little sister was a smackface, though, and I would tell her often time: "Quit your smacking, Smackface."

2. I've only recently started shaving my legs again. I hadn't shaved in years due to the next day pickiness of my legs rubbing together would keep waking me up. The longer my hair grew, the less pickiness. Since I've had 3 babies in the last 4 years, I've had a good excuse not to shave, and trust me, I took that ball and ran with it. However, I decided to try shaving again. I have to shave nightly, though, because the hair on my legs grow way too fast, and I cannot abide the pickiness.

3. My first car was a 1971 Volkswagen Superbeetle. You can find all kinds of interesting facts about the Beetle here. I loved my beetle. love Love LOVED it! It was my first very own car. The seat in the back lifted up and you could hide things in it, and it was just freaking cool.

4. When I worked at Wendy's, the staff would eat the peaches and tomatoes and stuff while prepping the containers for the salad bar. I didn't, though, because I was too paranoid about getting caught. They also ate the fries.

5. I think I'm going deaf, and blind. Although I wear glasses to correct my nearsightedness, I have to hold things away from me in order to read, now. Now, I'm just waiting for dumb. It's coming, I'm telling you, and soon.

6. When I'm embarrassed, even if just slightly embarrassed, my face turns beet red. And I mean beet red. It's hard to control it, actually, near to impossible. Not only that, if I feel the heat going to my face, I blush even harder. I hate it. Sometimes I don't even have to be embarrassed to blush. Take the other day for instance. I was shopping, and as was leaving, I just happened to run into one of our school's former band teachers, Mr. Patterson. He is young, dynamic, vibrant, and the kids loved him (Okay, so he was cute, too). We were classroom neighbors during his time at our school, and would often stop to chat with us (the other fifth grade teachers) when passing by, so I went over and said hello. Not an embarrassing situation, not an excitable situation, but wouldn't you know, I began to blush. Alot. Which of course embarrassed me, so I blushed even MORE. Jeez. How embarrassing.

Okay, so there you have it. Six. Now, according to the game, I'm to tag six others. Deviating a bit, okay, more than a bit, I tag YOU, yes YOU. Have fun. Remember, people love reading about YOU more than YOU realize! We're all voyeurists of some type or another. Go for it!

Mrs. Jones and Me

"The Diary of Bridget Jones" struck such a chord with me, that I'm amazed it didn't shatter my hurricane proof windows at the time of my viewing. Not only could I relate to her being in her thirties, overweight (yeah, right, I wasn't overweight, I was tothemoonweighted), and single, but I also would suffer through her episodes of painful embarrassment with just as much pain that she was enduring at that moment as well. Heart aches, heart breaks, over joyed, unemployed...you name it, she did it, and, many times, so did I.

Watching Bridget trip across her life was a bit like watching my own, and I'm thinking that was the case for others as well. My drink of choice wasn't vodka straight from the bottle, it was Cosmos (I was a Sex in the City fan as well, der). And yes, I smoked (long skinny menthol), danced, went out all night and came home late in the mornings, and dragged my not so willing butt to work the next day. My friends were as cool, if not cooler, than Bridget's, and yes, I even had a few gay ones as well. We were definitely cooler than everyone else. So, age and weight, (check), wild nights spent with variety of friends (check), painful embarassment...ah...yes.

Admit it, we all have these moments...painful embarrassment. I will be the first to admit that not only have I had moments of painful embarrassment, I have had MANY moments of painful embarrassment. To imbibe, and heavily imbibe in the consumption of alcoholic drinks seems to lend a helpful hand in creating quite a few of these moments. Oh, like the time there was orange juice, cranberry juice, vodka, and bar-b-qued sausage, all consumed at different stages of the evening, and all deciding to make an appearance later on that evening. Together. Holding hands, even. Not the best way to impress (Okay, so this wasn't when I was in my thirties...I was actually like 18, and trying my damnedest to impress what's his name now that I'm a couple of decades older....AND WISER that I now forget who he even was). But being young, clueless, and naive, I forgave myself this one small...teeny tiny...event. Of course, as you age, like wine in a barrel or cheese in a wedge, comes wisdom.

Yep, you learn how to read the signs that state if you have one more fruity cocktail, then you'll learn the true meaning behind "two for the price of one." It is at this point where I will thank the god(s) for sending my friends my way, and of course, vice versa. They saved my ass from many an embarrassing morning after. Oh, like the time in the parking lot...with a beautiful Frenchman...after a night of dancing...pulling me out of the club holding hands...Yes, I fell in love after knowing him for only 29 minutes (You would have as well if he whispering sweet french nothings in your "I haven't been a bad girl in waaaaay too long.") ear. Fortunately for me, Margie and Claudia came tripping along and pulled me away from the Frenchman. I still remember tenderly waving from the window of her car, the tires snick snicking away, while I waved to my Frenchman (who straightened his color and went back in to find another fool...er...victim...er...girl). Ah, friends. Good thing Bridget and I had the best of them, huh?

Fortunately, and after dating a couple of the same guys Bridget had dated (Meet Ben and Jerry), I began the process of settling. Found a job, a good job, one that paid the bills which in turn allowed me to make even more bills, WOO! Found a fella, a good fella (cue Van Morrison singing, "Someone Like You."), one that paid the bills which in turn allowed me to make even more bills. Got married (take that Bridget), and so on and so forth.

My embarrassing moments weren't all sloshed related...like when I sprained my hand trying to wave at someone through a closed window, or each time I wave at someone I don't think I know but maybe I do because I think they are waving at me but in truth they are waving at someone standing in back of me (admit it, you all have done that before). And fortunately, Bridget has gotten over Vodka and Chaka Chan, while I have gotten over Cosmos and Ben and Jerry (well, I still do occassionally visit with Ben and Jerry...they helped me over SOOOO many hurdles ta ha, and girdles). It is still nice to know that we have each other to cry with, aggrieve with, and laugh with.

Ah, Miss Jones.

There is Superstition

Step on a crack and you'll break your momma's back.

You don't know how many cracks I've jumped over, yes, even now, because of that statement (you don't know how many I've stepped on either).

I am a superstitious woman. Beware walking in my kitchen with barefoot because you're likely to slip in the piles of salt lying scattered throughout. Who cares about gas prices, if that black cat crosses my path, I'm turning around. The bayou in the back of my mom's yard is filled with my broken mirrors; ain't no seven years of bad luck followin me around. And as for Lowe's, well, it's a ladder nightmare. I've even gone as far as creating a few of my own superstitions.

When I was just a young girl, there was an armadillo that had the misfortune of kissing the wheel. Alas, the wheel did not return his affections, and the wretched creature crawled off to die. His final resting place was a sidewalk I frequented on a daily basis. My walks would take me past his body in all of it's decaying glory. Each day he faded until at last a mighty wind (no, I didn't fart...ooo...I hate that word...fart), carried him away. That patch became "The Sacred Armadillo Spot." Never could human feet pass over this sacred armadillo spot. I had no idea what would happen to the feet that did pass over that spot because its sacredness was so awesome that no one dared attempt it. Certainly not me. I still don't walk over the sacred armadillo spot.

Never.

Ever.


Being superstitious, aside from not knowing how to spell the word, and it being a cool Stevie Wonder song, isn't as cracked up as it's made to be. It's annoying, actually. Your days are filled with nonsense ritual...tossing salt, walking back and forth under ladders, throwing mirrors into the bayou, kissing your husband goodbye once, or three times...but for goodness sakes, NEVER twice. Imagine the woe, the panic, the absolute FEAR that would strike if you missed doing something to avert evil. It's like those freaking chain letters you get in your email...ergh...send this out to 1,000 people or your dog will stop licking your toes in the middle of the night...what's that? We don't have a dog?

Damn, you freak.

Those things usta freak the everliving out of me. I'd be like...oh gods...if I don't fill this out and answer 128 questions asking weird things about me like if I like mountains or desert (like I've been to the desert...come on now) or if I like Sprite or Mountain Dew (dew the dew), then the love of my life will be eaten by a rabid monkey squirrel.

Well, can the squirrel at least wait til we get life insurance?