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Here I sit, on the couch un the badly decorated living room with my children, who are watching a show on Spike called Extremely Lucky Dudes. It’s guys who crash and burn and live to tell about it. Okay.
As for me, I am craving cheetoes. that means just One Thing, which I won’t go into great detail about it as my kids read this sometimes and would be terribly embarrassed. Suffice to say that it happens on a lunar calendar and only to girls between 12 and 60. Coke is good, too (the liquid, not the powder).
My biggest hope right this minute is that, when Sweet Daddio walks through the door with a requested bag of crunchy Cheetoes, I can whine quietly and be sent to bed. that would be best, for I Am Tired.
SD knows how to handle me, the 3 or 4 days every month when I grow facial hair and fangs and threaten to eat the children with a side of cornbread. One word: tranquilizers. Prescription strength, frequently and often. Good man, that psychiatrist of mine. He has a wife and children and understands the feminine requirement for lunar phase administration of psycho-active chemicals. For those of you in Metter: strong drugs during That Time Of The Month.
I have other reasons for being tired, but the hormonal fluctuations are exacerbating the situation. I won’t go into them too deeply, as involved persons haven’t given me permission to make them public, but suffice it to say a child is involved and I’d give my dentist and orthodontist approved eyeteeth to carry the load.
The good news is: this New Town has a really good restaurant! This is important to me, as there are certain foods I love but lack the skill to prepare. The Blue Moon is it’s name, and they have this appetizer that I’m working up the courage to order 3 of just for me, never to share. It’s a tower made of crispy fried wonton wrappers, chopped avocado and ginger, and raw tuna drizzled with sesame oil and sprinkled with chopped cilantro. Oh man, is it good. Fish makes me nervous, when it comes to preparing it, and raw fish even more so. They also prepare some tasty scallops, crab cakes, and grrrrroupah.
Last weekend we went back to the Old Town and did some work on the Old house. The basement floor was stripped with one of those rotary machines- the ones you see on shows aimed at the 18-30 yr old male audience- they put a blond on the machine and watch her whirl and jiggle. SD, because he’s Big and Strong and Ever So Much a Guy, did the honors and the floor looks brand new. We also painted the walls and trim and now the whole basement looks brand new. The yard was given a haircut and a manicure and now we wait breathlessly for someone to come along and decide they can’t live anywhere else. Anyone want to buy a a really nice, freshly painted house? Lots of room, nice fenced yard, lovely blooming shrubs and a totally cool playhouse on stilts in the back.
SD is home, I am now in possession of a big ol’ bag of crunchy cheetoes, and am preparing my argument about Why Rootie Should Be Sent To Bed. I’ll try and soften the blow by getting the coffee made for tomorrow. Dinner is already cooked: jambalaya from a box.
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I’m having a ball with our new house. It has some terrific features that make it easy to work with, and enough cosmetic um….challenges that I can enjoy changing things up.
One of the things I discovered whilst living in the Old Town was my love of color. Lots of it, strong and vibrant reds, golds and blues. This new house isn’t as contemporary as the old one, so it doesn’t call for the screaming reds and golds we used there. It seems to want earthier tones, rusts, caramels, colors borrowed from Mexican food. The dining room is the color of a toasted corn tortilla and the entry is cayenne pepper red. I have stalled on the living room. It has dull grey carpet, and I am reluctant to paint the walls until the carpet is making an enviromentalist nervous about the landfill.
But I can’t do anything more until the house in the Old Town sells, because at the moment we are making 2 housepayments and that means we don’t have any money to spare for things like paint and furniture. It’s a temporary situation, but frustrating because I have ideas and opinions and want to act on them NOW
In the interest of selling the Old house, we are going there on Saturday, armed with buckets of paint and a box full of tools and doodads. We are going to attack the basement with a loud and obnoxious floor machine, in hopes of stripping wax, dirt, and 9 years of accumulated nameless crud. We are also going to paint over the red and yellow trim (I told you color doesn’t scare me) that has been there since 1997 and the fingerprinty walls. The theory is that the basement is scary and we need to make it less so. My parents are going to help, and some friends have generously offered to prepare a vat of their absolutely stellar gumbo for dinner. The gumbo alone would be worth the 5 hour drive.
I am going to suggest to our unmotivated and blase’ real estate agent that she have another open house once the basement paint is dry. We are stuck with her until November, but I guarentee come 11/15, if the house hasn’t sold we’re finding a new agent. I am totally unimpressed with her, but we signed a contract and have to keep her until then. The biggest problem with agents in that town is that the town is full of high-end houses, 4 very large developements featuring $500,000+ houses, and realtors tend to concentrate their efforts on those places instead of piddly little $150,000 places like ours. Never mind that we need to sell it just as badly as richer folk do, maybe even more, and it would be a $14,000 commission and that’s not a number I’d turn MY nose up at. Unfortunately if you call the agencies and ask for a specific agent, she’ll tell you “oh, I only sell houses $300,00 and up” or “I only sell houses in the Moores Mill and Grove Hill areas. Let me give you the name you a dull witted and highly unmotivated agent who does cheap little dumps like yours because rich people have enough sense to come to me and you’re obviously not rich.”
So, thus continues the saga of Old House/New House. Thus is the frustration that is Rootie’s life right now. All I want is to buy flooring and furniture and silk flowers from Michaels.
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I was walking through the store the other day, and noticed small children sitting in buggies, riding on backs, being cute and adorable. I realized how much I missed having a little feller to keep me company.
When no’s 1,2 and 3 were tots (yes, all at the same time…#1 was 18 mos old when #2 was born, and #2 was 20 mos old when #3 came along), I was so busy just keeping them from killing themselves and each other that I didn’t have time to enjoy them. I barely remember the first 6 years of their lives. My memories of them are generally associated with photographs and video tape. I honestly can’t remember much else other than being tired all the time and achingly unhappy. The unhappiness turned out to be nuclear strength post partum depression.
#4 arrived 8 years after #3. Knowing the postpartum issue, my psychiatrist and I chose to implement the Keep Rootie Happy plan, involving large quantities of antidepressants and mood levelers. The good news is- it worked. I can remember almost all the very precious moments of #4′s infancy and toddlerhood.
Now I want it again. Not a baby (take a breath Sweet Daddio, tattoos are cheaper than getting tubes untied), but a 3 year old. Someone who can converse relatively intelligently on the merits of bananas and Elmo, someone who loves me absolutely as I am, and treats everytime I walk into the room like a party just exploded. I want someone who will ride in the seat in the buggy and sing “Rubber Duck Rubber duck rubber duck duck rubber duck rubber duck duck rubber duck….” I want someone small and squishy who won’t call me a bitch and tell me to f*ck off when I won’t let him eat the cashews.
I want…a preschooler. Girl or boy, it matters not. I’ll even take fingerprints 2 feet up on the walls, sippy cup lids with no matching sippy cup, and cheerios.
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Sweet Daddio is nervous. Not only have I been making noises about tattoos, but I have been playing ‘what if’ and ‘doncha think?’. He is concerned that I am going to have a mid life crisis before he does…well, not that exactly, more that I’ll be so busy having mine that he won’t get to have his.
I thought he already had one. He took up golf and cigars and started drinking really expensive scotch. I gave him tenative permission to aquire a motorcycle, which I think was extremely magnanimous of me. Not many women in my position (uneducated, unemployable, saddled with many children and animals) would be so generous. Of course, I told him he had to take out a huge life insurance policy first. That’s just prudent.
And really, the lifestyle changes I am considering are unlikely to cause lung cancer or cirrhosis of the liver. Nor are they prone to leaving large portions of my hide scraped on the pavement. Nonetheless, I love SD with all my heart and want him to enjoy his life. I want him to think of me as someone…I don’t know…worth the bother.
I don’t always feel worth the bother. When I forget to mail something off, or write something down, or generally behave in a manner that he finds exasperating, I wonder where he finds the patience to grit his teeth and smile and say “that’s ok, I’ll take care of it in the morning”.
I am getting better, tho. I now regularly refill his underwear drawer and pair up his socks. I am pretty dependable when it comes to keeping the toilet paper stocked. I cook supper most of the time. I am always glad to see him. I am trying to be a good wife of the June Cleaver school, apron and all.
There are plenty of things I wish I could do, but am having a hard time with. I wish I could lose some weight, but darn it, food tastes good and I am definitely comforted by the sensation of being full. Liposuction is out because I think that’s just gross. I wish I could wake up cheerful and instantly, throwing sausage and bacon around and cooking a wonderful meal for everyone in the morning. 5:30 is so early, and I’d have to get up at 4:30 to be awake enough to cook, plus the school provide breakfast for free (well, not exactly free free, taxes and all that). I wish I could be more predictable. These mood swings, sudden washing over of rage or pathos, they are wearing on a body and soul. I sure he wishes my moods were nice and level. The problem is, if they were level they’d be a level low, not a sparkly and cheerful bubbly sort of thing. I wish I cared more about how I looked. I suppose the weight thing falls in there. I don’t look in the mirror, and I feel very much like I felt 20 years ago, so I just assume that I am, even though my size has changed. I don’t worry with my hair unless I have to (meeting the bosses or whatever), nor do I wear makeup unless someone has to be impressed (not the right word, as I doubt my face would impress anyone even after a morning spent with Damon’ The Very Homosexual Makeup Artiste on ’10 years younger’.
So, the point is, Sweet Daddio is concerned. I don’t know if his concern is an alarming degree on concern, or if he’s just kind of wondering why I am suddenly enamored with the idea of a permanent change. I think part of the problem is that when he says something, he means it and if it’s an idea then he will most likely act on it. Consequently he thinks I am going to act on all these life altering concepts I have been putting voice to. I probably won’t, act on them that is, because they all cost money and that is something I don’t have. I might one day, if my grandmother leaves me something or they suddenly decide to uncap the oil well. Mostly it’s just talk, idle chatter, silly ‘what ifs’.
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Have you ever just hauled off and done something out of character? I mean REALLY out of character, like getting your hair dyed an unnatural color or changing your name to something exotic like Kismet or Chantilly Lace.
I realize these acts aren’t out of character for everyone, but they are for me. (I sense Sweet Daddio is getting a little nervous about this train of thought). The other day, someone in the intersection irritated me so I flipped them a bird. Yep, threw that ugly starling right on the hood of their car. I don’t do that, flip birds or curse frequently or (publicly)scratch my parts. I am a prissy voiced, mild mannered, reserved Presbyterian who always uses a cloth napkin and the right fork. So when the urge to do something uncharacteristic hits me, I stuff it in my mental box marked “Do Not Open” and pretend it doesn’t exist.
I am waiting for that pandora’s box of my psyche to become overfull and erupt all over South Georgia. I will get a tattoo. Something tasteful, mind you, like celtic knotwork on my lower back where only Certain Persons will see it. It will be something I can live with, that I won’t be embarrassed about when I am 90 and the people at the nursing home see it when they give me a spit bath. There is this chick that works at Dayspring, a granola-head Natural Grocery that also sells “Water Lamps” (bongs) and patchouli oil (a clever way to mask the scent of the “Water Lamps”). Anyway, she has this artfully done, multi colored tattoo that covers her arm from elbow to shoulder. Beautifully crafted, it is, with the unfortunate subject of green aliens with big black eyes, all making the peace sign and holding candles. Ok…is this something you’d want to wear when you’re 40? or 70? What will happen to the aliens when she gets old and her arms flap? One must consider these things when one does something permanent. It costs more to get a tattoo removed than it does to get a divorce. Think about it.
The point is, when I get the nerve up, I just may wander into the local tattoo shop (Proud Member of the Christian Tattoo Artists Association) with my own design and see what it would take (beyond 4 oz of Jack Daniels) to get it done. My aunt (she’s only 13 yrs older than me) has one of a vining rose crawling out of her armpit, across the top of her boob, and onto her neck. It’s pretty, and the kind of thing I am sure she’ll be able to live with when she’s 80. Since her occupation doesn’t involve suits and PDA’s, and does involve llamas and ferrets, her client base tends to be equally decorated.
It’s all about walking on the right side of wild. I want to do something that will give me a secret smile without skirting the boundaries of immoral or embarrassing to my family. Granted, I am home alone all day and there are plenty of things I can do to induce secret smiling. Some of them don’t even involve using handtools. I guess it’s the 40 thing. It’s sinking in that there are so many things in life i’ve never experienced. Not all of them are things I WANT to experience, but some of them are. I don’t particularly want people to see me in a new light, or wonder what has happened to the mild mannered hausfrau their used to, I just want to do something unexpected. I want my family to make a discovery about me, to say “shakin’ thangs up thar, Mom!”
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I took Little Martha to Savannah today to get her top fixed and a couple of other minor things like ingrown trunk switch and hyperactive left turn signal. What a day! Great! I was ALONE so the car person took me to the mall where I spent 3 fine hours going into shops where things break or have lace on them, or having long, exhaustive conversations about growing orchids. All very girly and necessary. I didn’t buy lots of things, including a $125 Ralph Lauren sweater in my shade of pink for just $20. Nor did I buy an herbal mint scented candle ot a chunky amber bracelet. Sweet Daddio is forever saying “go get you some clothes, spend some money on yourself!” It’s just as much fun to me NOT spend the money even tho I probably could without sanction.
Little Martha works properly now, and thanks to Tropical Storm Ophelia, the weather is fine and I made the 50 minute trip home with the TOP DOWN and the MUSIC LOUD! My last flower for LM broke- it was a hot pink giant gerber daisy. I determined, due to the calendrical setting and general feel of life, that A New Flower Was Needed. This involved going someplace that didn’t carry just the standard old flowers like silk roses or whatever. No. I needed a special flower for fall. Just my luck, they had A SALE. Yes, I got a yellow, orange and red bunch of firecracker asters for Little Martha to spiff her up and improve her mood now that everything works.
Then I decided to go hog-wild in the flower department and get a big-ass bunch of unpronounceable flowers to put in the entryway on this little oak table. The flowers had a couple of requirements: they must involve orange and blue, and they must look right in a cobalt vase.
War Eagle fly down the field
Ever to conquer, never to yeild
War Eagle fearless and true
fight on you orange and blue
on to victory strike up the band
give um hell give um hell
stand up and yell
War Eagle win for Auburn
power of Dixie Land!
Thus explains the Orange and Blue requirement.
I found some cool shades of burnt orange and maroon peonies, some burgundy hangy things, and blue delphiniums, and eucalyptus filler. Very pretty, I think. This is a solidly Go Dawgs town, and as a tiny minority, Sweet Daddio and I feel we must find many and varied ways to be obnoxious as possible about our athletic affiliation.,
Many are the folk who have commented to us on the majestic opener of a Auburn football home game. Auburn has a rehabilitated Golden Eagle named Tiger. Auburn also has an enourmous stadium- a bowl shaped contraption that seats 98,000 butts. So, part of the pregame festivities involves Tiger flying from the top of the stadium, making a circle or two (I am getting goosebumps just writing about it), and finally landing at the beef-laden feet of his trainer, where he (the eagle, not the trainer) proceeds to hunch over and glare at anyone who dares to approach his meal. Right after that, there’s a flyover from Maxwell Airforce Base- 3 or 5 of some kinda fighter planes that are really noisy and everyone falls on their faces or backs as they go over, like those penguins from the video.
So that’s where War Eagle comes from, even tho they are the Auburn Tigers. Since there is a large raptor rehab center there, there is always an eagle or two in training, ones who can fly but aren’t able to go into the wild for whatever reason. I have had several friends, Go Dawgs people all, who have said Auburn’s pregame is definitely the most impressive, even if the football team has trouble spelling it’s own name. (that was just one player, and if you’d had his name you’dve had trouble spelling it too)
And thus proceedeth the wandering that is the runaway train of my thought.
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especially when it’s the pain of recovery.
Sweet daddio’s tooth removal experience was, well, interesting. The Oral Surgeon said “Wow! Can I save this tooth for my collection?”
“OK, “said SD. Apparently the roots of the upper tooth he had pulled were , get this, actually growing into his middle ear and sinus cavity. SD has had ringing in that ear, and constant pain in that one sinus for about 20 years. The OS believs perhaps whatever enzyme or pituitary secretion that tells your tooth roots to stop growing, didn’t tell SD’s. The roots on the 2 teeth pulled were over an inch long. Normal roots stop at about 1/2 inch. Growing into his ear and sinus.
SD said the relief in his ear was immediate, he felt the root sliding out (eeeeeee! cringe! EEEWW!) and BAM the ringing was gone and so was the pain. Boom just like that. He’s got a little swelling, and some cuts on his gum where the OS had to do some finagling to get his lower tooth out, but the pain, O! the pain is gone! His good cheer is back and his boss will be so happy to have him back in the game!
I am busy keeping him fed on pre-chewed food like hash from a can and tomato soup. Breakfast this morning was a peach smoothy with children watching in earnest appeal with large Bambi eyes asking for a smoothy too. SD doesn’t actually HAVE to eat pre-chewed food, but fixing it makes me feel like I am doing something to help, and makes him feel like he’s being cared for. I mean, we all like to be treated special when circumstances call for it.
OK! All this and it’s cool enough to open the windows! I do believe, if it’s still so cool this weekend and it just might be, I will pack SD a cooler full of cold beverages and force him onto the golf course. No arguing, honey, I insist you get out of my hair for the Saturday.
How about the stuff in New Orleans! Go Guard! I was watching news footage of them stopping up the levees and pumping out the water. Did you know those water pumps (of the Archemidian Screw type) have been in place since 1890? The only thing modern about them is the motors powering them. Cool and amazing. It’s going to be a long and messy cleanup. the water is foul, beyond foul, really, a soup of toxic wastes, sewage and dead bodies (both recently and long dead from the cemeteries). I am wholly grateful that the Guard, Army Corp of Engineers, and volunteer people don’t listen to the national news and all the reporting on how long it’s taking to get stuff in place.
See, here’s the deal. The reason the federal government took “so long” to respond is because they didn’t have the authority to do so until the State asked for help. And the state piddled. So blame Louisiana govt. Once they asked for help the feds jumped in and immediately went to work, but they just had to be asked first.
Now, another question. There are some 15,000 folk at the astrodome, and they’re having to bring in volunteers to distribute food and such. What about those 15,000 very bored and unhappy people? Can’t they do some of the passing-out-of-MRE’s? No? Why not? I was imagining what I would do if I were in their situation. I would park myself in the kitchen and be a pain-in-the-butt until they gave me something to do. I would make my children organize games for the other children. I would find SOMETHING useful to do because I’d go ape-shit if I didn’t. Surely out of those 15,000 folk there are some hyperactive people that need to work. Maybe there are, and we just aren’t hearing about it. I hope so.
Right now my biggest prayers are for the New Orleans police. I understand that a large number of them have abdicated, and some have even killed themselves. Genuine tragedy. See, the NO Police were required to live in the city limits of NO. This means they lost everything, too. Then to have the people they are trying to help SHOOT at them, all while under the tremendous stress of being separated from their families and losing all they own… Ugh. Prayers for them everytime I think about it.
I see these appeals to “open your home to a refugee family”. I don’t think so. I even have room. We could do it, if we wanted to. I’ll do anything but that. I know, “Oh rootie, your’e so mean and cold, those poor innocent families lost everything and you won’t even share your spare room”
Damn straight. And, contrary to what my aunt in Oregon would say, it ain’t a race thing. I just don’t want someone in my house that I don’t know from Adam’s housecat. I don’t want someone who lacked the mental resources to take care of themselves or get on the myriad of tour buses the city provided BEFORE the storm to evacuate. Call me whatever you like, I’ll buy diapers and hieney-wipes all day long for people, but they are not going to invade my personal space.
Did you know that, before the storm hit, the mayor of NO had police cars escorting buses all over town to pick people up, and people still refused leave? Morons.
These are the same people who looted and shot at folk, and are getting mad because they aren’t getting the help they think they need. You know, you can only do so much for a person before they have to take up the reins and do for themselves.
Well, I didn’t mean to get so vehement. The good news is Sweet Daddio is back in the game and “feelin’ frisky!” (ok…), the air in East Georgia is cool and dry thanks to a tropical depression off the coast, and Little Martha is going to the doctor tomorrow to get her top fixed so I can take gracious advantage of the cool sunshine and drive around like the middle-aged-housewife-with-midlife-crisis that I am.
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Poor Sweet Daddio. He has 2 broken teeth and they are hurting him so bad he’s got one eye up higher than the other and he’s, well…the proverbial bear with a sore tooth. Right now this minute he’s at the oral surgeon getting them removed. Can’t wait, poor guy. He saw the dentist Friday and the schmuck wanted to do root canals and caps to the tune of $4000. On 2 molars way at the back of his mouth that SD would never miss. SD insisted he pull them, dentist refused and gave him the same of the OS. Schmuck.
So now SD’s mouth is all shot up with novocaine and last I talked to him he sounded like he had a ‘mouf full-O Joy!’ I had to run home to catch #4 off the bus, then run back and get SD and toddle him back home to wear off the effects of whatever OS gave him. I believe I’ll swoop #4 up and swing by Sonic for a couple of Slushes. 1/2 price after 2 pm, doncha know.
In other news! It’s actually cool enough- like 78- to have all the windows open and breezy through the house as a lovely reminder of why I like the South so much. We slept with the windows open and listened to whippoorwills in the woods all night and mourning doves first light at 6:30 am. Fabulous!
OK! SD just called and said he’s done and he feels “better!‘ #4 bus is precisely 5 minutes late.
Oop! There it is! tata…
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His name is Shawn and he looks like whats-his-name…Sean Astin that played Sam Gamgee in Lord of the Rings. Short, built like a fireplug, perpetually sardonic expression that says “I’m too smart to be doing this for you people but I’m waiting for the Right Opportunity to appear”
Kind of like #1. Just waiting for the Right Opportunity, the chance of a lifetime, that perfect free ride. And so sure it’s going to happen, too. “I’m just doing this to kill time while I wait for my ship to come in.” “I’m only doing this between acting jobs.” “I don’t really want to be doing this but my parents made me.”
Speaking of Sean Astin, I saw a picture of him in a speedo. Forgive me, but even Olympic swimmers at the very pinnacle of fitness look goofy in a speedo. This guy, well. He’s more of the trunks school of swimsuit awareness. I’m just not a speedo kinda girl.
Growing up, I always thought the guy on the Brawny Paper Towel package was sexy. Hairy kinda guy, plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up, blue jeans. He looked to me like a guy who smelled like pine needles and fresh sweat. I don’t want to see someone’s package, not unless I know them REALLY well. Then there’s Sweet Daddio…tall and beefy, plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a good fittin’ pair of jeans on those yard-long legs. Hairy too. When he was doing alot of furniture work he’d come in smelling like oak or pine with little shavings in his beard and…well.
I am not sure how I got to this point from the fireplug cable guy. Don’t get jealous, SD, the kid looks about 12.
I guess I was thinking of speedos. You know how some women just aren’t built for bikinis? Same with men, only I don’t think any of them are built for speedos. No hips. then there is that picture of the dude in the “swimsuit” that was like a speedo pulled up over his shoulders and a thong in the back. Plus he was skinny so it really looked silly. Men should not wear thongs. Period. Their butts are all wrong and I would think, with balls in the location they are, that a thong would be uncomfortable, constricting even.
So that’s my opinion on speedos and thongs.
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We haven’t had cable in (hold your breath and laugh) 9 years. We had it a little more than 9 years ago, for a spell of about 3 months. Then I got tired of beating the kids off the tv all the time, so I had it disconnected. Yes, *I* had it disconnected, without prior approval from Sweet Daddio and I did it right in the middle of NASCAR season, too. He still points this out to me. My reason? Why in the heck should we pay $40 a month for the privilege of flogging children? I can do that for free!
Well, the kids are older now, and we have a padlock for the tv cabinet. So we are getting cable. SD can watch his beloved Auburn Football and cherished NASCAR out on the patio WITH cigars and scotch. Talk about the All American Male Experience. I draw the line at french maid costumes and platters of complicated spicy food.
I will be able to actually get As The Stomach Churns without static and overfeed from the neighbor’s dish. I will learn if Gwen realizes yet that her baby is actually Jennifers, and if Katie has decided to go ahead and rebreak Henry’s heart. I will continue to think Hal is a pathetic wimp for being so nice to his ridiculous wife Emily, even when she has sex with a guy (that’s not Hal) in the mattress store. I plan on doing a bit of HGTV as well, get some decor ideas and stuff.
The kids will get to utilize the educational opportunities provided by Discover and History, and, most likely, MTV and SPIKE.
So, the cable guy cometh. he was supposed to be here a half hour ago, but this is, after all, WAY in the Deep South, and timetables are for people paid by the job, not by the hour.
I did go eat fried chicken with SD, other stuff too. This dumpy little restaurant has the best macaroni and cheese on the planet. It is positively sublime. He is going to stop at “Thee Barbeque House” on the way home for supper- really REALLY good pulled pork and brunswick stew. He tried last week but there was a sign in the window that read : “Runnd out of meet at 4:30″. The guy there makes up a bunch of meat on Wednesday and Thursday, then sells it on Friday and Saturday until he “runnd out”. What a way to work. You think “I want to go fishing Saturday, and the grandbabies are coming over and my coondawg needs runnin’. I’ll jest cook a little meat.” So you runnd out on Friday and have the whole weekend to play with the grandbabies and run your dawg. This place is proof positive that the more ramshackle the building, the better the meat. I mean….the pork there is MMMMMM. smoky and tender with little crusty bits…fabulous on a bun with pickles.
Where is that cable guy? I wonder if his name is Earl.