Because it really is personal…

stilleto heels
liver and onions
dog poo
flat tires
finding a gallon of sodium arsenate (liquid arsenic)
stepping in a hole
running out of gas
turnip greens
heartburn
being accuse of trying to make someone miserable on purpose
having to work late
debt
intestinal gas
screaming children in a restaurant (there should be a No Children section, soundproofed)
catchy ad jingles that rattle around inside your head for days
carpet
confrontation
certain genres of music that glorify violence and abuse of women
unmade beds
toothpaste in the sink
manipulative relatives
dry air
static electricity
rosacea
oven that have a faulty thermostat
ungrateful kids
long lines
Walmart (don’t EVEN get me started…)
skid marks in your kid’s underwear
panic attacks
having to decide between taking a med that preserves my sanity or remaining svelte in a world that glorifies youthful slenderness
waking up with a wet pillow becuase you drooled all night
arthritis pain
having to decide between taking a med that preserves my sanity or one that relieves arthritis pain
spending 3 hours cooking for 8 and only having 4 show up
lies
cheap gin
dill pickle flavored chips

Camellias
smoked ham hocks
cotton underpants
chocolate
9 pm and everyone is accounted for
rocking chairs
affectionate doggies
pine cones
pale pink fingernail polish
pansies
diet 7-Up
Bath and Bodyworks Moonlight Path
Soap operas
digital cameras
friends you’ve known for 20 years
free samples
squishy shoe insoles
cold water
handmade quilts
wrinkle-free shirts
genuine apologies
cheese
cucumbers
hot melt glue
Vicks Vapo-Rub
psychotropic drugs
gentle honesty
scented candles
constancy
peaches
dense, complicated music
cooking shows
shirts that hide your rolls
Fresca, ice cold
being able to remember what’s good

I am so very a creature of habit. My daily life follows a comfortable, predictable course and I like it that way. I like knowing what happens next, when this event is over and the next one starts (preferably with at least 30 minutes between events, so I can gather my thoughts)

Brushing my teeth 3 times a day. (I never floss…tho)
Coffee 3 times a day
make my bed before getting dressed
more coffee
check the email twice
As The World Turns from 2 to 3. Nothing gets in the way of that. Nothing.
an apron, always. I am chronically messy and with an apron I don’t have to change my clothes if I want to go into town.
snug the shoelaces tight
music cranked up
2 dove chocolates with my 2 pm coffee
1 gallon of water per day. Really.
windows open if the temps over 65
hot sauce on my fried chicken
maple syrup on my bacon
gas passed tries to be passed privately
avoiding mirrors
joking my way out of an uncomfortable situation
eating the less decorated half of the bagel first
take a handful of prescription drugs at bedtime-I never miss, as the consequences could be awkward.
read for an hour before sleeping
sleeping on my right side
reaching out with my left foot to make sure Sweet Daddio is still there
praying: thanking God for good things, asking for strength to handle the bad. All day.
eating all the peanuts out of the can, and saving the brazil nuts for last
biting the chocolate and sucking out the caramel
saving the olive in my martini for the last sip
Taking the people closest to me somewhat for granted. I try not to, but the saying is “familiarity breeds contempt”

rednecks
hicks
welfare brood mare
frat boy
small nosed sorority chick
heartless conservative
liberal wimp
damnyankee
wafflehouse waitress
trailer trash
dumb jock
ditsy cheerleader
artist
liberal media
vast right wing conspiracy
emo
goth
gym prick
wop
spick
jewish mamas boy
wetback
fatty
skinny

I spend alot of energy on one child. I have resolved (and I almost never make resolutions) to think less about him and more about the other 3. In a good-faith effort to show my resolve, I’m going to write about #2.

He’s 16, going on 30. He decided a while back that he was soft and pasty, and if he wanted to get into the military he would have to do something about that.

and he is!

He runs 3-4 miles every afternoon, forgoes second helpings, and heaps the veggies on his plate instead of the potatoes.

He wants to be an engineer or maybe a chemist one day. He’d like to go to Georgia Tech like his father and uncle did. He’d like to be a good cook like his ma, and he wants a wife and several children.

He’s agreeable, diligent (if somewhat messy in the bedroom), and dependable. I like that. Those are good qualities that will make him into a fine adult one day. I can ask him to do something and he does it, no whining, well..minimal whining, anyway.

If he decided he wants something in particular, say, peanut butter cookies, he doesn’t ask me to make them, he asks which cookbook has the best recipe, then makes them himself. If he wants to wear a particular shirt, that got left in the dryer overnight, he irons it himself. and does a right fine job of it. too.

If his hair gets to be more than 3 inches long, he gets it cut.

He’s one of those people alot like his father. He gets things done without any fanfare or cheerleading, and consequently gets overlooked. It’s the squeaky wheel that gets the grease, and he hardly ever squeaks.

He’s remarkably smart. He has his computer set up so if someone tries to access it via internet, and gift him with a virus or trojan horse, his computer will shut down the invader, with a nastygram and a rude noise. He has learned how to hack, because he figures if he knows how to do it then he’ll know how to fight it. Know Thy Enemy.

He is a Navy Coat and Khaki Pants Conservative. He reads National Review, Ann Coulter, and William F. Buckley all for fun. His favorite t-shirt reads :Spock Is My Homeboy”. The walls of his room are decorated with photographs of Ronald Reagan (“The Greatest President Ever”), the George Bushes, an assortment of American Flags, and the periodic table of the elements. He owns a vintage ocilloscope-by vintage I mean it has vacuum tubes rather than motherboards, a vintage shortwave radio that he can listen to South American soccer games (TEMPO!TEMPO!TEMPO!) and Al Jazeera radio out of Iran- not that he can understand what they’re saying, but it’s cool that he can do it.

Right now his baby is a 1991 Ford Explorer replete with funky air freshener and Flowmaster non-mufflers. It has a manual transmission, which is a source of great pride, that he can drive with it, and is red on the inside and grey on the outside, like a big beast.

I’m proud of #2. I find myself taking him for granted, but when I think about the rough times he and I had when he was very small, I decide that I am glad I didn’t sell him to the gypsies when he was 3. I almost did, even tried to once but then he started up with his tornado siren wail and the gypsies gave me $20 to take him back.

http://wienerdogbliss.blogspot.com/

An Update on the Weinerdog website

What a great weekend! I didn’t do one single productive thing that I didn’t want to do. Sweet Daddio and I bought a buggy full of groceries, including the many and varied ingredients to make Muffalettas for supper Saturday night. It was a whim, and a tasty one if you ask folk who live here.

Muffalettas: A loaf of french bread, sliced lengthwise and the insides scooped out
a relish made of green and black olives, roasted red pepper, garlic, parsley, oregano, and lemon juice
2 kinds of salami, provolone cheese, tomatoes and lettuce
You pile everything on the bread, then smash the sandwiches for an hour or so so all the juice from the relish soaks into the bread. It’s really salty and yummy.

Our latest Netflix shipment came, so we have totally OD’d on Star Trek: Enterprise. It is by far the best Star Trek series of the lot, as it is a prequel and they are just figuring out the whole space travel issue and don’t trust the transporter one single bit. Scott Bakula plays the captain, and there is one vulcan (a bubble-butted woman with impossibly buoyant boobs, and the doctor is Denobulan with irridescent blue eyes and a tongue that Gene Simmons would weep over.

Today, instead of going to church (I’ve been twice in the last month, and the handshakey thing in the middle of the service really makes me nervous and twitchy), Sweet Daddio and I drove down to Savannah to price Stuff at Home Depot and Lowes. We are going to take our income tax refund this year and Do Up The Game Room. It’s a huge room- 15×30 with 12 foot ceiling- and we’re going to putdown flooring (vinyl that looks rather like slate), paint, build bookshelves/entertainment center at one end, recessed lights, ceiling fans, theater surround sound, and a pool table. The theory is this: if we build it, they will come. We want to make is appealing to teenage boys so they will come here where we know what they are doing.

That took most of the morning, this afternoon was tv- it was raining. Again. Football for y-chromosome members, dvd for the xx’s. Yah, plural. The dogs, females all, rolled around on the bed with me during Star Trek.

Mentioning the rain reminded me…the weather here is just plain silly. It’s a wintery type rain, misty and intermitent, but it’s 65 degrees. Yesterday SD vocally considered the possibility of turning on the A/C. It was 80. 80!! Ridiculous! And we aren’t talking about the pre-cold front push of hot air 80 either! It was a pure and simple 80. Crazy.

SO tomorrow is Monday, truly my favorite day of the week as I get to spend it doing my all time favorite things: cleaning and laundry. Really, I don’t mind, as spending all day monday doing drudge work frees my conscience up to do fun stuff later in the week. Maybe I’ll get ambitious and bake some bread, or go to the library and check out a book about serial killers (did you know that they have elevated levels of cadmium in their brains?) or nuns. MAybe, with all this rain, there will be a multitude of new mushrooms in the yard that I can photograph. Maybe I’ll exercise…right.

What are you going to do this week?

Last night went well, I think. I didn’t fall down or throw my drink on anyone, I maintained a smile and occasionally said something clever.

Sweet Daddio was spot on about Mrs. R the Second and Mrs. R the Third. Mrs. R. the Second had Landed Gentry oozing from her pores. She was, from her genuine Chanel jacket to her tastefully colored hair, a very well preserved Class Act. Mrs. R the Third…well. Mr. R the Third is about 5’7″. Mrs. R. the Third was probably 5’11″ in her stocking feet, 6’3″ in her Mahnolo Blahniks. She looked like a very expensively dressed 50 yr old former Las Vegas Showgirl Trying To Recapture Her Youth. I was amused by her because it looked like she was trying to dress young, but the whole thing came together a little out of focus.Women who have absolutely no ass should steer clear of spandex pants. At one point I was wondering how someone with so much money managed to get such a bad haircut.

We sat at a table with people we didn’t know- The Screven County Commissioner and assorted Industrial development people. So, barring interesting conversation, I played a little footsie with SD under the table, and cruelly critiqued the salmon. Too late we discovered empty places at the table where some friends were sitting, but we had already settled in and put dressing on the (iceburg and rock hard tomato) salad. It would be rude to get up and move tables, even tho we probably would never see the Screven County Contingent again.

By the end of the evening, my pantyhose were bagging ominously around my ankles, my feet were starting to protest the application of feminine shoes, and I was comfortable in the knowledge that the trip to Savannah was well worth it. SD got a big time Attaboy from the owners, and a request for him to go to Chicago. This is good news for him.

Tonight, since the Thing last night signaled the culmination of 14 hour days for the past 6 months, Sweet Daddio intends to get good and thoroughly drunk. See, he has been working very hard (and this is why they hired him, to do this project)putting together a large and complicated device, coordinating contractors and electricians, dealing with Austrian equipment dealers, waving his arms and shouting in order to Get Things Done. And, He Got Things Done. The huge, complicated, mysterious piece of multifaceted textile processing monstrosity WORKS! So, he is going to celebrate quietly at home and by golly he deserves it.

And I have a lovely skirt that fits well and is a size smaller than I thought it should be AND goes with about 10 other things hanging in my closet.

We have a Thing to go to tonight. The owners of the company Sweet Daddio works for are in town, and a former company president is retiring, so there is a Thing at the country club and I didn’t have a thing to wear!

Well, not entirely true. I had one thing to wear but by itself would be considered inappropriate for this type of event. I have this jacket- black silk, liked with hot pink chinese jaquard, very understated unless you move quickly then the pink shows and it’s pretty. I had nothing to wear with it. No skirt or pants, no top. I am painfully aware of the fashion shortcomings of this small and lovely town, so I decided at 8am to heigh myself to Savannah, to Dillards at the mall, and find me the components for an outfit.

Once there, a bored looking Jamaican clerk loaded my arms up with trousers and skirts, a cream colored blouse, and the key to the dressing room. I put on the jacket and blouse, and tried on pants and skirts, letting her take careful and critical perusals until the right combination was found. Then I went to find foundational garments (I found a bra that makes my boobs look 1 cup size bigger and 20 years perkier), lipstick in Just The Right Shade of Pink and really much more than I ever should have paid for lipstick but damn, it looks good and hang me if it doesn’t stay on for 6 hours through coffee and a bowl of grape-nuts. I got a pair of Fat Legs sheer black hose, and a Big Barrel curling iron to make my hair look sleek and stylish with just the right amount of curve.

So I have been playing with my makeup. I have this irritatiing quality to my skin: it turns bright red at the smallest provocation (heat above 70 degrees, cinnamon, booze), and the red happens in a place I can’t hide behind hair-around my nose and in the dead middle of my chin. The only`remedy I have found so far is the application of concealer with a spatula, plenty of foundation, and a thick coat of powder. Normally I don’t wear makeup at all, and just let the masses be offended by my red skin, but this Thing is important, replete with Landed Gentry and New Money, and it is necessary that I be a good reflection on SD, so on goes the makeup with the internal reassurance that The Country Club will be dimly lit and the makeup will look relatively natural.

Can you tell I am a tad nervous? I am sure I can hold my own, as I have been briefed on the personalities of the people I will meet. Mrs. R. The Second is Old Money Landed Gentry Pre-Revolution Panamanian, apparently a kind woman but very…I don’t know…A Lady and Not To Be Called Flora, To Be Refered To As Mrs. R. I can do that. Being Landed Gentry myself I know how to act…I’ll offer her a napkin for her BBQ ribs…that’s what we do in Texas where I’m from. Mrs. R. The Third is…well…she was described as Lower Class Married Rich…New money. I have been told she likes to talk alot about how much money she has, how often she lunches with (insert Chicago Socialite here), and the last time she went Motoring In Her Jag. I can smile and nod with the best of them, and I’ll be thinking about gene pools and how much I hate wearing panty hose.

SD has offered to ease my way into the Thing with the early application of gin and tonic. I’ll probably take him up on it. The Country Club is right up the street from us, we live halfway down the 10th hole, so I will at least have the cache’ of saying “oh yes, we live on the 10th hole, right down there” and can pretend that our house isn’t the second smallest in the neighborhood.

At least my hair looks good. I have good hair, very straight and sleek, no split ends and a high priced cut, worth every penny. I used my new big barreled curling iron to give it a Coco Chanel sort of bob, and judicious application of paste wax to the roots to keep it from looking flat.

I just hope the whole package works together. I am going to go get dressed now, and see if I can find that teensy sample bottle of Chanel #5 so I’ll smell like I belong there.

Ridiculous! I can take hilarious photos of dogs doing silly things and here I am nervous about meeting some Grande Dame from Chicago who won’t even remember I exist by this time tomorrow.

Yesterday I got a wild hare, and dug out the sewing machine. I used to sew for a living, making custom outfits like square-dance dresses and re-enactment costumes (14th century houpelande and coutehardie, anyone?), then I sewed out of necessity, as it was the only way I could afford new clothes, then for the kids, cute little sweatsuits with appliques on the front and matching nightshirts for everyone.

Then Sweet Daddio was earning enough that I could *gasp* afford to BUY CLOTHES! Real ones, too! Stuff from Coldwater Creek and Lands End and LL Bean and the like. But sometimes I’d want something in particular, a madras cotton blouse cut just so with princess seams or darts to give it shape, or a bathrobe of periwinkle blue cotton print lined with 300 count cotton sateen. That desire has been happening more and more.

So yesterday, I dusted off the trusty Kenmore workhorse sewing machine,and oiled her up. Then I went to Stuff-Mart, the only place in this small town that sells fabric yardage. I dealt with a surly clerk who was annoyed at my temerity in asking her to cut fabric when CLEARLY she was doing Something More Important, I chose thread and buttons, and a pattern for a simple short sleeved blouse with darts and cuffed sleeves. The fabric I chose was a cotton madras plaid in 3 shades of pink, and a cotton sheeting in a light royal blue. I spent yesterday and today indulging my need for creativity, and made 2 blouses. I am obviously out of practice. I am glad I had a pattern. 20 years ago I was making clothes for which patterns were not readily available, and able to make darn nice outfits, too.

I want to get back into it, not out of any sense of economy, because affording clothing isn’t an issue anymore, but out of a sense of accomplishment. I have my own sense of style, which has been rudely suppressed by the fashion industry. I know what I like and it is unfortunately a style not often found on the size 20 rack. I don’t intend to dress like I think I’m a size 5 teenager, don’t get me wrong there, but I do wish to wear something with a little more panache than the polyester tents that pass as Women’s Sizes here. It’s frustrating that most womens clothing catalogs only carry stuff up to a size 16 or 18, or the larger sizes come in navy, brown or black.

So I am going to do my own thing. I can size a pattern up a bit if need be, or lengthen it, or whatever. I found a brand of jeans that fits as well as any I’ve tried, and I’m going to stick with them until they (inevitabley) change designers and go to one who utterly lacks an ass and makes the pattern for herself instead of me.

See, I have this figure issue. I am built like a hourglass, only bigger. My waist is a solid 3 sizes smaller than my butt, and my arms lean toward muscular so sleeves are frequently snug. I hate that. I hate making pants. I hate altering ready made pants because if you have to take the waist in 4 inches it totally screws with the way the rest of the pants fit. I read recently there is a brand of jeans that is making “butt cup” sizes. I guess I’d be a DD. I thought that would be awesome, to have jeans that are right around the waist and tush at the SAME TIME! Then I saw that they are $150 a pair. Ok…yeah we’re doing well, I can pretty much buy most anything I want, as long as I don’t want $150 jeans. At least I could say I’m not growing anymore. With my luck I’d buy them and suddenly develop thyroid issues.

Anyway, back to sewing. It’s fun. I like my new pink plaid blouse, it is loose and summery and will be wildly comfortable in the South Georgia heat.