Seven things about me that you never wanted to know

I read alot of blogs. Big blogs, small blogs, humorous and informative. With all this reading, I've run into a fair amount of lists. And since it's been a very (*ahem) long time since I've written anything, I thought I would try one of these new-fangled listy things all the kids are raving about.

So here are seven (unless I run out of things that are interesting or someone flashes a shiny object in front of me)things about me that you probably didn't need to know. If you're not a fan of useless information, you should just go ahead and clickity-click on that little red "X" up there in the corner. Go ahead. I won't cry. Much.

1) I have cartoon feet. The patron saint of Hanna-Barbara bestowed upon me the feet of Fred Flinstone. The are wide, squarish appendages with round, stubby toes. (You totally want to make out with me right now, right?) Plus, I can stop a car. Probably.


2) I like to touch things. Now before you call the cops, it might not be what you think. I am a very tactile person and certain textures just make my brain happy. Let's just say that I'm far better being at the Children's Museum, instead of the Art Museum. Also? Certain fabrics can give me the hhhhuuuuzzzzzz. You know that spine-shaking, creep-fest that crawls up and down your skin? That's the hhhuuuuzzzzz. Trees, flowers, kitties, marble, linen, and the softest leather? Love. Them. Hard.


3) Food. I love it, but on the other hand I may be the most non-picky person about food EVER. Animal, vegetable, mineral, blue, green, chunky, pasty? Whatev. Gimme. Just throw some groceries down my throat and let's move on.


4) Due to the nature of my job, I have acccess to some of the most exotic and eclectic alcoholic beverages in the U.S. I have a full stocked bar at home that would make the local tavern jealous. Lagers, and porters, and bocks and beers. Imported, domestic, micro-brew and craft vineyard. But. But. I drink the same bourbon every single time. I don't know if this a habit or laziness or loyalty. I choose not to think about it too much.


5) If my bra doesn't match my panties, I'm uncomfortable all day. Also, I cannot bear cheap underthings. They make me squeamish.


6) If there is less than 3/4 of a bottle of laundry detergent on the house, my teeth hurt. From the clenching. With worry. I might run out. I feel much better knowing that if there is a zombie invasion or a plague of pestilence that would keep me from leaving my house, I will have aleast 1.75 bottles of detergent at my disposal.


7) I would rather have someone beat me with a large pissed off squirrel than do dishes. So it's a good thing that I have teenagers in the house to do my bidding. And load the dishwasher. When I was a kid, my parents had a dishwasher but we weren't allowed to use. My dad made is known to one and all that that "contraption" wasted water that he PAID FOR. So I did dishes every night. It was good training for me because I know have the stamina to tolerate the whining from the teenagers when they have to put dishes in and push the button. O, the agony.


So, there are seven things about me that you really didn't want to know. You may now consider yourself my very good friend. The kind that bakes me cakes and tells me I'm pretty as they brush my hair.

I'm a Supahstar!!!!!

Holy crapballs, Interwebbies! I'm famous. Or at least famouser than I was yesterday. Or possibly the day before that. Because I forgot to check the mail. Because the bourbon got in the way. Or something. I can't remember.

Anyhooters, see this?













That, my dear friendlies, is a postcard from someone I've never met. In person. So it's kinda like fan mail. But not really.

It's actually a postcard from the lovely Jam. She has started a postcard project and because I am magnificant the type to pester someone until they cave to my will, I received mine in the mail today. (Or yesterday. Please to see above foolish statement.)

Here's a pic of the postage to back up my next claim.











Yup, you guess it. I've reached international acclaim. Check the postage. It says CANADA! Suck on that! Her royal mapletasticness has sent me this personal message of joy and goodwill from across the lands.

Alas, I did not receive the Beaver postcard, but I'm guessing that she is at least 87% sure that I have a beaver of my own. And won't be needing hers. Not that her beaver isn't lovely. Probably.

So thank you, Your Royal Jamness for the beaverless card and the kind words written upon it. And as soon as I find a card fantastic enough to return to you, I shall do so, posthaste. If you send your addy to my email. I promise not to stalk you. Much.

And to all of you who are not Jam. Neener. And Neener.


Oops! I is a dipshit. Here's her link. Go read and experience the funny.

Part Nerd, Part Awesome

The last two weeks have been full of flash backs to my high school days. No, I haven't run upon a stash of mushrooms left from the eighties, it's just that my daughter has been knee-deep in band camp for the last fourteen days.

Ahhh, band camp. It's all sweaty teens full of hormones and angst. Now don't get me wrong. It's hard work. It's been ass-hot in Indiana this summer (and everywhere else, apparently) and stomping around on a school parking lot while carrying a heavy metal object is not for the faint of heart. In fact, most people would say it sucks. But sitting in the parking lot waiting for the kid...well can I just say that I was grinning like a fool just remembering what it was like for me.
But here's the thing. Now that the eldest is also in band camp, it STILL seems completely cool to me. Granted it's her third year for this, but I'm still not over the fact that just watching her play makes me giddy.

Yes, I was that girl. The band geek. And I have probably uttered the words " This one time... at band camp...". I played flute in the marching band and everything! I know! Total cliche' and I loved every minute of it. (I'm still a big noob, right?)


I spent a couple of years marching around playing whatever music the director was sure would win us some trophies (it's all about the bling) and trying to blend in with the others. Then suddenly, blending in wasn't enough. That's right. I tried out and became a majorette. MAJORETTE, folks. That's pretty heady stuff, right there. I'm talking pom-poms and batons and the whole nine yards. Not to mention the boots. Damn, I loved those boots. Still do.

Behold the awesome that is eighties hair and band uniforms.


That's me on the left. I'm probably sober.










But here's the thing...it hasn't changed. Looking at the pictures I've taken of the kid lately, I'm reminded of the pictures of myself as a marching kid. Mind is blown.

Me:















Her:















My band director:

















Her band director:













And although as a MAJORETTE, I performed at basketball games during half-time in cute outfits such as this:













...the kiddo totes has me beat. She is the DRUM MAJOR. And way deserves capitol letters more than her momma ever did.

For Her. And Him. And Her.

Three deaths. In two weeks. All under the age of fifty. All people I know.

I'm taking stock today of my life and the lives of those around me. Now I could make snarky comments about burning both ends of candles and lifestyles of bacon grease and Budweiser, but now is not the time. Now is the time to assess my own life and the mistakes I make. And to make decisions regarding how I wish to live and not live my life.

I am not going to get into final wishes and living wills on this blog. I won't discuss hows, wheres or what colors of funeral choices. I don't want to talk about my death. I want to talk about my life.

I believe that I have laughed more than I have cried and for that I am truly grateful. Tears have been shed, some joyous, some sorrowful. But each tear I have shed has come from a certain knowledge or memory that cannot be discounted.

I have held family and friends in my heart. They have brought me comfort and taught me gratitude that may not have come my way otherwise.

I have seen beauty and innocence and amazing sights with my eyes and felt these things go straight to my heart.

I have touched the softest baby's cheek and the weathered bark of trees from another century. I've been burned by fire and frozen by snow and reveled in the changes around me.

I've heard whispered words of love and angry words meant to hurt. I've learned to look beyond the words to find the meaning and the intent, and to deflect that which is not useful.

What does this all mean? It means that my life is good. Better than I realized. Too good to be taken for granted. It's time for this chickie to straighten up and fly right. Because there's still meaning and purpose that I haven't yet discovered. There's still more of me to find. And I need to be here for that to happen.