Random Ranty Winter Musings

So I did a beautiful, artistic triple toe loop on the ice yesterday, and stuck the landing. Right on my knee. The only really bad thing about living in the South? No, not tornadoes. Those you can hide from.

It's the fact that it gets cold, but it hardly ever snows. All we get is wet little pellets that can charitably be called sneet. And our poor little truck fleet...er, fleet-lette, I guess you could call it, pours sand and salt. Which melts it just enough to let you drive on it, which melts it a little bit more, which freezes solid overnight.

Or we just cut out the middleman and get ice rained down on us. Having worked in retail for lo these many years, I've never understood people's reactions to weather. In short form, the Oklahoma guide:

A heat wave with temps over 100? Shop til you drop and make sure you close up your car. After letting it bake for a few hours, be surprised when your shorts-and-tank clad self comes into contact with the leather seats.

A small, warm, gentle rain? Do not go out under any circumstances.

Thunderstorms? Go about your daily activities.

Tornado watch? See thunderstorms.

Tornado warning? Grab your camcorder and stand in the street to get footage. Your neighbors will be out there, too, so find a good vantage point. Important: sell your footage, don't just upload it to the local station's website.

A blizzard that is more ice than snow? Wait for two hours, until the officials declare a state of emergency. Then decide you have a fatal case of cabin fever and head immediately for the mall. Ignore the mall employees who will glare at you because they want to go home before dark. When the cabin fever has passed and you go home, forget that you live in a predominately warm weather state, and curse all the people on the road who don't know how to drive in ice.

So the sleet started shortly after I got to work yesterday morning, and my boss told me to finish up only the important stuff- the billing, because, you know, we like money- and go home as soon as possible.

Have I told you how much I love that man?

Some Things I Know For A Fact

I know that:

I never ever want to see this stuff again

Salma Hayek has the most impressive rack in the known universe

With parents like this the poor kid never had a chance

I'm glad and munchy that these are here

but I'm downright giddy that these are coming

This looks like the cinematic equivalent of rubbing broken glass in both eyes

Joaquin Phoenix will eat your soul

the world is a much, much sadder place today.

Happy Whatever

And I truly mean that. This should be a season for celebrating, no matter what the faith or reason. This should be a time for sharing all that is good about our particular celebration, and even commiserating over the stresses. I read once of Christians who lived in the same community as their Jewish neighbors, and on the Sabbath the Christians would bring food to their friends because the Jews did no work on that day. That's the kind of world I want to live in.

I've heard news reports that say shopping is way down this year, which I guess is bad for the retailers. I can't help but think maybe it's a good thing for our souls, though. Not having the underside of the tree crammed with presents lets you focus a little more on the important stuff.

Charitable giving, though, has only dipped slightly. And the bell ringers have had diamond rings, watches, and extremely valuable old coins dropped in their kettles. Maybe we're not as bad as everyone says we are.

So whether it's Kwanzaa or Chanukah or Solstice or just enjoying the baked goodies around the fire- I mean, we need a few extra pounds to keep us warm over the coming winter- enjoy your family and your friends. I'll be offline till New Year's, so now I wish all of you a most blessed, Merry Christmas.

Angels Are Spiteful And Dangerous

Or at least they are if you believe the emails I get. You know the ones; there's a picture of the most annoyingly cute little chubby-cheeked cherub you've ever seen, tiny fluffy wings a-flutter, sprinkling hearts and rainbows on grinning kittens and puppies waiting below.

These adorable seraphim are accompanied by an anecdote about a woman having a dream about God talking to her about footprints, or a man failing to take time out of his busy life for an old homeless woman who prayed for him and then finding out she died the next day.

Then the emails treat me to a long poem that gushes. Over me. And y'all, I am loved, I am special, and people think of me CONSTANTLY.

And since that kind of friendship is so special, how nice would it be if I forwarded that email to ten friends? If I do, the angels will bring me a blessing within 72 hours. It really, really, works! But if I don't, well...I wouldn't want to do that. I mean, I forward meaningless jokes, so why wouldn't I forward this? Something BAD might happen.

Why have these angels decided to hold me hostage? These cute, benevolent little beings are showing their teeth. Do they get a kickback from each email that's forwarded? Are their positions on the harp choir taken by other angels who are successful at threatening their recipients? Does God throw them out of heaven entirely if they don't make the quota?

If you're an angel's fondest wish and you always forward these things, fine. Just don't forward them to me, okay? I don't want to be responsible for heavenly wing pruning.

You Want Me To Do WHAT?!?

I don't blame him.

Have a great weekend, and finish your Christmas shopping!

I'm Such A Weenie

So for the past couple of weeks I've been assaulting you with my mouse problems. I've been all MOUSE ON MY COUNTER and I CAN'T KILL IT and GREEN MOUSE POOP EEEWWWW and feeling smug about winning over Mother Nature. Lemony-fresh victory is mine!

Until I was cleaning out some old computer files and found these from some people my Aunt knows in a little bitty town in OK called Watonga:

This woman's kids were playing on the floor in the kitchen last winter. She came in and noticed THIS THING staring at the children.

I should just count my blessings and put up with the mice.

Happy Birthday, Missie!

My bestest friend, Missie, is another year older! Of course, since I'm so much nicer than she is, I won't tell you older than what. I wanted to bake a cake for the occasion, though money is tight. Hmmm...



Okay, I guess bargain shelf Thanksgiving pumpkin cakes with questionable stems are a little crass. Maybe this...



Well, the dead circus clowns on a moldy hill didn't quite have the festive atmosphere I wanted. Let me keep looking...



Naked babies riding carrots! That's the ticket! No? Oh, well. I can always fall back on the old standard that never fails to please-



Old Beefcake.

Happy day, my friend. Enjoy!

(cake images from CakeWrecks)

Hope You're Not Eating Leftovers

News on the Southern Front-

The war is over.

He came limping out right before we left for Thanksgiving, circled a tiny spot in the carpet with a dazed expression, coughed a few tiny convulsive coughs before collapsing and closed his beady little eyes.

God love him, he went for the Oscar.

I felt triumphant and horrible at the same time. I certainly didn't want his poop in my counters and his disease-spreading self on my countertops, but...he was little. And fuzzy. And cute. Was a warm place to sleep and a bit of food to much to give, you heartless beyotch? Of course, this was awaiting us when we got home:

My husband found it in the bathroom. We were spared the death scene, at least.

Me: Eww!

Gary: Here's the broom. Lemme sweep it up.

Me: Wait! I have to get a picture of this for the blog.

Gary: Eww.

Me: There was another one. Gross.

Gary: Of course there was. If you see one, there's always more hiding.

Me: Don't tell me that! I could have still pretended I didn't know!

Gary: (shaking his head) I'm throwing this out.

Now I'm just hoping the family members will think it was natural causes.

The War Rages On

Don't let the cuteness fool you. I opened my cabinet- my previously CLEAN cabinet, and found them. Little presents to remind me of my mortal enemy.

Not just mouse droppings. GREEN mouse droppings. Which means one of two things:

He's gotten irradiated by the microwave and will soon be as big, and as demanding, as my dog;

Or he's eaten the Green Pellets of Death and they've passed harmlessly through his tiny, cursed intestinal tract.

Either way, cleaning bright green mouse poop was so not how I wanted to spend my day.

The Most Foul-Tempered Rodent You Ever Laid Eyes On

And he lives in my kitchen. There's nothing quite like hearing that little scurry across the foil on the brownie pan on the counter, the knocking behind the oven. This mouse is a portly klutz; a rodent Chris Farley.

Today I was washing dishes and I turn around and there he is, sitting there looking at me like, "Wow. What is that and why is it in my kitchen?" I'm not normally frightened by things but a small squeal escaped me, which in my present health sent me into a coughing fit. All I could do was splash dishwater at it. It sauntered- not ran, not scurried, not flew- but slowly meandered back behind the oven, probably because the soggy little blighter knew I was incapacitated and couldn't hurt him.

I've set out glue traps, which I find the next morning with footprints that mock me. We finally broke out the Green Pellets of Death, which have not as yet shown any effect. I think he's hooked on them and is waiting for his next fix. I have visions of becoming the mouse world equivalent of a back alley, with this rodent instructing his little junkies, "Just make some noise in the walls, and leave some poop under the sink. She'll put out the stuff."

I thought about getting a cat, but with my luck he'd just want a cut of the pellet profits.

Forget Ricola, I Want An Android Body

You know, when I was a kid being sick was almost fun. You got to stay home from school. You got to laze around in your jammies in the middle of the day, and sometimes Mom would wheel in the small TV we kept in the den and you could watch cartoons. Decadence! You got all the 'easy' foods you wanted, including the push-pops you just had to have because they helped your poor aching throat. Yeah, that was why. And you got 7-UP in the special glass with the bendy straw.

Except for the, you know, feeling bad thing, the only difficulty was choking down Triaminic. That stuff was brewed in Satan's own barrel. I refused to give it to my kids, preferring the tang of Robitussin.

Face it. It was vacation with maid service and tissues.

But now? I still get sick. Still get coughs and watery eyes and headaches and sore throats and snot. Can I lounge and suck on push-pops and drink 7-UP? In between caring for the other people in the house who have the same crap and spending as much time as I can working because for some reason I like money, sure.

I'm just feeling sorry for myself. The one day I finally could sleep on the couch and have the remote to myself, no marathons! My hubby gets the NCIS marathon, my daughter gets the America's Next Top Model marathon, my son even got the Cosby Show marathon. Me? NO MARATHONS. That has to be one of the signs of the apocolypse, right there. Cable always has a marathon. They'll show Grasses Of The World Growing In Real Time for 18 hours, but I can't even find more than two episodes of Law and Order? Yeesh.

It doesn't help that I look like recycled hell. I bark like a seal, and when I'm in the store people back away from me like they want to cry, "Unclean! Unclean!" I've used so much soap and sanitizer, my hands look like they've been in an industrial accident. And I find at my age, in spite of all those lovely Kegel exercises, coughing has an unfortunate side effect. I'm just waiting for the day I completely lose my pride and actually buy Depends instead of using panty liners.

Next time there's a good marathon, I'm calling in sick whether I am or not. And I'm breaking out the bendy straw, too.

Does Anyone Have A Ricola?

Right now I'm making that sound. You know the one. The one old men make in the barbershop after they proclaim that Rocky Marciano vas the greatest fighter in de vorld! UUUrrrrrhhhAAAACK.

So I'm taking a day or two to shower with those little vapor tablets that let you bask in the menthol-scented steam, huddle under a blanket with my hot tea with honey and lemon, and ignore my dogs. And watch Iron Man and The Hulk. And Get Smart. If you haven't seen it, you need to.

And I'm also taking a certain amount of unholy pleasure in the fact that Barack Obama will not be able to go take a leak by himself for four years. See ya!

In Which I Refuse To Talk About Elections And Instead Gush Over Weird But Hot Guys

I'm probably the only woman in the world who doesn't think Brad Pitt is all that. He looks better post-Troy, and he's aging well, but he's just too...pretty.

Oddly enough, my boat tends to get floated by guys like this:

Christopher Eccleston. He's known for being the Doctor Who in Leather, but I loved him in Elizabeth. Nothing he has should work, but it does.

I don't really watch Doctor Who that much anymore, I swear! But I adore David Tennant. With a serene, serious face, he's an absolute matinee idol movie star. But when he smiles his chin draws up, his eyes bug out, and his eyebrows attach to his hairline. So cute I could eat him with a spoon.

Nice guys do finish first. At least, this one does with me. Special Agent McGee from NCIS (Sean Murray) is so normal and so nice and so geeky he shouldn't be this yummy. But he's also smart, loyal, and honorable. A hero in my book.

But my plugs really get sparked by competence. Jean Reno was great in Ronin and The Professional, but I got all swoony over his super secret service soldier in Godzilla. He just flat got the job done, you know? He could save me from a mutated iguana ANYTIME.

What about you? Any non-traditionally gifted guys you'd want on your romance cover?

Truly...

...the scariest picture I could find.



Happy Halloween!

Say It With Me

Here's to a much better weekend!

Things I Sometimes Wonder

If someone knocked a vampire's teeth out, how would he eat?

If I'm 44 and very, very sure I don't want any more kids, why is there no switch to throw to jump-start menopause?

When a car pulled up next to me blasting loud enough to be heard in the next county, I couldn't help but notice the lyrics. It was someone screaming the alphabet. Yes, the literal alphabet. A-A-A-a-a-a, B-B-B-b-b-b, C-C-C-c-c-c, it throbbed. Does this mean we're in store for a new kids' educational show called Sesame Hood?

Would Cookie Monster push chocolate chips in front of Hooper's Store?

Will Christmas toy shelves be full of Pimp Me Elmo?

Why do I always buy two bags of candy "just in case" when I haven't had a trick-or-treater for 3 years?

Never mind, I know the answer to that one. Go about your business.

What Do Horses Think?

"HOLY MOTHER OF GOD. Somebody pinch me. Scratch that, somebody slap me. Get me out of this nightmare! She's dressed me in bright pink. And silver. And- are those garters she's put on my hooves? Lady, not even Barbie rides horses in heels. She has tiny boots like any sane pers- oh, no. Please no. She's not going to try to ride me, is she? Even sidesaddle, in that skirt she'll wind up sticking to the saddle. Look, one of you humane people out there- do a poor beast a favor. Just shoot me."

Don’t Try To Breathe My Rare Special Air

I got this letter the other day, from an earnest young woman named Katie. She said, “…we have just taken a closer look at your profile. It turns out you’re more special than any of us imagined!” I could have told her that.

She went on to plead with me to keep this all a secret, but you’re my special friends. I’m sure it will be all right. “There has existed for many years an exclusive association, a secret society, of some of the world’s most famous and powerful people. These include renowned actors and musicians, leading scientists and intellectuals, self-made entrepreneurs and artists, even some of the rare genuine astrologers and psychics.” Of course. Because those people HATE attention from the press.

This association has uncovered shockingly powerful secrets; that lead to prosperity, love, happiness, and total peace of mind. Secrets which they share only amongst themselves, and- what do you know? They analyzed my profile! Katie tells me that my hidden talents must be phenomenal for the members to select me!

I have been chosen to receive their book, Greatest Kept Secrets, absolutely free. How wonderful of them. And what happened for Katie can happen for me- she won when she gambled; she knew what other people were thinking; she started an incredibly successful business; she gained a photographic memory; and eliminated all addictions and bad habits.

Now, everyone wants to be her friend. She is the center of attention. But the best part? She is wanted by all men, including her husband. She, of course, has eyes only for him. She can play the piano and paint with no training, too! She can predict the future AND heal people. Goodness, but she must be busy. And I can certainly see why you’d want to keep healing disease to yourself.

When analyzing my profile, they discovered something else- I’m about to enter Cycle Two. That’s why the association is contacting me now. It’s all very exciting, but I’m afraid I shall have to pass. Why did they use the mail when they could have just contacted me telepathically? Sad waste of funds, that. Sorry, but I have standards, people.

Get Off My Back!

You have no power over me, evil Coke fairy!

Just a quick note to celebrate that I have been clean and sober, NO COCA COLA, for 2 weeks.

And my family deserves whatever their hearts desire for living with an angry, snarling, sugar-deprived demon.

Now if I could just do the same with brownies...

Happy Friday!

I've started a new job, and so have been rather busy this week. I'll leave you with this: