Bunkie Needs a Ladybug!
Waaay back last January, I was motivated by the forces of God, and the fact that most of my functioning neurons were broken, to offer my services as the director for this year's Christmas children's pageant at our church.
In my humble opinion, and I believe most moms will agree, being "the director" simply means you will entice other unsuspecting female humanoids to assist you, and so you really don't have to shoulder much responsibility, other than to make sure the helpers do in fact help, on the actual day you need them. I love Christmas pageants, Easter pageants, and well, really, since I'm known in my household as "The Empress," I just love pageantry altogether. I mean, let's face it, who doesn't look good in a tiara, as sparkly cardboard stars sway overhead?
Now I don't often wax sentimental, but this year I have set myself up for a huge emotional dam-burst. We're doing a reprise of a program I assisted with 20 years ago. Children of the original actors are in this year's production, including my own son. Our pastor is retiring and we can barely bring ourselves to think about it, let alone dedicate this performance to him and his legacy of children's ministry. The tears will be flowing and the kleenex will disintegrate by the thousands.
With so much at stake, and after listening to Christmas songs in August, after weeks of rehearsal, hours of scrubbing angel costume paint from under my fingernails, time on the phone coercing volunteers, and four bazillion questions from the mothers who don't read the letters I sent home, by the time dress rehearsal rolled around, I needed 3 things: tequila, 47 Hershey bars, and someone to plop down from Heaven and take over for me, because the fragile eco-system known as my Christmas pageant was crumbling faster than a shortbread cookie.
Motherhood has taught me some semblance of patience, which means I can almost count to 4 in that whole "count to 10" thing. You get the picture, I am a firecracker waiting to go off. In the middle of a really ghastly rehearsal, I realized in horror that it was my ultimate responsibility to get this hulking monster that was masquerading as a Christmas pageant off the ground. Yet this ship of fools was tethered by a four-ton anchor and there were no lifeboats in sight...
God does work in mysterious ways. As I was about to completely lose my cool, and inform the little angels that not only were they off-key, they were all a bunch of no-good, lazy....
Well, anyway, I glanced over and saw a 2-year old child smiling at me with her entire body. She gave me a little wave, I was dumbstruck, and instead of screaming at innocent children, I simply let it go and moved on to the next song.
After rehearsal, I was collecting the huge piles of "stuff" that we director-types have to lug around like pack mules, and this same small child approached me. She reached into a cloth basket she carried over her arm, just like Little Red Riding Hood. She pinched some air tightly between her finger and thumb, and offered it to me with a whisper.
"Here," she said in a very small voice, "you need a ladybug." I accepted this invisible insect, pretended to inspect it with awe and wonder, and my heart melted. Then, in the spirit of true Southern hospitality, which means you may never accept a gift without offering something in return, I pretended to snatch an invisible wayward ladybug out of the air, and placed it in the child's basket.
"Oh, thank you," she whispered, and scampered off to find her mother.
Today is performance day. The work of five months will present itself on stage in a matter of 45 minutes, and no matter what happens, there will be proud parents, confident children, and the true spirit of Christmas abounding in our hearts. But when this performance is over, as others talk about how cute the mishaps were, or how well their child sang his or her solo, I will remember the gift that was given to me by a precious 2-year old child, in the same spirit that God sends His love to us, if we will only be still and pay attention, and receive it.
Enjoy the season, spread love around, and pay attention to children. They are truly God's miracles here on earth.
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
Ode to Autumn....
Good grief, have I been remiss in my Official Capacity as Big Girl Blogger Par Excellence! The hangover from my 45th birthday lasted well into September, and wasn't helped by a huge dose of back-to-school anxiety with my first-grader. Now baseball's just about over, Fall fell, and WHAM! it's time to carve that pumpkin.
Well, gentle reader, if you're hangin' with me after all my weeks of blogger negligence, POOF, you have my permission to eat an entire bag of Hershey caramel kisses right now.
Don't you love Autumn? I mean, it's a veritable Big Girl Food Fest. All the beautiful apples...apple cider, candied apples, caramel apples, apple pie, pumpkin pie, pumpkin bread, chewy little pumpkin candies, candy corn...and let's not forget the many varieties of our favorite chocolate candies which are made in miniature under the auspices of being "just the right size" for all those trick-or-treaters....give me a break, they're really made bite-size so all us Chocoholics can indulge at our desks all day long, then trek off to the local ER in the midst of our diabetic coma!
But there's something about Autumn that is, as an old friend of mine used to say, "happy-sad." The crisp, cool air is electric with anticipation of costumes, toilet paper streamers in trees, and tummyaches from too much chocolate. We get excited with preparations for Thanksgiving and Christmas, but in the back of our minds, we mourn the loss of summer, the loss of sandals, and cold beer and the smell of chlorine, the long sunny days. Our tan lines fade, our skin gets progressively itchy, our favorite football team misses the playoffs, and there you go, it's winter and we are extremely cranky.
By now you know me, Bunkie Big Girl, and how I measure the success of anything...by food. And Autumn does rate very high on the Big Girl Food Meter...just thinking about holiday treats and feasts sends me into something very close to shock. So personally, during Autumn, when I contemplate the beauty of the brilliant leaves that fall to the earth, I can easily shake my doldrums by picturing how Tom Turkey will look on my table in about a month.
Here's a Bunkie Big Girl Autumn Challenge: for once, let's observe this season without any references whatsoever to food. See if you can do it...take a walk around the yard, and notice the leaves on the trees...don't the orange ones remind you of candy corn? OOPS. Ok, let's have a gander at those corn stalks in the farmer's field, an age-old harbinger of harvest...mmmm, corn pudding...oh, sorry, I guess it's impossible for me to separate Fall from Food.
Well, here's to Autumn, falling leaves, and to spending the next few months indoors catching up on bad TV. And when you dash off to the store for new batteries for that remote control, make sure you grab some candy corn. You'll thank me for it.
Ok,
Good grief, have I been remiss in my Official Capacity as Big Girl Blogger Par Excellence! The hangover from my 45th birthday lasted well into September, and wasn't helped by a huge dose of back-to-school anxiety with my first-grader. Now baseball's just about over, Fall fell, and WHAM! it's time to carve that pumpkin.
Well, gentle reader, if you're hangin' with me after all my weeks of blogger negligence, POOF, you have my permission to eat an entire bag of Hershey caramel kisses right now.
Don't you love Autumn? I mean, it's a veritable Big Girl Food Fest. All the beautiful apples...apple cider, candied apples, caramel apples, apple pie, pumpkin pie, pumpkin bread, chewy little pumpkin candies, candy corn...and let's not forget the many varieties of our favorite chocolate candies which are made in miniature under the auspices of being "just the right size" for all those trick-or-treaters....give me a break, they're really made bite-size so all us Chocoholics can indulge at our desks all day long, then trek off to the local ER in the midst of our diabetic coma!
But there's something about Autumn that is, as an old friend of mine used to say, "happy-sad." The crisp, cool air is electric with anticipation of costumes, toilet paper streamers in trees, and tummyaches from too much chocolate. We get excited with preparations for Thanksgiving and Christmas, but in the back of our minds, we mourn the loss of summer, the loss of sandals, and cold beer and the smell of chlorine, the long sunny days. Our tan lines fade, our skin gets progressively itchy, our favorite football team misses the playoffs, and there you go, it's winter and we are extremely cranky.
By now you know me, Bunkie Big Girl, and how I measure the success of anything...by food. And Autumn does rate very high on the Big Girl Food Meter...just thinking about holiday treats and feasts sends me into something very close to shock. So personally, during Autumn, when I contemplate the beauty of the brilliant leaves that fall to the earth, I can easily shake my doldrums by picturing how Tom Turkey will look on my table in about a month.
Here's a Bunkie Big Girl Autumn Challenge: for once, let's observe this season without any references whatsoever to food. See if you can do it...take a walk around the yard, and notice the leaves on the trees...don't the orange ones remind you of candy corn? OOPS. Ok, let's have a gander at those corn stalks in the farmer's field, an age-old harbinger of harvest...mmmm, corn pudding...oh, sorry, I guess it's impossible for me to separate Fall from Food.
Well, here's to Autumn, falling leaves, and to spending the next few months indoors catching up on bad TV. And when you dash off to the store for new batteries for that remote control, make sure you grab some candy corn. You'll thank me for it.
Ok,
Tuesday, August 31, 2004
Hidden Treasures of the Middle Ages Revealed...aka Bunkie Turns 45
So, yeah, it's been a hectic summer. Oh, get over it, I've been too busy to blog. What's it to ya? Which thrift store did that shirt come from, by the way? Love your shoes, I never realized how lime green sets off horribly cracked heels so well, uh huh. Why in the h*ll is the air conditioner set to 8,000 degrees? Open the freezer door, for God's sake, before I melt! Good grief, are you in training for that pioneer show on PBS, or what? You're kidding, you're out of Coke? Do I look like I want diet? It's my birthday and there's no Coke in this house? That's it, we're going to the store right now. At least there's air conditioning in my car. Get your environmentally-friendly hands off that thermostat! Don't touch that air vent, it took me 3 weeks to adjust it to blow directly on my neck. Oh shut up, you're always cold. Can you believe this music? Well, I don't know why I just said that, they only play commercials. How in the h*ll can you hear the music for all the durn cell phone ads!
HEY! That better not be my Hershey bar in your mouth, sistah! Missed my turn? I did not! I've only driven on this road a bazillion times, I've only lived in this town for twenty years, I think I know where I'm going, okay? I am not going too fast, we're just coasting down a big hill. Oh, *&%#$, there's a cop.
Hello, officer...good grief, did you just graduate from the Academy, or what? Shaving yet, are we? Yes, as a matter of fact, I do know what the speed limit is, and I know that I was nowhere close to it, so just put that little ticket book away right now before I call your mother...she's in my book club. What do you mean, that's your grandmother? Give me a break. Stop calling me "ma'am," I'm not that much older than you.
No, I will not step out of the car! Excuse me? Look, I realize that photo makes me look like Ma Barker, but I really don't see that that's any of your business...you don't know who Ma Barker is? What, they don't teach that in the Academy anymore?
Expired? Lemme see that...oh, please. Today. It expires today. That means I technically have until midnight. Of course I renewed it. By mail, thankyouverymuch. But the masochistic bureaucracy that passes for a postal system in this country probably lost it. Why are you opening that...what are you...why are you writing...yes that's my correct address...oh, please do not tell me...you're gonna give me a ticket on my birthday? Do you realize I'm a taxpayer? Do you realize I pay your salary? That makes me your supervisor! I'm ordering you to stop writing that ticket!
Good grief, this car's out of freon! I'm lucky I didn't pass out from heat exhaustion, the way that stupid twirp made me stand there and answer stupid twirpy questions! And WHY you thought you had to intervene. I was HANDLING it all by myself. He understood me... I really got to him with that "I'm your supervisor" line, trust me, he was already putting that ticket pad away, but no, you had to stick your two cents in, didn't you? What, you think I'm too old to manage my affairs? Dowdy ol' grandma here can't make it in the real world?
I would give my left boob for some chocolate cake right now, wouldn't you?
So, yeah, it's been a hectic summer. Oh, get over it, I've been too busy to blog. What's it to ya? Which thrift store did that shirt come from, by the way? Love your shoes, I never realized how lime green sets off horribly cracked heels so well, uh huh. Why in the h*ll is the air conditioner set to 8,000 degrees? Open the freezer door, for God's sake, before I melt! Good grief, are you in training for that pioneer show on PBS, or what? You're kidding, you're out of Coke? Do I look like I want diet? It's my birthday and there's no Coke in this house? That's it, we're going to the store right now. At least there's air conditioning in my car. Get your environmentally-friendly hands off that thermostat! Don't touch that air vent, it took me 3 weeks to adjust it to blow directly on my neck. Oh shut up, you're always cold. Can you believe this music? Well, I don't know why I just said that, they only play commercials. How in the h*ll can you hear the music for all the durn cell phone ads!
HEY! That better not be my Hershey bar in your mouth, sistah! Missed my turn? I did not! I've only driven on this road a bazillion times, I've only lived in this town for twenty years, I think I know where I'm going, okay? I am not going too fast, we're just coasting down a big hill. Oh, *&%#$, there's a cop.
Hello, officer...good grief, did you just graduate from the Academy, or what? Shaving yet, are we? Yes, as a matter of fact, I do know what the speed limit is, and I know that I was nowhere close to it, so just put that little ticket book away right now before I call your mother...she's in my book club. What do you mean, that's your grandmother? Give me a break. Stop calling me "ma'am," I'm not that much older than you.
No, I will not step out of the car! Excuse me? Look, I realize that photo makes me look like Ma Barker, but I really don't see that that's any of your business...you don't know who Ma Barker is? What, they don't teach that in the Academy anymore?
Expired? Lemme see that...oh, please. Today. It expires today. That means I technically have until midnight. Of course I renewed it. By mail, thankyouverymuch. But the masochistic bureaucracy that passes for a postal system in this country probably lost it. Why are you opening that...what are you...why are you writing...yes that's my correct address...oh, please do not tell me...you're gonna give me a ticket on my birthday? Do you realize I'm a taxpayer? Do you realize I pay your salary? That makes me your supervisor! I'm ordering you to stop writing that ticket!
Good grief, this car's out of freon! I'm lucky I didn't pass out from heat exhaustion, the way that stupid twirp made me stand there and answer stupid twirpy questions! And WHY you thought you had to intervene. I was HANDLING it all by myself. He understood me... I really got to him with that "I'm your supervisor" line, trust me, he was already putting that ticket pad away, but no, you had to stick your two cents in, didn't you? What, you think I'm too old to manage my affairs? Dowdy ol' grandma here can't make it in the real world?
I would give my left boob for some chocolate cake right now, wouldn't you?
Monday, July 26, 2004
A Few Thoughts on Friends, Past Lives & Summer
Man, where has the summer gone? Lots of swimming and a little bit of sleeping late; a few barbecues mixed with a healthy dose of closet-cleaning; a couple of great trips with family and friends, and before ya know, it's nearly August, and in this neck of the woods, school starts.
Since I'm approaching 45 (oh please, I still think I'm 18, so hush), I admit I've been waxing pensive lately. That impending birthday, coupled with a great weekend spent with dear high school friends, plus a trip to my old Texas stomping grounds reinforces what I have discovered as one of the single most important truths in my life:
You can't get anywhere without your buds, and your buds are with you wherever you go.
Not talking Bud-weiser, or Bud-dy Holly, or any type of floral bud variety here; I'm talking straight up, in-your-face, know all your secrets buds who would walk through fire with you if you asked them to. Let's review:
I will talk to the wall, quite happily, for hours, so making acquaintances with virtually anyone on the planet is pretty easy for me. My friends, on the other hand, are folks that have shared "stuff" with me...good stuff, bad stuff, really awful stuff, distasteful embarrassing stuff...you get it. We have history. We are honest with each other. We stand together if pushed. We can't believe how we wore our hair back then...but don't you mention it!
I realized this summer that my true friends will always be my true friends. Out of the blue, after nearly 25 years of not seeing one of my best high school pals, inside ten minutes, we were making wisecracks and wiping tears out of our eyes at the silliness of it all. There's an irony in the fact that this friend now works for a tobacco company, yet when we were 17, we pretended to smoke cigarrettes in the back of my car just to irritate one of our girlfriends...how stupid were we to think she'd have a conniption fit at our decision to become "smokers" when it was so obvious none of us knew the first thing about smoking! 25 years later we were crying with laughter at what morons we were...and what morons we still delight to be now! This friend of mine is still blonde and beautiful and very poised, and possesses one of the most razor-sharp wits I have ever encountered. I hope it won't be another 25 years until I see her again. She's invited me to visit and I just may take her up on it.
Another close high school and college friend has gone through an unimaginably difficult period in her life, and has emerged with her sense of humor intact, she has a new love, and she is more graceful and beautiful now than she ever has been. This is a woman who has it all together, and don't get in her face because she will hog-tie you at dominoes and leave you for dead in roughly three seconds, at the very same time she's saying a prayer for you and drinking your hot coffee. I hope to see more of this friend in the near future, too, and wish her well with her new life and love. She deserves every ounce of happiness she can squeeze.
Shortly after visiting with these high school buds, I returned to said high school, the place where these two aforementioned friends and I, plus a host of other ill reputes masquerading as "brainy overachievers," tried to combat extreme boredom in the paradise otherwise known as Southeast Texas.
As I drove around the school grounds with my young son (and his Game Boy), it struck me that the school is simply an empty, ugly building, the same as it was 25 years ago. I felt a little hollow in my soul, something was missing; how do you describe the antics, the hard work, the way you felt about your hopes and dreams, when all you can see is a grey brick building with hideous blue trim?
The things I remember about my past, whether that past is high school, college, career, or my life as a wife and mother, aren't things at all. They're people. Friends. Folks who have stood beside me, made me laugh, prodded me to be my best, told me to shut up already!
On this same visit to Texas, I was fortunate to spend time with a gang of cut-ups who tromped across the path that is my life. One pal I've known since I was 12, and we gossip and talk and share like sisters, and we discovered that we both still have an enduring love affair with the beach, and that we're probably going to turn into Church Ladies just like our moms. But hey, they have Church Ladies at the Beach, we'll fit right in!
Several college friends made various and sundry trips from their respective Texas homes to visit with me during the course of my trip, if only for a few hours, so they could meet my son and tell him lots of stories that SHOULD NOT HAVE BEEN DIVULGED! But that is the beauty of friends. My son now knows that his mom has not always been the Wicked Rule Enforcer of the Galaxy as he once believed. And that is a very good thing.
And my coworkers, those colleagues at the utility company who stuck with me in less-than-stellar circumstances...there's no doubt our bond will never die...we may die laughing at all the horrible pranks we pulled on our boss or on our coworkers (the ones we didn't really like, for shame), but we're stuck together like glue.
This is supposed to be a blog where I rant and rave about being a Big Girl and about lots of chocolate eating. So why am I droning on and on about FRIENDS? Are we going to pull out the Precious Moments sculptures any second?
Well, ok, Miss Stay-in-the-Lines...I'm a Very Lucky Big Girl, and I have a busload of Chocolate-eating, kick-ass-and-take-name Friends. When I told them I wrote a book and was trying to get my meager little tome into bookstores, these gals ponied up, ordered multiple copies and told me what a great writer I am, when I know they're lying (but keep telling me, anyway).
When I go on book signings, these Friends of Mine show up, even though it's been years since we've seen each other. They laugh with me. They tell me funny stories. They make their relatives come and buy my books. They get up early and watch me at 5:45am on the local newscast, listening to me talk about my books (again). They want me to be successful, they tell me they're proud of me, and they are sincere.
So hang on to your friends. You'll know who they are. Pick up the phone, or the mouse, and get in touch with someone from your past. It will surprise you to learn that they've been right beside you all along.
Here's a Chocolate Sundae Toast to all my Friends, wherever you may be.
--Bunkie
Man, where has the summer gone? Lots of swimming and a little bit of sleeping late; a few barbecues mixed with a healthy dose of closet-cleaning; a couple of great trips with family and friends, and before ya know, it's nearly August, and in this neck of the woods, school starts.
Since I'm approaching 45 (oh please, I still think I'm 18, so hush), I admit I've been waxing pensive lately. That impending birthday, coupled with a great weekend spent with dear high school friends, plus a trip to my old Texas stomping grounds reinforces what I have discovered as one of the single most important truths in my life:
You can't get anywhere without your buds, and your buds are with you wherever you go.
Not talking Bud-weiser, or Bud-dy Holly, or any type of floral bud variety here; I'm talking straight up, in-your-face, know all your secrets buds who would walk through fire with you if you asked them to. Let's review:
I will talk to the wall, quite happily, for hours, so making acquaintances with virtually anyone on the planet is pretty easy for me. My friends, on the other hand, are folks that have shared "stuff" with me...good stuff, bad stuff, really awful stuff, distasteful embarrassing stuff...you get it. We have history. We are honest with each other. We stand together if pushed. We can't believe how we wore our hair back then...but don't you mention it!
I realized this summer that my true friends will always be my true friends. Out of the blue, after nearly 25 years of not seeing one of my best high school pals, inside ten minutes, we were making wisecracks and wiping tears out of our eyes at the silliness of it all. There's an irony in the fact that this friend now works for a tobacco company, yet when we were 17, we pretended to smoke cigarrettes in the back of my car just to irritate one of our girlfriends...how stupid were we to think she'd have a conniption fit at our decision to become "smokers" when it was so obvious none of us knew the first thing about smoking! 25 years later we were crying with laughter at what morons we were...and what morons we still delight to be now! This friend of mine is still blonde and beautiful and very poised, and possesses one of the most razor-sharp wits I have ever encountered. I hope it won't be another 25 years until I see her again. She's invited me to visit and I just may take her up on it.
Another close high school and college friend has gone through an unimaginably difficult period in her life, and has emerged with her sense of humor intact, she has a new love, and she is more graceful and beautiful now than she ever has been. This is a woman who has it all together, and don't get in her face because she will hog-tie you at dominoes and leave you for dead in roughly three seconds, at the very same time she's saying a prayer for you and drinking your hot coffee. I hope to see more of this friend in the near future, too, and wish her well with her new life and love. She deserves every ounce of happiness she can squeeze.
Shortly after visiting with these high school buds, I returned to said high school, the place where these two aforementioned friends and I, plus a host of other ill reputes masquerading as "brainy overachievers," tried to combat extreme boredom in the paradise otherwise known as Southeast Texas.
As I drove around the school grounds with my young son (and his Game Boy), it struck me that the school is simply an empty, ugly building, the same as it was 25 years ago. I felt a little hollow in my soul, something was missing; how do you describe the antics, the hard work, the way you felt about your hopes and dreams, when all you can see is a grey brick building with hideous blue trim?
The things I remember about my past, whether that past is high school, college, career, or my life as a wife and mother, aren't things at all. They're people. Friends. Folks who have stood beside me, made me laugh, prodded me to be my best, told me to shut up already!
On this same visit to Texas, I was fortunate to spend time with a gang of cut-ups who tromped across the path that is my life. One pal I've known since I was 12, and we gossip and talk and share like sisters, and we discovered that we both still have an enduring love affair with the beach, and that we're probably going to turn into Church Ladies just like our moms. But hey, they have Church Ladies at the Beach, we'll fit right in!
Several college friends made various and sundry trips from their respective Texas homes to visit with me during the course of my trip, if only for a few hours, so they could meet my son and tell him lots of stories that SHOULD NOT HAVE BEEN DIVULGED! But that is the beauty of friends. My son now knows that his mom has not always been the Wicked Rule Enforcer of the Galaxy as he once believed. And that is a very good thing.
And my coworkers, those colleagues at the utility company who stuck with me in less-than-stellar circumstances...there's no doubt our bond will never die...we may die laughing at all the horrible pranks we pulled on our boss or on our coworkers (the ones we didn't really like, for shame), but we're stuck together like glue.
This is supposed to be a blog where I rant and rave about being a Big Girl and about lots of chocolate eating. So why am I droning on and on about FRIENDS? Are we going to pull out the Precious Moments sculptures any second?
Well, ok, Miss Stay-in-the-Lines...I'm a Very Lucky Big Girl, and I have a busload of Chocolate-eating, kick-ass-and-take-name Friends. When I told them I wrote a book and was trying to get my meager little tome into bookstores, these gals ponied up, ordered multiple copies and told me what a great writer I am, when I know they're lying (but keep telling me, anyway).
When I go on book signings, these Friends of Mine show up, even though it's been years since we've seen each other. They laugh with me. They tell me funny stories. They make their relatives come and buy my books. They get up early and watch me at 5:45am on the local newscast, listening to me talk about my books (again). They want me to be successful, they tell me they're proud of me, and they are sincere.
So hang on to your friends. You'll know who they are. Pick up the phone, or the mouse, and get in touch with someone from your past. It will surprise you to learn that they've been right beside you all along.
Here's a Chocolate Sundae Toast to all my Friends, wherever you may be.
--Bunkie
Thursday, July 08, 2004
Bunkie On Vacation
Ok, sorry it's been a while since we've chatted. I've had extremely important things to do, like drink beer, eat chocolate, and vacate.
I just spent a very entertaining and heartwarming weekend with dear friends, and they are expecting me to write something about it. But it's still formulating in my brain, and I don't wish to let them down, when they are expecting something along the lines of Thomas Wolfe or Charles Dickens.
So...I'm off to Texas for more book tour stuff, and when I return, I'm sure my drivel will be much more enlightened, as I consider the time I spent with those dear friends after visiting the places where we endured high school and all its glories.
Stay tuned, patience is a virtue. One I don't personally practice, but I'm the owner of this blog, so I can do what I like.
Oh, and I hear Asheville is very nice this time of year, if the road's not washed out...
Ok, sorry it's been a while since we've chatted. I've had extremely important things to do, like drink beer, eat chocolate, and vacate.
I just spent a very entertaining and heartwarming weekend with dear friends, and they are expecting me to write something about it. But it's still formulating in my brain, and I don't wish to let them down, when they are expecting something along the lines of Thomas Wolfe or Charles Dickens.
So...I'm off to Texas for more book tour stuff, and when I return, I'm sure my drivel will be much more enlightened, as I consider the time I spent with those dear friends after visiting the places where we endured high school and all its glories.
Stay tuned, patience is a virtue. One I don't personally practice, but I'm the owner of this blog, so I can do what I like.
Oh, and I hear Asheville is very nice this time of year, if the road's not washed out...
Thursday, May 27, 2004
Vacation R Me
Yippee, skippee, it's Vacation Time, that wonderful time of the year when I pack my sunscreen, 3 twelve packs of Heineken (yes, I'm a beer snob, get over it) 1 swimsuit and an entire suitcase of magazines, books and newspapers, and head off in search of sand.
Oh, wait...that's what I used to do, B.C. Before Children. Now it takes me 3 days to pack, make a grocery list, put new batteries in everyone's respective electronic music and game devices, and then I get to drive 9 hours listening to "when will we get there, Mom?". Yeah, that's more like it.
This used to be my B.C. vacation routine: Get up at noon. Drink a beer, Breakfast of Champions. Dump baby oil on my body. Head to the beach. Come in when a) I'm out of beer or b) when it's dark. Shower, stumble to a seafood restaurant, make a pig out of myself eating shrimp and Key Lime Pie, then drink margaritas until I passed out.
Oh, for those glorious days of yore. Now it's Wake-Up Call at 6am (If I'm lucky). Then a combination variety show of cereal eating and sunscreen application to wriggly children and marital units. Packing the Stuff to Take to The Beach requires at least 2 hours, and by the time I'm ready to head out, the kids and marital unit are asleep in front of the TV.
We finally make it to the beach, and everyone whines that they'd rather be in the pool. So we go the pool for exactly 45 minutes, then somebody's hungry, and it's time to go back and repeat the paragraph above, except there's baloney involved instead of cereal.
Don't get me wrong, I love my family. But vacations as a Mom are really only a Change of Scenery, aren't they? There's little relaxation. There's not a lot of reading going on. There might be a beer or two in there if you can work it out in advance and ask your child to swim, say, 500 laps in the pool right before dinner.
So...here I go, off to the beach. A week of...being a Mom, at the beach. Would I trade it for a week by myself at a 4-star resort? I can lie, and say yes, but no, no way. Besides, what would I have to complain about then?
See ya in ten days!
Yippee, skippee, it's Vacation Time, that wonderful time of the year when I pack my sunscreen, 3 twelve packs of Heineken (yes, I'm a beer snob, get over it) 1 swimsuit and an entire suitcase of magazines, books and newspapers, and head off in search of sand.
Oh, wait...that's what I used to do, B.C. Before Children. Now it takes me 3 days to pack, make a grocery list, put new batteries in everyone's respective electronic music and game devices, and then I get to drive 9 hours listening to "when will we get there, Mom?". Yeah, that's more like it.
This used to be my B.C. vacation routine: Get up at noon. Drink a beer, Breakfast of Champions. Dump baby oil on my body. Head to the beach. Come in when a) I'm out of beer or b) when it's dark. Shower, stumble to a seafood restaurant, make a pig out of myself eating shrimp and Key Lime Pie, then drink margaritas until I passed out.
Oh, for those glorious days of yore. Now it's Wake-Up Call at 6am (If I'm lucky). Then a combination variety show of cereal eating and sunscreen application to wriggly children and marital units. Packing the Stuff to Take to The Beach requires at least 2 hours, and by the time I'm ready to head out, the kids and marital unit are asleep in front of the TV.
We finally make it to the beach, and everyone whines that they'd rather be in the pool. So we go the pool for exactly 45 minutes, then somebody's hungry, and it's time to go back and repeat the paragraph above, except there's baloney involved instead of cereal.
Don't get me wrong, I love my family. But vacations as a Mom are really only a Change of Scenery, aren't they? There's little relaxation. There's not a lot of reading going on. There might be a beer or two in there if you can work it out in advance and ask your child to swim, say, 500 laps in the pool right before dinner.
So...here I go, off to the beach. A week of...being a Mom, at the beach. Would I trade it for a week by myself at a 4-star resort? I can lie, and say yes, but no, no way. Besides, what would I have to complain about then?
See ya in ten days!
Tuesday, May 25, 2004
Flea Markets: Not for the Faint of Heart
It's Tuesday, and I'm still recovering from my weekend Flea Market Experience. I'm not really sure why my friend and I decided we could become overnight entrepreneurs at the Flea Market, but I know that I lost 5 years of my life this weekend, just by being there.
Picture this: acres and acres of dirt-floored stalls that in August are used as livestock pens at the State Fair. Red dust so thick that when you sneeze it blows out your eyeballs. It is abnormally HOT, around 90 degrees, and there is virtually no breeze blowing where our little booth is. The only saving grace is that we have one of those "Personal Fans" that you fill with ice water and spritz on yourself with said ice water and air from the fan. It helps for ten seconds, then the Personal Fan Red Dust Residue dries on your face. It is so hot we can't have chocolate in our booth, because it would melt. The absence of chocolate is a big sticking point for my friend and me.
The absence of customers is also a problem. There are no customers at our little booth, and a vendor who has made "between 2 and 6 thousand dollars" at every Flea Market for the last 10 years swore it was the worst one he'd ever seen. Of course it was, because we were there! If we'd been selling those Personal Fans, we could have made a fortune.
And what a tragedy, because our booth is so nice...a beautiful sign adorns the chain-link fence at the back of our dirt-floored space. No rickety fairgrounds tables for us...we have a new table, with a cover, and all our assorted merchandise is tastefully displayed on that table, in an eye-pleasing manner sure to separate discriminating fools from their hard-earned cash. The fact that by the end of the run, all our merchandise was covered in red dust made the whole experience that much more special.
There's an entire Flea Market sub culture, and I am now certain I don't belong to it. For starters, I have way too many teeth. My clothing doesn't reveal enough of my body parts. I don't sport any tatoos or body piercings, and I don't chew gum, tobacco or have a cigarette hanging out of one corner of my mouth. I'm not saying that every vendor at the Flea Market has these characteristics, but the ones who don't are definitely in the minority.
The Flea Market used to be a place where you could find antiques, collectibles, really neat unusual trinkets. Thanks to eBay, the Flea Market is now Liquidator Heaven. You need socks? There are no less than 50 sock vendors. Need sunglasses, or cell phone accessories, or "spa-quality" suntan oil? You'll find rows and rows of vendors selling those very items by the truckload.
There was a nice but overly agressive couple selling Pain Relief Lotion. Without warning, the woman would approach you and rub Pain Relief Lotion on parts of your person that had absolutely no history of pain. It was already 8,000 degrees, and the "massaging warmth" of the Pain Relief Lotion pumped up my personal temperature to nearly boiling. I had to get ugly with the Pain Relief Lotion lady. And I breathed so many Pain Relief Lotion vapors, I'm still smelling and tasting camphor.
My friend and I sold enough merchandise to pay for our Karmel Korn, our lunch on both days, and the hideously large Coke we purchased at DQ on the way home, in an effort to rehydrate our bodies and snap back to our senses. To say we lost money on our Flea Market venture is to say that Elvis' pelvis moved on occasion.
By Saturday afternoon, the conversation quickly turned from "I'm sure more people will be here tomorrow" to "How fast can we load the car and how many trips will it take?"
The answer is 4. In 4 trips and less than 30 minutes, our beautiful, unappreciated booth was history. Our neighbor vendors looked at us with longing...the woman with the sunglasses and suntan oil said it would take her 4 hours to break down. The Pain Relief Lotion couple said, "You'll be sorry for leaving early, tomorrow will be busy!"
We smiled, waved, and gave them our best down-trodden look, yet inside we were ecstatic about leaving Flea Market Hell. We endured one momentary scare when the gate guard refused to let us drive out of the Dealer Parking Lot. Not sure if it was the heat, or the lack of chocolate, or the Pain Relief Lotion, but I just lied. I said sweetly, "Well, sir, we've sold all our stuff!"
I don't think he believed me, but he opened that gate, and we drove out of there in a hurry. I wonder what it takes to open an eBay account?
It's Tuesday, and I'm still recovering from my weekend Flea Market Experience. I'm not really sure why my friend and I decided we could become overnight entrepreneurs at the Flea Market, but I know that I lost 5 years of my life this weekend, just by being there.
Picture this: acres and acres of dirt-floored stalls that in August are used as livestock pens at the State Fair. Red dust so thick that when you sneeze it blows out your eyeballs. It is abnormally HOT, around 90 degrees, and there is virtually no breeze blowing where our little booth is. The only saving grace is that we have one of those "Personal Fans" that you fill with ice water and spritz on yourself with said ice water and air from the fan. It helps for ten seconds, then the Personal Fan Red Dust Residue dries on your face. It is so hot we can't have chocolate in our booth, because it would melt. The absence of chocolate is a big sticking point for my friend and me.
The absence of customers is also a problem. There are no customers at our little booth, and a vendor who has made "between 2 and 6 thousand dollars" at every Flea Market for the last 10 years swore it was the worst one he'd ever seen. Of course it was, because we were there! If we'd been selling those Personal Fans, we could have made a fortune.
And what a tragedy, because our booth is so nice...a beautiful sign adorns the chain-link fence at the back of our dirt-floored space. No rickety fairgrounds tables for us...we have a new table, with a cover, and all our assorted merchandise is tastefully displayed on that table, in an eye-pleasing manner sure to separate discriminating fools from their hard-earned cash. The fact that by the end of the run, all our merchandise was covered in red dust made the whole experience that much more special.
There's an entire Flea Market sub culture, and I am now certain I don't belong to it. For starters, I have way too many teeth. My clothing doesn't reveal enough of my body parts. I don't sport any tatoos or body piercings, and I don't chew gum, tobacco or have a cigarette hanging out of one corner of my mouth. I'm not saying that every vendor at the Flea Market has these characteristics, but the ones who don't are definitely in the minority.
The Flea Market used to be a place where you could find antiques, collectibles, really neat unusual trinkets. Thanks to eBay, the Flea Market is now Liquidator Heaven. You need socks? There are no less than 50 sock vendors. Need sunglasses, or cell phone accessories, or "spa-quality" suntan oil? You'll find rows and rows of vendors selling those very items by the truckload.
There was a nice but overly agressive couple selling Pain Relief Lotion. Without warning, the woman would approach you and rub Pain Relief Lotion on parts of your person that had absolutely no history of pain. It was already 8,000 degrees, and the "massaging warmth" of the Pain Relief Lotion pumped up my personal temperature to nearly boiling. I had to get ugly with the Pain Relief Lotion lady. And I breathed so many Pain Relief Lotion vapors, I'm still smelling and tasting camphor.
My friend and I sold enough merchandise to pay for our Karmel Korn, our lunch on both days, and the hideously large Coke we purchased at DQ on the way home, in an effort to rehydrate our bodies and snap back to our senses. To say we lost money on our Flea Market venture is to say that Elvis' pelvis moved on occasion.
By Saturday afternoon, the conversation quickly turned from "I'm sure more people will be here tomorrow" to "How fast can we load the car and how many trips will it take?"
The answer is 4. In 4 trips and less than 30 minutes, our beautiful, unappreciated booth was history. Our neighbor vendors looked at us with longing...the woman with the sunglasses and suntan oil said it would take her 4 hours to break down. The Pain Relief Lotion couple said, "You'll be sorry for leaving early, tomorrow will be busy!"
We smiled, waved, and gave them our best down-trodden look, yet inside we were ecstatic about leaving Flea Market Hell. We endured one momentary scare when the gate guard refused to let us drive out of the Dealer Parking Lot. Not sure if it was the heat, or the lack of chocolate, or the Pain Relief Lotion, but I just lied. I said sweetly, "Well, sir, we've sold all our stuff!"
I don't think he believed me, but he opened that gate, and we drove out of there in a hurry. I wonder what it takes to open an eBay account?
Thursday, May 20, 2004
An Ode to Strep Throat
Blogfans, I must apologize for my absence of late. But I swear, I have a good excuse. Anybody out there in blogland ever have strep throat? As a child, it's no picnic, but lemme tell ya, as an adult, it's DEATH ON A BISCUIT, except you can't possibly swallow the biscuit, because you know you will die.
After a very enjoyable evening on Friday where I received an award for one of my Blogs (thankyouverymuch), I noticed on the drive home that my throat was a little sore and I didn't feel so good, but hey, when you're over 40, you never feel good. By Saturday afternoon, I was a walking fire bomb...fever of 104 that didn't break until Tuesday; aches, chills, and a lump on my neck I swear the size of a baseball (I measured, convinced I was unique to the world of medicine). It was unthinkable to swallow. Have you ever tried not to swallow for 48 hours? You will know the hell in which I lived. I resorted to periodically going into the bathroom and spitting into the sink, thankyouforsharing, in lieu of enduring Pure Swallowing Agony. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't eat...what else is there in life?
Every 6 hours, it was time for more Advil...to keep the fever down. I guess it works, because my fever didn't exactly go down, but it didn't exactly shoot up to 108 either. Sucking down Advil with strep throat is one of the most painful experiences you can have, next to childbirth (done that) and kidney stones (haven't done that, but it sounds good and it's the usual comparison).
On Monday morning, I couldn't talk (my husband rejoiced, I saw him on his knees) and so I showed up unannounced at my doctor's office...I'm sure they were thrilled. An unkempt, unbathed woman with stick-up hair arrives in their reception area, moaning and handing out little post-it notes indicating she has a 104 fever, strep throat, and can't talk. You've never seen folks move so fast. And my doctor has never stood so far away from me while looking inside my throat, either.
But I love my doctor. He felt my pain. He prescribed for that pain, too. One antibiotic and one great painkiller later, I was happily in my bed, sweating out that fever, still unable to swallow, but so knocked out from the Lortab I didn't care. Sleep was mine.
Tuesday and Wednesday I made slow but steady improvements; worked up to eating chicken noodle soup with 100 saltines mashed in the liquid, my personal favorite Thing to Eat When You're Sick. Milkshakes were pretty good too, but they made me cough, not a good thing. And those Lortabs. I managed to get them down. Thank you, God, for Coca Cola.
So here I sit today, nearly cured of all this 104 fever and goiter-sized infection and soup eating. And what, you ask, are the highs and lows? The low is definitely the fact that there was no chocolate to be had for 5 days, with the exception of ice cream. That's probably a Bunkie Lynn unfortunate record. But the high?
Clearly the 5 pound weight loss I sustained. AW RIGHT!
Blogfans, I must apologize for my absence of late. But I swear, I have a good excuse. Anybody out there in blogland ever have strep throat? As a child, it's no picnic, but lemme tell ya, as an adult, it's DEATH ON A BISCUIT, except you can't possibly swallow the biscuit, because you know you will die.
After a very enjoyable evening on Friday where I received an award for one of my Blogs (thankyouverymuch), I noticed on the drive home that my throat was a little sore and I didn't feel so good, but hey, when you're over 40, you never feel good. By Saturday afternoon, I was a walking fire bomb...fever of 104 that didn't break until Tuesday; aches, chills, and a lump on my neck I swear the size of a baseball (I measured, convinced I was unique to the world of medicine). It was unthinkable to swallow. Have you ever tried not to swallow for 48 hours? You will know the hell in which I lived. I resorted to periodically going into the bathroom and spitting into the sink, thankyouforsharing, in lieu of enduring Pure Swallowing Agony. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't eat...what else is there in life?
Every 6 hours, it was time for more Advil...to keep the fever down. I guess it works, because my fever didn't exactly go down, but it didn't exactly shoot up to 108 either. Sucking down Advil with strep throat is one of the most painful experiences you can have, next to childbirth (done that) and kidney stones (haven't done that, but it sounds good and it's the usual comparison).
On Monday morning, I couldn't talk (my husband rejoiced, I saw him on his knees) and so I showed up unannounced at my doctor's office...I'm sure they were thrilled. An unkempt, unbathed woman with stick-up hair arrives in their reception area, moaning and handing out little post-it notes indicating she has a 104 fever, strep throat, and can't talk. You've never seen folks move so fast. And my doctor has never stood so far away from me while looking inside my throat, either.
But I love my doctor. He felt my pain. He prescribed for that pain, too. One antibiotic and one great painkiller later, I was happily in my bed, sweating out that fever, still unable to swallow, but so knocked out from the Lortab I didn't care. Sleep was mine.
Tuesday and Wednesday I made slow but steady improvements; worked up to eating chicken noodle soup with 100 saltines mashed in the liquid, my personal favorite Thing to Eat When You're Sick. Milkshakes were pretty good too, but they made me cough, not a good thing. And those Lortabs. I managed to get them down. Thank you, God, for Coca Cola.
So here I sit today, nearly cured of all this 104 fever and goiter-sized infection and soup eating. And what, you ask, are the highs and lows? The low is definitely the fact that there was no chocolate to be had for 5 days, with the exception of ice cream. That's probably a Bunkie Lynn unfortunate record. But the high?
Clearly the 5 pound weight loss I sustained. AW RIGHT!
Monday, May 10, 2004
Mother's Day Guilt and Shameful Behavior Syndrome: A disease of epidemic proportion
I'm here today to discuss the Mother's Day Guilt & Shameful Behavior Syndrome, which is a serious illness that strikes virtually every woman with children at some point in her life. Is this a serious condition? The answer, most definitely in my case, is yes. Let's just review:
Friday Night: My hubby and son leave the house for six hours under the ruse of "running errands." Now I know for a fact that there are no errands to run, because I've personally finished them all. This is merely Encrypted Male Code Talk for "we've got to run out and do your Mother's Day/birthday/Christmas shopping, fast." On any given day, give me six unencumbered hours of free time, and I can pack fun in there tighter than the jeans on Britney Spears booty; but not today.
At the exact moment that my boys left the driveway, the Mother's Day Guilt symptoms began. You know the feeling...all week, as you iron and watch your soap opera and/or Oprah, you've seen those sappy Mother's Day commercials, where the picture-perfect moms in TV wasteland break into huge smiles as they receive little diamond necklaces shaped like hearts, handmade cards, little diamond earrings shaped like hearts, chocolates(duh), little diamond tennis bracelets with a heart attached, Hallmark greetings, and more diamonds in the shape of hearts.
On Monday before Mother's Day, you watch these commercials, and comment to no one but the dog, "HA! Give me a break! There's not a diamond heart out there BIG ENOUGH for what I do! The Hope Diamond isn't even CLOSE. I wash their clothes and I cook their meals and I make SACRIFICES! And you bring me a cheesy little diamond heart? Besides, I'm not your mother! I don't need a present from you!"
On Wednesday, you notice the actual prices of the various and sundry diamond pieces displayed by the Happy TV Moms, and you think, "Oh, please. That is highway robbery! Who are they kidding, at that price, the diamonds are so tiny, I'd need microscope lens implants in my eyeballs! Wait...now that's a cute little heart bracelet...and it's only $99. That's a pretty good deal..."
By Friday, you are camped in front of the television with a box of Kleenex, weeping at the virtual non-stop parade of Mother's Day ads. You reminisce about that AT&T commercial a few years back, where the son finally calls his mother to say he loves her, and you shed big alligator tears, because you know someday soon you will desperately wish your son would call you from college. And this makes you think about the absolute perfection of your own mom, and what a terrible example of motherhood you really are, and you weep uncontrollably. How could you ever think you deserved diamonds? What if your son never calls you from college?
You phone your husband, who immediately panics at the sound of your tear-stained voice, and you blubber, "Oh, I'm so hateful! All I want for Mother's Day, I'm serious here, are you paying attention? Listen to me, all I want is a nice plant for the front porch and maybe to eat at Wendy's or something, ok? I mean it! Please don't spend much money on me, I don't deserve it."
So it's Friday night now, and as your Men Who Shop depart, your stomach is in knots, and you pace the floor for the next six hours. What if they get me a huge diamond? I can't bear to think of having to return such an expensive gift, how embarrassing. I am a terrible person. Oh, dear, I only hope they'll just get me a nice fern for the front porch like I asked. Maybe a movie pass or two. Or a Starbuck's card. That would be nice. But please, no diamonds!
Sunday arrives. It's Mother's Day. You are calm. Have no expectations and you will never be disappointed is your mantra. It is time to open your gifts. Your son hands you a beautiful blue handprint he has made at school with an incredibly sappy poem. Your eyes tear, but you are strong and you hug that child so tight he can't breathe. Your husband hands you a stack of cards. They are funny, they are sappy, they are wonderful. Then you are given another small envelope.
You smile graciously. Hmmm...it's not a jewelry box. You open the envelope and find 3 movie passes, and a certificate for a fern from the local nursery. WOW! Just what I wanted! Hugs all around. Your husband kisses you and says, "Well, let's go! Wendy's is waiting!"
It is at this precise moment your guilt pangs disappear and The Mommy Sacrifice Chip erupts from your right shoulder. You are now fully ensconced in the Shameful Behavior part of the Syndrome. Wendy's? Are they kidding me? After everything I've done, they are taking me to Wendy's?
The Mommy Sacrifice Chip grows larger as you hear from your girlfriends the next day. "Bob gave me the most beautiful diamond necklace shaped like a little heart!" Or "My sons gave me a day at the spa, isn't that great?"
The Mommy Sacrifice Chip continues to grow, despite the inner shame I feel as I silently acknowledge my selfish behavior. I make a Mother's Day Resolution. Next year, I decide, I will have a plan. Jewelry ads will be taped to my husband's bathroom mirror if necessary. There will be a meal eaten in a moderate-to-expensive restaurant, if I have to drive myself. There will be GRATITUDE because I have SACRIFICED.
Then I glimpse my son's handprint poem, and I weep uncontrollably. I already have the most perfect gift in the world. I make a mental note to buy him prepaid phone cards when he leaves for college.
I'm here today to discuss the Mother's Day Guilt & Shameful Behavior Syndrome, which is a serious illness that strikes virtually every woman with children at some point in her life. Is this a serious condition? The answer, most definitely in my case, is yes. Let's just review:
Friday Night: My hubby and son leave the house for six hours under the ruse of "running errands." Now I know for a fact that there are no errands to run, because I've personally finished them all. This is merely Encrypted Male Code Talk for "we've got to run out and do your Mother's Day/birthday/Christmas shopping, fast." On any given day, give me six unencumbered hours of free time, and I can pack fun in there tighter than the jeans on Britney Spears booty; but not today.
At the exact moment that my boys left the driveway, the Mother's Day Guilt symptoms began. You know the feeling...all week, as you iron and watch your soap opera and/or Oprah, you've seen those sappy Mother's Day commercials, where the picture-perfect moms in TV wasteland break into huge smiles as they receive little diamond necklaces shaped like hearts, handmade cards, little diamond earrings shaped like hearts, chocolates(duh), little diamond tennis bracelets with a heart attached, Hallmark greetings, and more diamonds in the shape of hearts.
On Monday before Mother's Day, you watch these commercials, and comment to no one but the dog, "HA! Give me a break! There's not a diamond heart out there BIG ENOUGH for what I do! The Hope Diamond isn't even CLOSE. I wash their clothes and I cook their meals and I make SACRIFICES! And you bring me a cheesy little diamond heart? Besides, I'm not your mother! I don't need a present from you!"
On Wednesday, you notice the actual prices of the various and sundry diamond pieces displayed by the Happy TV Moms, and you think, "Oh, please. That is highway robbery! Who are they kidding, at that price, the diamonds are so tiny, I'd need microscope lens implants in my eyeballs! Wait...now that's a cute little heart bracelet...and it's only $99. That's a pretty good deal..."
By Friday, you are camped in front of the television with a box of Kleenex, weeping at the virtual non-stop parade of Mother's Day ads. You reminisce about that AT&T commercial a few years back, where the son finally calls his mother to say he loves her, and you shed big alligator tears, because you know someday soon you will desperately wish your son would call you from college. And this makes you think about the absolute perfection of your own mom, and what a terrible example of motherhood you really are, and you weep uncontrollably. How could you ever think you deserved diamonds? What if your son never calls you from college?
You phone your husband, who immediately panics at the sound of your tear-stained voice, and you blubber, "Oh, I'm so hateful! All I want for Mother's Day, I'm serious here, are you paying attention? Listen to me, all I want is a nice plant for the front porch and maybe to eat at Wendy's or something, ok? I mean it! Please don't spend much money on me, I don't deserve it."
So it's Friday night now, and as your Men Who Shop depart, your stomach is in knots, and you pace the floor for the next six hours. What if they get me a huge diamond? I can't bear to think of having to return such an expensive gift, how embarrassing. I am a terrible person. Oh, dear, I only hope they'll just get me a nice fern for the front porch like I asked. Maybe a movie pass or two. Or a Starbuck's card. That would be nice. But please, no diamonds!
Sunday arrives. It's Mother's Day. You are calm. Have no expectations and you will never be disappointed is your mantra. It is time to open your gifts. Your son hands you a beautiful blue handprint he has made at school with an incredibly sappy poem. Your eyes tear, but you are strong and you hug that child so tight he can't breathe. Your husband hands you a stack of cards. They are funny, they are sappy, they are wonderful. Then you are given another small envelope.
You smile graciously. Hmmm...it's not a jewelry box. You open the envelope and find 3 movie passes, and a certificate for a fern from the local nursery. WOW! Just what I wanted! Hugs all around. Your husband kisses you and says, "Well, let's go! Wendy's is waiting!"
It is at this precise moment your guilt pangs disappear and The Mommy Sacrifice Chip erupts from your right shoulder. You are now fully ensconced in the Shameful Behavior part of the Syndrome. Wendy's? Are they kidding me? After everything I've done, they are taking me to Wendy's?
The Mommy Sacrifice Chip grows larger as you hear from your girlfriends the next day. "Bob gave me the most beautiful diamond necklace shaped like a little heart!" Or "My sons gave me a day at the spa, isn't that great?"
The Mommy Sacrifice Chip continues to grow, despite the inner shame I feel as I silently acknowledge my selfish behavior. I make a Mother's Day Resolution. Next year, I decide, I will have a plan. Jewelry ads will be taped to my husband's bathroom mirror if necessary. There will be a meal eaten in a moderate-to-expensive restaurant, if I have to drive myself. There will be GRATITUDE because I have SACRIFICED.
Then I glimpse my son's handprint poem, and I weep uncontrollably. I already have the most perfect gift in the world. I make a mental note to buy him prepaid phone cards when he leaves for college.
Tuesday, May 04, 2004
My Handyman, Toilet Ghost Exorcist
There are 2 adults in my household, and 1 small child. Both adults are college educated; the child, a kindergartener, asks questions most college freshman couldn't comprehend, so it's a matter of time before we will be forced to hire the great physicist Stephen Hawking to help with homework.
Despite our advanced degrees, my husband and I are physically unable to perform basic home repairs. We own, among other interesting items, one of those cool red, rolling tool chests. There are even a few tools inside, but mostly it's full of old newspapers, dog brushes, and bungee cords. We have lots of bungee cords, don't ask me why.
My husband's favorite tool is in that red tool chest...a large rubber mallet. His idea of home repair is to whack the broken item repeatedly with the rubber mallet until it a) begins to work again, afraid of the Awesome Power of the Rubber Mallet, or b) cracks into a bazillion pieces. Consequently, I don't ask my husband to do many household fix-it jobs.
We also own an air compressor that, with the right attachment (see previous mention of red rolling tool chest), could blow our house completely off its foundation. We once used said air compressor to inflate our child's bike tires...trust me on this, rubber will not come off the ceiling, once it's impregnated at 3000psi.
Despite our prowess with rubber mallets and the air compressor, for the past 6 months, there has only been 1 functional toilet out of the 4 found in our home. As the holidays stretched into winter, as winter warmed into spring, our toilets began to flush by themselves for no apparent reason, or refuse to flush unless you physically applied the equivalent of 600 pounds of pressure to the little silver handle (the flusher?). One by one, they were down for the count, and we simply turned off the water valve at the base, and added the victim to The Handy Man List.
The Handy Man List is attached to one of our kitchen cabinet doors. Every time something breaks around the house, we list the broken item on The Handy Man List. There's really no rhyme or reason to our methodology, particularly as to when we actually schedule the Handy Man. Sometimes it's a function of the number of items on the list. Sometimes it's based on how expensive we perceive the repair to be. Mostly it's a function of "Mom's getting really pissed off about this broken _____" and so the Handy Man is summoned, quickly.
I cannot begin to describe to you the sheer joy I feel today as I may take my pick from 4, count 'em 4, working toilets in our home. No lines, no waiting, it is total toilet bliss. Four replacement Flush Master kits later, there's no more endless running of water into the tank, no more handle jiggling, and the Toilet Ghosts are trapped back in their ethereal Toilet Hell, where they belong.
While he was here, our Handy Man also re-bolted a couple of dangling towel rods, repaired three drawers that had been broken for well over a year, and removed the equivalent of a 20lb bag of mulch from one of our gutters. We love our Handy Man. He makes all the broken stuff go away, our house is again all nice and new and operational. But we have noticed that everything our Handy Man does costs $400. Ok, maybe there have been a couple of things that were $389. But $400 seems to be the average round number for services rendered.
Personally I'm not complaining. $400 to exorcise 4 Toilet Ghosts is a deal. And on that note, it's well past time for some chocolate. Think I'll go eat a Hershey bar in the bathroom, just because I can!
There are 2 adults in my household, and 1 small child. Both adults are college educated; the child, a kindergartener, asks questions most college freshman couldn't comprehend, so it's a matter of time before we will be forced to hire the great physicist Stephen Hawking to help with homework.
Despite our advanced degrees, my husband and I are physically unable to perform basic home repairs. We own, among other interesting items, one of those cool red, rolling tool chests. There are even a few tools inside, but mostly it's full of old newspapers, dog brushes, and bungee cords. We have lots of bungee cords, don't ask me why.
My husband's favorite tool is in that red tool chest...a large rubber mallet. His idea of home repair is to whack the broken item repeatedly with the rubber mallet until it a) begins to work again, afraid of the Awesome Power of the Rubber Mallet, or b) cracks into a bazillion pieces. Consequently, I don't ask my husband to do many household fix-it jobs.
We also own an air compressor that, with the right attachment (see previous mention of red rolling tool chest), could blow our house completely off its foundation. We once used said air compressor to inflate our child's bike tires...trust me on this, rubber will not come off the ceiling, once it's impregnated at 3000psi.
Despite our prowess with rubber mallets and the air compressor, for the past 6 months, there has only been 1 functional toilet out of the 4 found in our home. As the holidays stretched into winter, as winter warmed into spring, our toilets began to flush by themselves for no apparent reason, or refuse to flush unless you physically applied the equivalent of 600 pounds of pressure to the little silver handle (the flusher?). One by one, they were down for the count, and we simply turned off the water valve at the base, and added the victim to The Handy Man List.
The Handy Man List is attached to one of our kitchen cabinet doors. Every time something breaks around the house, we list the broken item on The Handy Man List. There's really no rhyme or reason to our methodology, particularly as to when we actually schedule the Handy Man. Sometimes it's a function of the number of items on the list. Sometimes it's based on how expensive we perceive the repair to be. Mostly it's a function of "Mom's getting really pissed off about this broken _____" and so the Handy Man is summoned, quickly.
I cannot begin to describe to you the sheer joy I feel today as I may take my pick from 4, count 'em 4, working toilets in our home. No lines, no waiting, it is total toilet bliss. Four replacement Flush Master kits later, there's no more endless running of water into the tank, no more handle jiggling, and the Toilet Ghosts are trapped back in their ethereal Toilet Hell, where they belong.
While he was here, our Handy Man also re-bolted a couple of dangling towel rods, repaired three drawers that had been broken for well over a year, and removed the equivalent of a 20lb bag of mulch from one of our gutters. We love our Handy Man. He makes all the broken stuff go away, our house is again all nice and new and operational. But we have noticed that everything our Handy Man does costs $400. Ok, maybe there have been a couple of things that were $389. But $400 seems to be the average round number for services rendered.
Personally I'm not complaining. $400 to exorcise 4 Toilet Ghosts is a deal. And on that note, it's well past time for some chocolate. Think I'll go eat a Hershey bar in the bathroom, just because I can!
Wednesday, April 28, 2004
WHAT PART OF 31 FLAVORS DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND?
Tonight I had the pleasure of helping my friend Teresa, who owns a Baskin-Robbins ice cream franchise. It was "Free Scoop Night" and I was a "celebrity scooper." Pass up an opportunity to be that close to so much ice cream? Not on your life.
I had a great time, and those BR workers earned every penny, we were jammed for 4 hours. It amazes me how long people will stand in line to get a $1.50 worth of ice cream for free. Folks danced outside in the cool spring evening to music so loud I thought I was back in college at a frat smoker. Kids held tight to balloons; the ones who let go wailed, but were rescued by a teenager who painted their faces with sparkly art. Lots of nice people donated money to buy new books for our local library.
My book, The Big Girls' Guide to Life, was a door prize...very appropriate, since we were at an ice cream store. One winner was a tiny elderly man, a man so thin I think he might have weighed 92 pounds...that's if we had soaked him in water and filled his shoes with concrete, bless his heart. Give that man as many Free Scoops as he can eat, and a side order of cheeseburgers!
But if I'm gonna stand in a line that stretches from say, here to eternity, when I finally reach that counter, and when a cheerful Baskin-Robbins employee finally asks what I'd like FOR FREE, it ain't gonna be Vanilla. But as I scooped ice cream, I was amazed at the number of folks who did just that...here's the chance to get ANY FLAVOR for FREE, and they asked for Vanilla. In a cup. Not in a sugar cone, not in a cake cone, in a cup. Plain. Not even French Vanilla. Just plain, old Vanilla.
It was almost physically impossible for me to grant their requests, these Vanilla-lovers. I tried to sell them on Chocolate Mousse. Begged them to taste Peanut Butter & Chocolate. Almost made headway with the Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough, because it's mostly Vanilla and appearances are deceptive. But man, these Vanilla people, they are headstrong. They can't be persuaded or coerced. Don't mess with their Vanilla, or there will be hell to pay.
I momentarily considered whether I've lived my life on the wrong side of the Chocolate-Or-Vanilla Highway, and that I should reassess the merits of Vanilla ice cream as a taste treat. Now any good scientist worth her weight in cholesterol knows that in order to test one's theory, one must perform a bit of research. When there's food involved, I'm always first up to the plate, so to speak.
So on my break, I scooped myself some Vanilla. I stared at that Vanilla, prepared to taste its full essence, appreciate it as a ground-breaker in Life's Flavor Myriad. But that Vanilla didn't speak to me. It just sat there, so plain, so uninviting. Maybe that's the simplicity of its appeal, I mused. Perhaps Vanilla isn't really boring, or dull, or lifeless. Perhaps Vanilla is the penultimate Nirvana.
One taste of that Vanilla whacked my theory to bits faster than a baseball bat on a wine glass. I tried a second bite, with no Great Sensation of Vanilla Completeness. All you Vanilla lovers, you do what you have to do. Me, I slapped a generous portion of Hot Fudge on that puppy, and let's just say that orgasmic doesn't even begin to describe how much better that Vanilla tasted. So here's my conclusion: God made Vanilla purely as a carrier for Hot Fudge. Anybody who doesn't add Hot Fudge to their Vanilla ice cream commits a mortal sin. The devil is in the details? Go, devil, go, pour on the Hot Fudge and burn, baby, burn!
Tonight I had the pleasure of helping my friend Teresa, who owns a Baskin-Robbins ice cream franchise. It was "Free Scoop Night" and I was a "celebrity scooper." Pass up an opportunity to be that close to so much ice cream? Not on your life.
I had a great time, and those BR workers earned every penny, we were jammed for 4 hours. It amazes me how long people will stand in line to get a $1.50 worth of ice cream for free. Folks danced outside in the cool spring evening to music so loud I thought I was back in college at a frat smoker. Kids held tight to balloons; the ones who let go wailed, but were rescued by a teenager who painted their faces with sparkly art. Lots of nice people donated money to buy new books for our local library.
My book, The Big Girls' Guide to Life, was a door prize...very appropriate, since we were at an ice cream store. One winner was a tiny elderly man, a man so thin I think he might have weighed 92 pounds...that's if we had soaked him in water and filled his shoes with concrete, bless his heart. Give that man as many Free Scoops as he can eat, and a side order of cheeseburgers!
But if I'm gonna stand in a line that stretches from say, here to eternity, when I finally reach that counter, and when a cheerful Baskin-Robbins employee finally asks what I'd like FOR FREE, it ain't gonna be Vanilla. But as I scooped ice cream, I was amazed at the number of folks who did just that...here's the chance to get ANY FLAVOR for FREE, and they asked for Vanilla. In a cup. Not in a sugar cone, not in a cake cone, in a cup. Plain. Not even French Vanilla. Just plain, old Vanilla.
It was almost physically impossible for me to grant their requests, these Vanilla-lovers. I tried to sell them on Chocolate Mousse. Begged them to taste Peanut Butter & Chocolate. Almost made headway with the Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough, because it's mostly Vanilla and appearances are deceptive. But man, these Vanilla people, they are headstrong. They can't be persuaded or coerced. Don't mess with their Vanilla, or there will be hell to pay.
I momentarily considered whether I've lived my life on the wrong side of the Chocolate-Or-Vanilla Highway, and that I should reassess the merits of Vanilla ice cream as a taste treat. Now any good scientist worth her weight in cholesterol knows that in order to test one's theory, one must perform a bit of research. When there's food involved, I'm always first up to the plate, so to speak.
So on my break, I scooped myself some Vanilla. I stared at that Vanilla, prepared to taste its full essence, appreciate it as a ground-breaker in Life's Flavor Myriad. But that Vanilla didn't speak to me. It just sat there, so plain, so uninviting. Maybe that's the simplicity of its appeal, I mused. Perhaps Vanilla isn't really boring, or dull, or lifeless. Perhaps Vanilla is the penultimate Nirvana.
One taste of that Vanilla whacked my theory to bits faster than a baseball bat on a wine glass. I tried a second bite, with no Great Sensation of Vanilla Completeness. All you Vanilla lovers, you do what you have to do. Me, I slapped a generous portion of Hot Fudge on that puppy, and let's just say that orgasmic doesn't even begin to describe how much better that Vanilla tasted. So here's my conclusion: God made Vanilla purely as a carrier for Hot Fudge. Anybody who doesn't add Hot Fudge to their Vanilla ice cream commits a mortal sin. The devil is in the details? Go, devil, go, pour on the Hot Fudge and burn, baby, burn!
Thursday, April 22, 2004
Bunkie Gets the Blahs
It is raining. It is humid. It is Thursday and I've been dragging my hind end around all day. Am I suffering from "iron-poor, tired blood" or did the adrenaline rush that was last week finally crash land and I'm the casualty?
I came home from 6 consecutive "writer gigs" on Sunday uttering the vow that I was going to take some time off, slow down a bit. That lasted for 24 hours. By Tuesday, I was back and running: responding to requests for my time, wondering if I can complete my next novel quickly enough to please my agent, RSVPing for dinners, conducting some much-needed girlfriend chats, and overscheduling my family.
Yesterday I heard an interesting comment on a talk radio show; I've become a talk radio addict, at least, when I'm in the car. There's this guy, a PhD out in University Land, who recently did a study on whether people who watch political commercials have subsequent emotional responses. His conclusion was not really a conclusion at all: certain individuals' brains reacted more strongly to some types of ads more than others. Wow, there's an interesting phenom. How much cash did they shell out to learn this amazing fact?
But the PhD went on to say that he was frustrated by this lack of "tangible results" in this study, so he conducted the experiment on himself. He snuck into the lab, fired up the MRI, and scanned his own brain. He wanted to pinpoint how his brain worked at the precise moment when he came up with a new idea, or when he was inspired to do something creative.
What this researcher learned surprised him, to say the least. First of all, it was difficult for him to "be creative" or "think great thoughts" with all those electrodes sticking out of his skull. So he forced himself to relax, breathe deeply, and then he fell asleep.
At the precise moment he fell asleep, his brain wave patterns resembled a seismography report from the San Francisco earthquake! He awoke several hours later, refreshed, and immediately was seized with an idea for a new approach to his research.
Why did I trek down this tangent? Because what our grandfathers told us is true: we need to take a walk. We need to take a nap. We need to SLOW DOWN. It is not normal for our brains and bodies to be on call 24/7, and just because we have a cell phone doesn't mean we have to take that call.
The difficulty is for me to take my own advice. It's raining, so I don't really want to take a walk. Now if you'll excuse me, it's time for my nap. Just as soon as I check my email....
It is raining. It is humid. It is Thursday and I've been dragging my hind end around all day. Am I suffering from "iron-poor, tired blood" or did the adrenaline rush that was last week finally crash land and I'm the casualty?
I came home from 6 consecutive "writer gigs" on Sunday uttering the vow that I was going to take some time off, slow down a bit. That lasted for 24 hours. By Tuesday, I was back and running: responding to requests for my time, wondering if I can complete my next novel quickly enough to please my agent, RSVPing for dinners, conducting some much-needed girlfriend chats, and overscheduling my family.
Yesterday I heard an interesting comment on a talk radio show; I've become a talk radio addict, at least, when I'm in the car. There's this guy, a PhD out in University Land, who recently did a study on whether people who watch political commercials have subsequent emotional responses. His conclusion was not really a conclusion at all: certain individuals' brains reacted more strongly to some types of ads more than others. Wow, there's an interesting phenom. How much cash did they shell out to learn this amazing fact?
But the PhD went on to say that he was frustrated by this lack of "tangible results" in this study, so he conducted the experiment on himself. He snuck into the lab, fired up the MRI, and scanned his own brain. He wanted to pinpoint how his brain worked at the precise moment when he came up with a new idea, or when he was inspired to do something creative.
What this researcher learned surprised him, to say the least. First of all, it was difficult for him to "be creative" or "think great thoughts" with all those electrodes sticking out of his skull. So he forced himself to relax, breathe deeply, and then he fell asleep.
At the precise moment he fell asleep, his brain wave patterns resembled a seismography report from the San Francisco earthquake! He awoke several hours later, refreshed, and immediately was seized with an idea for a new approach to his research.
Why did I trek down this tangent? Because what our grandfathers told us is true: we need to take a walk. We need to take a nap. We need to SLOW DOWN. It is not normal for our brains and bodies to be on call 24/7, and just because we have a cell phone doesn't mean we have to take that call.
The difficulty is for me to take my own advice. It's raining, so I don't really want to take a walk. Now if you'll excuse me, it's time for my nap. Just as soon as I check my email....
Wednesday, April 21, 2004
I Can't Compete with Dolly's Breasts & Shania's Bellybutton
Tonight I will be a television widow. My husband, a lifelong, avid country music fan, will be glued to the 51" set to watch his heroine, the formidable Dolly Parton, host the CMT Flameworthy Awards. I will become invisible; my only function is to put our son to bed, so my hubby won't miss a single second of Shania's bellybutton, Dolly's breasts, or Alan Jackson's white hat. Oh, and I might have to bring him a refill on his iced tea.
Now I have nothing against country music. Some of those songs are great, although these days what is described as "country" was in my day known as "Southern rock," but whatever, it's ok with me. The glaring problem for me regarding country music is that there's just no good song about chocolate. And the fact that it used to be that country music was sort of the "safe haven" for wives. Women didn't mind if their husbands really liked Tammy, or Loretta, or even Dolly, because although the Sequined Dress Quotient was pretty high, and the hair was even higher, for the most part, the body parts were well-covered and left to the imagination.
You could leave the room when one of these women were on TV and know that your virtue was still intact, and you wouldn't necessarily be expected to put on your square dancing dress and twirl around the bedroom, so to speak. I was so sure that an affinity for country music was an innocent, sincere appreciation of an art form, I stopped paying attention. Man, did I ever miss a lot.
About four or five years ago, I happened to walk past the monstrosity that is our television set, and got a good gander at a Shania video. It was then that I realized I was living in the past, and that the "safe haven of country music" thing had long since flown out the proverbial window. Nudity and sex appeal are now as much a part of country music as a steel guitar. There ain't nothin' left to the imagination, honey, and for every sexy country diva, there's an equally sexy cowboy with no shirt, tight jeans, and the requisite hat. I can say this, of course, because I live in Nashville, and I know someone who knows someone who's next-door neighbor drives a tour bus, so work with me, here.
So now, here's Shania, who looks like 10 million bucks on a stick, and the Dixie Chicks, who even though they write and play their own music don't exactly represent the Girl Next Door. And then Dolly went and lost all that weight, had some plastic surgery the way God intended, and makes no bones about it. Hey, more power to 'em, sell those records, girls!
The challenge for me is how to convince my husband that Most Garden-Variety Women Who Work and Take Care of Everything can't possibly have breasts and cheekbones like Dolly, and we most certainly can't have a belly button like Shania's. Good grief, she even had a baby...did they remove her stomach, too?
Enough said. Enjoy your evening. Me, I'll be putting a young child to bed, then eating all the chocolate in the house while I read a trashy romance novel and try to ignore my husband's heavy breathing.
Tonight I will be a television widow. My husband, a lifelong, avid country music fan, will be glued to the 51" set to watch his heroine, the formidable Dolly Parton, host the CMT Flameworthy Awards. I will become invisible; my only function is to put our son to bed, so my hubby won't miss a single second of Shania's bellybutton, Dolly's breasts, or Alan Jackson's white hat. Oh, and I might have to bring him a refill on his iced tea.
Now I have nothing against country music. Some of those songs are great, although these days what is described as "country" was in my day known as "Southern rock," but whatever, it's ok with me. The glaring problem for me regarding country music is that there's just no good song about chocolate. And the fact that it used to be that country music was sort of the "safe haven" for wives. Women didn't mind if their husbands really liked Tammy, or Loretta, or even Dolly, because although the Sequined Dress Quotient was pretty high, and the hair was even higher, for the most part, the body parts were well-covered and left to the imagination.
You could leave the room when one of these women were on TV and know that your virtue was still intact, and you wouldn't necessarily be expected to put on your square dancing dress and twirl around the bedroom, so to speak. I was so sure that an affinity for country music was an innocent, sincere appreciation of an art form, I stopped paying attention. Man, did I ever miss a lot.
About four or five years ago, I happened to walk past the monstrosity that is our television set, and got a good gander at a Shania video. It was then that I realized I was living in the past, and that the "safe haven of country music" thing had long since flown out the proverbial window. Nudity and sex appeal are now as much a part of country music as a steel guitar. There ain't nothin' left to the imagination, honey, and for every sexy country diva, there's an equally sexy cowboy with no shirt, tight jeans, and the requisite hat. I can say this, of course, because I live in Nashville, and I know someone who knows someone who's next-door neighbor drives a tour bus, so work with me, here.
So now, here's Shania, who looks like 10 million bucks on a stick, and the Dixie Chicks, who even though they write and play their own music don't exactly represent the Girl Next Door. And then Dolly went and lost all that weight, had some plastic surgery the way God intended, and makes no bones about it. Hey, more power to 'em, sell those records, girls!
The challenge for me is how to convince my husband that Most Garden-Variety Women Who Work and Take Care of Everything can't possibly have breasts and cheekbones like Dolly, and we most certainly can't have a belly button like Shania's. Good grief, she even had a baby...did they remove her stomach, too?
Enough said. Enjoy your evening. Me, I'll be putting a young child to bed, then eating all the chocolate in the house while I read a trashy romance novel and try to ignore my husband's heavy breathing.
Tuesday, April 20, 2004
THE METEORS ARE COMING! RUN! HIDE! EAT CHOCOLATE!
As a college-educated humanoid with a Bachelor of Science degree, and as the have-no-clue parent of a young child, I am committed to the observation of Natural Wonders in our life here on earth. This may include the removal of strange, gummy-like substances from the refrigerator door, or a cozy little gathering in the backyard, complete with flashlights, blankets, and refreshments (chocolate) in order to watch the many miracles inherent in our solar system.
This week we're smack-dab in the middle of the Lyrid Meteor Shower, and I urge you to get a front-row seat for this super event. Nothing humbles you like a good ol' fashioned meteor shower. If you've never witnessed one, set your alarms, grab the kids and a Super-size bag of Oreos, and head outside. I would advise you to wait until dark, that's sort of the point, because the good stuff probably won't happen until after 9pm, and the peak is around midnight. If you go out too early, you'll eat all your chocolate by 7:30pm and it'll just get ugly.
But aim your blankies in the direction of the Northeastern sky, tilt that chin up to the heavens, and let 'er rip. You can see up to 20 meteors streak across the firmament per second, this is Very Big Fun. It's free, it's an excuse to sit in your backyard and eat chocolate, but more importantly, it's visible proof to a child that there are Greater Powers That Be at work in our universe.
It's also very annoying to your neighbors to wake up and hear "MOM! LOOK! MOM! THERE'S ANOTHER ONE!" no less than three thousand times per hour, and any time I can annoy my neighbors, it's a good thing.
Now if it's cloudy in your neck of the woods, take heart: this space spectacular will continue through the 25th of April, so you have a couple of chances to act your shoe size and pretend that Vicious Space Aliens are attacking your hearth and home. I personally would welcome a Space Alien, of the non-violent sort, into my home, as long as we established immediate boundaries involving my chocolate. Keep your damned alien hands off my leftover Easter candy, and we'll be fine.
Ok, time to go Meteor Chocolate shopping and prepare for the show...personally, I plan to stock up on Mars Bars...
As a college-educated humanoid with a Bachelor of Science degree, and as the have-no-clue parent of a young child, I am committed to the observation of Natural Wonders in our life here on earth. This may include the removal of strange, gummy-like substances from the refrigerator door, or a cozy little gathering in the backyard, complete with flashlights, blankets, and refreshments (chocolate) in order to watch the many miracles inherent in our solar system.
This week we're smack-dab in the middle of the Lyrid Meteor Shower, and I urge you to get a front-row seat for this super event. Nothing humbles you like a good ol' fashioned meteor shower. If you've never witnessed one, set your alarms, grab the kids and a Super-size bag of Oreos, and head outside. I would advise you to wait until dark, that's sort of the point, because the good stuff probably won't happen until after 9pm, and the peak is around midnight. If you go out too early, you'll eat all your chocolate by 7:30pm and it'll just get ugly.
But aim your blankies in the direction of the Northeastern sky, tilt that chin up to the heavens, and let 'er rip. You can see up to 20 meteors streak across the firmament per second, this is Very Big Fun. It's free, it's an excuse to sit in your backyard and eat chocolate, but more importantly, it's visible proof to a child that there are Greater Powers That Be at work in our universe.
It's also very annoying to your neighbors to wake up and hear "MOM! LOOK! MOM! THERE'S ANOTHER ONE!" no less than three thousand times per hour, and any time I can annoy my neighbors, it's a good thing.
Now if it's cloudy in your neck of the woods, take heart: this space spectacular will continue through the 25th of April, so you have a couple of chances to act your shoe size and pretend that Vicious Space Aliens are attacking your hearth and home. I personally would welcome a Space Alien, of the non-violent sort, into my home, as long as we established immediate boundaries involving my chocolate. Keep your damned alien hands off my leftover Easter candy, and we'll be fine.
Ok, time to go Meteor Chocolate shopping and prepare for the show...personally, I plan to stock up on Mars Bars...
Monday, April 19, 2004
Why I Need My Fans, by Bunkie Lynn.
Coming off of what was, without a doubt, the head-rushingest week of my writing career, I'd like to say a little "thank you" to my fans, the folks out there in Book Buying Land who make my world go 'round.
What an ego boost when somebody you might not even vaguely remember comes up to you and says, "Wow, I really LOVED your book! I laughed so hard I fell out of bed/the car/my chair. And your speech was hilarious, my stomach hurt, I laughed so much. So...when's the new one coming out?"
Ok, it's no secret some of us work better under pressure, myself included. But geez Louise, I've been going gangbusters now for nigh on 2 years, have 2 books under my belt, and you people want MORE? What about my six-month sabbatical, where I stay at my benefactor's estate in the Caribbean and imbibe an endless stream of umbrella drinks? Oh, yeah, I don't have a benefactor...yet.
So let's play a new game. WHO WANTS TO BE BUNKIE'S BENEFACTOR? You, yes YOU can watch obscene amounts of hard-earned cash go down the drain as Bunkie Lynn, infamous humorist and author, flits and cavorts around your Caribbean (or your preferred location) villa for a few months, all expenses paid by, you guessed it, YOU! Amaze your family, impress your friends with the damage one egotistical author can do in a few scant weeks of hedonistic pleasure.
You say you don't have a villa? Not a problem. How 'bout an apartment in the city? Oh, that's still a little steep for your blood? Why not spring for 3 nights at a cheap hotel in Branson, MO....Ok, look, I'm serious here, how 'bout a Chevy Van with a mattress in the back? Hey, I'm easy, I need a vacation, and I'm open to any and all possibilities.
What do you mean, what's in it for you? You want another hilarious, knock-your-socks-off book, don't you? You think I can just sit around the house in my pj's and think up this stuff? Give me a break, did you fall asleep in 3rd grade vocabulary class, or what? The word "recreation," roughly translated from the ancient, means "to send a promising author on a lengthy and absolutely free vacation, such that said author may rejuvenate, may recharge, may think brilliant thoughts and thereby put pen to paper, to engender laughter among her audience, to wit." (Man, those ancients had a way with words, didn't they?)
Look, you want me to create, I gotta recreate. Hey, nobody ever said being a fan was a picnic, bub. Now, are you gonna shirk your responsibility, or are you gonna step up to the proverbial vacation destination plate and fork over the goods?
Oh well, it was worth a try. Let's do lunch...you buy, I'll fly?
Coming off of what was, without a doubt, the head-rushingest week of my writing career, I'd like to say a little "thank you" to my fans, the folks out there in Book Buying Land who make my world go 'round.
What an ego boost when somebody you might not even vaguely remember comes up to you and says, "Wow, I really LOVED your book! I laughed so hard I fell out of bed/the car/my chair. And your speech was hilarious, my stomach hurt, I laughed so much. So...when's the new one coming out?"
Ok, it's no secret some of us work better under pressure, myself included. But geez Louise, I've been going gangbusters now for nigh on 2 years, have 2 books under my belt, and you people want MORE? What about my six-month sabbatical, where I stay at my benefactor's estate in the Caribbean and imbibe an endless stream of umbrella drinks? Oh, yeah, I don't have a benefactor...yet.
So let's play a new game. WHO WANTS TO BE BUNKIE'S BENEFACTOR? You, yes YOU can watch obscene amounts of hard-earned cash go down the drain as Bunkie Lynn, infamous humorist and author, flits and cavorts around your Caribbean (or your preferred location) villa for a few months, all expenses paid by, you guessed it, YOU! Amaze your family, impress your friends with the damage one egotistical author can do in a few scant weeks of hedonistic pleasure.
You say you don't have a villa? Not a problem. How 'bout an apartment in the city? Oh, that's still a little steep for your blood? Why not spring for 3 nights at a cheap hotel in Branson, MO....Ok, look, I'm serious here, how 'bout a Chevy Van with a mattress in the back? Hey, I'm easy, I need a vacation, and I'm open to any and all possibilities.
What do you mean, what's in it for you? You want another hilarious, knock-your-socks-off book, don't you? You think I can just sit around the house in my pj's and think up this stuff? Give me a break, did you fall asleep in 3rd grade vocabulary class, or what? The word "recreation," roughly translated from the ancient, means "to send a promising author on a lengthy and absolutely free vacation, such that said author may rejuvenate, may recharge, may think brilliant thoughts and thereby put pen to paper, to engender laughter among her audience, to wit." (Man, those ancients had a way with words, didn't they?)
Look, you want me to create, I gotta recreate. Hey, nobody ever said being a fan was a picnic, bub. Now, are you gonna shirk your responsibility, or are you gonna step up to the proverbial vacation destination plate and fork over the goods?
Oh well, it was worth a try. Let's do lunch...you buy, I'll fly?
Friday, April 16, 2004
Howdy, ya'll. I'm livin' in my SUV this weekend as I journey back and forth to Bowling Green, KY from my humble home in Tennessee, for my appearances at the Southern KY Book Fest. It's Big Fun and if you're reading this, and you're in the vicinity of Bowling Green, come to the SOKY Fest Saturday at the Sloan Convention Center, and holler at me.
Let's just spend a moment discussing the virtues of gambling. I admit it, I can't help myself. I mean, I am not a Player in the big league sense of the word, but on the few times when I've been downwind of a slot machine, I can't help but throw money in it. Once I won $200 in nickels. Do you have any idea how heavy $200 in nickels is? Good grief!
Tennessee has our new Lotto, but no Powerball, which is a shame, because my car automatically drove itself to the Kentucky LottoLand this afternoon, and as a ten-dollar bill fell out of my wallet, I found myself stepping out of my shy persona and asking the clerk for 10 Qwik Pik PowerBall tickets. Hey, jackpot's 75 million! Lump sum payment, after tax, would set me up nicely for the rest of my life, and I'd take all my friends to the Caribbean for a huge party. I could call my agent and editor and everybody else and tell them to write their own danged books, I'm on permanent vacation.
Sure, that's what I tell myself. But let's face it, 75 million, in a lump sum would be around 30 million, so after tax would be 15 million, or less.
Now I can run through the cash, believe me. The requisite Caribbean party would cost at least a couple hundred grand. I'd buy a bus for my church, because we don't have one, and every church worth its salt has a church bus. And I'd have to pay off the mortgage and my other debts, in order to feel good about myself, like Dave Ramsey says. So when it comes right down to it, that 15 mil wouldn't last very long, I'd have to invest the rest, make it work for me, put myself on a budget...after spending at least a couple mil to restock the wine cellar, buy a kick-ass stereo, a new hot laptop, and a beach house. Oh. And maybe a Rolex. I've always wanted a Rolex, the ultimate non-essential accessory.
Gee...I guess if I really do win the jackpot, I'd better not piss off my editor and agent, huh...15 million really doesn't go that far, does it? Maybe I'll drive back to Kentucky next week if there's no winner....I need to clear at least 50 million....
Let's just spend a moment discussing the virtues of gambling. I admit it, I can't help myself. I mean, I am not a Player in the big league sense of the word, but on the few times when I've been downwind of a slot machine, I can't help but throw money in it. Once I won $200 in nickels. Do you have any idea how heavy $200 in nickels is? Good grief!
Tennessee has our new Lotto, but no Powerball, which is a shame, because my car automatically drove itself to the Kentucky LottoLand this afternoon, and as a ten-dollar bill fell out of my wallet, I found myself stepping out of my shy persona and asking the clerk for 10 Qwik Pik PowerBall tickets. Hey, jackpot's 75 million! Lump sum payment, after tax, would set me up nicely for the rest of my life, and I'd take all my friends to the Caribbean for a huge party. I could call my agent and editor and everybody else and tell them to write their own danged books, I'm on permanent vacation.
Sure, that's what I tell myself. But let's face it, 75 million, in a lump sum would be around 30 million, so after tax would be 15 million, or less.
Now I can run through the cash, believe me. The requisite Caribbean party would cost at least a couple hundred grand. I'd buy a bus for my church, because we don't have one, and every church worth its salt has a church bus. And I'd have to pay off the mortgage and my other debts, in order to feel good about myself, like Dave Ramsey says. So when it comes right down to it, that 15 mil wouldn't last very long, I'd have to invest the rest, make it work for me, put myself on a budget...after spending at least a couple mil to restock the wine cellar, buy a kick-ass stereo, a new hot laptop, and a beach house. Oh. And maybe a Rolex. I've always wanted a Rolex, the ultimate non-essential accessory.
Gee...I guess if I really do win the jackpot, I'd better not piss off my editor and agent, huh...15 million really doesn't go that far, does it? Maybe I'll drive back to Kentucky next week if there's no winner....I need to clear at least 50 million....
Thursday, April 15, 2004
After being on a little holiday and eating everything in sight for days, including an obscene amount of chocolate Easter candy, I returned home today and stepped on the scales, head hung low, fully expecting the Diet Police to whip me with their Shame Canes.
WHAT? What is that number? It can't be right. (Step off the scale, move it around the floor, step gingerly back on).
You've GOT to be KIDDING. I LOST WEIGHT? I LOST 5 POUNDS? (find screwdriver, open battery compartment on scale, replace battery, re-weigh).
Oh my gosh, it's TRUE! I LOST WEIGHT EATING CHOCOLATE! Somebody call AMA, this Big Girl's got some mind-blowing research to report, a medical/nutritional miracle has occurred in my humble bathroom.
Visions of Nobel-prize winning speech delivery dart around my brain...yes, I'd like to thank my husband for the gigantic bag of Peanut M&Ms, my friend Carol for the Cadbury caramel cremes, oh, and my mom for the sinful chocolate cheesecake. Was exercise involved? Of course! I did at least 50 Chocolate Arm Curls to get to those M&Ms. And every time I ran out of chocolate, I was forced to get up off the couch, don't tell me that doesn't burn calories! Yes, there's no doubt in my mind, chocolate is a weight-loss miracle worker, and I'm living proof...
Man, this puts a whole new spin on the diet thing...let's see, eggs for breakfast, salad for lunch...I think a Peanut Buster Parfait for dinner makes sense, don't you?
WHAT? What is that number? It can't be right. (Step off the scale, move it around the floor, step gingerly back on).
You've GOT to be KIDDING. I LOST WEIGHT? I LOST 5 POUNDS? (find screwdriver, open battery compartment on scale, replace battery, re-weigh).
Oh my gosh, it's TRUE! I LOST WEIGHT EATING CHOCOLATE! Somebody call AMA, this Big Girl's got some mind-blowing research to report, a medical/nutritional miracle has occurred in my humble bathroom.
Visions of Nobel-prize winning speech delivery dart around my brain...yes, I'd like to thank my husband for the gigantic bag of Peanut M&Ms, my friend Carol for the Cadbury caramel cremes, oh, and my mom for the sinful chocolate cheesecake. Was exercise involved? Of course! I did at least 50 Chocolate Arm Curls to get to those M&Ms. And every time I ran out of chocolate, I was forced to get up off the couch, don't tell me that doesn't burn calories! Yes, there's no doubt in my mind, chocolate is a weight-loss miracle worker, and I'm living proof...
Man, this puts a whole new spin on the diet thing...let's see, eggs for breakfast, salad for lunch...I think a Peanut Buster Parfait for dinner makes sense, don't you?
Friday, April 09, 2004
Easter Bunkie here, with the Best Candy in the Basket Rating for 2004:
10) Yellow or pink Peeps. Yeah, I know they're mostly made of chemicals, but they're so danged cute! It's big fun to smash them together in a wad and see how long it takes for them to puff back up.
9) Egg bubble gum. Not a perennial favorite, mind you, but the colors are nice.
8) The Inevitable Chocolate Bunny. Why, you may ask, is it so low on the list of faves? Let's be perfectly honest, kiddies, how many truly delicious chocolate bunnies have you ever tasted? Oh sure, it's a hoot to do your best Hannibal Lector and bite off the eyes or remove the facial area, but that stuff's not exactly Ghirardelli, now, is it?
7) Malted milk eggs. The first dozen or so are WONDERFUL. Throw the rest away, or you'll be on the toilet for a very long time.
6) Cadbury Creme Eggs (the original, gooey ones). These are not my personal favorites, but in honor of my baby sister, who could consume mass quantities of this little item, it makes the list, simply because those Cadbury guys got the inside of the egg looking so real, you're ready with the skillet and a rasher of bacon. Not my idea of a tasty candy, however.
5) Cadbury Hard-shell Eggs. Now we're talkin'. These dandies have yummy chocolate centers surrounded by delicious crunchy candy shells, in beautifully speckled patterns. I'll take 5 pounds, please.
4) The Reese's/Snickers/Butterfinger/You-Name-It Eggs. Capitalism at its finest. Take your respective best-selling candy bars, shape them into eggs, and voila, Easter sales boost.
3) Jellybeans. How can you go wrong with these tiny little bursts of pure sugar? And what other candy lasts so well in the bottom of the Easter grass, a full year or two after it's been lost there? Easter Bunkie loves the orange ones; green ones are the work of the devil.
2) Cadbury Caramel Creme Eggs. A play on the original, without the nasty realism of the raw item.
1) The all-time best Easter Candy as rated by Chocolate Expert, Easter Bunkie: Solid chocolate eggs. The perfect size to hide in your mouth, it takes an origami master a month to wrap those little suckers in pastel foil, and it's pure, unadulterated chocolate. I'm in love!
Happy Easter from the Easter Bunkie!
10) Yellow or pink Peeps. Yeah, I know they're mostly made of chemicals, but they're so danged cute! It's big fun to smash them together in a wad and see how long it takes for them to puff back up.
9) Egg bubble gum. Not a perennial favorite, mind you, but the colors are nice.
8) The Inevitable Chocolate Bunny. Why, you may ask, is it so low on the list of faves? Let's be perfectly honest, kiddies, how many truly delicious chocolate bunnies have you ever tasted? Oh sure, it's a hoot to do your best Hannibal Lector and bite off the eyes or remove the facial area, but that stuff's not exactly Ghirardelli, now, is it?
7) Malted milk eggs. The first dozen or so are WONDERFUL. Throw the rest away, or you'll be on the toilet for a very long time.
6) Cadbury Creme Eggs (the original, gooey ones). These are not my personal favorites, but in honor of my baby sister, who could consume mass quantities of this little item, it makes the list, simply because those Cadbury guys got the inside of the egg looking so real, you're ready with the skillet and a rasher of bacon. Not my idea of a tasty candy, however.
5) Cadbury Hard-shell Eggs. Now we're talkin'. These dandies have yummy chocolate centers surrounded by delicious crunchy candy shells, in beautifully speckled patterns. I'll take 5 pounds, please.
4) The Reese's/Snickers/Butterfinger/You-Name-It Eggs. Capitalism at its finest. Take your respective best-selling candy bars, shape them into eggs, and voila, Easter sales boost.
3) Jellybeans. How can you go wrong with these tiny little bursts of pure sugar? And what other candy lasts so well in the bottom of the Easter grass, a full year or two after it's been lost there? Easter Bunkie loves the orange ones; green ones are the work of the devil.
2) Cadbury Caramel Creme Eggs. A play on the original, without the nasty realism of the raw item.
1) The all-time best Easter Candy as rated by Chocolate Expert, Easter Bunkie: Solid chocolate eggs. The perfect size to hide in your mouth, it takes an origami master a month to wrap those little suckers in pastel foil, and it's pure, unadulterated chocolate. I'm in love!
Happy Easter from the Easter Bunkie!
Thursday, April 08, 2004
Whew, what a week I'm having! Thanks to WBIR-TV in Knoxville for hosting me on the "Style" program on Tuesday. This Big Girl had Big Fun, particularly presenting The Professor to the crew. The Professor is an extremely large chocolate bunny with that familiar, higher education, glazed-over look in his eyes...you remember from your college days...too many papers to grade, too many holes in that houndstooth blazer...too few hairs to comb over...
Can't wait to entertain my Knoxville fans on Monday 4/12 at the Dogwood Arts Festival Luncheon; let's review how hard I've worked on my speech...you gals better LAUGH! Plus I make reference to chocolate no less than fifteen times in a half-hour period, so that alone should keep it going.
Only 3 MORE DAYS until Lent is over and I can consume mass quantities of CHOCOLATE, Food of the Gods. And yes, I am a certifiable Goddess...Bunkie, Goddess of Appetites. Did you fall asleep in World History, or what?
Here is Bunkie's No Fail Food Plan for Easter Sunday:
7am: Hit the snooze button, grope for a Hershey Kiss on your nightstand, unwrap that sucker and pop it in your mouth. Chocolate-Denial Season is OVER!
8:00am: Bounce out of bed (or if your knees are presently without cartilage, as are mine, limp)
Tear into the Snickers Bar in your bathroom as you wait for the shower to warm.
8:30am: BREAKFAST! Warm up those croissants au chocolate you happened to throw in your grocery cart yesterday and pour yourself a gigantic glass of skim milk...gotta watch those calories!
9:00am: Church. God made chocolate, so He won't have a problem with you sneaking a few Kisses during the singing of the extremely loud hymns, because let's face it, on Easter, it's always "Alleluia" ten thousand times over and over, and even God gets a little irritated, ok?
10:15am: BRUNCH! In order to prevent diabetic shock, you should probably order some bacon and eggs, grab a little protein here. But do enjoy a latte with a shot of chocolate...gotta keep the momentum going!
11:30am: Back home and time for EASTER BASKETS! If your significant other has half a brain, he will have showered you with every type of chocolate imaginable, or at least a 3lb bag of Peanut M&Ms. You don't want to hurt his feelings...try every variety, NOW.
12:30pm: SNACK. I'm thinking a few more warmed-up chocolate croissants would do nicely...you know they just don't taste as good after the first 24 hours...time for a nap...where are those Kisses?
3:00pm: ROAD TRIP! What a beautiful Easter Day, what a great reason to go for a drive...to Baskin Robbins! I'll have a 2-scoop sundae with extra hot fudge, please. Thank you God, for spandex, amen.
5:00pm: DINNER. Am feeling a tad sickish, better drive through DQ for a big cheeseburger and some fries and an obscenely large Coke. What's that? The Peanut Buster Parfaits are on sale? I'm not sure...I just had ice cream 2 hours ago...oh, well, if it will save me $0.53 cents, go for it!
7:00pm: INTENSE NAUSEA AND STOMACH SPASMS. NO, IT'S NOT FROM ALL THE CHOCOLATE. I SWEAR THAT KID IN FRONT OF US AT CHURCH HAD A VIRUS!
8:00pm: Ahh, much better. In my jammies, all tucked into bed with a People magazine, a Coke, and of course, the rest of the Kisses. What a great Easter day! Tomorrow, I vow to only eat chocolate twice...per hour....Happy Easter!
Can't wait to entertain my Knoxville fans on Monday 4/12 at the Dogwood Arts Festival Luncheon; let's review how hard I've worked on my speech...you gals better LAUGH! Plus I make reference to chocolate no less than fifteen times in a half-hour period, so that alone should keep it going.
Only 3 MORE DAYS until Lent is over and I can consume mass quantities of CHOCOLATE, Food of the Gods. And yes, I am a certifiable Goddess...Bunkie, Goddess of Appetites. Did you fall asleep in World History, or what?
Here is Bunkie's No Fail Food Plan for Easter Sunday:
7am: Hit the snooze button, grope for a Hershey Kiss on your nightstand, unwrap that sucker and pop it in your mouth. Chocolate-Denial Season is OVER!
8:00am: Bounce out of bed (or if your knees are presently without cartilage, as are mine, limp)
Tear into the Snickers Bar in your bathroom as you wait for the shower to warm.
8:30am: BREAKFAST! Warm up those croissants au chocolate you happened to throw in your grocery cart yesterday and pour yourself a gigantic glass of skim milk...gotta watch those calories!
9:00am: Church. God made chocolate, so He won't have a problem with you sneaking a few Kisses during the singing of the extremely loud hymns, because let's face it, on Easter, it's always "Alleluia" ten thousand times over and over, and even God gets a little irritated, ok?
10:15am: BRUNCH! In order to prevent diabetic shock, you should probably order some bacon and eggs, grab a little protein here. But do enjoy a latte with a shot of chocolate...gotta keep the momentum going!
11:30am: Back home and time for EASTER BASKETS! If your significant other has half a brain, he will have showered you with every type of chocolate imaginable, or at least a 3lb bag of Peanut M&Ms. You don't want to hurt his feelings...try every variety, NOW.
12:30pm: SNACK. I'm thinking a few more warmed-up chocolate croissants would do nicely...you know they just don't taste as good after the first 24 hours...time for a nap...where are those Kisses?
3:00pm: ROAD TRIP! What a beautiful Easter Day, what a great reason to go for a drive...to Baskin Robbins! I'll have a 2-scoop sundae with extra hot fudge, please. Thank you God, for spandex, amen.
5:00pm: DINNER. Am feeling a tad sickish, better drive through DQ for a big cheeseburger and some fries and an obscenely large Coke. What's that? The Peanut Buster Parfaits are on sale? I'm not sure...I just had ice cream 2 hours ago...oh, well, if it will save me $0.53 cents, go for it!
7:00pm: INTENSE NAUSEA AND STOMACH SPASMS. NO, IT'S NOT FROM ALL THE CHOCOLATE. I SWEAR THAT KID IN FRONT OF US AT CHURCH HAD A VIRUS!
8:00pm: Ahh, much better. In my jammies, all tucked into bed with a People magazine, a Coke, and of course, the rest of the Kisses. What a great Easter day! Tomorrow, I vow to only eat chocolate twice...per hour....Happy Easter!
Monday, April 05, 2004
Ok, so I've got to decide what to wear on my TV appearance in Knoxville tomorrow...let me just say for the record, I'm a Big Girl who hates to iron, but I LOVE wearing cotton and linen clothing. Last summer I spent a small fortune taking all my ironing to the dry cleaners, but this year have resolved to do the ironing thing for myself...ironing can be therapeutic, even though it can be hard on the ankles.
I've decided to take matters into my own chocolate-laden hands and follow the shining example of Pavlov and his dogs...every time I iron something, I get to eat a piece of chocolate. Let's review that there are at least 20 or 30 wrinkled things in that pile, so this could turn out to be a GREAT day!
There's still the matter of dog-hair to resolve...when you iron Big Girl Clothes with all their excess yards of material, they can't help but touch the floor. So you end up with a crisply ironed linen pantsuit with about a half-ton of dog hair on it...not necessarily a good look, but there's no way I'm going to vacuum the floor AND iron clothes on the same day...unless...maybe I could take myself to DQ for a Peanut Buster Parfait.....
Happy Spring!
I've decided to take matters into my own chocolate-laden hands and follow the shining example of Pavlov and his dogs...every time I iron something, I get to eat a piece of chocolate. Let's review that there are at least 20 or 30 wrinkled things in that pile, so this could turn out to be a GREAT day!
There's still the matter of dog-hair to resolve...when you iron Big Girl Clothes with all their excess yards of material, they can't help but touch the floor. So you end up with a crisply ironed linen pantsuit with about a half-ton of dog hair on it...not necessarily a good look, but there's no way I'm going to vacuum the floor AND iron clothes on the same day...unless...maybe I could take myself to DQ for a Peanut Buster Parfait.....
Happy Spring!
Friday, April 02, 2004
TRAFFIC BITES! Today I had the privilege (and I'm being serious here) of driving 22 miles into downtown Nashvegas for a radio interview. Now I'm familiar with the whole "commuter traffic" thing, but thankfully it was smooth sailing despite the construction areas, despite the yahoos who drive like perennial bats outta hell, and I arrived 30 minutes early, to be exact. I even had the pleasure of meeting comedian Yakov Smirnov at the radio station, he's hilarious!
The problem began when I attempted to drive home, 2 hours later. By now it was late morning, the construction zones were in full lane-closure mode, but I, an Observant Big Girl in Need of Chocolate, wisely listened to the radio and quickly made a split-second decision to take an alternate route. Seemed like a good idea at the time. Let's review that it took me 95 minutes to go about 25 miles. And it wasn't simply a question of interstate delays...I'm talking, every danged street I turned on, there was a sewer being installed and it was down to 1 lane, there was re-paving and it was down to 1 lane, there was a moronic bulldozer operator who parked his cute little piece of equipment in the middle of MY lane while he took a cancer stick break...today I, Bunkie Big Girl, experienced the Ultimate Murphy's Law Occurrence in the Entire History of the Car-Driving World.
To make matters worse (I'm not kidding), the hunger pangs in my Big Girl Tummy reminded me that all that car-riding had forced me to skip lunch, which is an unforgivable, mortal sin in the World of Big Girls. I realized there was a McD's up the road, just a few miles...french fry salvation was at hand...until I saw flashing lights. Not one, not two, but three utility trucks BLOCKING THE ENTRANCE TO MCD's!!! In total Big Girl anger and frustration, I drove straight home, and ate no less than an entire box of Hostess Ding Dongs in one sitting. Nutritional value, you ask? Hey, I had a glass of milk with those puppies!
Have a great weekend...stay off the roads and you'll be fine.
The problem began when I attempted to drive home, 2 hours later. By now it was late morning, the construction zones were in full lane-closure mode, but I, an Observant Big Girl in Need of Chocolate, wisely listened to the radio and quickly made a split-second decision to take an alternate route. Seemed like a good idea at the time. Let's review that it took me 95 minutes to go about 25 miles. And it wasn't simply a question of interstate delays...I'm talking, every danged street I turned on, there was a sewer being installed and it was down to 1 lane, there was re-paving and it was down to 1 lane, there was a moronic bulldozer operator who parked his cute little piece of equipment in the middle of MY lane while he took a cancer stick break...today I, Bunkie Big Girl, experienced the Ultimate Murphy's Law Occurrence in the Entire History of the Car-Driving World.
To make matters worse (I'm not kidding), the hunger pangs in my Big Girl Tummy reminded me that all that car-riding had forced me to skip lunch, which is an unforgivable, mortal sin in the World of Big Girls. I realized there was a McD's up the road, just a few miles...french fry salvation was at hand...until I saw flashing lights. Not one, not two, but three utility trucks BLOCKING THE ENTRANCE TO MCD's!!! In total Big Girl anger and frustration, I drove straight home, and ate no less than an entire box of Hostess Ding Dongs in one sitting. Nutritional value, you ask? Hey, I had a glass of milk with those puppies!
Have a great weekend...stay off the roads and you'll be fine.
Thursday, April 01, 2004
April Fool's Scenarios I Wish Were True:
The President today signed into law Federal Statute BMI-35, making anyone with a Body Mass Index of less than 35 an automatic felon. A critical rider to this statute also calls for the immediate incarceration of any woman suspected to be the result of a genetic mutation between a pretzel stick and a silicone breast implant.
The hamburger chain McDonald's announced plans today to introduce its new "Death Wish" size drinks, French fries, and desserts. In a charitable gesture, these items will be served at no charge to inmates imprisoned as a result of the new federal statute, in an attempt to aid those individuals who, bless them, don't possess a Fat Gene, so they may attain the new ideal Body Mass Index.
In an amazing scientific breakthrough, hot fudge has been proven to cure cancer, Alzheimer's, tuberculosis, HIV, and a host of other communicable diseases. The new Recommended Daily Allowance of Hot Fudge is between 1/2 to 1 full cups per day, for adults. Of critical note is the proven medical fact that it is impossible to eat too much Hot Fudge. The Recommended Daily Allowance of Hot Fudge for Children After Dinner is directly proportional to the amount of sleep the child's parents require.
CBS, ever the trend-setting television network, has announced a new program for its fall lineup; the popular "Survivor" series will now feature ten supermodels who are forced to live in a 1982 Honda Civic and work as waitresses at Old Country Buffet. Any supermodel who refuses to consume a minimum of 3,500 calories per day will be voted out of the dining room and forced to wash dishes with a bleach solution; silk replacement nails and hand lotion are forbidden. The winner will receive a prize package that includes 52 visits to Red Lobster's Fried Catfish Fest, a size 18 tube top, and one year's worth of Toni Home Perms.
and last but not least...
It is now illegal in this country to utter the following phrases: low-carb, fat grams, calories, saturated fat, and "weigh-in." Violators will be forced to spend one night in jail accompanied by their choice of a) Martha Stewart, b) Saddam Hussein, or c) Richard Simmons.
Happy April Fool's Day!
The President today signed into law Federal Statute BMI-35, making anyone with a Body Mass Index of less than 35 an automatic felon. A critical rider to this statute also calls for the immediate incarceration of any woman suspected to be the result of a genetic mutation between a pretzel stick and a silicone breast implant.
The hamburger chain McDonald's announced plans today to introduce its new "Death Wish" size drinks, French fries, and desserts. In a charitable gesture, these items will be served at no charge to inmates imprisoned as a result of the new federal statute, in an attempt to aid those individuals who, bless them, don't possess a Fat Gene, so they may attain the new ideal Body Mass Index.
In an amazing scientific breakthrough, hot fudge has been proven to cure cancer, Alzheimer's, tuberculosis, HIV, and a host of other communicable diseases. The new Recommended Daily Allowance of Hot Fudge is between 1/2 to 1 full cups per day, for adults. Of critical note is the proven medical fact that it is impossible to eat too much Hot Fudge. The Recommended Daily Allowance of Hot Fudge for Children After Dinner is directly proportional to the amount of sleep the child's parents require.
CBS, ever the trend-setting television network, has announced a new program for its fall lineup; the popular "Survivor" series will now feature ten supermodels who are forced to live in a 1982 Honda Civic and work as waitresses at Old Country Buffet. Any supermodel who refuses to consume a minimum of 3,500 calories per day will be voted out of the dining room and forced to wash dishes with a bleach solution; silk replacement nails and hand lotion are forbidden. The winner will receive a prize package that includes 52 visits to Red Lobster's Fried Catfish Fest, a size 18 tube top, and one year's worth of Toni Home Perms.
and last but not least...
It is now illegal in this country to utter the following phrases: low-carb, fat grams, calories, saturated fat, and "weigh-in." Violators will be forced to spend one night in jail accompanied by their choice of a) Martha Stewart, b) Saddam Hussein, or c) Richard Simmons.
Happy April Fool's Day!
Wednesday, March 31, 2004
Bunkie's Law of Mopping: The amount of mud a dog will track into the house is directly proportional to the number of minutes you just spent mopping said floor, factoring in the time that the dog in question looked through the back door and watched you perform said task.
I guess I don't mind the mud all that much; big muddy dog footprints on the carpet do remind me of chocolate. Eventually all the light beige carpet in the house will be chocolate-colored, I'm certain. I used to obsess about the spots on the carpet, but now, as a Big Girl Who Has Freed Herself from Toxic Behavior, I simply don't consider the carpet as carpet. It has now, in the wasteland that has become my mind, transformed into a room-sized ice cream sundae, with the carpet, of course, being said ice cream. Today my carpet reminds me of Butter Pecan. Tomorrow, I may throw caution to the wind and see a large bowl of French Vanilla.
The various and sundry tracks, spots and stains on the carpet are no longer a sore spot; in my new fantasy world, they simply represent assorted ice cream toppings. Those red Kool-Aid stains? Pshaw, they're cinnamon hearts. The purple crayon shavings? Rainbow sprinkles. Ah, yes, there are the dog tracks, the double chocolate fudge on the sundae. Oh, look, there's a Tootsie Roll...wait a minute...there's nothing worse than a dog who interrupts my fantasy with a steaming dose of reality.
If your dogs represent Vengeance Personified, like mine, do yourself a favor and buy some "Spot Shot" spray...this stuff works MIRACLES, I'm serious. And it's so gratifying, you can actually see it working mere seconds after you've sprayed it. There's nothing more fulfilling than showing your dog the place where the horrible pet stain used to be, after it has been completely obliterated, thanks to Spot Shot. HA, I'm the Person! I am Superior! You may have won the battle, but I will win the War! (Yeah, I know the dog knows the stain is still in the carpet pad, but my mother-in-law can't see it, ok?)
Since we're on the subject of dogs, and as I own two of the extremely large, barking variety, here's another pet peeve: getting tangled in leashes. When my husband takes our dogs for a walk, to paraphrase the great Dave Barry, it's akin to the excitement surrounding the Liberation of Paris after WWII.
Getting your legs tangled in leather leashes as two hyperactive Labrador Retrievers circle you in a frenzy is not exactly what I call a good time, particularly if your fingers are anywhere in there...we need those digits intact, not snapped off on the garage floor due to the manic behavior of a beloved pet.
A friend of mine, Katrina, is brilliant and has developed the "Double-Dog Leash." These leashes are the hottest thing to hit the pet market in years, and you've gotta get one if you have dog(s).
Click here to go to www.double-dogleashes.com and save your legs as well as your digits.
Well, gotta run, gotta go mop the floor...I wonder if my husband would agree with me that the tile strongly resembles a bowl of Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough with sprinkles?
I guess I don't mind the mud all that much; big muddy dog footprints on the carpet do remind me of chocolate. Eventually all the light beige carpet in the house will be chocolate-colored, I'm certain. I used to obsess about the spots on the carpet, but now, as a Big Girl Who Has Freed Herself from Toxic Behavior, I simply don't consider the carpet as carpet. It has now, in the wasteland that has become my mind, transformed into a room-sized ice cream sundae, with the carpet, of course, being said ice cream. Today my carpet reminds me of Butter Pecan. Tomorrow, I may throw caution to the wind and see a large bowl of French Vanilla.
The various and sundry tracks, spots and stains on the carpet are no longer a sore spot; in my new fantasy world, they simply represent assorted ice cream toppings. Those red Kool-Aid stains? Pshaw, they're cinnamon hearts. The purple crayon shavings? Rainbow sprinkles. Ah, yes, there are the dog tracks, the double chocolate fudge on the sundae. Oh, look, there's a Tootsie Roll...wait a minute...there's nothing worse than a dog who interrupts my fantasy with a steaming dose of reality.
If your dogs represent Vengeance Personified, like mine, do yourself a favor and buy some "Spot Shot" spray...this stuff works MIRACLES, I'm serious. And it's so gratifying, you can actually see it working mere seconds after you've sprayed it. There's nothing more fulfilling than showing your dog the place where the horrible pet stain used to be, after it has been completely obliterated, thanks to Spot Shot. HA, I'm the Person! I am Superior! You may have won the battle, but I will win the War! (Yeah, I know the dog knows the stain is still in the carpet pad, but my mother-in-law can't see it, ok?)
Since we're on the subject of dogs, and as I own two of the extremely large, barking variety, here's another pet peeve: getting tangled in leashes. When my husband takes our dogs for a walk, to paraphrase the great Dave Barry, it's akin to the excitement surrounding the Liberation of Paris after WWII.
Getting your legs tangled in leather leashes as two hyperactive Labrador Retrievers circle you in a frenzy is not exactly what I call a good time, particularly if your fingers are anywhere in there...we need those digits intact, not snapped off on the garage floor due to the manic behavior of a beloved pet.
A friend of mine, Katrina, is brilliant and has developed the "Double-Dog Leash." These leashes are the hottest thing to hit the pet market in years, and you've gotta get one if you have dog(s).
Click here to go to www.double-dogleashes.com and save your legs as well as your digits.
Well, gotta run, gotta go mop the floor...I wonder if my husband would agree with me that the tile strongly resembles a bowl of Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough with sprinkles?
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
Spring has sprung and I'm dreaming of viciously biting the head off a huge chocolate bunny. I'm also dreaming of immersing myself in a veritable river of chocolate, in the midst of my Lenten-inspired "no chocolate" rule...Easter Sunday's gonna bring a heckuva cocoa hangover, I can't wait.
We always crave the thing we aren't supposed to have...in my case, after several weeks without my favorite food, you might think I'd be craving luscious truffles, or a fantastically rich chocolate cake, but truth be told, the thing I've missed the most is a good ol' Hershey bar, with almonds. Nothing like 'em, nothing compares. Bar none. (sorry, had to be done).
This is really not very fair, but I just can't bring myself to trust anyone who doesn't like chocolate. Now I fully exclude those in this category who are morbidly allergic to the stuff, so don't go whining to me about how you get unsightly hives and suffer anaphylactic shock if you even unwrap a Milk Dud...(maybe there's your problem, Milk Duds ain't the real thing, they're processed. Next time try a Hershey bar).
And I'm not saying that you should only eat chocolate...there's always room for desserts from the non-chocolate variety. It's just that given the choice between a creme brulee and a hot fudge sundae, I gotta hang with the fudge option. If offered a vanilla cone and a vanilla cone dipped in hard-shell chocolate, well, you get the picture.
Chocolate is the stuff of dreams, the essence of our existence, the cure for all things female when female things go astray. In 12 days, I shall be awash in chocolate, cocoa will ooze from my pores.
Maybe next year I'll give up vanilla....
We always crave the thing we aren't supposed to have...in my case, after several weeks without my favorite food, you might think I'd be craving luscious truffles, or a fantastically rich chocolate cake, but truth be told, the thing I've missed the most is a good ol' Hershey bar, with almonds. Nothing like 'em, nothing compares. Bar none. (sorry, had to be done).
This is really not very fair, but I just can't bring myself to trust anyone who doesn't like chocolate. Now I fully exclude those in this category who are morbidly allergic to the stuff, so don't go whining to me about how you get unsightly hives and suffer anaphylactic shock if you even unwrap a Milk Dud...(maybe there's your problem, Milk Duds ain't the real thing, they're processed. Next time try a Hershey bar).
And I'm not saying that you should only eat chocolate...there's always room for desserts from the non-chocolate variety. It's just that given the choice between a creme brulee and a hot fudge sundae, I gotta hang with the fudge option. If offered a vanilla cone and a vanilla cone dipped in hard-shell chocolate, well, you get the picture.
Chocolate is the stuff of dreams, the essence of our existence, the cure for all things female when female things go astray. In 12 days, I shall be awash in chocolate, cocoa will ooze from my pores.
Maybe next year I'll give up vanilla....
Monday, March 29, 2004
Why am I having so much trouble with this silly thing?
Click here to go to my website, Bunkielynn.com, to view my BIG GIRL NOTEPADS!
Click here to go to my website, Bunkielynn.com, to view my BIG GIRL NOTEPADS!
Ok, let's try this again.
Here is the link to my website, Bunkielynn.com
Check it out and click on "Books & Gifts" to preview the BIG GIRL NOTEPADS! Get yours online at my site today, a must-have for every woman who loves chocolate and hates to exercise!
Here is the link to my website, Bunkielynn.com
Check it out and click on "Books & Gifts" to preview the BIG GIRL NOTEPADS! Get yours online at my site today, a must-have for every woman who loves chocolate and hates to exercise!
Hi fellow Big Girls and Lovers of Chocolate! I'm Bunkie Lynn, humorist and author of The Big Girls' Guide to Life, a Plus-Sized Jaunt through a Body-Obsessed World.
Women of all sizes who have ever faced weight issues, hormonal fluctuations, jerky relationships and the unkindness of strangers will laugh out loud at my tongue-in-cheek "advice" on How to Live Life as a Big Girl with Attitude!. You can order the book at Amazon.com or Barnes & Noble.com, or get it at any bookstore.
Welcome to my Blog...featuring Daily Drivel inspired by my favorite food group, Chocolate. The other 3 Main Big Girl food groups are Red Wine, Garlic & Dessert, but by far, Chocolate is the one that gets us through the day, isn't it?
Check out my website at www.bunkielynn.com for info about me, my books, my appearances, and what makes my world go 'round.
Daily Drivel for Monday, March 29:
Why is it that I, a middle-aged Big Girl, can just LOOK at a carbohydrate and that carbohydrate will automatically attach itself to my thighs? Let's review how much I'd give right now for a chocolate chip cookie (ok, I'm actually craving the entire box) but my orthopedic surgeon has advised me to stay on the South Beach Diet, otherwise known as The Beached Whale Diet, because if I don't lose some weight, I'll be pulling myself around in a little cart, and this is not an easy thing for a Big Girl without much upper body strength to accomplish.
Ok, so I've lost 16 pounds. Big whoop! I've got double-digits to go and there are just so many ways you can cook lettuce to make it appealing, you know? I'd give my left mammary for a big plate of Southern fried chicken, mashed taters n' gravy, a coupl'a Cathead biscuits with honey, and a big cold glass of milk. But instead, I have this to look forward to: A plateful of lettuce, cucumbers and celery, topped with a dry chicken breast and 1 microgram of salad dressing. Oh, don't let me forget, for dessert, there's a blueberry in there somewhere, I think, with one drop of Cool Whip. Did you realize how many ways there are to use Cool Whip as a dietary supplement? No, I didn't think so.
Well, I've whined away more precious time. But it's my Blog, so get over it or I'll smack you with my celery sticks.
Stay tuned!
Women of all sizes who have ever faced weight issues, hormonal fluctuations, jerky relationships and the unkindness of strangers will laugh out loud at my tongue-in-cheek "advice" on How to Live Life as a Big Girl with Attitude!. You can order the book at Amazon.com or Barnes & Noble.com, or get it at any bookstore.
Welcome to my Blog...featuring Daily Drivel inspired by my favorite food group, Chocolate. The other 3 Main Big Girl food groups are Red Wine, Garlic & Dessert, but by far, Chocolate is the one that gets us through the day, isn't it?
Check out my website at www.bunkielynn.com for info about me, my books, my appearances, and what makes my world go 'round.
Daily Drivel for Monday, March 29:
Why is it that I, a middle-aged Big Girl, can just LOOK at a carbohydrate and that carbohydrate will automatically attach itself to my thighs? Let's review how much I'd give right now for a chocolate chip cookie (ok, I'm actually craving the entire box) but my orthopedic surgeon has advised me to stay on the South Beach Diet, otherwise known as The Beached Whale Diet, because if I don't lose some weight, I'll be pulling myself around in a little cart, and this is not an easy thing for a Big Girl without much upper body strength to accomplish.
Ok, so I've lost 16 pounds. Big whoop! I've got double-digits to go and there are just so many ways you can cook lettuce to make it appealing, you know? I'd give my left mammary for a big plate of Southern fried chicken, mashed taters n' gravy, a coupl'a Cathead biscuits with honey, and a big cold glass of milk. But instead, I have this to look forward to: A plateful of lettuce, cucumbers and celery, topped with a dry chicken breast and 1 microgram of salad dressing. Oh, don't let me forget, for dessert, there's a blueberry in there somewhere, I think, with one drop of Cool Whip. Did you realize how many ways there are to use Cool Whip as a dietary supplement? No, I didn't think so.
Well, I've whined away more precious time. But it's my Blog, so get over it or I'll smack you with my celery sticks.
Stay tuned!
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