Housewife Savant

Michael B. Wendell, SUPERGenius, or If I Had Boobs I Could Pull This Off

2010-06-07T15:00:00.002-05:00

Mike’s right.
I need a cocktail.

Fear not. It’ll be okay.

You can have my AA chips.
Fifteen years’ worth.
Stack ‘em.
Roll ‘em up.
Put ‘em…

Luckily AA chips don’t need sunshine.

Vacation is thirty days out.

I’m back on the treadmill, but the results are slower than I’d like.

I feel good.
But who exercises to Feel Good?
I hate that person.

One hundred fatty-two pounds.
I weigh one hundred fatty-two pounds!

I’m fifteen pounds down, but I still look a fright.
If I had boobs I could pull this off.
But, NO.

I’m on the treadmill forty minutes daily.
It’s like dog years.
I like it.
I hate it.
I like it, slash; hate it.

I’m up before the crack of dawn.
I’m feeling it.

I called my foot doc.
He says, “You’re telling me the overhauled foot is your worst problem on the treadmill?”
“Wull, no,” was my snappy reply. “Now my FEELINGS hurt too.”

Wah-ha-ha.

I may go on vacation weighing one hundred fatty-two pounds with a sore foot and hurt feelings, but booze will help.
Mike says so.
And so does Google, so it’s got to be true.

Google says “Booze helps us relax”.
It says, “Booze helps to strike up a conversation”.
“Booze helps us to loosen our uptight and inhibited selves.” As. Per. Google.

Hey Doubters; if it wasn’t factual it wouldn’t be on the internet!

On the other hand; Google says nothing about portly Prince Fielder playing baseball in pajamas.

Google is silent about Flo Rida having pectoral implants.

Google gives you accurate references to Mayella Ewell when you search “chiffarobe”, but they got nothing definitive on how much fun can occur before somebody actually puts an eye out.

How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop?
Left to Google the world WILL never know.

How do you dress a one-hundred-fatty-two pound pear-shaped Savant this season?
Google’s got bupkiss.

But they say “Booze will help me forget,” so that’s the route I’m taking.

I Don't Belong Here

2010-05-21T19:52:00.004-05:00

Just weeks before It happened I had an epiphany.

A moment of clarity.

A bright spot in what I’d decided was maybe a mid-life crisis and surely a dry-spell for my blog.

I thought it was the loneliest time of my life.
I thought.

I thought about how I’d share my revelation with You, Dear Reader.
Cuz it was big.
It was important.
Then.

I realized our business with the church hurt so much because I thought I’d found a family.

I miss extended family.

The church is supposed to be brothers and sisters in Christ.

We’ll have fellowship and friendship, they told us.
We’ll be in agreement on matters of faith, they said.
We’ll learn and grow together, they declared.

They lied.

They broke my heart.

I was going to share that little gem with you, Dear Reader, but The Bottom Fell Out of my World.

We were sitting in the police station.
Where is she?
I felt as though I'd been eviscerated.
Where could she be?

I looked at Mr. Savant with his broad shoulders, his thinning flattop, and his salt ‘n pepper fumanchu.
And I saw a 17-year-old boy.

I was 21 again, and we were wet behind the ears at our first ro-de-o.

We were better than invincible. We were young. We hadn’t considered vincibility.
We hadn’t considered a 100-pound girl would someday bring us to our knees.

We didn’t sign up for a Runaway Daughter, I thought.

I remembered the night Gram died. Mr. held me while I cried my tears out.
This should be part of the wedding vows, I told him.

Forget about richer and poorer. Nevermind sickness and health.
I'll hold you when your loved one is gone forever.

I never thought we’d sit up all night waiting for our daughter to come home.
Wringing hands.
Jumping at the phone.
Rubbernecking every movement on our street. And praying.

That was a month ago, and I hate our New Normal.
I’d gladly make a heavy trade to get out of The Aftermath.

Take my car, my house, my stuff.
Gimme arthritis pain.
Gimme Gram’s death, my grief and anorexia.
I'll take marriage problems. I'll take heartache.
I'll take Mom’s cancer, Mom's death, and the loss of my first family.
I’d re-do church and lose that family again too!

I want my confidence back. I want to feel capable.
I want to feel lovable, and loved.
I want to stop second-guessing, wondering, and worrying.

Some days I just want to put the hurt on someone else.

I want to forget that I’m completely undone by this.

I want to exhale.

I'm Still Not Dead Yet, Hardly

2010-05-14T13:55:00.002-05:00

"Looking on the Bright Side with Kel" was going to be a Savant original.
I thought it’d be a great themed post. My goal was to tell you what things suck the least, despite the stack of odds against me.

I planned to use my stellar powers of observation and share pearls of wisdom in that ever-cheerful way of mine.
Remember my ever-cheerful way?
Well you can forget about it.

Turns out; the glass is not only half-empty, it’s fly-specked and chipped.

I got a Kindle for my bday. I’m also the proud owner of a new iPod touch.
How do you spell sedentary?

Since we last talked I’ve had several life-changing revelations, none of ‘em worth sharing.
There’s been upheaval in the Savant household, but I won’t bore you.
You want more about the kitties, but even they fail to inspire posts.
Vlad. Schmad.
(Darling HATES Vlad’s posts. Imagine.)

So I've got nothing.

Still; I sat down at the computer and in no time I was writing.

It was a “To Do” list.

For Mr.

If he doesn’t get busy I’m going to have to Do stuff.

I hate doing stuff.

“Get on with it,” I told myself gruffly.
And as quick as a wink I realized; I need a snack.

Before you can say “carbotose” I was sorting laundry in my mind while reclining on the patio.

After a short break for some TiVo 'n Me time, I knew I was ready.
For a shower.
And coffee.

All of a sudden it came to me; I should paint the blah-blah for the yadayadaya.
I remembered why I hate spray paint.

But I digress.

It's how I roll.

I really ought to be more organized when it comes to time management and project completion.

I figured my best bet would be ooo, shiny…

You Prob'ly Think This Post is About You

2010-03-19T11:51:00.004-05:00

Boogers are gross when the Daycare Kid wipes them on the sofa, possible funniness in post form.

Spit grosses me out. Can you make funny from spit?
Be my guest and fear not; I won’t quit reading your blog over spit.

Pee? Sometimes. When I laugh or cough real hard.
For the Over 40 pee is funny.
Golden gaming? I’ll drop you like a toilet paper breakthrough.

You can post about body hair, ear wax, and nasty diaper episodes.

I don’t fear illness, infection, incisions or injection.

I won’t balk at vivid descriptions of medical procedures. I’m fascinated actually.
I’ll look at pictures. Of. Your. Fissure.
Wanna see my surgery foot?

I think vomit is funny.
Tosh.0 is king.
As one reader said; I have a high threshold for yuk, and Tosh’s early episodes were frakken hil-ar-i-ty for the barf.

Sex? I’ve had it.
In the shower even.
That’s SO 1990’s. Like when I was in my 30’s. And Not Interesting to me. Not at my age.
Statistics say most accidents in the home occur in the bathroom, and I’m nothing if not cautious.

You mention shower sex and I think, “Cleanliness is next to godliness, but for heaven’s sake be careful!”

Bless you dear child. Your friends/readers think you're my Gross Out Girl.

Here it is. You asked for it.
Bloggers I Quit Reading and Why:

I left Carma Sez because of the reference to Eastern practices.

I quit Black Holes & Macrame cuz I didn’t even like astrology in college and I suck at crafts.

Rock ‘n roll is the devil’s music, so I’m through with Blog Rock and Rant Rave Roll. Keep in Touch With Mommakin has numerous references to hell’s harmonies. Fini.

elohssanatahw has a swear right in the title. Hiding it backwards is TOTALLY the devil’s work. Totally.

I dropped Family Trees May Contain Nuts because I fear it’s about men’s private parts, and Shaking the Tree sounds suspiciously naughty, as does Please Try Again. Buh-bye dirty girls.

feedingfamilyoffiveforfifty encourages my gluttony, causing me to sin.

I stopped reading the following blogs because of their references to demon alcohol: Happy Hour...Somewhere, my half-glassed life, Vodka Logic, and Vodkamom . Booze. Right in the monikers. Shame.

In My Mind It's Always Funny? In my mind she’s trouble.

Living In France is a lie! This blogger lives in the States. [gasp]

Read With Girlfriends sounds like a lesbian thing, as does The Daily Pie.

I’ve discovered the following bloggers use varying degrees of Christians swearing: FranticMommy, It's a July Thing, Bliss, and It's a Jungle Out There.
Even Thia Karen and Grandma Nina are guilty of using UNedifying words like "stupid" and "dumb". So I’m gone.

Mrs. Jelly Belly ought to be ashamed for the bacon bra. Sacrilege.

My Rambling Thoughts? Idle minds and all that. I'm gone. For shame. Sayonara.

I can’t encourage Nothing To Worry About when all my religious programming said God was angry. There’s worry aplenty.

positively neurotic me has obvious flaws in her moral character. Obviously.

Sara Spelled Without an H is simply unbiblical. Abraham’s wife boldly kept her H.

Sullivan & Murphy comes from Irish stock. You know what I say about the Irish.

Tampons & Chocolate? Immodesty. Right. There. In. The. Title.

The Domestication of the (Once) Single Girl is living in sin and she may or may not want to kill her future inlaws.

The V Spot? They’re Californians!

Wrestling With Retirement said "whore bath". OMG she said "whore bath"! WHORE BATH!

Wait a sec... Cleanliness IS next to godliness….

I Judge, Therefore I Condemn

2010-03-18T10:52:00.002-05:00

I don’t know if you’ve figured it out, but I’M your Minus One as of Wednesday.
I don’t want to slink away. I don’t want to expose you either.
You’ve exposed enough thankyouverymuch.

Between you and me - it’s Over the Top. And not in a Good Way. And it’s NOT been between you and me, like pals over coffee, or on a road trip, or falling-down, pre-crying-jag “I love you so-ho-ho much” drunk, which is when Normal People let that caliber of private sh*t fall from their mouths.
You BLOG about it, in excruciating detail.

If I was your mama, your sister, your BFF, or I randomly bumped into you on the street I would say “Jeez girl, that is gross, and waHAY too much information!”
But that’s just me. So instead I stop.
Commenting.
Reading.
Following.
Which is a shame because ~~my comments were nonexistent~~ ~~my absence will go unnoticed~~ when you’re not making readers uncomfortable you’re sharing some dang fun stuff.

Blog on. Say what you want.
Don’t go changing to try ‘n please me.

But understand that I can’t play along when the TMI you’re offering is in all actuality T(6) x M(3) x I(gag).
Reading the deets on your latest endeavor is Simply. Too. Much.

It’s not you; it’s me.

I’m not judging except to say you’re wrong, it’s bad, and I’m a better person.
Oh, that sounds like judging.

They've Got Balls

2010-03-16T18:40:00.004-05:00

The winner of Mom's Birthday GiveAway is "McVal" from Sew Not My Day.

But nobody puts Macey in a corner. "Mimi" of Living in France was #2.

Congrats ladies. Thanks for playing along.

Savantus Interruptus

2010-03-13T09:42:00.006-06:00

I had so much. To share. With you Dear Reader.
[insert sad face]

I had heartfelt stories of my tender youth.

There was poetry. And edelweiss.
The sound of harp music was everywhere and the whole of HS smelt like sugar cookies and sunny days.

I had anecdotes from my childhood without mention of secondhand smoke or tax evasion. (I didn’t say “stab”, “stabbed”, or “stabbing”, not once.)

I had recipes and homemaking pointers.

There were Ancient Chinese Secrets.

I had DIY brilliance and design tips better than HGTV’s finest hour (or half-hour) without the gay-on-gay cattiness. And without the crying.

I had stories to warm your heart and sharpen your mind.

I had tales of awe and wonder.

There was no swearing. And I only alluded to the V-word. I never actually said it.
You can’t do a post titled “M*rtha takes on David Bromstad” without referencing the V.

I had a frakken Don’t Stop Believin’ for Housewives. On. Deck.

When Daycare Mama came to get the kids she was "feeling puny", as they say.
I commiserated with her as we loaded kids into her car.

The fam and I went to dinner in a neighboring town.
Veni. Vidi. Vici.
I specifically vicied in that I consumed my goal weight in meat and veggies.
When I’m at the buffet I’m peacocking really. For the guy in the hairnet. (You know it’s you; Raul, or Rawl. I can’t read the neck tat. Is that infected?)

Anyway, I’m at the altar, loading my plate, wearing my wrist brace and loving the mounds of meat and bountiful broccoli... I'm wearing superfat pants and the harness that keeps me from hyper extending my lumbar region...
Eh...fast forward to the vomiting.

Cuz we love the Unholy Urlich. It’s nature’s way of snaking the drain.

And I post about it because sharing is solace, I tell myself.

This was the grippe, not Meniere's.

This wasn’t worth a meme, a ballad or sonnet.
It wasn’t worth a post, not this post, or several posts.
(PostS, as in plural? Who-the-hell does that? PostS about puke? EgadS.)

This was vomi typique.
Barfe ordinaire.

Move along people. There’s nothing to see here…
Or IS there?

What transformed this run-o-the-mill ralph into spew spectaculaire is not that my Mr undressed me with his eyes whilst I made suffering cries that are disturbingly like pleasure noises.
This wasn’t Meniere’s.
This Reverse Atkins was significant because it interrupted posting and left me with nothing.
That’s what this post is about; nothing.

I can’t tickle you with tales of my technicolor yawn.
This emesisal episode wasn’t merely as underwhelming as kissing your sister. This was like dry humping the ayatollah. Who hasn’t?

BOR-ing.
But being sick ran interference on my posts.

I can’t talk about the time I got drunk in math when there’s emesis. And a raging headache.
It’d be inappropriate to share Kel’s Amazing Penne after telling you I yakked. And layed on the sofa all day with a raging headache.
You don’t wanna know how the 206-pound cheer captain made me feel like a failure. Cuz she was simply an unhappy b*tch.

So I share the puking. Cuz it’s relevant.
It’s relevant to my “To Do” list.
It’s relevant to weight loss and the following Bucket List (updated and revised during a four-hour stint with my head in a bucket. Cuz it’s relevant, and I’m cerebral, classy, and totally appropriate like that.)

BL549 Item 1 - I want to faint before I die. Not right before, as in Unconscious Before Death, cuz that’s a gyp.
I’d like to faint with the back of my hand to my forehead, gracefully falling onto [someone else’s] anomalous piece of furniture. A chaise or a settee will do.
I want to live to talk about it. Or blog about it. I’d like pictures ["Somebody grab Mom's camera!"], but only if I don’t pee myself. Do you pee when you faint? See? I need the experience, so I can teach you.

BL549 Item 2 - I’d like to learn to read British.

BL549 Item 3 - Like my mother (and her mother before her); I’d like to lead an uprising. It’s in our blood to cause a revolt. We’re natural revolters and I’d like to claim my rightful title as revolting.

BL549 Item 4 - I’d like to talk in hushed tones with my arch nemesis using veiled threats while pretending to look at art.

BL549 Item 5 - I’d like to perfect a recipe for soup using household cleaning products. I’ve made several batches but I’ve got no takers. I’m not even a good cook with real food so there’s that.

BL549 Item 6 - I’d like to write a serious piece.
Several of my blogger friends write fiction (aside from their blogs, which are totally fabricated tales of their fabulous lives). I have a piece of autobiographical work on deck but I’m having difficulty gelling my intro as man-nip with meeting and having to reproof a certain American Idol judge. “My eyes’re up here, Ellen.”
I can’t write about the semester I used chemical courage to get through Comm101. I’ve been giving rainbow speeches all night.

Remember to enter Mom's Bday GiveAway. Winners will be picked on Monday!

Things Too Horrible to Write About; Mom’s Bday GiveAway!

2010-03-01T07:53:00.008-06:00

I wanted to open with a “Yo mama’s SO dead” joke, but there aren’t any good ones.

I thought I might list “Reasons to Be Okay with Your Mom’s Death”, but all I had was - No more guilt when you forget to send a card.
And that’s not even funny.

I longed for a clever way to open the post, because today would be Mom’s birthday, and she loved the Funny.
Just to be clear; Mom’s dead. Today is the Anniversary of her Birthday.
Last year some SITSta wished her a “Happy Birthday!” Yea, and Other Things Too Late to Say like, “Thank you for not smoking.”

Did you just SAY, "What an a**hole" OUT LOUD, or were you only thinking it?

Seriously, if I move you with tales of our close relationship it’ll cheapen jokes about her skills in a knife fight.
If I describe how much I loved her it’ll cast a pall over cracks about her utter failure to keep a clean house.
If I tell you how much I miss her it’ll diminish tales about her propensity to marry badly. Twice.

And that's some dang good Funny. I'm not giving up the LOL for anecdotes.
Mom wouldn't want that. She'd want Funny.

She would appreciate Housewife Savant.

She’d understand why I’ve got to get out of this backward hillbilly community and why I let Vlad live on our couch.
She’d laugh about my No-Care Daycare.
She’d love my cats. Who doesn't?

If Mom came back this is what she’d say:

“I've been dead 6 years, and I still look better than Robert Pattinson.”
“We're calling the Whole Thing 'vagina' now?"
“I'm hungry – why is there never any food in my house?”
“I can't believe I missed the winter Olympics twice!”
“Who's this 'John Mayer,' and why do people care about his sexual preference?”
“Heaven was great until Brett starting retiring, and all hell broke loose.”
“Cancer-schmancer – smoking soothes me.”
“When did douchey become a word?”
“I haven't been dead – I got TiVo.”
“Barack who?”

In honor of Mom’s If-She-Wasn’t-Dead-Today’d-Be-Her Birthday I got my craft on for a GiveAway.

Here’s how to win. (Ironically it’s also how many of you will lose.)*
Leave a comment - get an entry.
Follow this blog - (and let me know!) get an entry.
Post and link this giveaway on your blog (and let me know!) - get an entry.
Friend me on facebook - get an entry.
*Be sure I can contact you!

Two weeks from today I will be celebrating My Birthday, among the living, overeating and letting Mr. Spoil me for sure.
On March 15th, two winners will be chosen at random.
Winner #1 gets first pick. The second name drawn will get #2.
Even the dregs are delightful when there’s German glass glitter.

Happy Birthday Mom. Wish you ~~weren't dead~~ were here.

Here, Take This Placebo

2010-02-26T13:35:00.003-06:00

This isn't a post.
It's not a contribution to Friday Fragments.
I've never even heard of Mrs.4444 or Half-Past Kissin' Time.

This is a test. This is only a test. If there had been an actual post you would've read a gripping introduction, a full body, and a satisfying conclusion.
We now return to our regularly scheduled programming already in progress.

The loggerhead turtle is a pretty big deal on Edisto Island where we vacationed last summer.
The loggerhead turtle is Pro-Tected.
And they're serious.

In the office of the island’s version of park rangers there is a small gift shop.
Lame.
Piggly Wiggly had better souvenirs.

Ranger Rick’s Shit Shack had no flip-flop keychains, no nylon “surfer” bracelets, no seabird art. They had nothing covered in seashells.
They have t-shirts, sunglasses, coffee cups, and books. They had a lot of regional recipes; traditional Gullah fare and seafood recipes galore.
“Do you have ‘101 Ways to Cook Loggerhead’?” I asked.

Ranger Rick’s Shit Shack has shot glasses and whistles emblazzened with "Edisto, SC," but they DO NOT have a sense of humor.
The loggerhead turtle is Pro-Tected.
And they're serious.

Here in Southern Illinois Fox 23 is our channel 10, where we get channel six’s ten o’clock news at nine.

The following conversation took place between the hours of 10:00 and 11:00 PM:
Mr.: They have handbags you might like at that place that used to be a florist shop.
Me: Where?
Mr.: That storefront that always has ‘For Rent’ in the window.
Me: The place that used to be a pie shop-slash-trophy store?
Mr.: No, the place by the girls’ school.
Me: The hard luck rental? The place that was Gretch’n’s Floral, that always pissed me off cuz Gretch’n with an apostrophe is bumpkin stupid?
Mr.: No, the place that pissed you off because you thought a Florist Shop should have fresh flowers not just artificial.
Me: The shop with the cracked window with the tape?
Mr.: Yea.
Me: The duct tape?
Mr.: NO! The BLACK TAPE!
Me: The storefront with the collapsed carport? The one that used to sell comic books?
Mr.: NO! THE STOREFRONT WITH THE GANG SIGN SPRAYPAINTED ON THE DOOR BY THE BURNED-OUT HOUSE IN FRONT OF THE TRAILER PARK WHERE THE 'QUICK CASH' STORE USED TO BE NEAR THE BANKRUPTCY LAWYER THAT PISSES YOU OFF BECAUSE THEY'RE SHYSTERS!!!!
Me: The one by the auto detail place?
Mr. (screaming): HOLY SHIT YES!!!! They’ve got purses.
I'll be damned if I let you buy me a handbag now, Mr. Temper.

In May of ’04 I was grieving. I went to my stylist for a change. I wanted a new look.
It worked.
I got a haircut that said “My Mom Just Died.”

Baby Doll got a Magic Bullet for Christmas. She’s an infomercial addict, and the wonder blender has been on her wishlist since second grade.
For weeks following the holidays we kept her chained in the kitchen, making smoothies.
We discovered that some combos are evil, even with ice cream.
Bloody Mary is bad. So is California Roll.
I love radishes. Radish smoothies though? No.
Caesar makes good salad. Bad ice cream drinks.
And French Vanilla does not blend well with French Onion.

Dear Roxanne, He said, “You don’t hafta put on the red light.” Are you listening?

Dear Oscar Mayer, How do YOU spell bologna?

Dear Mr. Blue Sky, Why? Please tell us.

When you’re young; you take eight photos you’ll look great in six of them.
When you’re old you’ll hate all ten.
I’m So Old I look bad in pix that haven’t been taken yet.

Who Took My Whistle Pea?

2010-02-25T13:55:00.004-06:00

Mr. and I enjoyed another Date Night morning at Walmart.

It’s our Date Night because his schedule doesn’t allow us a lot of time together.

It’s our Date Night because Calvin’s impaired immune system means we don’t public much.

It’s our Date Night because there’s no way I’m taking two kids shopping by myself.

And really; it’s our Date Night because we’re That Good when we’re together.
We gel.
As long as Mr. doesn’t annoy me. Like when he turns the heat real high, or tries to freeze me. Or when he drives too fast. Also I don’t like it when he buys stuff we don’t need. I don’t like it when he tells me I can’t get something I want.
Otherwise it’s Always Fun.
Good Times.
Unless he turns on a radio station I don’t like. (Then I’ll reach over and snap off the radio with a vengeance. That’ll teach him.)

It was Date Night.

It had to be today because next week they’ll host Stereotype Reinforcement Training.
I don’t fare well at those events. (When not faring well means almost getting my throat punched).

Sheesh people. I’m trying to help.

I’m like a Life Coach, and you don’t even have to give up any of your dole. Keep your money for Dew and cigarettes.
The maximum allotment in [my county] Illinois is $294 a month for a Baby Momma.
Hang on to that. You’re gonna want to buy some calamine lotion for that thing on the side of your baby’s head.

As your life coach I’m alternating furrowed brow with haughty face to show you There’s a Better Way.
See my raised brows?

Free advice: clean up your act and you could rise to a higher station.
Better yourself and you could be Somebody Else.
You could be me.
It’s not that hard. I’ve set the bar way low.
For example; I Date Night at The Walmart, where YOU'RE shopping, with your crushed-face baby and all those hickeys. Flip flops? in February? Reeeeally.

So we’re there, at The Walmart. And I realize it’s easier for Nice People to go out in public, and I said so, to my Mr.

"Nice People don't have the burden of all this judging and condemning," I observed.

This started a flurry of epiphanic statements that were so profound they were life-changing.
I can’t remember it though.
I was tired.

I’m hardcore Atkins again.(Yea, yea, yea, and the check’s in the mail. No; seriously.) I am eating very carefully.
The key is being prepared, not starving to the point where I can't make a decision, I have a pounding heachache, and I'm standing in the kitchen staring zombiefied into the fridge, considering celery sticks dipped in mayo, and
Ooo...pickles...
For lunch.

At Walmart I had reached my expiration date, er; boiling point. Whichev.
I was hungry and cranky and all I wanted was for Mr. to get me out of the cart and buckled into the car.
Take me home dangit.
Ooo lookit all the pretty stereotypes…

Atkins is working.
Atkins works, and the proof is in the pudding. (And you thought I'd reference the diarrhea. Joke's on you. I'm not even mentioning it.)

Atkins HAS TO work for me this time.
I don’t normally weigh myself but I made an exception.
One hundred fatty-six.
One fatty-six!
OMGut.

John Mayer has tickets to see me next month.
No WAY he’s seeing Fat Savant.
I’m dieting.

I asked Mr., “If John Mayer offered me $35,000 to go to his bus would I have your blessing?”

Sometimes Mr. looks at me like I don’t have a brain in my head.

He said no.

“What about $50,000?” I countered cleverly.

“For $50,000 a guy like John Mayer’s not asking you to go to his bus for hot cocoa,” he said.

I know.
That’s why I’m bringing graham crackers to the concert.

Say anything untoward about John Mayer and I will forever shun you.
I shit you not.
I didn't spend Real Money on concert tickets because I hate him.
I'm a fan. A big fan.
But I hate Oprah, Kate Gosselin, Bono, Jodi Piccoult, Rachel Ray and Martha Stewart, as well as a plethera of other celebs whom I don't know for reasons I've not experienced.
Don't bash John Mayer here. Go read your Enquirer.

Are You There Blog? It's Me...

2010-02-23T16:54:00.003-06:00

Once upon a time…

[scribble, scribble, scratch]

It was a dark and stormy night…

[scribble, scratch, scratch]

It was a bright cold day in April and the clocks were striking thirteen...

After nearly two months SansSavant I’m at a loss how to get this party started.

[“oil can”]

Cake is out of the question as I’m All About the Atkins.
Again.
Alas.
Argh.
Agony.
(Is there an “A” word for the Big D? cuz it Applies. [Ahem.])

I’ve been too long Silent Savant and now I don’t know where to begin.
For FAT Savant it's under 20 carbs per day.
BLOGGING Savant says “It’s been a long time since the rocking of roll,” then her internal jukebox is plagued by an unnatural duet of Robert Plant and Vlad.

[drip]

[drip]

[drip]

I’m at a Loss For Words
And I can honestly say It’s Rare.
Exceptional.
Unthinkable.
Unheard of.
Uncommon.
RL Dead Air is Seldom.
Unheard of.
Out of the ordinary.
Infrequent.
I Talk on the inhale, so in RL it Never Happens.
Not ever.
No way.
At no time.
I Always have Words.
Consistently.
Eternally.
In perpetuum.

I have 17 pages of Posts on Deck, so WTHiatus?

So I says to myself; I says, “Self, how're you gonna start?”
Me not being much of a self-starter; this is hard.
"Plagiarism is the answer!" I exclaim, adding, "Could you please repeat the question?"

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
It was a pleasure to burn.
In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since.
You better not never tell nobody but God. Elmer Gantry was drunk.
I had the story, bit by bit, from various people, and, as generally happens in such cases, each time it was a different story.
Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, [this blog] must show.

I loathe sporadic bloggers who’re constantly opening their random posts with promises to be more faithful. Big Deal you didn't post.
I’m not Going There.
Big Deal I was gone.
Big Deal.

The earth continued to rotate around ~~celebrity gossip~~ the sun. The wind still blew horizontally and water was still wet. The mold on my neighbor’s house thrived (encroaching on the property line, if you must know), and rednecks raced ATVs up and down our street.
I stayed cool. HAGS

[Note to Vlad: You wanted to work on a post? Put a segue here. Thanks! - Kel]

My aunt was a big fan of the Christmas letter. My mom was close to her, but we still got a rose-colored update annually.
Auntie was so maudlin she glossed over Cousin NoName’s raging crab lice infestation and Mom lost it.
She wrote a hilarious satire that included my brother’s loss of a limb and one of us being confined to an iron lung after a bout with polio.

PSA
It should be said that polio is NOT funny. Some of my readers are already taxed by the Sounding Out of Words and I don't want them to worry that I'm laughing at polio.
Polio is bad and scary, like southern belles who wear stacked heels with jeans and insist on going high makeup for a trip to Kroger. Scary is divas who take a first grader for an eyebrow wax and hair extensions in preparation for Picture Day. Southern prima donnas are scarier than finding a cave cricket in your box of eight tracks.

Uh-oh. There's the salt in Savant.
See? Snark and sarcasm.
Satire is what you’d get if I tried to bring you up-to-speed.

I don’t know WHATiVo happened to cause the Intertestamental Period at HS.
I neglected my blogiversary.
But really; who cares that I didn’t gift you for my Big Day? I should be getting the swag.
One Year.
Happy me.

[crickets]

Seventeen pages of draft.
Work on deck includes dozens of clever terms, quips, and phrases.
I’ve got a buttload of random gems and full posts from self and Vlad.
I’ve got award acceptance and memes.
Okay, that’s a lie.
That last part; not the clever terms, quips, and phrases, random gems and full posts from self and Vlad. THAT I've got.
Got 'em in spades.
In other words I’ve got nothing.

Blame it on Netflix.

Jen Lancaster did it.

It’s Walking Daycare Baby’s fault. I have to watch that child like a hawk.
I know; right?
He touches stuff.

My Fabulous Kitchen is done. Those of you who know me on facebook have seen photos. They’ll make it here. Or no.

When I’m not channeling my Inner Gay with kitchen accessories I’m getting my Easter on.
We got Easter (now that we HAVE Easter), and I want it to be Over The Top when The Darlings come in April.
This year’s motto is, “If it doesn’t bleed it should be coated in German glass glitter.” (Get it here.)

I am an inmate of a mental hospital; my keeper is watching me, he never lets me out of his sight.

bright cold day -George Orwell, 1984
If you really want to hear - J. D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye
best/worst times - Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities
pleasure to burn - Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451
more vulnerable years - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
tell nobody - Alice Walker, The Color Purple
Elmer Gantry was drunk - Sinclair Lewis, Elmer Gantry
a different story – Edith Wharton, Ethan Frome
the hero of my own life - Charles Dickens, David Copperfield
mental hospital - Gunter Grass, The Tin Drum

I'm Not Gonna Write You A Love Song

2010-01-02T14:51:00.003-06:00

Mr. Savant and I spent a quiet New Year’s Eve at home with Netflix and TiVo, multiple Blu-rays and DVDs.

It was a Very Video Christmas at the Savant household, and I’ll weigh 300# by March.
Especially since I eat my feelings.
Especially since I feel bad.

I harshed the hillbillies in an earlier post.
I harshed ‘em hard, and I feel bad.

Things had been brewing for a while and a rant was on deck.
I knew it’d be callous but coarse is my calling.

But I had no intention of bashing beyond the borders of my bailiwick.

Darling SIL pointed out I’d likely offended everyone south of some oft-referenced line that I thought had been erased at Appotomax.

I offended .002 reader.

I offended The Other Southern.

I’ve been offered medical advice and prayer.
I’ve been accused of being judgmental, and I may or may not have been threatened with legal action.
I’ve been lambasted and castigated (“southern fried”) on another blog and I’ve been presented with the hayseed mantra, “Bless your heart”. (It means “Eff you” in hickochristianity.)

All because in my writing I was NOT specific to what irritated me about my southern community.
I’ve read the dirty post again and I’m aghast.
Holy smokes Kel.
WTHorrible?

Please be clear Dear Reader, that I do hate the Southern [in Southern Illinois] that reveals utter ignorance because they don’t public well.
I do despise that [part of Southern Illinois living] which will make selling my house a painful experience, and I won’t miss the careless [Little Egypt] good ol’ boy/girl that makes sport of bad driving.

But I’m NOT offended by the Unmet Southern, the Southern I Don’t Know, or The Stranger Southern, as my Yank friends like to call ‘em.
Speaking for everyone in the Union; we love the Working Southern.
I have a lot in common with the Educated Southern. And who doesn’t admire Billpaying Southern?
I think the Full Hair and Makeup Southern is ~~blogworthy~~ ~~fun to watch~~ admirable.

I meant to address an annoying aspect of the southern living that is HERE, in Southern Illinois, and while this southernality has nothing to do with secession, it has everything to do with culture.

The yokelocity of this region is off the charts.
Attitude 100% redneck.
Latitude 37.705553.

I can holler into Southern Kentucky and can’t spit without hitting a kentuck.
I am further south than all but a sliver of the Bluegrass State.
I’m further south than both the Virginies.

And on New Year’s Eve that meant gunfire and police cars interfering with Netflix and TiVo, multiple Blu-rays and DVDs.

Southern Illinois IS south, where south equals [the stereotype of] bass ackward living.
Thing is; I’m intolerant of bass ackward living.

All Pollacks are intolerant.

Oh yea; we’re going there.

Oooo...I'm Shaking

2009-12-28T13:37:00.004-06:00

The Chinese say 2009 was The Year of the Ox.
The Chinese’re wrong.

Sushi reveals the error of their ways.

What?
Sushi isn’t Chinese?

Whatev.

I blame the Chinese for Oriental Trading Company, toys with lead, and flip flops that’ll cook the skin off your feet.

And that Chinese finger trap isn’t so clever.

As for the ox; it’s said that not many people equal the resolution and fearlessness that the ox exhibits when deciding to accomplish a task.
That’d be me.
So 2009 was The Year of the Savant, I tell myself.

I kicked 2009’s butt, where butt-kicking equals I rolled with the punches.

The year began with kitchen renovation ~~in progress~~ at a standstill.
Calvin’s chemotherapy slowed things down at Miss Kelly’s House of Torture Daycare.
In February we left our church, severing fellowship with organized religion and fundies in general.
Daycare Baby came to MKHOTD in mid-March.

I was one of SITS’ Saucy Blogs in April. I posted like Tiger on tour, and I got ~~a rash that couldn’t be identified~~ .07 new readers.
We celebrated a non-fundie Easter (read; candy, eggs, gifts, and the “B” word.)
We were hit by an inland hurricane in May. It was remarkable.
Also in May; my Meniere ’s disease flared significantly. I missed an Anberlin concert.
I fought the law in June. (Spoiler Alert: the law won.)

Our family vacationed on Edisto Island in July.
In August I began an online class to maintain ASHA certification as a Speech-Language Pathologist.
I got a total blog makeover in September. Vlad may or may not have taken up permanent residency.

Darling and I saw Phantom of the Opera in October.
We also saw Anberlin.

More importantly; Anberlin saw me. I was near the front, on the right, between the lesbians and the STD.
In November I only posted thricely, but you loved me still.
December saw the completion of kitchen renovation. A new year is upon us, and I hope yours is prosperous.

As for 2009; it was rode hard and put away wet.

I set admirable goals which I conquered, amended or ignored, and I’d like to take a moment to highlight my accomplishments while downplaying my failures.

I resolved to take more medication; use more products on my hair, my skin, and in my home.
Check. I used joint compound, liquid nails, caulk, primer, paint, mastic, grout and grout seal. We used some o' that stuff while working on the kitchen too.

I let the car idle when I was about. I ran the AC in hot weather and the heat when it was cold.
I used more makeup, kept my ‘stache bleached and my roots dark[ish]. I looked fabulous, I tell myself, and resolutions are relative.

I resolved to floss. I did floss. I have flossed. I do floss. I’m a flosser.
I organized my ideas file. Booya.

I wanted to glean a curbside treasure and reuse/recycle/repurpose. No one threw away anything good.
I went to a rummage sale. Some of that stuff should’ve been thrown away.

I committed to continue home improvement until everything was improved. Kitchen work took all of 2009, so it counts.

I didn’t work out, dangit.
I swore I would not go back to eating like there’s no tomorrow. But what if this time there really IS no tomorrow?
Better safe than sorry, I always say.

I wanted to learn a new craft. I installed tile. I’m counting it.
I determined to learn how to use the PS3 to play DVDs. I got the PS3 remote. I’m counting it.
I said I’d learn how to slap Sackboy on Little Big Planet. I slapped one of my kids while she was playing LBP. I’m counting it. (And I’m kidding.)

I went to a movie every month. I like this resolution. I’m keeping this resolution. I intend to Movie Alone before the year is out.

I determined to treat Mr. like the stud that he is, and my little girls as though they’d married and moved out.
I wanted to man-UP the dog.
Instead; I treated my kids like dogs, my man like a child, and most days I want to stab our Boston Terrier. Anyone want a dog?

I had hoped to meet a hobo and ask him his story. Instead, I judged and condemned every panhandler I saw, which is basically assuming I know their stories, right?
It counts.

The Chinese say ’10 is the tiger.
I'm betting it’s not Tiger Woods. You don’t have to be clairvoyant to predict he’s going to have a rough year.

So is it Tony the Tiger?
The Detroit Tigers?
Tiger BEAT?

Oh boy, a new year.
It’s exciting, and a little scary.

Do I goal on? or simply let sleeping blogs lie?
What victories shall I claim in the upcoming year?

Should I set my sites on fitness goals? projects for our house? new crafts/skills?
How about reading x number of books?
Riveting.

Because I’m a master of accomplishment I know it’s necessary to stretch myself.
I need challenge, where challenge equals something with little difficulty and much reward.

I’ve got ideas.
I’ve got plans.

I’m forward-thinking like that, and I already know how I’m going to make 2010 my girlfriend, where making a girlfriend means rolling with the punches, and oooo, I’m shaking.

You NEED Me On That Wall

2009-12-20T18:08:00.007-06:00

I finally got the kitchen of my dreams and Mr. says to me, he says, “We may be needed elsewhere.”
I know “we” means HE, because my skill set is best suited to a vegetative state.

Lemme back up…

Remember me? I’m Housewife Savant.
I used to have a blog here.
You know, a weblog; articles written and posted in chronological order, often with photos, links to other articles, and reader comments.
A blog; capiche?

IT WAS RIGHT! HERE!

I blogged with intensity. I blogged with compassion.

I blogged with bloggy excellence.
My posts were ripe with wit and sarcasm.
I left my 2.6 faithful readers laughing and crying at the same time.

Like a blogasm.

Now do you remember me?

I had a following.
We had banter, my people and I.
They left such comments as:
My love for you continues to grow.
You have become the fiber of my soul, the very reason for my existence.
I never thought I had the capacity to love anybody as much as I love you.

We were like family, minus the drinking and the stabbing, of course.

Remember me?

I’m Kel, and you’re glad you’re here.
If you’re new; it’s nice to meet me.

Merry Christmas!

You can say “Happy Holidays” if you want.

You can celebrate Kwanza, or Solstice, Festivus, or Card Playing Day for all I care.

Happy [it], from me to you.

I’m ex-fundie, and I’m not about to force the Christmas issue.
As a matter of fact, I’m all about the not forcing of issues these days, despite the fact that I'm highly intelligent and I know what's best for you.

I don’t care if you say the “C” word.

No sir.

I’m ex-fundie, and I don’t believe ranting and raving is ever going to pique your interest in spiritual matters.
No sir.

I’m a born-again Christian.
I believe what God says in His word.
I’m a liberated believer and I will NOT insist that you do what I do.

I’m Kel, and you’re glad you’re here.
You probably want to get to know me. Most people do.

I’m more fun than a sack of confused weasels.

I’m not just amusing. I’m knowledgeable.
I Googled “The Smartest Woman in the Universe” and I got my own blog.

I mocked my way through an online course at the Redneck Academy of Hillbilly KnowHow and I got an “A”.
That settles it: I’m a Confirmed Genius.

My husband is smart too. He’s handsome, and he’s built like Daniel Craig.
He’s crazy about me.

We have a close, loving family.
We’ve got three marvelous, affectionate daughters and a wonderful son-in-law.

We have two amazing cats.

Should I mention that I’m gorgeous?
I have spectacular hair.

Aside from the aforementioned credits at Hillbilly U I’ve got a buttload of real education from a genuine college.
I have a lot of money and expensive things.
And I blog.

I live a Charmed Life, it’s true.

But you don’t want to be me.

I’m Super Fabulous, but you don’t want to be me.

Truth is; you can’t handle the truth.
You can’t handle being me.

Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful. Dear Reader; I suffer.

I suffer because I live in the south.
Southern Illinois IS south, where south equals bass ackward living.

Effing hillbillies.

Lately I’ve been keenly aware of their constant and total stupidity.
Living in the south has lost its charm.
The bloom is off the rose, man.

No amount of fair weather can make up for what’s missing down here; common sense and decency.
Southerners are lazy.
Blame the warm weather. Blame malaria. Blame emancipation and the downfall of their economy.
Whatev, Gomer.

Southerners live like pigs and I am tired of the stupid.
I can’t run to the store without wanting to stab someone.
Blame me for that, cuz I’m smarter than everyone else and I know how to work a four way stop.
Blame me, cuz I don’t leave the house in pajamas.
Blame me, cuz I think rotten teeth, raging meth sores, three different-colored babies, four hickeys and a black eye say more than "You must be a hopeless romantic".

Blame me, cuz a house isn't supposed to have wheels, and the only stamps I use are for postage.

Southerners ARE the stereotype you see on television.
Imbecility is the norm.

Ignorant speech is customary.
Poverty is rampant, as are poor manners.

These people are lazy and dirty.

I'm not an intellectual. I don’t speak in King James English. We’re not rich (despite my previous claim to wealth. I lie.)

I’m not Emily Post, unless she’s known to talk with her mouth full and frequently interrupt.

I shower, almost daily. And I clean my house. Ish.

Thing is; I’m intolerant.

(It was part of my charm when I had a blog. Does it ring any bells yet?)

Did I mention that I’m a political conservative?

I didn’t support our current administration, but I’m pretty happy with one of his recent decisions.
Dick Durban finally convinced Obama that Illinois is the place to house those GITMO boys.
Mr.’s current facility was in the running, but they’ve chosen a location several hours north of here.

North.

[clouds part]

North.

[choir sings]

North.

[etc.]

Amidst Civilized Folk.

Thank God, cuz I’d rather have Khalid for a neighbor than to live next to the Clampetts.

I finally got the kitchen of my dreams and Mr. says to me, he says, “We may be needed elsewhere.”

I know “we” means HE, because my skill set is best suited to a vegetative state.

Even more ironic than deciding to move the same week we finally complete our 16-month renovation is the fact that I look Just Like the guy.
I’m Kel, and you’re glad you’re here.

I Can Fly Higher Than An Eagle...

2009-12-04T14:00:00.002-06:00

My 3.4 faithful readers know I’ve been happily participating in an online course with the widely respected John A. Logan College of Higher Learning, Fashion Flawlessness, Hygienic Excellence, and All-Around Awesomeness.

Here’s what JALC has to say about JALC…

“John A. Logan College offers dynamic programs for students of all ages and backgrounds.”
They’re NOT referring to the redneck retiree/unwed mother ratio.

“John A. Logan College offers a two-year college transfer curriculum that is articulated with all four-year universities in Illinois and select out-of-state.”
Do NOT take that to mean “a handful of Real Colleges have heard of us.”
I’d be offended.
JALC is high falootin.

They boast “some of the finest career preparation curriculums in the state,” which goes way beyond Sausage-Making 101 and Selling on eBay.

JALC offers “retraining programs necessary to regain the competitive edge in the labor force.” Jobless men and women learning Wang 1200 on their Commodore 64s.
"The south's gonna do it again..."
Ninety percent of their toilets are indoors.

They have “over 500,000 square feet of attractive and functional facilities that provide a great atmosphere to enhance your educational opportunities.” Lots of parking. Electricity. Running water. It's cold water only, but hot water is coming in '11.
All the stairways have handrails, and thanks to the ADA there are door chocks at each entry.

JALC is all about quality and affordability. They’re like the Aldis of colleges.
They’re ranked the “fifth best community college in the country by one national publication.” [Swank]

This course is the best thing I’ve done in years, a brilliant use of my time and Mr.’s money.
I’m a better person for it.
I used to be a stay home mom with student debt and a huge unused education.
Now I’m a stay home mom with student debt, a huge unused education and 3 credits in Kid Lit from JALC.
I can feel it working.

It is my prayer that my words of edification were a blessing to my classmates, like the time I encouraged a collegue to look into JALC's online spelling courses and when I suggested an ice flow retirement for another.

I’m sure my instructor won’t soon forget me.
She recently bestowed upon me the prestigious title “Student of Excellentness and Goodness in Studyment,” which is a huge honor here in the south.
I got a certificate (Suitable for Framing!), a $7 Denny’s gift card and two-and-a-half packs of smokeless tobacco.

I’ve said all along that Professor Perceptive was Top Notch. Her discernment and keen judge of character along with superior intelligence are what secured her the job at such a venerated institution.
I love her so much.

Oh, We're TALKING About This

2009-12-01T08:24:00.001-06:00

"The problem is not inside your head", he said to me
“You’re like your mom more than you ever thought you’d be.
If we were wealthy, there’d be plastic surgery.
Cuz there’s like; fifty ways you’re like your mother.”

He said “It's really not my habit to intrude
Furthermore, I hope you won’t get peeved or I know I’ll be screwed.
But I'll repeat myself; I wish you looked better nude.
There must be fifty ways you’re like your mother.
Fifty ways you’re like your mother.

You look bad from the back, ack.
You’ve got old hands, man.
You look like a boy, oy.
You’re long in the teeth.
Lookit your small bust.
There’s no need to discuss much.
Take it from me, gee,
You need surgery.

You look bad from the back, ack.
You’ve got old hands, man.
You look like a boy, oy.
You’re long in the teeth.
Lookit your small bust.
There’s no need to discuss much.
Take it from me, gee,
You need surgery."

He said “It grieves me so. It looks like you’re in pain.
I wish there was something I could do to make you young again.”
I said sarcastically “Would you please explain
About the fifty ways?”

He said “Why don't we both just sleep on it tonight?
And I believe in the morning you'll begin to see I’m right.”
Well, that just pissed me, and I realized we were gonna have a fight.
Cuz there’s like; fifty ways I’m like my mother.
Fifty ways I’m like my mother.

I'm Just Not Myself When I'm Away

2009-11-28T17:34:00.004-06:00

If I were to blog in serious language, without my comic brilliance, sarcasm and sexual innuendos, you’d know me for my boring.
If I corrected bad sentence structure and punctuation I’d lose my savor.
Without Vlad you’d miss Vlad.

If I didn’t complain about stupid hillbillies you’d forget that I’m ~~a loudmouthed Pollack~~ The Smartest Woman in the Universe.
If I didn’t mention my advanced intellect you’d forget that I live with the constant aggravation of Dumb People whom I call Everyone Else.
If I didn’t complain about my online class through Cornball Community College you’d disremember my sense of superiority.

Remember Pluto, so you can appreciate Uranus.

I have to mention things like poops, chin hairs and occasional private busyness to spice up my posts.

I’ve heard that simple matters are entertainment for the unwashed masses, and I want to appeal to the common man.

Housewife Savant is not Real Life.
I do this ~~because I have no RL~~ for your viewing pleasure.

I post about my cats because they’re extraordinary. You don’t even want to know Kel-sans-Kitties.
I write about Daycare Excellence cuz otherwise it’d be Kathy Lee and Hoda for you.
You want to hear that I’m a crappy mom so you can feel better about yourself.

You don’t want to see my luxurious hair, smooth skin, my perfect body, or my pretty face.
You don’t want to know about my mad crafting skills or see pix of my tastefully decorated house.
I won’t make you jealous by posting about my smart, well-behaved kids or my adoring husband.

I come down to your level to build you up.
This is not who I am.

My life is perfect.
Well, just about perfect…

I live in the hood.
I live in the hood in the south, which is worse than living in your run-o’-the-mill hood, because a lot of southerners perceive low class as normal, and no amount of police or community action is addressing the madness on this side of town.

I live in the hillbilly hood.

I wish I could ignore it. I wish I could let it slide like water off a duck, but the crazy, trashy aspects of southern living are a bane to me.

Now we’ve got a New Crazy shuffling up and down the alley behind our house.

Is he counting? Does he stop to count?
What on earth is he doing with his hands?
Is that a beard? or dirt?
It’s 65 degrees. Why is he wearing all those layers?
Agh. I can smell him from the patio!

Move along old man... is my silent prayer... there’s nothing to see here.

Too many shiftless jobless shameless hillbillies have stopped to ask if we want "help" hauling away our construction debris.
So when the New Crazy wandered into the yard I was on the D-fense for sure.

I'm nervous/scared, and I might could Lose My Cool if he makes any fast moves.

The cadaver smell is pretty much gone from the crawlspace, I tell myself. There’s room for one more.

People knock on our door asking for handouts. That’s southern livin’ at its finest.
They don’t always ask for cash. Lately they've been wanting the crap from our demo pile.
Like telemarketers of trash, only they're at my DOOR, and they always have a lean and hungry look (where "lean and hungry" is code for unstable. Oh yeah; it IS. Never mind.)

One particularly unfortunate welfare, I mean; woman, came to our door, insisting that her man needed our cast iron sink and the swingsets we’d disassembled.
For scrap.

Her man was a junk man.
Her junk man was sitting in the truck, parked in the middle of the road while she begged at our door.
I let her have the junk. A treasure for her junk man.
Junk Man backed into the driveway, a romantic gesture that made it easier for his meal ticket to load the swag into the bed of the truck.

He was a junk man, and a lot of other things.
I noticed, cuz I’m skilled like that.

Whenever "skilled" equals judging and condemning I am Mad Talented.

I suck.
I’ve read it on bumper stickers so it MUST be true.
It says "Mean People Suck". And I am. Mean.
I'm meaner than a gut-shot hog.

I’m superbly gifted and sadly uncontrollable when I get my judging and condemning on, which is only always.

I loathe other people.

These days I only like my family.
Specifically; I like the family I’ve created.

They’re pretty much my Love Roster en toto.

We spent Thanksgiving with The Darlings.
Darling Daughter makes Thanksgiving her girlfriend. Every corner of her home is decorated. There are snacks galore, and we always have fun.
Just being together is fun.

We returned late last night.

It was nice to wake up in our own bed.
After 45 minutes of sucking coffee like a zombie savoring a fistful of warm brain I noticed there was a beautiful pink sunrise.
It was a glorious “Welcome Home to the Hood.”

In the afterglow of Thanksgiving I decided to turn over a new leaf.
I’m donning a new attitude toward my ~~lowlife~~ neighbors.
See; I crossed out the judging and condemning. They're still trash, but I'm pretending that I don't notice. This is New Kel.

This morning’s sunrise altered The Hood like a pair of rose-colored glasses.

Until today I hadn’t noticed that green moldy siding appears lavender at dawn.

The plants growing in my neighbor’s rain gutter looked like they were blossoming in the surreal pink light.

The plastic bags hanging in the trees swayed gently. Warm rays of early sun sparkled on the frost that covered half a dozen scattered trashcans surrounded by shoulder high weeds.

Steaming piles of dog poop were a sight to behold in the stillness of such a crisp morn.
A yapping Dachshund played in sweet harmony with a howling Beagle, whist the roaring carwash provided a rumbling baseline for a morning concert that was like no other.

A stray cat with the flesh torn off of the top of its head huddled inside a cast-off clothes dryer.

A small squirrel nibbled on the flesh of its dead rival.

Old Kel would’ve failed to appreciate such splendor.
NEW Kel gives thanks to the neighbor for providing the car on blocks that shelters those rascally rodents. How many times have YOU seen a half dozen three-legged squirrels? Hmm?
It's a genetic anomoly, I mean; delight, and henceforth the New Kel is going to be thankful every time one of those special squirrels threatens to attack from the power lines next to the garage.

I’m thankful that the neighbor's cinderblock shed is still ~~leaning~~ standing. ~~When it goes it'll crush what the Hurrinado left of our fence.~~ The neighborhood wouldn't be the same without the Feral Cat Love Shack. I am thankful that the remaining walls and portions of wall buffer the sound of feline pleasure.

I'm thankful for my extended neighborhood, cuz the goodness doesn't stop right here at 1234 My Street.

I’m thankful that the Retard Neighbors have adopted a third dog. So what if it poops in my yard? While I’m yelling at the Retard Son I get a chance to see the Retard Daddy who’s my Retard Neighbor Boyfriend. More importantly; he sees me.
Until he scurries away, leaving his kid to face my wrath alone simply because he took hold of the leash hooked to the slow pooper.
I’m thankful because while I’m hollering at Retards, at least I’m talking to those neighbors.

I am thankful that Mr. and Mrs. Lowered Expectations got rid of their burn barrels.
I saw them out-of-doors for the second time since February, and “Art” (short for Arteriosclerosis) didn't collapse and I didn't have to vault the fence to do CPR.
I. Am. Thankful for that.

I am thankful that Jed and Tackie are keeping the romance, despite the doubters and haters, proving that the man CAN be the girl, if she’s man enough.

I'm thankful that our There-Goes-The-Neighborhood Neighbor hasn’t had any cell phone screaming matches on her porch since the weather turned. I’m thankful for that.

I’m also thankful that Boo Radley can use his left arm again. I saw him reach around to turn off his oxygen when he wheeled out for a smoke. Hopefully that means he can smack the grandson that screams at him when he hesitates to share his government check.
I'm thankful that he can afford cigarettes on the dole, and that Section 8 provides so many housing options in my neighborhood.

I’m thankful that Party House West has been quiet since the fire, and numerous visits from the police, the ASPCA, the housing authority, and Child Protective Services.
I'm thankful that one of the wives moved out. I am thankful that it’s the scariest-looking one that left.
(I’m almost afraid to comment on her lest I get infected. I mean; I’m thankful that I’m not infected. Yay New Kel!)

I’m thankful that Party House East has halted painting. Sure it leaves bare rotted wood, but today I noticed how nicely it goes with the cooked and mossy shingles on their roof.
Plus the drunken painters and their loud music are gone from Party House East.
The dogs at Party House East aren’t barking at the drunken painters and their loud music.
My daycare kids aren’t awakened by barking dogs, loud music and drunken painters, and PHE has thinned out their dog collection.
I'm thankful that Party House East is down from eight dogs to five dogs.
Or six if you count the dead Husky in the carport.
Something’s been at it, so we’ll say it's a Half-Husky.
I'll say I'm thankful that Party House East has 5.5 dogs instead of eight and I'll leave it at that.

And I’ll be thankful for crows, raccoons or opossums. Whatever ate the other half of Half-Husky is a blessing in my [newly opened] eyes.

Old Kel would suspicion that the drunken painters at Party House East killed Carport Half-Husky, because CWH-Live attacked drunken latino painter two weeks ago.
But New Kel won't even mention it, because it involves ~~telling you that Drunken Latino Painter wandered to the wrong side of the house to pee~~ talebearing.

It was a spectacle, Old Kel would point out, and she'd regale you with a detailed story, leaving out none of the ~~awesomeness~~ horrors.

But New Kel is focusing on thankfulocity.
New Kel is thankful that Carport Half-Husky is rotting fast, and it's in a little bit of a hole.
Rotting Carport Half-Husky is less stinky, especially when it’s partially buried. Yay!

There’s just so much to be thankful for.

Like shallow graves and rapid decomposition.
Cuz if New Crazy comes around again I’m thinking about killing him.

And these days I’m thankful for room in the crawlspace.

I Would Do It for Profit, Everybody Loves Me, Part II

2009-11-10T15:58:00.010-06:00

I was flattered and excited when I was asked to do a guest post at a popular Mommy blog that I read.
It was a spark that kindled several small fires, which could be dangerous, as you know, depending on nearby material.

Lucky for you, I never have any material, nearby or otherwise.

I thought about telling the story of my 2004 trip to NYC where I uncovered secret treasure beneath an ancient church.

I thought maybe I’d talk about giving a kidney to my sister or my budding collection of porcelain owls.

[If] I was honored as Woman of the Year in my city. I could post about that.

I could write about Cave Crickets, my charming cats, or Mom’s stabbing of Dad.

But it’s been done. Everyone’s tired of it, I’m sure.

(Where "tired" equals intrigued.)
Then I realized the hosts wanted a post with tips/advice, or a how-to article.
The dam burst.

The dam of ideas!!!!

It’s been said that I am The Smartest Woman in the Universe.
Do I have ideas?
Bells yes I have ideas! What part of "Housewife Savant" are you not getting?

I could do “Turn Neglect into Daycare Excellence”, or “How to Keep In-Home Daycare from Ruining Your TV Viewing”.
A pictorial called “How NOT to do Home Waxing” is already on deck.
And “How to Use the Remote Control” is a personal best for me. I could share that.

“Playing FreeCell – A Vlog Tutorial” seems natural for someone whose skill set is suited to being bedridden.

(Housewife Savant to vegetative state is a lateral move.)

What’s say I post “How to Handle Yourself at a Redneck Laundromat”? It’s begging to be done.
The mere thought of it turns me into a squealing Kathy Griffin.
Plus twenty pounds.
Minus the surgery.
And the money.
And minus the gays. I don't have gays.

A hillbilly laundromat is a septic tank of blog fodder akin to lunching with Lindsay Lohan, Carrie Prejean, and John Gosselin.

We’re eating at a swanky place, snubbing the Kardashians at the next table, and Levi Johnston picks up the tab after laying down the dish.
A visit to a southern laundromat beats hanging out with those famous ~~mouthy whores~~ housewives. THAT’s how good/bad it is.

But what Really Matters is that I Have Arrived. I’m IN, as in-vited to guest post.

All the cool kids guest post, I thought, and after this The Sky's the Limit. The offers’ll pour in.

If I wasn’t so humble I’d tell you I was asked to GP because I'm Marvelous. In truth; it’s all kinds of tasteless to mention my Greatsomeness. If there’s one thing I’m not it’s a gauchebag.

In very truth; the genre of Women-Helping-Women/Mommy Blogging is huge, and those who do it well do it well.

It’s a natural venue for guest posts because a single blog can get and give exponentially more than its sum in total by multiplying the addition of its parts, logarithmically speaking.

I wanted to guest post so’s to increase my readership (which is really more of a readerskiff).

I’m slated for a surge of new followers, unless a surge of new followers requires anything remotely like an influx of new posts.

I won't guest post. There'll be no flood of new readers coming here from there.

I kinda don't have time. I really don't have ideas.

I definitely probably would might offend.

The invitation said they thought I was “cute.”

Darling asked, “Have they READ Housewife Savant Mom??”

Okay, I obviously know whose a** ya gotta kiss to get a guest post, OR the hosts were trolling the interwebs for an unknown to do a parenting post about tweens/teens.
(THAT notion reveals the fact that I’m an Older Mom. THAT notion severely reduces the flatter factor. THAT notion must remain unspoken or be mentioned only with profuse sweating and nervous laughter.)
I was invited to do a guest post because I am Wonderful, I tell myself.

I don’t post about posts of seriousness though, so I declined. I’d rather be fighting for my prison cherry than to post about parenting.

What’ve I got to say about it? ‘Cept that people neglect it. They raise terrible brats who are a bane to playmates, classmates, teachers, family members and adult fellowship.

You been losing friends? Check your training style.
If training equals folding when your angel pitches a fit then you suck as Mom just all the time.

You don’t balk when safety issues arise.

When you finger sweep an infant’s mouth and he screams with the offense of losing that tasty morsel do you give it back?

When a toddler goes nuclear over a Dora backpack he/she should get whupped, not rewarded.
Make "No" mean "No Dora backpack," you lazy cow.

It’s like Parenting for Dummies; mindboggling in its simplicity.

I can’t figure out what makes it so hard, yet 99% of parents are failing.

I don’t post/talk about the seriousness of seriosity because it offends others when I tell ‘em things like "Your brats reveal you stink at raising kids."

Offensive? Hmm...

Being invited is the Thought That Counts and I’m confident that I would have succeeded laudably if I'd not failed miserably.

Being Asked was The Big Deal.

Darling met Chris Carpenter on the same day.

A smarmy co-worker pulled the ol’ Double Switch and stole her sale, but I’m confident given .7 seconds more face time with Chris she woulda told him about me.
See how I flipped that?
Abber-ca-dabber b*tches. It IS all about me.

I am a crazy Cardinals fan.
I’m also a credit to my race, but we’re staying On Point here.

Darling knows I'm zealous for baseball. She would have said something along the lines of;

“Mr. Carpenter, I-hate-to-bother-you-while-you’re-shopping-but-I-know-who-you-are-and-my-mom-would-love-a-picture-and-an-autograph-and-hair-and-saliva-samples-and-I’ve-got-a-specimen-jar-in-my-locker. Do-you-have-to-pee?"
"Mom’sahugefan." Darling would add. "She’s-rooting-for-you-to-get-the-Cy-Young-again.
She's-Housewife-Savant. You’ve-probably-heard-of-her. She-says-‘vagina’-and-she-IS-Vlad. Isn't-that-funny? Iknow!

They-had-an-inland-hurricane-in-May-and-now-she’s-taking-a-class-but-she’s-smarter-than-the-instructor. Iknowwhatyou’rethinking; she’s-The-Smartest-Woman-in-the-Universe. You'reright.

You-should-see-pictures-of-her-Surgery-Foot.

She-washed-her-hair-today.

Doyouwantadog?”

Chris woulda loved me. (Everybody does.) Too bad he doesn't have a blog.

I would gladly do a guest post.

Prettymuch Nothing Ventured

2009-11-03T11:07:00.002-06:00

If you’ve got my button, please grab it again. The html reflects my new host site. If you’ve got the original button you’ve got nothin’, which, ironically, is the topic of today’s post.

If I don’t have your button, please let me know in your [glowing] comments.

Comment for sure. Complicomment.

Don’t read without letting me know you were here.
Leave. A. Comment.

Feel free to fawn. Fawning is fine.
Fawning is fun.

We love comments, don’t we?
I’ve got tens of things on my “To Do” list
But here I am, with furrowed brow and eyes wide shut, struggling to drum up a post so that I might feed your need, thus attaining your blogadoration.

Just gimme your comment affection, k?
Go ahead and love me.
The cable guy does.

I was ~~napping~~ ~~reading blogs~~ ~~studying~~ baking whole-wheat bread and cleaning the carpets while juggling puppets and teaching my daycare kids how to read German when he arrived.

I got the same old Mediacom song and dance. They’re not fixing the problem, all the time.
Failure to do their job is the Mediacom mission statement.
What made this visit special was that Cable Dude became smitten the moment he laid eyes on me.

“Oh REALLY?” you ask cynically.

“Puh-lease,” is my clever reply.

I don’t think his frequent attempts to make and hold eye contact were simple social retardation.
He didn’t zip his fly and fix his hair so he could chop me up and bury me in the crawlspace.
He didn’t ask for a drink, a snack, or to use my restroom. He stayed for an hour and a half because he fell in love. With me.

It happens all the time.

I’ve mentioned “auction boyfriend” who constantly called me “Gorgeous” and once told my long-suffering Mr. he was lucky to have such a sweet wife.

I’ve got “boyfriends” all over the place. I can’t go anywhere without making “boyfriends”, which is our fam’s word for men and boys who fall for my charms.

I’ve got a “movie store boyfriend”, a “post office boyfriend” and a “boyfriend” at the library.

I've got a “girlfriend boyfriend” at Walmart.

Boys at the junior high find themselves bowled over.
Guys at Home Depot, Lowes, and Menards thank their lucky stars that our kitchen renovation is never gonna end.
Retard Neighbor waits extra long when his dog craps in our yard, in hopes that I’ll come out and scream at him (read; "retard neighbor boyfriend").

I’ve got "celebrity boyfriends" too.
Tom Cruise married Nicole cuz he couldn’t have me then. (He can’t have me now cuz he’s nuts.)
Zac Efron wishes he was ten years older.
Rupert Everett wishes he wasn’t gay.
And Christian Bale wishes he’d kept his mouth shut.

En route to school one day a 20-something wannabe gangster refused to leave the middle of the road. He talked player love to me all the while I waited.
As we slowly drove past him he rubbed his shirtless chest and cooed sweet urban nothings which I couldn’t translate.
Doll said, “He thought you were good-looking wool.”

Everybody falls in love with me.
I’d be boasting if it wasn’t true.

You know me. I’m humble as heck.
You know it’s not easy for me to talk about my beauty.
It’s likewise difficult when I mention my extraordinary intelligence.
I blush when I bring up my incredible charm and sparkling wit. But there’s no disguising my awesomeness. Ask anyone who has heard me talk about it.

Now that it’s on the table we can get back to the subject of guys who fall in love with me.

Before the Darlings’ wedding I had some long-standing foot problems repaired in order to tolerate heels for the nuptials. My foot doc put me in the hospital overnight.

Even in a hospital gown with raging bed head and a ginormous purple Flintstone foot the magic was undeniable.
My murse fell in love.

He woke me at 1:00 AM to check my vitals and talked to me for over an hour. When I grew weary of dropping not-so-subtle hints that I was tired (like lying down with my back to him) I jack-hammered my morphine drip and pulled the covers over my head.
He stayed.

Imagine my joy when two hours later I awoke to discover that he hadn’t moved. He was glued in the spirit of my greatness.

I told you that I’m gorgeous and that I have a knock-out body. Only because of my incredible fortitude could I overcome my humility and broach the subject.
It wasn’t easy, but I got past having to tell you I’m super smart.
I stumbled through the mention of my magnificent personality, but what I [modestly] neglected to mention was my warmth, kindness and eloquence.

When I woke to find the adoring murse leaning up against the wall watching me sleep I leaned towards him in all of my post-surgical glory and said, “You sick b*stard! What the h*ll’re you doing in here? Get your *ss out and don’t let me see your ugly d*mn face again or I’ll report this sh*t to your supervisor!”

I’m gorgeous.
I’ve got a great body.
I’m smart, and fun, and funny.
I also swear a lot when I’m on opiates.

Ya gotta love me.
Go ahead and tell me how much.

KittyCat by Day, SUPERCat by...Well... Day Also

2009-10-22T10:37:00.012-05:00

Mr. is gone this week.

I think he's becoming a Big Nut on the bureau tree. Regional offers are frequently mentioned, and his name has been spoken in Washington.
It’s about time he’s getting some respect, cuz there’s none for him around here.

I miss him when he’s gone. (The trash is full, my gas tank is empty.)
But when he’s home he sometimes annoys me. Occasionally.

It's good to have him here for the doing of things I can't/don't/shouldn't.

And he’s got a body like Daniel Craig. That helps.

But at some point there is Getting Out of Bed, and Putting On of Clothes.
And sometimes he bugs me. Just a little.
(Not because he dresses badly, though he does, as I've mentioned.)

What drives me crazy is his Monkishness.
Mr. is a type “A” personality.

A" as in "anal".

He organizes the items in the fridge. He puts things in rows according to height, food group, and expiration date.

He finger spaces clothes hanging in basement storage.
The checkbook is balanced in a code that has four different colors and what appears to be Koine Greek.

Mr. dusts the ceiling fans on a weekly basis.
He’s a stickler for clean glass.

And he vacuums when I’m trying to blog.

Do I bother him when he’s ironing?
No.
I help.
I bring him my wrinkled stuff.

Do I distract him when he’s sifting the cat boxes?
Nuh-uh.

Do I interfere when he’s cleaning the bathroom?
Never.

I ~~watch television~~ take care of daycare kids or ~~nap~~ cook.

Mr. is gone until Friday, so we’re at the mercy of the small “g” gods of ease and comfort to manage without him.

If baby fusses whilst we are en route to school he is Out of Luck. If he poops while we’re waiting for the Dolls we’re all screwed. (Babies are vile creatures.)

If it rains and Miss Kelly left the umbrella in the trunk Calvin can be thankful his [post-chemo] hair has fully returned.
He’s the King of Napping, but this week his slumber has been/will be interrupted by chaperoning, grocery-getting, sleep-over friends and a campfire/cookout on Friday.

♪♪Masquerade, paper faces on parade...♪♪*
It's like I'm LARPing. I'm playing “Competent Mom.”

And it's exhausting.

The Dolls are glad I made a huge pot of their favorite pasta on Tuesday. It was a rerun last night, and will be first come is first served tonight. Latecomers get meatloaf, or “Celery Loaf with Meat” as Mr. calls it.

Laundry waits in the dryer for his return. God only knows what’s going on in the cat boxes. The needle is on “F” and I'm scairt to go near.

Does the lawn need mowing? I don’t know, but it’s free of dog leavings, cuz Bingo is also away.

The dog is on vacation, living the City Life with the Darlings.

I hate our dog. We are currently trying to find a home for him.
He’s zero percent dachshund and all weiner.

The Dog Whisperer says it’s because of my “energy”.

I tried to change that. We tried to “Man UP” our weasely Boston Terrier, but it didn’t work.
He’s gotten worse. He stares at me All Day Long.

If I look at him he looks away. If I speak to him he cowers. If I walk in his direction he retreats.

No matter what I ask/command he replies excitedly in a doggy “Yes!” with his ears down and his lipstick OUT.
Do you wanna go outside?
Are you hungry? Do you need some food?
Wanna play? Get the ball.
Do you suck? Do you have a death wish?

Every time I see his hang-dog, “Kick Me” look I want to stab him in the neck with a steak knife.

Anybody want a BT? He’s from champion blood lines and registered AKC.
Yep; Bingo is King of the failDogs.

Cats is where it’s at.

The Cave Cricket Exodus of 2009 has begun.
It’s fitting, I say bitterly, that the vile creatures have inundated our yard and home whilst Mr. is away.

We are three delicate girls all alone, and last night I disturbed a pride (a school? a gaggle??) of CCs so large they rattled the dry leaves near my doorstep.
Please understand that I disturbed the bugs by gracelessly high-stepping around a giant spider while shrieking at the top o’ my lungs.
("Mr. hurry home!")

This morning I opened a kitchen drawer to find a large Cave Cricket in waiting. (Where waiting equals crapping on my cutlery.)
I had to keep my brave face on.
Calvin has dealt with cancer and chemo.
Now he lives in a little boy fantasy world where “bad guys” chase him in dreams.

He doesn’t need to see Miss Kelly channel her inner Screaming Grandma over a bug.

I nearly broke the drawer pulling it out. I put it on the floor, knowing that the cats were our best defense.

It’s a little known fact that Cave Crickets taste like bald eagle to a housecat. (It's similar to chicken, only nobler.)

Big Kitty boldly kicked Cave Cricket butt, but not before letting Calvin in on the secret.
Not the Miss-Kelly’s-scared-‘o-bugs secret. But;
“Miss Tay [Kelly]?”
“Miss Tay?”
“Miss Tay?”
“Miss Tay?”
“Miss Tay?”
“Miss Tay?”
“Miss Tay?”
“Miss Tay?”
“Miss Tay?”
“Miss Tay?”
“Miss Tay?”
“Miss Tay?”
“Miss Tay?”
“Miss Tay?”

“WHAT?!”

“That’s knives is dirty.”

Yea. I just saved your life with my quick-thinking. You’re welcome.

Big Kitty is now Super Hero Big Kitty.
It doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, but it beats

failDog

Where art thou dog? Thy canine lover?
Where is thy hot breath on the nape of my neck?
We shall form a bond, man and beast.
You will lick my face and I shall lick your snout.

*Note my gratuitous mention of Phantom of the Opera.

The play was spectacular.
We shopped that afternoon to take our minds off the clock. We went to a high-end mall, the anti-Walmart, where our self esteem plummeted sufficiently for over-indulgent eating.

We rested.
We dressed.
We re-applied, and we posed. (When did I get so OLD?)

We loved Phantom!

Theis Farm was another stop on our St Louis Fall '09 Tour. We spent half a day enjoying their market, their food, their entertainment, and all manner of amusing diversions.

We enjoyed people watching ("If you can't laugh at others there's no way you'll learn to laugh at yourself.") and it was confirmed that 99% of all children are horrible brats.

Theis Farm rocked though, and it’s on our list of Awesomest Places Ever.

Next up on my Holy Crap I'm Excited List is Anberlin on the 27th. Holy crap I'm excited! Have I mentioned?

One Is Number Of Most Loneliness You Ever Will Be Seeing

2009-10-14T11:58:00.003-05:00

Vlad is back for to make happiness to you again. Many blog readingers has been asking for to Vlad; Come Back!
Vlad is like Lays Potatoes Ship; you are not for having just one (also Vlad salty and greasy - is bonus).

Kel is off again. She is to say many times post, post, post for the doing of something of usefulness.
She is to scream about bill paying and way making and not of noticing Vlad’s contribute.

She is not to care when Vlad is telling her of Erica Cane delighting the peoples of Pine Valley with her antics. She is not wanting for opportunities of glorious hair and clear skin and clean colon. She is not understanding that BET and CMT is for making of better English speaking Vlad to a hipper one of the peoples.

She say only TV court is daytime television of worthiness then when watching she is still complaining is trash of whiteness necks of red and idiots. She says fat girl you were played not knowing Vlad is having savviness now. PlayAH, Vlad knows, is smooth man of charmingness to the ladies for getting gold chains and cell phone plan, free trips and getting to be baby daddy many times.

She is turn off TV and not care Vlad is still on sofa and wishing to keep it on always. She is doing daycare vacuum laundry and work of house.

She cook much meat for doctor of Atkins of whom she is often complaining and is never having here for meal. She cook meat of boston BUTT and laugh at Boston Terrier dog of nervousness. She say rib EYE is good, and pork CHOP. Then she is grimace when Vlad say niceness would be the having of lamb BRAIN or KIDNEYS.

She say Vlad go to his own people for that.
That is not funniness.
Kel is knowing already that American police of uniform take Vlad from driving with vodka and now Vlad no more for getting around.

Vlad stay home and more Kel is to scream about bill paying and way making and not of noticing Vlad’s contribute

Vlad company to her cat pets of preciousness for what she could be glad.
Kel is much for cat-ladiness but don’t tell I say you so.
She is for buying and making of toys for cats and treating. There is time of playing and brushing when Vlad can see the need of cats is just to be leaving alone for sleep.

Is certain Vlad think same like cats. Vlad is now sleep of day awake at night and watching television for Girls of Wildness and juicer. TV of colon cleansing and body shaper on women of fullness is for fascinating the eyes.

Vlad is no more of calling to make friend with TV beauty as Mr. Savant see minutes on phone and did much talking to Kel with lowness of voice and furrowed brow. Now Kel say to Vlad no more phone. Planmaster is not for the liking of much minutes of phone sects on his bill.

So Vlad is stuck with none of driving none of drama in daytime, none of phone. What to do but sleep with pets on sofa?

Vlad is comrade to kitties which is much of need, for kitties and Vlad is much similar – off couch only for to get food and pee.
Kel say no more peeing in Funyun bag, even when Funyun bag most convenient and crumbs very absorb. Vlad very neat hardly to make dripping and wiped nearly dry with blanket. Kel is poor hostess and snob to have no containers for the urine of handiness to guests.
It is not over, for she have much houseplants and is not paying of always attention.

Kitties have happiness for Vlad getting of sardines and sharing.
Kel being busy of reading books for to be brown-nosing student at online academy that is school-shaped toilet. Too much busyness for to see sardines is gone.
Too much busyness for to thank Vlad when he call the Mr. Savant at his Big American Prison to page him when sardines is gone and for to tell the officer it is URGENT Mr. Chaplain is to CALL FOR HIS HOME is MATERIAL OF LIVE OR DEATH!

Kel not for thanking Vlad.
Mr. Savant not for thanking Vlad.

Federal Bureau of Prisoning in America not taking seriously the running out of sardines for Vlad is houseguest and for kitties.

Do not question Kel or Mr. Chaplain Savant if no pants is EMERGENCY when sardines and having of them is gone.

Put on pants and get self to store. Vlad is certain of that now, like crystal of clearness when many angry thick neck people of uniforms arrive in white vans, battering rams and spraying liquid fire to eyes and Kel screaming from office in words of many asterisks.
Vlad’s track suit of soft velour still stinking of pepper spray and crap.

How you say; fairabout is turn play. Teaching of Savant’s lesson will come. Vlad no call for helpfulness. Let family suffer for having none of sardines and see sad faces on kitties who return to licking of cushions on sofa where Vlad’s sleep liquids leave crust of dryness.

All is mess when Kel treat Vlad as embarrassment to family. One is loneliness number, but it is better much than being treated as number two.

Dumb, But With Errors On Page

2009-10-02T08:42:00.002-05:00

If you don’t know my friend Lynn Vynn BuzzKill Grynn, you should.
She’s hosting a Fabulous Giveaway in honor of her 200th post. There’s booty galore, which is also my nom de porn.

Visit Lynn at “It’s a July Thing”, AFTER you read today’s post.
If you leave me now it’d be a waste of a good viagraberry smoothie.
What's it take for YOU to get your blog up?

We all do occasional bits ‘o random. My thanks to Mrs4444 for assembling those of us who’re willing to play well with others. This is my offering to Friday Fragments; a landfill of random blurbs.

Lynn Vynn BuzzKill Grynn wants me to be a surrogate for her and her Mr.

We take lots of “polls” at Miss Kelly’s Daycare. We take polls to confirm that everyone is NOT the same. We like different things. We have different things. We do different things.
One day during breakfast the subject turned to the stinkiness of Calvin’s feet. (He was surprised the week before to learn that Sneakers minus Socks equals Stink, even when you’re only three years old.)
The poll at the bfast table was “Who’s Fresh?”
Fresh ["fesh"] is CALVIN’S word, elicited when we gave the dog a bath, and the speech therapist in me was impressed.

Now it's the word de jour, lots of jours.
“Who’s fresh?” I asked.
Hands went up, but not Calvin’s hand.
He looked thoughtful for a moment and exclaimed, “Uh-oh. I think some my parts NOT FESH!”

Lynn Vynn BuzzKill Grynn is taking crochet lessons so she can cover all her liquor bottles with poodles. That level of CLASS makes me wish I was still a drinker and gives a whole 'nother meaning to the term Booze Hound.

The promise “If I can do it, anyone can,” speaks more to your failings than to the simplicity of the task.

Last summer when I was in Cancun with Lynn Vynn BuzzKill Grynn she looked at me from over the brim of her bucket o’ margarita and said, “I love you like a sister. You have heutiful bair.” Then she cried hysterically until she threw up.

I hate steamer cleaners. Blasting germs with steam isn’t killing ‘em. It’s making them mad.

Lynn Vynn BuzzKill Grynn sucks at three-legged races, but she has an awesome collection of Star Trek action figures.

Calvin: Miss Kelly, I like this toy. (snuggling said toy)
MK: Yes. It's a soft toy. Good for napping. (It was his selection for naptime.)
Calvin: I just shake my butt and lay down on the floor and do this. (Puts head on soft toy.)
MK laughing: You shook your butt? Why did you shake your butt?
Calvin: For the poops.
MK: Are there poops that want to come out? Do you want to try to get some poops out?
Calvin: No. I shaked my butt for the poops. Now they fine.

Lynn Vynn BuzzKill Grynn is 7’ 5” tall. Folks from Guinness are visiting her next week to see if she qualifies for a world record. She’s 2.25” shy of record-setting height, but [luckily] she was born with her kidneys on the outside of her body, so she’s eligible for a special entry.

I think lots of words are funny when you simply add small “i”.

It’s pretty common. I’m surprised Apple isn’t quashing it with huge lawsuits.
I like iNap. iRelax. iSurf, iTan, and iRead. They're all iNice.
iPedophile is not.
iGenocide, iNecrophile, iCannibal, all bad. i can't help that.

Lynn Vynn BuzzKill Grynn says I’m her favorite blogger and has started a fan page for me on facebook.

Our economy is so bad a picture is now only worth 400 words.

Lynn Vynn BuzzKill Grynn knows the Declaration of Independence by heart.

Motherlode – the unspeakable diaper that only a mother should have to deal with.
I no longer call it "changing a dirty diaper".
It's “working on my two-week notice.”

Lynn Vynn BuzzKill Grynn is too humble to self-promote, but I’m not. I am warm, loving and generous to a fault. My charming personality makes me sheer joy to be around, and my amazing good looks allow me to be the highlight of your day even if all you get is a glance. I am intelligent, creative, and witty. I have a ton of money and expensive things.

Being a Speech Pathologist I take special pleasure as I watch my daycare kid learn new language skills. While we were doing some yard work I had him entertain himself tossing a superball against the garage. When it bounced out of sight I heard him asking the small “g” gods of play, “Where that ball? Where that ball?” as he scoured the yard and driveway.
Imagine our mutual delight; he found the ball and I heard him self-correct, “Here that! No; here it are.”

Lynn Vynn BuzzKill Grynn has a Genuinely Cool Giveaway. She’s funny as H and makes great banana bread. Go visit Lynn right now. Wish her a Happy Birthday and best of luck for her upcoming gall bladder surgery.

"Look at That Monkey Run" or I See in Color

2009-10-01T05:33:00.004-05:00

Oh, I didn’t see you there.
Hey.
How’ve you been?

I’ve got to apologize for the extended absences between posts and the infrequency of my wit in your comments section.
Don’t expect any change in the foreseeable future. Savant life is busy.

Lucky for you; I live amidst idiots and hillbillies, retards and rednecks, hayseeds. Hicks. Yokels.

Living in the south is often delightful, occasionally frustrating.
Sometimes unbearable.

After listening to some of my finest material about the people-shaped turds we call neighbors, The Fam suggested I blog it out.

(It sounded a lot like, "Mom, you're talking, not blogging. Breathe in.")

Here I am, to bring you up to speed on the minutiae of my Colorful Life.

Mr. Chaplain Savant is putting forth the time and effort necessary so that Latino inmates can be proud of their Hispanic Heritage (mid-September to mid-October).
¡Hooray para los criminals!
Way to represent. (Ustedes son ejemplos exellent.)

I continue to struggle with the online course headed by our clearless leader, Professor Clampett.
She has revealed herself to be dumb as dirt and made it to the top of my short Fecal Roster with Monday’s imbecility du jour.

I won’t go into the blow by blow that occurred via email. Suffice it to say that she had the stones to ask me why I thought the word “quiz” implied anything different than “assignment.”
Anyone?
or is it just me?

She’s an idiot. She’s FROM here.

Southerners are often delightful, occasionally frustrating.
Sometimes unbearable.

Last week’s chapter included a little blurb about the psychology of color (certain colors eliciting certain feelings.) Part of our task was to examine several children’s books and comment on the emotional effects of colors in the illustrations.

I tried my best to contrive something that didn’t sound contrived, but not being proficient on the subject I could only parrot the textbook; “The red and yellow made me feel warm and happy. The blue was soothing.”

I looked at the assigned books and asked myself repeatedly, “What do I feel? What do I feel?”
“I feel… I feel… I feel … like this is a waste of time.”
What a maroon, this Professor Hatfield.

We were also told to examine cultural implications of the colors used in our books. Holy hell.

Last week’s debate topic (in which I cleverly coined the term “authorticity”) was whether a person from outside of a culture could intelligently write that culture’s history and/or tales.
I put my dog in that fight. She chewed ‘em up and spit ‘em out. B*tches.

A well-informed author should indeed be able to write about a culture other than his/her own.
Hey idiots; who’ll write about Puritans in early America, if not someone from “outside” that cultural group? Hmm?
I took a passionate stand.
I took a pass on the Cultural Color Commentary.

I explained my decision to Professor Bodine and got a country castigatin’.
Professor McCoy said “Anyone can identify red, yellow and orange with Mexican heritage.”
Oh.
Yea.
Anyone. Could. See.

I thought blue was Mexican, as in Mexican Mafia blue. Neck tatt blue, and oversized denim shorts blue.
Or is it khaki that’s Mexican? That’s what they wear in the penitentiary. It’s green for Mexican (and everyone else) at the satellite camps.

I explained to Professor Jethro that it’d not be wise for non-experts to weigh in on this topic. Certainly we’ve all had different experiences, and without Googling “culture + color” and again regurgitating someone else's ideas, I’ve got nothing.

Turns out, I was just being modest. Imagine.

Turns out, I’m not completely clueless on the subject of culture/color association.

I know rainbow is gay. (Everybody knows rainbow is gay. They hog it. Like, totally.)
The gays also have dibs on yellow on Thursdays.
They have red socks with jeans. We all know that.

Pink is lesbianism, or militant breastfeeding if it’s a squirting >, or breast cancer.

Lots of cancers have a color. My car sports a checkered, dappled, flecked, kaleidoscopic, marbled, mottled, multicolor, piebald, polychrome, prismatic, speckled, spotted, streaked, striped, varicolored, veined, versicolor cancer ribbon, in camo, cuz I hide from cancer.

Green is Irish. The Irish are drunkards.
Green is also lust, when it comes to M&Ms.
Irish are Catholics.
Booze, M&Ms, and a ban on birth control; that's Irish.

Irish and Scottish are basically the same.
Tartan is Scottish. Men in skirts is Scottish. Men in skirts commando is Scottish.
Scottish is pretty much Irish in a skirt sans undies.

Green and orange are the flag of India.
Green and orange are also the 7-Eleven.
I see it now!
Professor Ellie May would be proud.

Pakistanis look just like Eastern Indians smell of curry and drive yellow cabs.

Yellow is Asian.
All Asian people are good at math, bad at driving and they all look the same.
All black people look the same too.

British people look terrible. They’ve got bad teeth and eat bad food and they can’t engineer a decent automobile.

The Germans make great cars.
They’re emotionless just like the Russians, but the Germans sing when there’s beer.
The Russians stand around in bread lines.
Germans love meat.

Pollacks love meat too, and Pollacks’re stupid.

Jamaicans are stupid. They’re all high all the time.
Black, green, and yellow are Jamaicans. Or is it red, yellow, and green?
Is it the Jamaicans who smoke all the pot? or Rastas?
They’re black, and I can’t tell the difference.

Black like Bubba teeth.
Southerners are often delightful, occasionally frustrating.
Sometimes unbearable.

Let me state emphatically that that above stereotypes are for illustrative purposes only.

Lest any hint of doubt remain: I am dealing with complete morons in my online class.

I love living in the south but I will stand by my hillbilly rants ‘til the day I die or I assimilate into one of the two outstanding stereotypes that exist here in Dixie.

I am Irish, English, German and Danish (nationality, not pastry, ya’ll.)

I am the biggest Pollack ever.

A-B-C, Easy as 1-2-3? Apparently Not for All of Us

2009-09-22T11:00:00.006-05:00

I loved being Home Alone.

Loved.

It.

It was surprising how much I enjoyed the same ol’ things with greater intensity sans fam.

The sky was bluer.

The grass was greener.

Food tasted better.

Even the dog’s farts didn’t smell as bad.

The living room carpet wasn’t quite so outdated and worn.

My posture improved.

I showered daily.

Saturday I took TWO showers simply because I. Could. Use all the hot water. Which is another one of those unindulged indulgences I don’t indulge in. I prefer tepid water always.

I didn’t iron.

Laundry remains untouched even now, but my house was clean all weekend.

My bed was made.

I cooked. Which is condusive to eating well.

I ate well. (I got my Atkins on with steak.)

I took care of the pets (read; let ‘em lie on the couch and watch the XMen movies with me.)

I turned Power Point into my girlfriend and revealed my literary genius in the form of a picture book critique for my online class.

I have no grades yet, thus no feedback on the half-dozen assignments I’ve submitted.
This irks me.

The uncertainty adds to the stress I create for myself and my presupposition that my professor settled;
for community college because it’s safe and easy,
for community college because it’s a school-shaped toilet,
for community college because she got her education in Brunei Darussalam,
for community college because she wasn’t the valedictorian at the U of BD (in a class of five).

In truth, she settled for community college because she’s from here (read redneck and backwards).

In her defense, she must have smelt the failure after our first assignment.
She donned her sparkly Captain Obvious cape and posted the following reminder:

…follow all directions carefully… …be thorough… …be careful...
These are written assignments for a college literature course, so it's essential that you use correct grammar, spelling, punctuation, capitalization, etc. No 'text talk' or abbreviations! (u no what i mean, lol)
A posting with multiple errors will not earn full points.

The nature of an online class eliminates discussion, so we’re encouraged to comment on each other’s work regularly.

I’ve read the section on netiquette.
No swearing; check.
No hate speech; check
No threats; check.
No name-calling; check.

I'm no idiot. I got it. Don't say, ‘You d*mn n-word, I’ll kill you for being so dumb!’”
How hard is THAT?

Truth is; I’ve been isolated for far too long.
I fear I’ve lost all veneer of propriety and social skill and I wonder what IS safe.

When I read: "My favorite reading memorys is every night I get to read my 2 kid’s bedtime story's."
Is it okay to ask, "Do they help you sound out the words?"?

After someone posted: "I plan on getting my batchlors I want to be a kindergarden teacher," can I suggest a job in food service?

And if someone poses a brainless question about “author authenticity” can I use the word “authorticity” in a thinly-veiled insult?
Can I pull it off?
Am I smooth like Vlad?

It’s not that I’m discouraging my fellow classmates. On the contrary. When I read a woman’s educational/career goals included “I'm also taking phsycology and bisiness math,” I suggested she add a spelling course. I typed it all friendly-like.

Makes me wonder if the prof is gonna be grading on a curve.

It's Pronounced "Ass Effects" People. A Two-fer Plus Some, Lucky You

2009-09-18T13:27:00.008-05:00

The Dolls and Mr. are traveling to St Louis for the weekend.
I’ve never been Home Alone.
In. My. Life.

The opportunity kinda makes me wish I still drank, that I had friends, or that I wasn’t Serious About Dieting.

I wish that Naked Time didn’t elicit suicidal thoughts.

Pajamas-All-Day is not a huge departure from the norm and thus not a Big Deal.

I can’t NOT make the bed and clean the kitchen.
I won’t stand for clutter.

I don't have a good book going. I've seen all the good movies.
I’ll be forced leave the couch to let the dog out.

There’ll be homework.
And laundry.

I’m thinking about ironing.

I might Shave All The Way Up.
For no reason.
(Or for his Return…)

Still. I wish there was something a little self-indulgent to enjoy while I’m free of parental responsibility.

This weekend marks the Fourth Annual Father/Son Cards game.
The guys have added a football game to their yearly Daddy ‘n Me shenanigans.

Funny Boy (Darling SIL) plays on various teams throughout the year. Last year Mr. played on Bring an Old Man to the Park Day.
Later on, and for days afterward, Mr.’s knees complained to his legs that his back is too old to carry his shoulders. Henceforth he is sidelined.
Be satisfied with spectating, Old Man.

The sisters (Dolls and Darling) will spend some quality time together.
There will be playing of SIMS, eating of garbage, taking of pix and staying up late.

I’m betting on a trip to Creve Coeur Park.
Maybe shopping.

There might be swimming. That could mean diving for M&Ms, which brings to mind the story of Darling and the Band-Aid, which I don’t share because it’s not my tale to tell.

It disgusts/embarrasses her.
I would never mention that she put a Band-aid in her mouth cuz I’m Classy Like That.
Classy like every time I spot a discarded Band-Aid I point it out, with commentary.
Yep; Classy Like That and sympathetic.

I wonder if Dr. Atkins planned his adherents would lose weight via diarrhea.

I am Serious About the Diet again.
I didn’t want to go phlabby to Phantom but I wasn’t motivated ‘til something New and Exciting came on the horizon.
It made me take it up a notch.

Let’s just say when The Band sends code to their roadies saying; Bring the Hot Broad to the bus, we need a Bandmom, I don’t wanna be 145#.

I’m going to see Anberlin!

And I’m Seriously Dieting.
Di-e-ting.

Before leaving for last summer’s vacation I was using a record-setting number of medications (as per paragraph two, line four of “Ready, Set, Go.”)

I was taking five different prescriptions in a steadfast effort to eradicate, alleviate, or compensate for some aggravating health problems.

It was one of my New Year’s Resolutions to take more meds. I’m a Go-Getter/Goal-Setter/Master of Achievements, so I didn’t balk, not even at the $200 Aciphex price that wasn’t covered by our insurance.
Sure it’s expensive, but it’s fun to say; Aciphex.
Aciphex.
It didn’t help a lick.

I had horrible heartburn, annoying allergies, and my gall bladder was grievous and bloated. I felt like I had Tiger Balm inside my head, and a football tucked under my ribs.

Viola! I felt better while we were on vacation. The same thing has happened in years past. I’ve convinced Mr. that I’ll be the Picture of Health when he retires and whisks me away to low country.

This week it dawned on me; I go off the low carb diet when we’re in South Carolina.

Effing Atkins.
If he knew we were gonna shart ourselves thin why not jump straight to Alli?

Hearing returned to my left ear almost three weeks ago. (Well, my normal amount of hearing.)
For me this means a serious flare of Meniere’s is less likely. That’s been my history, but Mr.says I rewrite history. I’m a revisionist, he says.
Whatev, I says.

I’m NOT moving forward with the second appeal to Health Alliance. Thus far the complete lack of action on my part was indicative of my hopelessness.
Since I haven’t had a serious flare in many weeks I shelved my worry. And all forward motion.

I still believe that Dr. Shea’s treatment is the solution. I believe my symptoms will return in the spring (as per the aforementioned history) and I know that the nature of Meniere's means I could get Seriously Sick in seconds.

I believe what Scarlett said when Rhett stormed out, “Tomorrow is another day,” which is the procrastinator’s mantra and pretty much my motto.

And tomorrow -- I’ll be Home Alone…

Vlad is Blog Again for Viewing of Your Pleasure and Much of Laughing. Catching of Title, No?

2009-09-14T15:18:00.005-05:00

Kel is no to blog. Kel is MIA to blog. Which not spells Mia as of girl name but spell Lazy Kel so is Vlad blog.

You read loud to self and you know English is good and you love Vlad for the making of funny.

Kel is no funny. Kel is worry of school and bother of kitchen fixing. Kel is complain of life in toilet like trash is white in the south she say.
Trash white, trash white she say.

I tell her chipboard is rich man’s floor. She is shutting of me up always.

I am thinking Kel is consumerist fool to be wanting of kitchen faucet that no have rust but I don’t mention for Kel is making of potato soup of excellence.
Let her be cooking and talking with bigness of voice over trash that is white.

You not miss Kel when Vlad blog.

She read books for children. She write papers of many words to impress lady professor. She complain of sore dupa saying Writer’s Rump and Scribbler’s Seat.
Funny! I pretend to her but in head I think not.

To shut of the up is good for getting of more potato soup and the kielbasa of Poland.

I say to Kel don’t home-work.
Look at Vlad. He speak the English goodly and impress the ladies.
Vlad go to grade of three and leave school to work mongering the fish.
Now look Vlad. Vlad is blog.
Who is more of smartness than blogging Vlad? No one.

Kel say shutting of the hole for pie is good.

She say don’t smoke pay for your own Twizzlers flush every time don’t leave fish on cushion of sofa.

Where to put fish? If Vlad sit on sofa fish must be near for the eating.

Is Vlad fault her cat pets ate fish? Is Vlad fault to clean up kitty get sick? Vlad leave the sickness of kitty on carpet. Is fish still. Kitty will glad be of eating that again.

She say VLAD in big voice and she say do a post of guest for to be useful.

I look to file of ideas and find chalk outline of once blog funny. So I begin by tell you Kel is no blog.

Kel is go to community college and saying the necks of all who are there is red. She say it is college of community like on the television a school-shaped toilet.

Billy is family name I am thinking and the people of the family all is named Hill.
Hill Billy she say. Hill Billy.
She see him everywhere she go. She scowl and spit with hating for the necks of all who are red and Hill Billy.

She complain the family and peoples of Hill Billy is lazy and not smart with the writing of words. Kel ask why she worry about school when she think she now is in class for a bus that is short.

She no funny. She mad about school and say education for people of south is few tile.

Kel is of an a** with tightness since her school starting. She is to be relax or will have pain of heart and be clutching long breast of oldness as did my Babica.

Babica is woman of glorious in village. Babica is bushy on sideburns like your handsome Wolverine. Moustache thick like Stalin and pride of family.

When Babica talk it is always with voice of bigness it frighten grown men. Not Dedek.

Dedek love Babica with much love and say her voice of bigness come from cigars and vodka.
And he is much often of funniness to Babica.
She laugh and hit him with pan of frying. He say words to her in private language of love. Duke’s Bag he call her and Dee Bag he say. He tell her of a giant vagina that she have.
She laugh and hit. This mean she love.

If Dedek bleed she send me with mule for fetching of Teta Gert. Then they are drinking of much vodka with singing and crying. In the end they always sew and fix the head of my Dedek to hit again a day of nother.

I can tell it is love game as Dedek groan the groan of love, flexing strong muscle of jaw. He look at Babica with eyebrow low and pursing of lips and say curse of kiddingness. He has so much of happiness he cry the tear of joy many times.

Dedek love so much he want to hire help for working Babica. I see him sneaking in dark to barn with maid from village. She is wife of goat man.
He say is interview for job of Babica helping girl. Planning of surprise he say. He make shh to say it is of secret plan.

Maid from village is many times interviewing at the barn but is never enough of good for job. Poor girl had many large teeth of brown and yellow. No moustache and not acceptable.
I am thinking it is because of brassiere. Babica say woman with brassiere is woman of shame. Two times it was Dedek wanting to get brassiere off when I spy them starting interview as walking to barn in dark.

I know Babica is real woman. She tell me real woman have breasts of naturally long and armpit hair like man for warmth and protection from bedbug.
All real woman in family have moustache of healthiness like Mussolini. It is part of family crest with vodka bottle. There is also glass eye and small pock.

Babica tell story of family crest that bring eyes to my tears as you say.
Dedek complain is bullsh*t. Babica hit.
Dedek say say is ranting. Before Vlad knowing of good speaking English hope that ranting is mean wonderful of story.
Dedek say ranting, ranting, ranting often when Babica is near and telling of the story of crest.
There is hitting and much loud saying of love words. BIG VAGINA he says with loudness.

Oh is love.

I Know Nothing I Know It All

2009-09-04T08:34:00.002-05:00

Mrs.4444 hosts a little sumpthin’ called Friday Fragments

For posts so special they belong in a group all their own.

Like a cult.

I am RIPE for the playing along.

So join me as I flesh out the adage “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.”

It's been said that I am the Smartest Woman in the Universe.
So WHAT if I said it?

Don’t count your chickens before they’re coated with seasoned breadcrumbs.

Mr. once referred to our kitchen renovation as “the housing project”.

As Bill Bixby transformed from Bruce Banner to The Hulk, I always wondered why he didn’t rip the vital parts of his pants.

The negative – Mr. bought cheap ice cream. It tasted like frozen chocolate water. It was hardly worth falling off the low carb wagon.
The positive – We've got a new puke bucket that says PARTY PAIL in bright, cheery letters.

We found a dead jellyfish on the beach. We picked it up with a stick to get a better look. We got a whiff, and put the jellyfish down.
As others walked along the beach one of the Dolls overheard someone say, “Look at the jellyfish. It got killed by a stick.”

If the sum of a person’s life is measured by others left behind, what happens when you leave behind nothin' but jerks and A-holes?

Darling and I were shopping in the mall when she spotted her manager.
In previous discussions the woman's prolific tanning habit was discussed.
She tans, but she’s black. Or is she…?
Darling made the introductions and brief pleasantries were exchanged.
“She’s black? No way.” was my decree.
“Yea, Mom…” insisted my girl. She raised a power fist. “Her dad was a Pink Panther in the sixties.”

I’m satisfied with who I am. I don’t need to be a more giving person. I wanna be around others who are more giving so feel free to make the change.

I hate word verification. I fail at word verification.
I need spell-check for word verification.

If I could travel anywhere in the world I’d go to Mandaria. I love their oranges.
I'd love to see how they grow 'em without peel, without skin, and in cans.

Conflicts in Life would be better if we were literally catty.
No matter how vicious we’d been, it’d be all about Forgive and Forget with the cleaning of each other’s ears.

“You can tell when I’m stressed about something.” I told Mr. (about my online class). “I’m sitting still and doing nothing. It looks a lot like watching TV.”

Let there be peace and earth and you start.

Preconceptions Preserved

2009-09-02T11:33:00.003-05:00

Stereotype Reinforcement Training

Where:

Walmart

When:

1st of Every Month

What:

Link cards, food stamps, government checks

Who:

toothless rednecks,

nearly toothless hillbillies,

people with rotten teeth,

hateful Pentecostal women,

people who smell of cigarettes,

people who smell of B.O.,

people who smell of cigarettes and B.O.,

working alcoholics,

hangover sufferers,

victims of regrettable tats,

groping couples,

disheveled SAHMs,

prudish homeschoolers,

priggish homeschoolers,

tribes of sickly-looking prim homeschoolers,

cantankerous geezers,

women with wedgies,

men with huge guts and ill-fitting shirts,

welfare mamas with dirty babies,

welfare mamas with too many dirty babies,

welfare mamas with too many babies’ daddies,

obese women in power chairs,

smokers on oxygen,

stoners,

gamers,

meth-head toothpicks,

hoochie mamas,

wannabee cowboys,

wannabee black guys who’re white,

wannabee somebodies who’re nobodies,

plastic girls,

mean girls,

spoiled b*tches,

screaming babies,

whining children,

insolent tweens,

slutty teen girls,

obnoxious teen boys,

bull dikes,

prancing h’mos,

women who aren’t aging well,

women who need better lighting in their bathroom,

women who need tweezers and/or bleach crème,

peacocks,

guys in manopause,

sugar daddies,

cougars,

studs,

duds,

Bubbas,

Barbies,

kids in urbanwear,

drama queens,

drag queens,

slow walkers,

loud talkers,

the unwashed,

the overdone,

camo wearers,

cleavage sharers,

ass-crack bearers,

short-tempered moms,

inattentive moms,

over achiever moms,

clueless dads,

jobless dads,

non-custodial dads,

people who read entire magazines at WalMart,

people who wait to make poop at WalMart.

Get out much?

Way to wreck it for us.

That morning was our date night.

Who's supporting YOUR prejudices at the 'mart?

I'm All That Now

2009-09-01T13:27:00.004-05:00

“Button, button, who’s got the button?”

BBWGTB? is a children’s game, but I never played it.
The association for me has always been a “Go Ask Alice” reference to an LSD mickey in someone’s soda.
On second thought, I reckon it’s a game even in the book. But a Bad Game. Drugs are only ~~fun~~ good for you if you get 'em from ~~a trusted friend~~ your doctor.

Drugs destroyed poor Alice.

Drugs are wrecking things for a lot o’ people.
Drugs ruint my ability to learn new things. My memory is shot and … Ooo, shiny things…

Just say no to ~~most~~ drugs.
Drugs Are Really Expensive (D.A.R.E.)

Where was I?
Oh yeah, “The Island” stars Ewan McGregor and Scarlett Johansson in an action sci-fi thriller…

Sorry.
Dang drugs.

"Who’s got a button?" you ask.
I do!

I’ve got a button cuz Mary RockSTAR Crabtree of Shaking the Tree had a giveaway.
She graciously giveawayed her mad skilz as an html’er to create a custom button for ~~the person she liked best~~ ~~her favorite blogger~~ one randomly selected entrant.

There are no segues, so Watch Your Step, and Do Try to Keep Up, especially if shiny things tend to distract.

Mary is a professional makeup artist.
I’m a fan.
I lurve makeup. I wear tons.

Mary’s got a dream job that’s not really a dream.
Occasionally she writes about the Beautiful People. ~~Some of us~~ I would ~~crumble~~ have to deal with ~~a raging inferiority complex~~ some insecurity issues, but Mary has a level head about the Glitz and Glamour.
She shares stories and insights on the skin-deepedness of it all.

Mary’s cool.
She’s nice, but I can get beyond that.
She’s funny and fun.

She lives in Vegas, and she’d be the only reason I’d go to SITScation.
I do not Play Well with Others, contrary to the persistent rumor I've spread.

SITScation wouldn’t be my thing, but hanging with Mary in Vegas would be fun.
~~She could fix my self-cut bangs.~~
~~She could introduce me to Clooney.~~
I’d give her a list of things I’d wanna do.
I’m not picky, or I am (when you're overhaulin' my blog).

What Happens in Vegas...

We could start with “Eating by the Pool”. And end with “Napping by the Pool”. I’m pretty much a stay-home kinda gal and easy-pleasy like that.
Mary’s Home would be some good fun. We could yap and chillax. Or I'd clean her house and ~~torture~~ watch her kids cuz I owe. Her. Big.

Mary met Donny.
If “Mary met Donny” isn’t enough for you, jump off now while we’re still rolling slowly. There’s gonna be more and it doesn’t get any better.
Mary met Donny.
Squeal and shart.

Mary invited me to her family blog, and if that’s not enough that she ~~purposefully picked my name to win her giveaway~~ totally ROCKed my whole entire blog.
Go over and tell her ~~that you think I’m lovely~~ that you like her work.
(Her design blog is here.)

Over at Tammy’s there was another giveaway and I won that too. I am stoked.
Giveaways are fun. Especially when you win.
Well it's TRUE. Sorry ~~losers~~ non-winners.

Tammy's Giveaway was of the Pay-It-Forward variety. I'm pay forwarding it before the year is out. I'm slow like that. Get off my back.
I've got a house that's trashed by renovation, health problems, daycare kids and laziness. I'm taking a course at the local Hillbilly Academy, and I get distracted by Oooo...

Tammy is having a BDay Today and Serious Dental Work soon. We can all sympathize with the anxiety (over the tooth troubles, not the advancing age, though Tammy has both.)
Go over to Keeping Up With Mommakin. See my booty. And give Tammy some love.

Tammy has kids. → Kids go to school. → I’m back at school.
(There ya go, ya segue zealots. Notice how I did it all smooth like Ex-Laxcrement.)

Turns out my course for continuing education is online. Initially this was agreeable cuz I was fretting the horrors of leaving my home.
I thought a classroom environment would reveal me to be a dufus. If only.
I SO coulda managed the rigors of showering on a regular basis.

With an online class I have a multitude of ways to fail.

It’s not just the claptrap nonsense coming outta my mouth but the interwebs system of online classery equals So Many Places to Failpost my Stupidi.ty
That means leaving it on the “Blackboard” for all eternity. Or the rest of the semester.
Either way; perish the thought.

I am busy worrying about school work ~~more often~~ as often as I’m actually doing it.

Just when I overcome my dread and conquer an assignment there's another equally horrifying task online, and I'm ~~wearing crapped pants~~ back at square one of a meltdown.

I’m off to do a literary critique of “Millions of Cats.”
How to make a picture book sound like "War and Peace"? It's like apples to oranges.
With a name like [Wanda] Gag it has to be good.

Grab my butt'n. And please be sure to let me know if YOU'VE got one. I'm putting 'em in my Button Scrolly Thingamabob. (That's the widget that plays the button slideshow. I know ya'll don't have the htmlisms down pat like me. Cuz I'm All That Now. Perhaps you've heard.)

Your Farts Stink

2009-08-21T13:07:00.003-05:00

I don’t believe familiarity is necessary for contempt.
I hate lots of stuff I’ve never tried.

In the spirit of mocking that which I do not know, I attempted to describe the pleasure of consuming a cat turd with terminology used to characterize wine.

I don’t drink wine. In my younger days I drank like a [something that drinks a lot].
It destroyed the likelihood that I’ll ever drink socially (until social drinking includes beer pong and quarters, numerous rounds of shots, dancing, hooting, and flashes of nudity, that is, and THEN I’ll be the Life of the Party again.)

My tirade was not meant to imply wine drinkers are pretentious, nor was I advocating the consumption of cat poop.

Some of my readers were put off.
I hope they’ll continue to read.

Perhaps I am an acquired taste; unsavory at first, then just a bit unsettling. Eventually you’ll get comfortable.

Sure, I mention things like vomit, and liver, and pee-pees. Who doesn’t?

So what if I used the men’s room?

And my mom stabbed my dad. Big deal.
If you met him you might wanna stab him too.

Don’t give up on me! I’m an Acquired Taste, remember?

You’ll come to love me. I know you will.

Then you’ll be able to tell your friends all about me.
Tell ‘em I’m funny. Tell ‘em I Crack. You. Up.
Tell ‘em about my antics as a slacker mom, and tell ‘em about my Torture Daycare.
Brag to 'em even. Tell ‘em you know me near to RL (real life).

Friend me on facebook. (It's as close to RL friends as I get in RL.) My button is on my sidebar.

Play it like you're Savant sophisticated; you’re part of my circle (which is actually a dot).
Put me on your sidebar, follow me, print out my photo and tape it on your fridge.

Talk about Meniere’s disease like an expert. Rant about my Health Alliance insurance as we prepare to launch the Mother of All Sharts – my second appeal.
Break some wind as a demonstration of our bond.

It’d have quite a nose to it.

No offense, but I wouldn't like it, I'm sure.
And I've never even met you.

Kopi Luw-ICK and Other Such Nonsense

2009-08-19T12:41:00.002-05:00

I don’t believe in “Acquired Tastes.”
What’s it supposed to mean exactly?

I think it’s most often borne of pretense, but it’s some d*mn fine irony that forces Pretentious Man to consume something disgusting in the name of I’m-Better-Than-You.

How the H do you Acquire a Taste?

“Ick. I [gag] loathe [gag] that [gag]. Wow, that’s horrible. Gimme more.“

I bet cat shit is an Acquired Taste.

(Sorry Delicate Reader. Can't asterisk it. Gotta have the full effect.)

In the spirit of "Acquired Taste" you could eat cat shit long enough to convince yourself you like it. Convince your friends. Brag to 'em even.
Play it like you're cat crap qualified; a sommelier of scat, proficient in poop, giving new meaning to the phrase Meow Mix, talking about its "acidity" and "aroma" with acumen.
Malolactic meWOW.

It’d have quite a nose to it.

It’d put the terror in terroir. (A term for wine that has a link to geography, as per The Wine Anorak. In the case of the cat kaka connoisseur, "turd terroir" would be dependant on cardboard consumption, the eating of insects, and whether or not said beastie has been snacking on thread, houseplants, or carpeting.)

Petillant poop? If the cat ate Pop Rocks, perhaps.
Tannin? There’s no tannin in poop. Don’t even try, Pretentious Man.

Complex? Indeed. Why does one cat have the diarrhea and the other NOT? They eat the same food for crying out loud.
Fruity bouquet? Never on my watch.
Powerful? [check] Waters my eyes when I’m doing laundry in the basement.

Finish – with a strong breath mint, maybe a stiff drink.

You’re sick, litter lover.

I HATE PRETENTIOUS PEOPLE, putting the ass in assuming.

Munch on ::this::, bloated bore...

Miss Kelly's Daycare; Toddler Torture and So Much More

2009-08-18T13:46:00.002-05:00

Top Ten Rejected Names for Savant Daycare

10. House of Hitler; Heil Hilfe

9. KittyCat KidCare; We Treat ‘Em Rough so They Don’t Grow Up to be Pussies

8. Louis Vuitton Children’s Center; I Do It for the Money

7. Country Home Daycare; We Have Modern Conveniences, But Your Kid Ain’t Gonna Use ‘Em

6. Destiny Daycare; If Your Kid Chokes on Something It’s the Will of God, Not MY Fault

5. Dinosaur Depot; I’m Too Old for This Sh*t

4. That'll Be $8 For Every Fifteen Minutes You’re Late Daycare

3. The Family Center; I Might Leave Your Kids with My Daughters So I Can Tan

2. The Discipline Diva

1. The Chore Center; Tykes Trained to Toil

This is So Funny it’s Not Even Funny

2009-08-16T12:23:00.003-05:00

Kel is no vlog.
Kel is frighten.

She hurt her face with the making up with eyelids brown and cheeks pink and too much! and look like Red Square prostitute look like Stalin also with the having of moustache.

I tell her “I tape and you talk and tell the little bloggy peoples your idea, just like write of words on blog with 'b', except vlog (so funny with 'v'.)”

She no like.

She no drink cuz to talk on vlog, tell joke so funny and relax. When she young she drink so much she now is one who still to drink too much so is none.
She drink now and she be everybody friend and maybe take off some clothes for you on vlog.

It be bad, like naked Russian prostitute or Stalin that I talk before.

She not nice girl. She like hide behind writing of words and no have good the talking of them as I.
Putting her for vlog would be not smooth and you stay liking her of writing most of all.

She has much to do of ignoring housework and getting school of preparation for self and childrens of high junior.
Beginnings are soon.

She wake up at early to begin doing lazy and complain being tired.

Her friend Macey she so boldly going on vlog and Kel think to do and then we here.

Chicken of out.

Try to Be Something True; Dog Poop in My Field of Expertise

2009-08-10T09:15:00.002-05:00

I’ve got to go to school.
Er, I’ve got to take a class, thirty CEUs, to maintain my certification with ASHA.
ASHA stands for tight-a** militant, career-obsessed sycophants who’d prostitute themselves if it fluffed a resume.

They hold the keys to jobs within my field.

Don’t get me wrong; I appreciate regulations. I know there’d be Aunt Archie without ‘em. Anyone could ink a tatt, teach school, or craft fake nails with poisons from Hanoi if we didn’t have Rules.

I’m ready to jump through the proverbial hoops. If my jumping involves the absolute minimum of work at the absolute last possible moment, I’m all for it.

This is my ~~Yikes!~~ ~~Holy Crap!~~ Hail Mary play, so things gotta sync.

I don’t know which is worse, calling ASHA or dealing with John A. Logan College.

JALC is [rightly] proud to be a non-trad friendly institution, but their online application fails to flesh out their claim.
It won’t let me enter anything under “Collegiate Record.”
Seeing as I’ve never been arrested, and I barely put a toe into the workforce, my college record’s all I’ve got. (Unless they’re keeping track of tanning time. Who's keeping track of tanning time?)

Why won’t JALC’s website let me enter “Completed Graduate School”? It won't let me indicate "Master's Degree."

“HellooooO… “ I said to my computer monitor. Nada.

I checked my Bubbster’s Hictionary for “post-graduate.” It’s defined as “sixteenth grade” in the south.
Now all’s well for my app.

Except for the fact they need proof of residency from residents, and high school transcripts from peeps who came of age before high school was invented.
They want a note from my dead mother.
And I have to pass a prostate screening.

I tell myself it’s cuz I’ve got all my teeth and I speak coherent English. I’m a stranger in a land that’s stranger.

Then I call ASHA and get their “WTH?” treatment from a TAMCOS.

It’s ridiculievable:

The Tight-A** Militant Career-Obsessed Sycophant asks me about my “emphasis in the field.”
Me: “I’m a stay-home mom.”
Her: “Is that rehab or acute?”
Me: (Honey it’s terminal, but that’s neither here nor there.) “Pardon me?”
Her: “Are you working in medical?”
Me: “No. I’m at home.”
Her: “Oh, you work in the school system, got it.”
Me: “No, I’m not doing speech therapy. I’m a Stay Home Mom. Listen; steɪ hoʊm mɒm. ( bɪtʃ .)”
(I signed that very last part too. Wish we had Jetsons' TV phones.)

Going to class will mean having to leave my desk chair.

I’ll be outside my house.
Not on the patio.
And not in the yard.

I’ll be in class amidst the unwashed masses. In the throng.

It’s not optional.
I’m kind of a big deal in the art of quitting.
But this time I have to Go. And I have to Do. Without excuse and without fail.

Classmates will see my Uncool Ways and know right off that I Don’t Fit.
They’ll know I’m too big for my body. I’m a self-conscious boor.

They’ll see the Real Kel, without the skilled wordsmithery.
There’ll be no hiding my chipped teeth and sideburns behind a well-tooled euphemism.

Real Life Kel isn’t able to make puke, poop, and peepees into Good Fun.

No one will wanna hear about My Cats at the Community College.

Classmates will see Kel, without proofing or spellcheck.

They’ll call me Kelly, (cuz why would I bother?) and they’ll see the crepe paper skin on my hands.
I’ll have to commit to manicure excellence, cuz nobody wants to see hooker nails.

Speaking of over-the-top hygiene standards; I’ll have to shower practically every day. And no matter what the locals think - PJs are not acceptable attire for leaving the house. I'll have to Dress Accordingly, which for me means Fashion Frustration.

I’ll have to stay ahead of the unibrow, the bleaching, waxing, shaving, and hair coloring. (I hate hair coloring, but I love those first precious hours before gray hairs re-emerge. WTH?)

On top of all this I’ll have homework. No worries though, cuz I’ve said it before; nothing keeps me from blogging.

I wonder if they’ll let me take pictures in class.

Some Ahole Always Starts It; But I've Got Everything Under Control

2009-08-09T08:50:00.005-05:00

Blog on SITSters.

It’s another Movement. This time sh*tting your pants is optional.
[ahem, Macey]
[ahem your mama too, please Macey]

Comments on Friday’s post were funnier than the post, for reals.
We have a bond, whether you’re a member of SITS, er no.

We all hate the flavorless “Have a nice day” when it’s evidence of a non-reading blog hopper.

Tania was wished a Happy Wedding Day. She is firmly married, with 43 children.
Gigi, on the other hand, is blogging out her husband’s infidelity. She gets “Love your blog. Have a great day” when she’s pouring her heart out.

Think that’s crazy? Me too.
So let’s move. Er no.

If this works, it’s mine.
If it’s rude, crude, or just plain dumb; Ahole started it.
(Jeanette thinks everything I do is sheer brilliance, I tell myself, er; she told me.)

Go to SITS.
If you’re not a member, join so you can play along.

It’s a great way to get visitors that often become genuine readers.
And find other blogs of interest.
It works, despite the occasional bugs in the system.

This is for you, MJ…

SITS isn’t scary at all. You “Roll Call” every day by leaving a comment on That Day’s Post.
The Daily Posts are merely the introduction of a “Featured Blogger”.
You’ll also visit her blog and comment on her post(s).
As I mentioned in Friday’s rant; it’s also recommended that you visit the SITSter ahead of you in Roll Call and comment on one of her posts.

Here’s our plan: [rubbing hands together maniacally]…
Make your Roll Call comment, “I like unicorns too. Have a nice day.”

I’m only talking about Roll Call. I don’t recommend toying with the fragile hearts of other bloggers.

I am not anti-SITS. I love SITS.

I’m not anti-unicorn (although The Peterson Family IS.)
I agree with MoxieMama, Yaya, and FunnyRunner that Unicorns are Delightful Creatures.

I just wouldn’t want to have a run-in with one. I’ve heard that they will Eff You Up.

Speaking of vaginas, Lynn calls her toochie. Or maybe that’s her rear. Either way; she wants to talk about it.
Aunt of 14 wants to talk about her Lady Biz too.
Carma simply needs some love cuz she got bit There, by a chigger. [Home Alone scream]

Some ladies found a confessional in Friday’s comment section. More power to ‘em, I say.
Happy Hour came out as a boozehound. Like I didn’t see that coming.
And Lori E is a liar. THAT I didn’t see.

Several of you revealed yourselves to be Not. Paying. Attention. At All.
I don’t cook. (Bumpkin knows.)
And I loathe fundies. (Alex♥, Alex♥, Alex♥.)

On a totally UNRELATED NOTE: Jelly and The Rambler may or may not be planning a trip to the Caribbean.

Vivienne and Sue are So Wrong They’re Right, and mzbehavin said, “My sister never got in bed with my husband..... She could never understand why I got in bed with him.”

Weren't you ladies paying attention at all?!

Tammy Howard promoted her [genuine] giveaway.
Standard Tammy, who squeals at concerts just in case they’re recording live.

And somehow-or-another we learned Ahole's got the diarrhea.
She needs Immodium, Pepto, or something.

In the spirit of bloggy love and helpfulness, I Googled what “Ahole Needs”.

Ahole needs to go.
Obviously. She’s been eating at the Taco Bell.

Ahole needs to take down this torrent! or change the name of it!
It’s backwards. I know; it’s confusing when you’re new.

Ahole needs to be ousted and fast!
“Ousted”? Or “outed”? Cuz she calls herself an A-hole. That’s pretty OUT.

Ahole needs to be drilled into the standard Jupiter control box to accommodate the modular jack.
She says a lot of stuff I don’t understand either, but keep reading. She’ll explain all of it, or some of it, or none, eventually, or maybe not.

Ahole needs to be [alternately] stopped, banned, or lynched.
That’s pretty harsh. You understand that this is a likeable Ahole, right?

Ahole needs to be dealt with.
She loves me (I'm an Ahole magnet), and I’ve Got Everything Under Control.

I SO love unicorns!!! Have a great day SITSters!!!!!

Isthay Ostpay Uckedsay, But I Don't Know How to Tell You

2009-08-07T10:01:00.003-05:00

Several of us are sharing the same affliction, if affliction equals enjoying summertime getaways and days with our peeps.

As a result, we’re behind on blog-hopping and the sharing of comment love.
I’m just as delinquent as the next guy, more so if you consider how greatly I am loved and how coveted are my remarks.

If you’re like me you’re a fast reader.
Watch out lest a hasty read makes “giant bibs” into “giant boobs” (which wouldn’t be a problem if I wasn’t ex-fundie and prone to snicker Beevis and Butthead-style at everything even remotely sexual.)

I read fast, so the greatest challenge isn’t the reading. It’s in the leaving of some little bit of me and my brilliance in the form of a comment.

I often give some morsel of a shared experience or feeling because that’s why we love each otter.
I usually remark that I’ve enjoyed your work (cuz writing is work.)

Even the comment-writing requires blood sometimes.

SITS has a good thing going.
They encourage us to visit the daily Featured Blogger and comment.
They also recommend that we click on the blogger above us in the "daily roll call" and give some comment love.
Sometimes these assignments are difficult.
But on occasion it lends itself to new bloggy friends.
SITS has a good thing going.

But even a good thing becomes failwords if you’re brainless.

There's help.
Help is on the way!
I'm help.
I mean; I'm have the answer.
(Didn't you know I would?)

Leave a remark that’s germane to the post.

It’s rude to merely state “Over from SITS.”
It’s nice to spread the word about the group, but be relevant.

Leave your link if you must, (cuz clicking on your name isn't enough) but add a little something that shows you’re Paying Attention and the gray cells actually function.

This is wrong:

Commenting; “I love unicorns,” when the post was about the death of her father.

“I hate mosquitoes too,” regarding the writer’s house burning to the ground.

“I haven’t missed Fresno’s Raisinfest since 1989,” to a Paula Dean recipe post and pix.

“I love Aunt Annie’s pretzels,” in response to a post about vaginas. Or vica-versa. (Mentioning your va-jay-jay isn’t comment savvy unless the blogger started it, then it’s germane.)

“LOL. You are so funny” doesn’t jive with a post about suffering crippling migraines, likewise; “I found my husband in bed with my sister” has nothing to with kitchen renovation.

Here is your out: If you’re an idiot; leave SITS, or don't infect it with your stupid cooties.
If the post blows; if the writing stinks, if the content offends you or it’s simply not your area of interest; don’t comment.

SITS is pirate-y in that way; the code is more what you'd call "guidelines" than actual rules.

Go to a different SITSter blogger and comment on her stuff.

And Read the Post, ya dumba**.

That Flasher is a Dude, I Can Tell

2009-08-06T13:06:00.005-05:00

I’m observant. I am vigilant.
I’m attentive in all situations.
I’m a keen witness. Watchful.
I’m an excellent judge of character. I can decipher another’s attitude in a moment.

I can tell an apple tree from the apples.
I can figure YOU out, cuz I know the heart of man.
There are two natures, and I’ve had ‘em both.

I know things.

I woulda recognized Bernie Madoff as a thief the moment I laid eyes on him.
If I was a gay teenage boy in Milwaukee I’d’ve never gone home with Jeffrey D.
I knew Blogo was no good before he offered me the Senate seat.
Plaxico Burrus screamed Guilty Thug, prior to shooting himself in the a**.
And surprise, surprise; only two things make your head grow (literally) larger, and for Barry Bonds it was performance-enhancers.

I knew it. All.

I’ll never be the lady interviewed on the six o’clock news who looks openmouthed into the camera and remarks, “I never woulda guessed. He was real quiet. He kept to hisself a lot.”
I may be openmouthed indeed (Clueless is my resting appearance.), but I’ll Spill the Beans about my neighbors.

Nobody surprises me.

"Baby stealing? I knew he was capable. He has a burn barrel and we’re within the city limits.”
"Beating his wife? He made the her take out the trash. It was only a matter of time…”
"Child pornography? He barbequed with charcoal. I knew it would come to this.”
"Took a gun to work and kilt her boss? I'm not surprised. She never used her clothesline.”
"Human Traffiking? Well hell, he never trimmed the weeds on the fenceline.”

Kate Gosselin? Her man stepped out.
I saw it coming. I knew they were in for trouble.
I’m real observant that way, if by observant you mean Acutely Aware of the Obvious.

I can tell an apple tree from the apples.
I can figure The Gosselins out, because I know the propensity of the human heart.
There are two natures of man, and I’ve had ‘em both.

I know things.

I wish I would’ve warned her. Now all I’ve got is condolences.

Dear Kate,

I know, right?

While you were busy ~~exploiting your children~~ working, Jon strayed.
One day you ~~swung~~ reached out with loving arms, and he wasn't there.
What the…

It’s not easy to manage ~~a world that revolves around you~~ a family of multiples.
You’re busy.

You’ve got to add narration to televised life with eight out-of-control children while simultaneously castigating, humiliating, and lording over your husband.
You are a busy girl.

Jon had an inordinate amount of time and opportunity to find ~~an escape route~~ ~~kindness and affection elsewhere~~ diversions.

No fair.
The world cries out, “Poor Kate.”

What was he thinking?

Did he ever ask you to train the children? I'm just wondering.

Did he ever mention the notion of having obedient kids? Cuz some people like that.

When you considered intrauterine insemination, did you think about the job of parenting? or was it lights, cameras, action from the git-go?

He didn’t know about the relationship with your bodyguard, did he?
Cuz there's nothing wrong with your friendship as long as all you did was ~~complain about your spouse~~
~~bond emotionally with a married man~~
~~fantacize about one another~~
behave like brother and sister.

Did anyone ever say “Let’s turn off the cameras”? "Let's send 'em packing and become a family."?
The crew didn’t add stress to an already demanding situation, did they?

Did Jon ever say anything about maybe changing your hair? I mean; if he gave you teeth-whitening for a gift...
I'm jus' saying; some guys wouldn't like a six-color reverse mullet.

He didn’t get tired of running in circles at your command with 8 undisciplined kids while you berated and criticized him on national television. Did he?

You weren’t worse when the cameras were off. Were you?

I’m sure that he enjoyed being humiliated. Don’t all men love that?

He didn’t want your respect. I’m sure of it.

He didn’t want to be loved, cherished and honored.
And I’m certain when you vowed to do it you were only joking.

Good God Kate, how unfair to you.
I love your “Show must go on” attitude. Marriage be damned but keep those cameras rolling.
Your tight-lipped maturity is now making you the martyr.
Perhaps you shoulda held your tongue once in a while before you drove him away.

YOU were the catalyst.
For the breeding.
For the television show.
For the termination of your marriage.

Cuz you started it.

Apples, Kate. Apple TREE.

You bitch, therefore you are.

Jon; my condolences. Run like H.
Don’t look back.
Not even when you hear the endless high-pitched whining of Eight Horrible Children.

They’re apples, all of ‘em. Just like their mama.
I can tell.

I Like Big Buffets, And I Can Not Lie

2009-08-03T06:40:00.002-05:00

Our fam likes The Golden Corral.

We call it alternately; “The Golden Trough”, “The Golden Calf” and “Canaan”.

Our GC is a nice; a clean, well-run restaurant. It’s recently come under new management and had an overhaul.
There’s no more dice throwing, no more Three Card Monte. The hookers’re gone. And so is their bad karaoke.

Our Golden Corral has good food, and lots of it, with no waiting, which my kids appreciate.

Every fourth or fifth day I throw myself off the low carb wagon, and it’s more better very good fun when I can do it at the Corral.

The former management had let our beloved Corral go to pot.
In the end, they had a strange twist on Golden Corral’s signature Theme Nights.

While they still had some of the yummy GC standards, there were some bizarre offerings in the line-up.
It was theme nights that ruint ‘em I tell ya.

The Health Department found out Monday’s “Family Night” spoke more about the bill of fare than the theme.
Until the class action suit is settled, I’m not supposed to use words like cannibalism, so when I say “man meat” and I wink; I’m not talking dirty. It’s Our Little Secret.
Let’s just keep our fingers crossed that it pays big for the Savant fam.

The theme for Tuesday night’s spread was “Ethnic Cleansing”, a menu that combined dishes like “Flavor of Djibouti” and “Puntland Delight,” with the colon cleansing promise that you’d be emptied by bedtime.

Wednesday was “BBQ Night”. Harmless and unmolested until a group of local trannies started meeting there to see and be seen.
They called themselves Big Bad Queens, and rather than barbeque they bullied the staff into serving exotic varieties of sausage.
Did you ever see a 6’4” drag queen go eye to eye with a blutwurst? It’s not pretty, no matter how much Maybelline and spackle ~~she's~~ he’s got over ~~her~~ his five o’clock shadow.

We all liked Thursday’s “Mexican Night,” despite the fact that there were no Mexican dishes on the buffet. Then we discovered that the restaurant was staffed with fugitives and illegals from south o’ the border.
I like a clever play on words as much as the next guy, but Paco; wear a hair net. (How d’you say “That tatt looks infected,” in Spanish?)

Friday’s “Seafood Gamble” was meant to encompass a casino theme, but the gambling habits of several of their employees quickly led to the cancellation of the games. The only gamble was the “Popcorn Shrimp-ish” and “Crab-esque Cakes.”

Saturday was originally “Carver’s Night,” but after he won a knife fight with Sheila from the dessert bar, the [then] manager began calling it “Thrill of the Kill”.
He strutted about clumsily flipping a butterfly knife in his good hand.

Sunday’s was “Prayerful Delight,” a casserole conglomerate of leftover food from the previous six days. “Mexican Mix” never had any Mexican, as I’ve mentioned, and “Wiener Wonder” was just gross, I tell ya.

No Naked Pictures, Stop Asking!

2009-07-31T11:44:00.005-05:00

I need K-Y for this dry spell.

I’ve got nothing to write about.

I’d gladly use the men’s room again if it’d generate a blog post.

I could write about vomit, my cats or my blogging splendor. But I’ve done it all.
Ad nauseum.

I’d do a meme, but I’d do it badly.

I’d tell you about our Edisto Island Vacation, but I Stink at The Writing of The Serious.

I’d whine about Health Alliance denying my appeal (oh yes, they did), but even THAT has bored me to tears.
And moments of panic.
School begins in three weeks. I’ll be alone with two small kids while still prone to flares of Meniere’s disease.
BOR-ing. Even to Health Alliance evidently.

I could tell you what a wonderful time we had in St. Louis.
We went for a Cardinals game and stayed at the Hyatt. Went to the Arch. Walked around downtown.

But The Writing of The Serious would make it difficult for me to maintain my "Queen of The Funny" posture and parade wave.
Plus I Stink at it.
Mayhap you’ve heard.

Asking “WWJB?” (What Would Jesus Blog?) I dug out some writing prompts.

So meme-ish; 20-Plus Ways to failBlog.

Describe each member of your family.
I have two Dolls, two Darlings, a failDog and two cats. I’m married to Mr. Wonderful and I have two daycare kids that’re kinda like family (where “kinda like family” equals they bug me as much as my own.)
They say a picture is worth a thousand words.
Do the math.
Talk about turgid verbosity. Talk about sonorous tumescence. Talk about bombastic grandiloquence.
I have pictures.
A ten thousand word post would be redundant. I hate redundancy. And the saying of things over and over and over and over. It’s a time-wasting waste of time, really. Honestly. Time. Wasting.

Write a dialog between your feminine and masculine sides.
My feminine side is ticked that my masculine side won the hairy arm debate.
They have other issues, but they duked it out in the men’s room at the Culvers.
(SHE won, if by “won” you mean bolted from the men’s room and ate junk food for comfort.)

Write a dialog between a creationist and an evolutionist.
The creationist thinks it’s ironic that evolutionists want to Save the Planet.
The creationist would ask, “Isn’t that interfering with Natural Order?”
And “Shouldn’t we eat homosexuals a la Survival of the Fittest?” That’s what the creationist would ask. Jus’ saying. (And jk.)

My talents are... few, but Great and Terrible. Mostly dirty.

My 10 biggest fears...
I’m scared of many creepy, crawly critters and creatures that’re better off dead or in the zoo.
Better for ME, that is.
I’m a child of the King of Kings, so I don’t get scared often.
A worry, my greatest worry... is offending someone. (I KNOW; right??)
When people become offended it's often because they RE-think words or circumstances, allowing no opportunity for explanation.
I reserve the right to explain.
Oftentimes it's a matter of explaining "humor" and describing how it's meant to work.
I reserve the right to explain or tell you to stick in in your ear.

Describe a typical day during your high school years.
Try; remember a typical day…
It was that bad and that long ago and that unimportant.

What's the oldest book you've read?
Canterbury Tales, I rekkonth.

10 types of food or dishes I've never eaten that I'd like to try...
flan
creme brule
sweet potato fries...
Let's flip this. I’d never try…
crawfish/crayfish
sushi
chitertlings
veal
brain/tongue
bugs (They’re food in some places, and I couldn’t.)
cold soups
steak tartare
tripe (I won't eat it, but I write it all the time.)

10 things I'd like to learn…
soldering.
I’m so slow it’d be like teaching 10 things to a normal person.

How old would you be if you didn't know your real age?
My imagined age would be irrelevant.
My peeps will put me in a home the second I forget something this important.
They're through waiting for me to forget my address so they can "take me for a drive in the country."

My 10 favorite words
“sycophant”
“mulligan”
Say them each four times.
Say “butt” twice.
There.

One famous person I would like to have breakfast with is... Jesus.

What are you saying goodbye to?
religious hypocrites and traditional church
Is that redundant? I hate redundancy. And the saying of things over and over and over and over.
It’s a time-wasting waste of time, really. Honestly. Time. Wasting.

Something that I enjoy doing for a friend...
My Mr. is my BF. Things I do for him are wifely, ordinary, occasionally dirty. Mayhap you've heard.
Together we enjoy swimming, boogie boarding, discussing spiritual matters, lifting weights, traveling, and Cardinals’ baseball.
We like movies. We recently liked “Defiance” very much.

What did you accomplish last year?
I survived twelve months of my life and all that it entails, which has its moments; both grand, and dull.

If you could become invisible for life, would you?
No way. I’m too vain.
Mr. has to see me to compliment me.

When I take care of myself… I exercise.

I regret... things, occasionally, then I remember that what I meant for evil God used for good.

If you could rearrange 3 things about your life, what would they be?
They’d be so all-encompassing it’d be folly for sure.

Look at your hands. Why are you grateful for them?
They’re no longer crippled by my RA.
They look much older than my age. It reminds me of my mom’s frequent remarks that she got her mother’s hands. I guess I got hers. I’m cool with that.
She's dead now. She doesn't need 'em.

Name five things lying around your computer.
Cameras, magazines, mail, water bottle, book.

What are your limitations, and are they self-imposed?
I have limitless limitations. Imposed by self and others.
I can’t bench press 75# = my fault.
I can’t fly = God’s fault.
I can’t make good gravy. Who’s fault is that? I’d like to know.

I am happy w/myself. Here’s why…
I’ve never stabbed my husband. (Mom couldn’t say that.)
Some awesome people love me.
I know who I am.

What things in life give you pain?
Nerves, sending signals to my brain.

Foods that I enjoy…are too numerous to list.
I can eat monuganteous amounts of food, so I stay low carb 'cept for vacays and special occasions when I Enjoy Yummy Things.
While eating low carb I like ~~vacays and special occasions when I Enjoy Yummy Things~~ Dreamfields penne with Italian sausage and parmesan cheese.

Things you don’t know about me... are better left unsaid.
You don’t wanna hear about the sh*t that's in my head.

In other words; I’ve got nothing to write about.
Mayhap you’ve heard.

Women Pee While Standing? Here's Your Sign, Idiot

2009-07-29T08:28:00.012-05:00

It all started at Culvers.

No. Wait. It started with the SITS Spring Fling…

[cue dream sequence]

On March 9th SITS hosted a giveaway party. Bloggers offered prizes and visited each others’ giveaway posts like comment Aguileras.
There were hundreds.
~~It was madness.~~ It was delightful.

Giveaway booty included lots of baby and children’s items. There were handcrafted goods, high end loot, last minute “I-wasn’t-prepared” stuff, and some unusual things.

One blogger was offering a Shewee. Even I was disgusted.

The Shewee allows women to urinate while standing.

Maybe you’re thinking; germs abound on toilet seats in public restrooms.

My retort is, “Yea, and they’re put there by women who try to hover. Cuz they’re pi**ing all over the seat.”

The greatest risk for the back of my legs to contract a seat-borne illness comes when I follow HoverGirl, and sit in her Liquid Leavings.

I don’t use a throne with a wet seat.

I will wait.

Cuz I sit.

I don't hover.

And I will never stand.

Not with a Shewee, a Whiz Biz or a P-Mate. Not with a Go Girl, My Sweet Pee, or any of the dozens of devices designed for this unthinkable business.

It’s gross.

But evidently there’s a demand.

Several sites claim It’s The Wave of the Future.
(I prefer jet packs and hover cars, robot maids and meals in pill form.)

When I rushed my Traveler's Bladder into the restroom at Culver’s I thought, “OMG it’s happening.”

There were two urinals.

Culvers is a Wisconsin original. I love Culvers.
They serve delicious “Butter Burgers” and delightful frozen custard. They have great onion rings and my people love their deep-fried cheese “curds".
Let’s just say I’m Culvers savvy.

All Culvers have the same menu. They have the same prices, the same uniforms, the same décor. If you eat at enough Culverses it even appears they have the same people behind the counter; smiling, happy faces ready to take your money and give you food that’s the living end of deliciousness.

All Culvers have the same design.

So why was the ladies room divided by a real wall with a real door, instead of metal stalls?
I was surprised that there was only a single toilet on the other side.

“Wow,” I thought, “Culvers really wants the ladies to Pee Standing Up.”

“No,” I reasoned, hurrying to the business side of the real door, “that’s for moms who bring their sons into the ladies room.”
Hurrying now to Go cuz I'm over forty (and there were onion rings waiting)...

No place to hang my purse. That’s odd.

Peeing.

OMG! I’m in the men’s room!

Over forty does NOT stop peeing mid stream. (Over forty is happy not to pee unexpectantly. )
But man, did I rush.

Go to Culvers. Their food is scrumptious.

But beware; sometimes the ladies room is on the left.
Here's your sign.

I Solemnly Swear That I Am Up To No Good

2009-07-27T08:21:00.004-05:00

I am a Big Fan of euphemisms, metaphors, idioms and quotations.
I’m a True Proponent of “When ideas fail [other people's] words come in very handy.”

Benjamin Franklin said, “To be humble to superiors is duty, to equals courtesy, to inferiors nobleness.”
I am all this, and So Much More, or so I’m told.
Once again I’m inundated with blog awards and shout outs from faithful readers/adoring fans/pals.

Your love for me is duly noted (and warranted).

What readers are saying:

I feel a true appreciation of her greatness. It’s a warmth that I carry with me for days after reading her posts.

There are certain friendships in our lives that stand out from all the rest. Ours in one of them. Her friendship enhances my life.

She knows me better than I know myself.

I’m thankful for the contribution of her talents to this intellectual desert we call the world wide internets.

I see so much of myself in her and yet she’s so much better than me. I can’t imagine my life without her.

Norman Vincent Peale said, “The more you lose yourself in something bigger than yourself, the more energy you will have.”
These fine folks are hopped up on my magnificence:

Sandy at It’s a Jungle Out There
FunnyRunner at LLOL
Macey, Who’s Not Really in France
Tetanus Tomato
Momma Young at Home
Bronwen at In My Mind It's Always Funny
Alex at Please Try Again

“Humility is no substitute for a good personality,” said Fran Lebowitz.
I got both so it’s no wonder I’m frequently lauded.
But I’m not perfect.
In accepting these accolades I’m invoking my Baseball Hall of Fame, Rule 5 right to NOT mention the following things:

1. I have cellulite on my legs and I get really bad winter dry skin.
2. I eat the same breakfast every single day for months on end.
3. I hate jazz and poetry. I hate jazz intensely and absolutely, but as far as poetry goes I let Shel Silverstein and Theo Geisel in under the fence, along with a few choice limericks.
4. Escalators freak me out. I have zero balance. I feel queasy and disoriented after riding Satan’s Staircase.
5. I don’t recycle. I’m not green, and I will fight to the death for my incandescent bulbs.

Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “Our best thoughts come from others.”
I must give props to my family, without whom I’d have nothing funny to write about.

Mr., you compliment my “quick wit” (as you call it) with your continuous stream of stupid remarks and smooth moves.
Dolls, keep it up. God gave us humor to keep us from eating our young.
Darlings, your comedy is classic, and if Darling Daughter isn’t gonna blog it; I will steal it, fearlessly and without shame.

Henri Frederic Amiel said, “True humility is contentment.” I’m fine with being so great and hardly ever mentioning it.
And since “Humility is like underwear, essential, but indecent if it shows” [Helen Nielsen], I hesitate to reveal it.

If I didn’t TELL you that I’m humble, all you’d see is my grandeur. It would be rudeness akin to having awards and shout outs on deck for weeks without mention.

There.

Mischief Managed.

One Man's Junk is Another Man's Treasure; The Boy Cootie Paradox

2009-07-23T14:01:00.005-05:00

I am a Nervous Pooper, if by Nervous Pooper you mean I can talk about poop with ease.
I can write about poop and laugh about poop without reservation.
Poop is relevant. Poop is funny. Poop always wins (in Apples to Apples, unless you have roadkill, or anything that’s festering.)

The actual act of pooping and its resultant results make me uncomfortably uncomfortable.

Hotels are hell.

My entire clan is seven feet from the outside of the bathroom door, and hotel fans, if not absent entirely, are disappointingly q u i e t.

I’d like to take a righteous stand and claim that my concern for my loved ones is about their comfort.
But it’s not.
I make them leave the room. Go to the lobby, play in the elevator, or wander the halls.
I don’t care.
I gotta Make.
And it’s one of My Rules.

God forbid I should plug a toilet, but it has happened.
And Mr. has plunged.

We don’t speak of it, or we do, because I can talk about poop with ease. I can write about poop and laugh about poop without reservation.
Poop is relevant. Poop is funny. Poop always wins (in Apples to Apples, unless you have biker gangs, or boobies.)

The actual act of pooping and its resultant results make me uncomfortably uncomfortable.

Like the notion of Mr. SEEING my poop in the act of plunging. [shudder]

Mr. and I talk about Smoke ‘n Mirrors, the façade I create when I go full bore on makeup and hair.
We talk about my Wobbly Bits, stretch marks and crepe paper skin.
My sideburns are an excellent topic, as is my ‘stache.

We talk about the guy at the auction house who called me “Gorgeous” for two years instead of using my name.
We talk about Auction Guy’s unvarying remarks about my Beauty.
We talk about the night he said to Mr., “You are One Lucky Man.”

We talk about “One Lucky Man” living the dream with my ceaseless chatter, waning estrogen production, endless health problems, and lack of industriousness.
Mr.’s life is THAT kind of fairy tale.

Still, we talk about my Allure.

We talk about the Great Mysteries of our romance.

We talk like Mr. has never heard me burp loudly, like he’s never seen me sporting a unibrow or my legs in desperate need of a shave.

We carry on like he’s never emptied my puke basin, my bathroom garbage or my shower drain.

We do NOT talk about my poop and whether or not he’s seen it.
Ever.

Although we did talk about Sprinkler Sphincter once when he cleaned up after a particularly rough bout of stomach flu.
It was the first time I’d heard the phrase (and you KNOW how I love a good euphemism.)
At the time I was unaffected by Crapper’s Shame.
I had the flu.
I was more about the whining and the certainty that I was dying.

When we rented the house on Edisto we had No Idea that the bathroom opened into the great room. Short of confining the Dolls and Darlings to their bedrooms I was not gonna get any privacy for The Deed.
There was NO fan.
I know; right?

But there was a Man Cave.

There was a downstairs apartment.

Mr. and I can’t manage in a queen-sized bed, and he’d kindly agreed to sleep downstairs.

Mr. is Monkish. His abode quickly became "The Man Cave", with his clothes and needfuls in tidy piles, good little soldiers in orderly rows.

‘Til I had to go Number Two.
And a Poop Cave was born.

Mr.’s bathroom was very popular.

The Poop Cave may have saved our family.
I’m gonna say that it did.
The Poop Cave saved our family.
There, I said it.

Flash forward to home.
Calvin (my 3YO daycare kid) learned to pee standing up.

Time travel in lew of a segue, and flash backward to his first day at Miss Kelly’s House of Torture daycare.

I was told that Calvin was Pretty Much Potty Trained. Read; he hardly ever pissed and/or soiled hisself.
Guh-reat.

I was told that he would Mention It Late, and it’d be best if while sprinting for the can I’d strip him from the waist down.
Cuz he’s scared of Falling In and needs to spread his legs while he Goes.
Puh-lease.

He tinkled at Miss Kelly’s House of Torture daycare with his pants at his knees. And his knees firmly locked together.
He made craptastically large BMs in the Thinker Pose, pants ankled appropriately, legs modestly closed.
Cuz I’ll tell ya; I am NOT going eye-to-eye with this boy’s micro junk as he does unspeakable deeds spread-eagled on the can.

He never had a significant mishap.
Yay for potty training. If potty training equals Miss Kelly explaining the consequences of the alternative. Threateningly. With furrowed brow.

I was apprehensive about pottying from day one, but it pales in comparison to my anxiety now.

Little Man Junk is disgusting.

When Calvin was new here, I worried about Making It In Time.
I worried about lifting him onto the potty. He’s hugantic. My bathroom's small and awkward.

I worried about the stream snaking out between the seat and the rim, which it did on occasion, but we adjusted.
We became familiar if not comfortable, and our few bathroom messes were quickly a thing of the past.

Just when I thought we had a handle [ahem] on his peepee, Calvin Discovered It. Like Discovered equals Loves. "It" being his Metamorphic Little Man Junk.

He’s not my kid, and I don’t necessarily embrace Freudian psychology, so I’m not worried about the long term effects of Miss Kelly scolding about the touching of the LMJ.
I use appropriate childcare language exactly as I would if Calvin was my own child.
“Holy hell! Get your hands out of there/off that thing. That’s sickening.” is highly effective.

Cuz it really. Freaks. Me. Out.

How can my marital world rock so completely around the Man Business of my Studly Mr. and I can’t handle the day to day workings of this boy’s Little Friend?

I’m ineffective as a daycare provider.
I’m failing.
I’m at a loss. (Which is Remarkable because you may or may not have heard; I am The Smartest Woman in the Universe.)

How do I make Calvin understand?
Even when he pees it’s the folding and sqeezing that produces a stream that baptizes everything in, on, and around the toilet.

So Calvin is sitting when he pees at Miss Kelly’s house.

He’ll be scarred for life if I can’t impress upon him that he’s a shameless pig.
I've got to make him understand that his frequent junk touching is socially unacceptable and revolting.
Like pooping; it should only be done when you’re alone.

Preferably someplace with a Really Loud Fan.

I'm NOT Back. I'm NOT Tired as H.

2009-07-21T14:40:00.003-05:00

We did NOT have a good time on Edisto Island.
We will NOT do an island vacation next year.

Charleston did NOT suck.
The SS Yorktown and Fort Sumter were NOT awesome.

Our house was NOT nice.
It was NOT great being on the beach.

I did NOT love the outdoor shower.
I did NOT love it So Much.

We did NOT discover queen beds are for newlyweds and otherwise crazy people.
We did NOT sleep separately.

We did NOT declare the downstairs apartment Mr.’s “Man Cave,” then change it to “Poop Cave” on behalf of all the Nervous Dumpers who used his bathroom.
He did NOT handle it good-naturedly.

We did NOT enjoy feeding seagulls.
They are NOT rats with wings.

I did NOT enjoy a sunrise with Darling.
It did NOT thrill me to hear her say it was her favorite vacation moment.
It does NOT thrill me still.

I did NOT hate the weak surf for the first three days.

I did NOT get knocked on my teakettle every time I rode in/tried to stand.

I did NOT love/hate the seashells.
They did NOT cut bare feet. And ankles.
They did NOT flay our arms and legs.
I did NOT bring home dozens.

I did NOT face plant, eat sand, lose my sunglasses AND the top of my suit in a Greg Brady wipeout (a la episode 073, “Hawaii Bound”.)
It did NOT wreck me for surfing the next day.

I did NOT discover that my “good camera” has a hidden battery.
Said battery is NOT uncommon.
It did NOT die while on vacay.
Darling does NOT have this very same camera, nor did she have the very same battery dilemma.
We did NOT thank God for my backup camera.

My Dolls do NOT have mad picture-taking skills.

I did NOT love seeing the awesome father/son thing between Mr. and Darling SIL.

They did NOT conspire against the womenfolk.

There will NOT be retribution.

I did NOT read a dozen books.
They were NOT spectacularly entertaining.

I did NOT make really, really bad coffee.

I did NOT drink Mylanta, use a heating pad, and take daily naps.
I did NOT go to bed early.

I did NOT gain weight.

I did NOT shave All The Way Up two times in one week.

My tan is NOT leathery-looking, ash brown.
Everyone else is NOT pinkish, and/or golden brown.

I am NOT old.

That picture does NOT suck.

In Which I Post TV Themes With Lyrics About Vacation (VPost 6)

2009-07-18T06:00:00.003-05:00

[to the theme of "The Brady Bunch"...]

Here's the story of a lovely lady
Who was bringing up three very lovely chicks.
All of them had snarky humor, like their mother,
And they cut up for kicks.

Here's the story, of a man named Pop-Pop,
Who was busy forging friendship with his SIL,
They were two men, playing games like children,
Constant Nazi zombie kill.

'Til the one day when the lady told this fellow
We’re not going to Wisconsin anymore
This group must have a real vacation.
That's the way they landed on the coastal shore...

[to the tune of "All in the Family"/"Those Were the Days"...]

Boy the waves that Kelly rode
And the sunscreen how it flowed.
How I wish time coulda slowed,
Vacation days.

Just surrounded by the fam
Carbs and fat who gives a d*mn?
Mister you should see my tan
I look like Iman again.

Didn’t need no internet.
All the suits and towels were wet.
Want to go back? Yea, you bet.
Vacation days.

TV Themes, Lampooned (Vacay Post 5)

2009-07-17T06:00:00.004-05:00

[to the tune of "Cheers"...]

Making my way in the world today

takes everything I've got.
Taking a break from all my worries,

sure will help a lot.

I would like to get away.

Sometimes I want to go

Where nobody knows my name,
They don’t give a crap I came.
I wanna be where you can’t see,
Yoga pants don’t look good on me.

I wanna be where nobody knows my name.

[to the tune of "Beverly Hillbillies"...]

Come and listen to a story about a guy named Rob
A hard-working man, his wife was just a slob,
One fine day, he started saving up his dough
He said to his wife OBX’s where we’ll go.

Atlantic that is, lowlands, Isles of SC.

Well the first thing you know the fam is having fun,
Everybody said "Rob, you are Number One"
Said "Coastal Islands’re the place we love to be"
So they do it every year cuz they’re a family.

Rental, that is... Boogie boards... sunburn.

[to the tune of "Beverly Hillbillies" closing credits...]

Well now it’s time to say good bye to Rob and all his kin.
And we don’t give a crap if you should ever come agin.
If you do choose to come back to this locality
Don’t expect to get none o’ that hospitality

Holy cow. What’s that smell? Put your shoes on.

Y'all come back now, y'hear?

Mocktastic TV Themes (Post 4, Vacay)

2009-07-16T06:00:00.006-05:00

[to the tune of "The Facts of Life"...]

You take the mom, you take the dad,
You take the kids and there you have
The Facts of Life, the Facts of Life.

There's a time you got to go and show
You're tired and now you know about
The Facts of Life, the Facts of Life.

When the world never seems
To be livin’ up to your dreams
And suddenly you're finding out
Life is stressful

and you're All About get the h*ll outta Dodge for a week.

[to the tune of "Good Times"...]

Good Times.
Any time you get vacation.
Good Times.
Any time you need a break.
Good Times.
Any time you're getting suntanned.

Not getting hassled, not getting hustled.
Keepin' your head above water,
Catching a wave when you can.

Hedonistic pig outs.
Good Times.
Charge it now, pay later.
Good Times.
I need a seashell coaster.
Good Times.
Pecan log from Stuckey’s
Good Times.
Ain't we lucky we got 'em?
Good Times.

With a Different Ribbon on It, TV Themes (VP 3)

2009-07-13T06:00:00.006-05:00

[to the tune of "The Monkees"...]

Here we come
Driving matching cars
Cool gray Camrys.
That’s theirs. This’s ours.

Hey, hey it’s vacation,
All about the sand ‘n the sea.
We’ll be busy surfing,
Hangin’ out with our family.

We go wherever we want to,
Do what we like to do.
Eat everything that ain’t nailed down,
Complain about it later to you.

Hey, hey it’s vacation,
All about the sand ‘n the sea.
We’ll be busy surfing,
Hangin’ out with our family.

We don’t wanna be friendly,
No offense by we’re on vacay.
We work with people - don’t like ‘em,
Back the eff off. What d’you say?

Hey, hey it’s vacation,
All about the sand ‘n the sea.
We’ll be busy surfing,
Hangin’ out with our family.

[to the tune of "The Courtship of Eddie's Father"...]

People let me tell you 'bout my best friends,
They’re the five sorriest people who’re forced to spend time with me like it or not.

[to the tune of "The Mary Tyler Moore Show"...]

Who can turn the world on with her wit?
Who can take a lovely tale, and suddenly make it all seem like sh*t?
Well it's you Kel, and you should know it.
With each post and every stupid comment you blow it.

Blogs’re all around, you’ll never make it
You know you’re not that cool, you gotta fake it.
You're such a dimwit after all.
You're such a dimwit after all.

How will you make it on vacay?
They’re gonna forget you while you’re away.
But it's time you started resting.
It's time you let someone else do some jesting.

Blogs’re all around, you’ll never make it
You know you’re not that cool, you gotta fake it.
You're such a dimwit after all.
You're such a dimwit after all.

Same Ol', Same Ol', TV Themes (Vacay Post 2)

2009-07-12T06:00:00.007-05:00

[to the tune of "The Flintstones "...]

Roloffs. Meet the Roloffs
They're the modern midwest family.
When they’re with the Greenlees,
They're a hoot they’re gonna make you pee.

Let's ride with the family down the coast.
You’ll read all about it in my posts.

When you're with the Roloffs
you'll have a yabba dabba doo time.
A dabba doo time.
You'll have a gay old time.

[to the tune of "The Addams Family"...]

They're snarky and sarcastic,
They’re real life, not plastic,
The kids’re just fantastic,
The Roloff Family.

Their house is a disaster.
The Mr. is a pastor.
The wife’s a blogging master.
The Roloff Family.

Neat

Sweet

Petite

So settle with your sweet tea.
You’re gonna laugh ‘til you pee.
Please leave a comment for me.
The Roloff Family.

[to the tune of "Green Acres"...]

Edisto is the place to be.
Beach livin' is the life for me.
Waves spreadin' out so far and wide
Come retirement, plunk me down at beachside.

OBX is where I shoulda been born.
I get allergic livin’ in corn.
I just adore an ocean view.
Dah-ling I love you please gimme me Savannah too.

...The tan.
...My clan.
...Fresh air.
...I’m there!

This is the life.
C’mon flappy wife.
Edisto we are there!

[to the tune of "Laverne & Shirley"]

One, two, three, four,
five, six, seven, eight.
Sclemeel, schlemazel,
hasenfeffer incorporated.
We're gonna do it!

Give us a week off, we'll take it.
Get a boogie board I’ll make it.
My bi-otch.

TV Themes, Work With Me Here (Vacay Post 1)

2009-07-10T06:00:00.006-05:00

[To the Tune of "Gilligan’s Island"...]

Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale,
A tale of a fun-filled trip,
That started from this Midwest town,
Aboard this tiny ship.
(We’re not traveling by ship, but bear with me.)

The mate was a broad who talked too much,
The skipper was her man.
Four passengers set off that day,
For seven days of tan.

The weather better not be rough,
We want a week of sun.
Our boogie boards and ocean waves,
Are all we need for fun... all we need for fun.
(And food. We really like to EAT while on vacation.)

The ship set ground on the shore of this Atlantic coastal isle;
With Kelligan...
And Pop-Pop too...
The son-in-law... and his wife...
The Dolls along -
The redhead one, and sweetie pie…
Here on OBX Isle!

[to the tune of "Gilligan's Island" closing credits...]

This is the tale of the Savant fam,
They're gone for a long, long time,
You'll have to make the best of things,
Reading TV rhymes.

The Savant and the Mr. too,
Are trav’ling to the shore,
The Dolls ‘n Darlings coming. Woo!
We couldn’t ask for more.

There’s phones, there’s lights, there’s motor cars,
There’s every luxury,
But I am on vacation so
Please dear God let me be.

But join us here each day my friends,
You're sure to get a smile,
From Savant’s take on TV themes,
While she’s away a while.

[to the tune of "The Jeffersons"...]

Well we're driving on down,
To the east coast.
To an elevated rental in the sand.
We’re movin’ on down,
To the east coast.
We’ll spend a week on the edge of the land.

Kel don’t cook in the kitchen;
G’s the king on the grill.
Took a whole lotta savin',
Just to pay last year’s bill.
Now we're off to Edisto,
Gettin' all happy and fat.
As long as we love, it's us and our kids,
There ain't nothin’ wrong with that.

Well we're driving on down,
To the east coast.
To an elevated rental on the sand.
We’re movin’ on down,
To the east coast.
We’ll spend a week on the edge of the land.

iFail; The UNpost

2009-07-09T05:42:00.002-05:00

If I take Cialis will it help me get my blog up? Cuz I got nothing.
The following titles have been on deck but have failed to stimulate organized thought...

“I Know This Mulch is True”

“How to Avoid Stating the Obvious; I’m a Dumba**, How I Hide It So Effectively”

“That’ll Leave a Skidmark”

“It’s All in Your Head but I Still Feel Your Pain”

“Words I’ve Never Seen on Your Blog; The Duct Tape/Emery Board/Nazi Zombie Challenge Sponsored by Anusol”

“Expectations & Outcomes; an Argument for Low Standards”

“Top Ten Reasons You Can’t Kick a Hooker’s A** and Shouldn’t Try”

“It’s as Though She Had Sprung into Being as I’d Known Her”

“It is Time for an Honest and Open Discussion About [sound of loud, extended train whistle]”

“This Chaps My A**”

“Why You Little… Why I Oughtta… Why I Never…”

“Hotter Than a Pepper Sprout”

“Duncan, It’s Not Just for Donuts Anymore; The Oprah Winfrey YoYo Diet Challenge”

Gimme props for failing to launch such a broad spectrum.

If I Don't Talk to You About My Cats, Who Will?

2009-07-07T15:06:00.011-05:00

I am not a Cat Lady.

I put up with the camera crew and interviews cuz they told me it was for a documentary about cats.

Who WOULDN’T want that?

Intervention-schmintervention.

It’s fun to talk about my cats. And I know you like it too.

Look how you sit; quiet, smiling and nodding as I ~~go on and on~~ tell you about my cats. That’s a sure sign that you’re lovin’ every minute of it.

Everyone enjoys cat tales.
Lucky for you; there’s me. And my endless supply.

If you ~~choose not to~~ can’t have furry feline friends of your own, you have the extreme pleasure of listening to me talk about mine.

My [two] cats are SO cute...
They’re SO smart...
They’re funny…

They’re the apple(s) of my eye, the light(s) of my life.
They’re the children I never had (not counting the children I DO have.)
My cats are the Living End.

Imagine how much I’d adore ‘em if I WAS a cat lady.

MY cats are extraordinary. They have distinct personalities and I could. Tell you. Stories.
For hours.
I have photos. Dozens of photos.

Who WOULDN’T want that?

Lately though, cat ownership hasn’t been a bed of roses.

I think Little Kitty may have a Big Problem.
I think he’s hooked on chronic.

Yep, the grimalkin ganj.

Weed... Kittycat Grass...
The Nip...

Nine Lives...
Feline FeelGood...

It’s Tomcat Toke...
It’s Nip Madness...
And Kitty’s got it. Bad.

He frequently seems silly for no reason.
There’s money missing, and he's mewling in code. Them’s drug words, I know it.

Little Kitty has a hard time remembering things that just happened.
It’s not possible to catch a laser pointer dot. A clear-headed cat would figure this out.

He often appears tired, despite the fact that he sleeps 20-plus hours a day.
He’s withdrawn.

And despite frequent junk licking and butt cleansing he seems to have gotten careless with his grooming.
Just the other day I noticed a small bum brownie escaped the basement litterbox, undoubtedly making its getaway adhered to Little Kitty’s bung.

That little turd was all the red flag I needed.
I Googled “signs of drug use” and discovered eye-opening proof.

Sleepy appearance... check.
He appears to be sleeping MOST OF THE TIME. Eyes're closed. He's immobile.

Reduced motivation… check.
Reduced motivation to do…? Wha? Sleep more?

Pipes, bongs, smoking devices… check.
In this instance it’s nip balls and stash-pocket toys that concern me.

Anxiety… check.
Skittish Kitty.

Difficulty thinking… check.
All indications point to Not-Thinking-At-All.

Distorted sensory perceptions… check.
Three words: laser pointer insanity. It’s like a rave. Every time.

Dry mouth... check.
Mouth smells like a crypt. That’s dry.

Impaired judgment… check.
He cleans his brother’s bung too.

Turns out one of the indicators is hostility. Oh, he’s hostile all right, if by hostile you mean he’ll attack the drawstring on my jammies and/or yoga pants without provocation.
And the handle on the refrigerator.
Shadows. Reflections. Laser pointer dots.
And invisible specks on the kitchen floor. (I could sweep, but why deny him?)
There was a throw rug massacre this morning.

His problem escalated when vacation shopping and packing began in earnest.
He’s now paranoid.

All the new clothes are a sure sign that we’re going to be seen in public very soon.

Half a dozen bottles of sunscreen indicate we’re not gonna spend next week in front of the new flat screen.

A stack of boogie boards provides a kittycat playland, but traces of sand and the smell of saltwater speak to the reality that we’re leaving. Soon.

He crawls in and out of our suitcases disturbing piles of clothing and covering them with cat hair.

Souvenirs.

Like I need a reminder.

I’ll be away from my beloved kitties for more ‘n a week!

Lucky for me; some wide tape and kitty fur make an effective transdermal patch.

I know; that’s so cat lady. But I'm not.

Stammertime... STOP!!!

2009-07-06T06:05:00.000-05:00

We knew Stammerin’ Tim had been seeking a replacement for months.

Thing is; he overestimated his own stealth and assumed others’ would be willing to keep such dishonesty a secret.

The state rep called, essentially asking, “What the H is going ON down there and why is this sycophantic buffoon trying to crawl up my a**?”
Um, that’s Stammerin’ Tim. You’ll be working closely as you arrange for future pulpit supply. We’re leaving. You might wanna be holding ST’s hand. He’s infantile and he needs it, plus it’ll keep him from sucker punching you in the nads.

In the months following the building project, short-sighted church peeps insisted donuts and coffee were the answer.
Rather than come up with goals for the church, they complained that if we didn’t capitalize on the construction we’d never ~~lure visitors~~ ~~ensnare new members~~ grow.
Don't MAKE me 'splain to you that numbers ain't the "growth" that God desires.

They wanted Someone to Do Something to Make. It. Happen.

Trick ‘em with caffeine and carbs, then Hit ‘em Hard with the gospel. (“Hi. My name is Kel. You’re going to burn for all eternity in the fiery pit of Hell. Would you like a bearclaw?”)

If there was need of evidence that these people weren’t Getting It, we had enough.

Mr. gave notice to the church.

Stammerin’ Tim ~~stammered a buh-bye~~ spoke a farewell. Stammerin’ Tim stammered. Stammerin’ Tim choked and tried to elicit a tear. Stammerin’ Tim had the nerve to accuse Mr. of neglecting his two-week-notice responsibility. (He gave a two-MONTH notice, but Stammerin' Tim didn't listen when Mr. Pastor spoke.)

Stammerin’ Tim also proffered a ludicrous card and note of thanks to the pastor he’d mistreated so badly.

We never looked back.

I wrote my observations down and sent Stammerin' Tim a letter. His family waylaid it. For his well-being.
He’s still a castrated Christian, an emotional eunuch, a defective man.

He's protected in the loving arms of a family that suffers with his endless tirades.

He’s a PhD, and a taco short of the combo platter.

His says he loves the Lord and that he’d like to see the Good News spread, but his every word and deed declare how unfairly he’s been treated by God.

When we arrived at BBC I thought we were gonna get to see God about the business of crafting some joy and peace in the lives of the people there.

Like fundies have been doing for generations they held tight to fear and failure as Christians, hoping (insisting!) they could earn some righteousness. In doing so they rejected the Truth, denied grace and underestimated God’s love.

THAT’S the real heartbreaker.

Unbelieving peeps need to know about a loving Savior.

Fundies need to know who they are IN Christ.

It’s in the Word.

God’s amazing grace, the sufficiency of the cross, the complete sanctification and single nature of the believer are all a part of God’s work on behalf of His own.

All He asks is that we believe what He says and live in light of it. “The Truth will set you free”, transforming minds and bringing true joy.

Mr. Savant and I agree there’re no regrets. It was a learning experience.

We've learned never to do it again.

U Can't Touch This

Six Syllable Sunday - This Blog is Rated "R" (White Girl Can't Catch a Break)

2009-07-05T07:25:00.004-05:00

Who makes this stuff UP? Is it fundies? It's fundies, isn't it?

According to The-Man-Who-is-Trying-to-Keep-Me-Down-With-His-Foot-on-My-Neck, I have an R-Rating due to the following Offensive Word Tally:

"Torture" (1x), as in "Miss Kelly's House of Torture Daycare", not the cool kind. It's used way more than once.

"Hurt" (2x), for real?

"Missionary" (3x), the ministry, NOT the position.

"Crap" (4x), I'll take the heat for crap. This whole blog is crap.
This post is 'specially crap.

Smooth Maneuver Hoover

2009-07-03T08:11:00.003-05:00

A flat roof had been letting in the rain for years. Every attempted remedy was exhausted.
It was time for a new [pitched] roof.

Mr. made it happen.

Turns out we had enough money for badly-needed siding too.
And some lovely windows.
Drywall. Ceiling tiles. And paint.

As is often the case, work began with demo.

Large portions of the dropped roof were torn away.
We razed a false front.
Tons of decorative rock was removed.

It took several weeks of work to prepare the walls for the weight of a pitched roof.

Truss Day was exciting for everyone.
Our “Once Upon a Time…” began with the need for a new roof, and having a crane on site to set the enormous trusses was the beginning of “Happily Ever After…”
(Yea, that’s a load of crap, but Truss Day was a Big Deal indeed.)

Stammering Tim got Diarrhea of the Mouth that week. He told the builders that Mr. Pastor was preaching and teaching heresy.

Truss Day was exciting all right. The builders told Mr. they were going to leave the project.

He met with the men before dawn.

(Kel mighta said, “When this crane arrives [at $100/hour], you’d best be about the business of doing what you said you’d do. We’re setting $6000 worth of wood on that roof.”)

Mr. prayed with the men. He shared scripture that explained the simple fundamentals of atonement, grace, and sanctification.
(Tell me again how these concepts offend Bible believers.)

It doesn’t post like a hail mary play, but dangit I wish that it would.

This was a part time ministry. The hours were full time, and the pay was crap.
The stress was at an all-time high, with tens of thousands of dollars worth of materials ordered, the building torn up for expected repairs, and 2/3 of the congregation complaining to all who would listen.
Preaching and teaching had become fruitless, ears were plugged and a chorus of “La-la-la-la-la” could be heard.
Mr.’s job at the prison changed significantly when the security level was lowered. The department head retired and Mr. was carrying the increased work load of two people.

Through it all was the constant drone of Stammerin’ Tim’s very evident displeasure.
He kept cutting off his own nose to spite his face.
Mr. lovingly bandaged without fail.

The builders stayed to complete the project, but Stammerin’ Tim had destroyed our testimony, and ruint the fellowship that dragged on through the summer.

That didn’t stop Mr. from spending every waking moment doing church work.

Segue to a finished project. Farewell builders.

Church services became a nightmare.
Stammerin’ Tim took it upon himself to speak actions that were louder than words.

He sat in the front, diligently avoiding eye contact to show his displeasure. He’d occasionally slam his Bible as a sign of ~~immaturity~~ ~~impotence~~ fundie fidelity.
He’d sigh and huff loudly. He often flailed his arms and/or slapped his legs in a display of dissatisfaction. He tsked like a pantywaist.

Lest I be accused of judging this rude behavior as rudeness I offer his flaccid defense (as per his 20-YO daughter): Stammerin’ T “isn’t capable of controlling his facial expressions and body language.”

Really now?

A man who lets emotion direct his actions Monday through Saturday isn’t hiding them well Sunday morning, but as a**hole is an a**hole and I found this behavior extremely rude.
(Sue me for not appreciating how he tried to dishonor my man.)

True to his nature Mr. began encouraging the members to develop new goals for the church.

Stammerin’ Time thought the best goal was a new pastor.

I Hate This Part

2009-07-02T08:47:00.003-05:00

I’ll call him AHole. No, I’ll call him Stammerin' Tim, to avoid a spoiler.

Stammerin' Tim is the most awkward man I’ve ever met. He’s weak. He’s frequently and visibly anxious, cripplingly indecisive, and easily troubled.

He was Mr.’s most ardent supporter when we were considering the pastorate at BBC. His bold support was pivotal in Mr. Savant’s decision to apply for the position.

During our first meetings S.Tim revealed his frailties openly, quantifying them by the number of hours per day he’s overwhelmed with feelings of regret, fear,bitterness, and/or disappointment.

He shared the struggles he had during his history at the church, particularly his disagreement with the former Pastor’s philosophy.
He reported being so displeased he had to white-knuckle the pew to keep from walking out on a sermon.

He indicated that the former pastor’s endorsement of militant fundie issues was most disturbing.

He knew that we were in total opposition to that way of thinking.

Mr. Savant and I shared our testimony with Stammerin' Tim and his family. They got to know all of us via numerous fellowships.
They got to see Mr.’s personality and character.
He clearly outlined his ministry approach before we considered applying for the pastorate.

Stammerin' T professed excitement and hunger for a ministry that would be about God’s grace, centered on Christ, God-honoring, and scriptural. He recommended a book that clearly spelled out the very same liberating biblical principles. (It’s Grace Walk, by Steve McVey and it’s a must.)

I saw him fail in every role. He admits to it, although he doesn’t call it failure.
Everything is someone else’s fault.

He’s crippled by his own thinking.

I told Mr. I was excited to watch what God was gonna do in the life of this man who so desperately needed Truth to set him free.

As we got to know Stammerin' Tim it became obvious that he actually embraced his frailties.

He manipulated his wife and kids and allowed his dissatisfaction with life to become the dynamic of the entire family.
Even his young children were ever aware of his unstable nature and his constant need for complete comfort.
The fam was All About the busy-ness of keeping him well away from upset.

He deposed Christ as the Center.

He had a raging Napoleonic Complex, focusing overmuch on his intellect in effort to compensate for his failure in the manly arts.

S. Tim would tell you of his brilliance. It’s true he's smart.
His two-hour testimony was all about his smartness. Yet his spiritual life was untouched by new thought since the 70s.

After giving the enthusiastic nod to Mr.’s ministry in ’06, Stammerin' Tim never did a lick of study.
The notion of sufficient grace never interested him enough to warrant reflection.

His minimal energies were directed toward denying anything that would make him look beyond himself.

THAT’S militant fundie, my friends. That’s Performance-Driven Christianity.

Stammerin' Tim applauded Mr.'s ministry in ’06 not because he longed for freedom from The [fundie] Law, but because he was terrified at the notion of seeking a new church.
He was the King of Socially Awkward and nothing was going to take him away from the Church of the Short Bus.

How else could a father justify keeping his kids in a church so objectionable white-knuckling is required to sit through the message?

He misrepresented the former Pastor horribly.
He lied.

He didn’t want a shepherd. He wanted something akin to a general contractor to ~~fortify the wall~~ oversee the building project to keep his safety zone afloat.

Ironically, it was Stammerin' Tim that put the skids on construction.

In Which I Post About the Lying, and the Backbiting

2009-07-01T06:46:00.005-05:00

My husband works in a Maximum Security Federal Penitentiary. Worse even; until February, he was pastoring a church.

Wrong-thinking church peeps are far worse than the killers, rapists, pedophiles and hatemongering gangbangers who surround my man every day.
Christians are some of the most loathsome people I know.

I saw the attitudes and actions of Christians we called our family, and it provokes me. They deny grace and condemn liberated believers as heathens.

Living in fear and failure, they hope to please God by works of righteousness. They fall far from their self-imposed standards, and duplicity reigns as Performance-Driven Christians lie, gossip, and backbite.

Some fellow bloggers have wonderful tributes to their Husband Heroes. My champion is also my Pastor. He rocks my world.

I came to know Christ because of Mr. Savant's servant’s heart. I came to know grace for Christian living because of his excellent discernment.

He is called by God to minister to hardened criminals. He’s a gift from God to me.

Mr. Savant has a heart for the Lord and His hungry peeps. He knows how greatly he’s loved and in response he lives a life of honesty, integrity and impact.

He has peace and joy, even in difficult times, because he knows Truth that doesn’t change with circumstance.

He’s strong, he’s handsome, he’s high-energy and he never rests.
He dresses badly, but he laughs at my jokes, and “getting me” is some seriously good intimacy.

I’m blessed to share this abundant life with my red hot smokin’ Mr. Savant.

Don’t mess with him.

More importantly, don’t mess with my Father. If you are His own; don’t cringe, sibling.

Don’t cower and complain.

He’s the King of Kings, for crying-out-loud and your actions speak volumes about "shortcomings."

Did you get spiritually gypped? or do you just act like it?......

Fast forward two years at the ministry, never forgetting the reason we came to be there;
~~grace.~~ ~~the building project.~~ grace.

We thought we saw God’s hand in bringing us to BBC.

We were overjoyed to be freed from legalism and rejoicing to be with others who longed to hear about God’s love.
It’s called edifying, and it’s God’s purpose for His people gath’ring.

Mr. preached and taught grace in every message and in every lesson, and you could see. The peeps. Not wanting to hear it.

OF COURSE fundies who thought they’d been earning their holiness were gonna balk at the notion of sanctification by grace. They'd worked so hard.

But we'd been CLEAR; it was all grace, or all bullsh*t in the preaching and teaching of God's Word.

They were excited! They told us.

They were hungry! They told us.

They told us...bullsh*t.

They held the unbiblical notion of sanctification by works with such ferocity it was ludicrous. Especially in light of their glaring failures.
Especially in light of scripture.

They insisted they had to Do Good, and they Did Baaaad.
They mucked things up and then considered grace as a method to clean the proverbial slate.
Back and forth they went.

Don’t you know (No, they didn’t.) that grace cleaned the slate in its entirety?
Stop focusing overmuch on your performance and look to the One Who paid the debt in full!

They were gonna get it, right? They were gonna look to the scriptures and see God's unfailing love and limitless grace and be renewed in their thinking, right?

Wrong.

“Heretic!” they cried.
“Licentious hedonists!” they accused.

Thing is; when they ticked off items on the Reasons to Shut This Mother Down they neglected to mention a little problem called DISunity.

Not one of them agreed on issues fundamental to the faith.

Instead, they agreed to fear.
They were a church [group] because they were all Scairt Shartless.

Fear is an intrinsic part of the fundie religion. In that respect these peeps had it in spades. They embraced it and displayed it proudly as evidence of their religiosity, par fundie.

But at BBC the fear was waaaay beyond holy fuel.

They were Socially Unusual People, and they were choked with terror at the notion of leaving the Island of Misfit Christians to find worship elsewhere.

They weren’t hungering for the preaching of grace. On the contrary.

True to fundie form they wanted a pastor to Tell Them What to Do to Make God Happy and Condemn Others Who Don’t. They wanted a pastor to fix the building's problems whilst leaving them the h*ll alone, mired in lies, failure, and fear (and condemnation of others. That's always some fundie good times.)

The real oddballs, the socially retarded ones, knew the benefit of keeping a stiff upper lip ‘til the fruit of Mr.’s work could be realized.

We saw the writing on the wall.
I thought it said “All signs point to get thehellouttadodge.”
But Mr. had goals for the church, and true to his word he set his sights.

Once the building project was underway the nightmare began in earnest.

The man who’d been patting Mr. on the back in ‘06, was now turning a knife into it.

Slapdash Dispatch, Say It Five Times Fast

2009-06-30T12:46:00.017-05:00

I love that several of you remain committed to the Brown Wave started when I hoped a trip to the Shea Clinic would provide relief from my Meniere’s.

I see new blogging sisters lovingly proclaiming allegiance to the BM Bond on their blogs. It’s funny, and fun, but the support is genuine and I’m having a blast, despite the fact that I nearly did a face plant in our driveway last night (Who the H is spinning the yard?) and had to be guided to bed like a 90-pound freshman at an August frat bash.

(It wasn’t a full-on flare. They’re’ll be no mention of blomiting today. It’s here though, and here, cuz puking makes for dang good reading.)

I worked on the appeal letter/appeal process for several days after my insurance company put the skids on my trip to Memphis.

Dr. Fullacrap knows the ropes with my specific insurance carrier, and he’s been an invaluable source of info and encouragement.

My General Practitioner fired off a letter before I even asked.
I saw her yesterday. She and her staff are eagerly awaiting a decision. (I wonder if medical professionals would POOP themselves as a show of support…? Does doctor doo-doo have more street cred…?)

Yesterday a package arrived from the clinic, containing articles and publications to support Dr. Shea’s work.
I don’t want Health Alliance to think they’re paying for coffee enemas (though if it gave me relief from the suffering I'd let 'em steam milk directly into… never mind. The mentioning of the blomit is bad enough.)

With the support of these journal publications my appeal package is complete and was mailed out today.

I appreciate everyone who’s been more than willing to Conduct the Movement. I’ll let you know when it’s safe to Release the Chocolate Hostage.

On a seemingly unrelated note; mama-face turned me into a purse girl.

I was in my 40s before picked a side in the Cola War. By then no one cared.
Pepsi, BTW.

I was good not having a favorite caffeinated soft drink, and I was good not being a purse girl.

I mean; I'm okay BEING purse girl, but I'm surprised.

I know me, (It’s easy, cuz I’m shallow.) I fall short in every way fashion-related and have never longed to try.
But now. All o' sudden - I’m a purse girl.

I don’t need to be a purse girl.

With a 3-year-old daycare kid who has cancer, I go nowhere.

With his screaming baby brother Beelzebabe I don’t WANT to venture far from a playpen on the other side of a solid wood door.

I don’t need a high end bag. I can’t justify the expense. I won’t.

Dang mama.

Dang her face.
Dang her [red] patent leather Dooney and Bourke chiara bag.

I got this as a substitute for the D & B in blue.

Darling rubs elbows with Celebrities and Fabulous People. She told me brightly-colored handbags are the new black.

Not being one to fall blindly into contentment, I began lusting for this:

Mr. brought it home yesterday.

There were donuts. (Oh yeah, Darling; You wanted me to let you know next time I was going to mention such matters -- Heads UP, Mom's using euphemisms again.)

Where was I? Oh yeah, failing to segue into thème numéro trois...

I love the crafty bloggers (even bloggers claiming to be not-especially-crafty) who successfully post projects on their blogs.

I can make some stuff.
I have made stuff.
I’m a stuff maker, but when I commit to sharing my stuff via instructions and photos I failcraft every time.

My hat is off to crafters who manage.

As we prepare for a family vacation worthy of two new purses(!) I’ve embarked on some craftage.

Some of you have seen my bracelet on facebook. I know; right? Maaaaad skills.

My newest creation is the amalgam of this post.

You will need; a disposable diaper and wide tape.
Remove the diaper tabs and extend the sides fully. Line up the edges and place tape along the full length of the leg opening. Allow one-half the width for overlapping.

Fold the overlap along the edge to join both sides. Repeat on other leg opening.

There you have it - a handcrafted portable emesis basin.

What?? You're not impressed with a diaper that may or may not be used for on-the-go grocery-shouting?

You WOULD BE if I was carrying it in a blue patent leather Dooney & Bourke Chiara bag.

Even Forest Knew What to Do; Kel, Ya Dumba**

2009-06-29T05:27:00.003-05:00

Of course, Mr. Savant wasn’t asked to take the pastorate our first night at the church.

The clouds didn’t part allowing the sun’s rays to dramatically illuminate the moment. There was no angelic choir.
We sat through their meeting only because we’d be late for service anywhere else.

There was the typical church polity. Robert’s Rules of Order. Blah, blah, blah.

We heard the laundry list of their Reasons to Close the Church.
It was a small, shrinking congregation with no money, no pastor, and a badly leaking roof.
The building stood on a huge lot on a busy highway in a fast-growing part of town. There was a parsonage, albeit not fit for human habitation.

They kept referring to the option of disbanding to find other “likeminded churches.”
We knew their doctrine from their affiliation, and our three-year-long search revealed they were not going to find likeminded in this area.

It was a very small meeting, so my husband felt comfortable speaking up on the matter.

They voted to put the building up for sale.

We enjoyed some conversation following the meeting and we went home to wonder “Wha…?”
And “Wow.”

Over the next several days there was much discussion between us.
It seemed too ironic for coincidence.

Several church people voiced similar thoughts.
There were phone calls.

And coffee.
Dinners and meetings.

We shared our testimony; how we’d come to know Christ as Savior, how we’d grown and learned things of the Lord, and most importantly how we’d come to recognize and appreciate the sufficiency of grace (AKA our liberation from legalism).

We were, and ARE outspoken about grace. We shared our thoughts and feelings openly and answered questions honestly.
We were fearless.
This wasn’t a job interview and this gig was not gonna be our bread and butter. (Mr. Savant was and is emplyed full-time with the Bureau of Prisons.)

If this was gonna happen it was gonna be a God Thing.

We were questioned by a few individuals, then the pulpit committee and eventually the entire congregation.
We mutually rejoiced. It was a beautiful thing; these people longing to hear Truth, while Mr. was eager to preach it.

He was offered the position in September of 2006. We got crazy busy right away and we loved it.
Mr. organized church finances with the treasurer. He found funding that [eventually] paid for all the repairs in the form of grants as well as monies that the church didn’t know they had (!)
He found free labor in the form of missionary builders.
He made all the arrangements for a mega thousand dollar church project that was two years in the planning and took a total of five months to complete.

He organized the church’s records. They’d been without articles of faith. They had no covenant, no church constitution.

There’d been no one to answer the phone for months.
We got a cell, and I became secretary, if by secretary you mean Director of First Impressions.
The building was neglected. It smelled from water leakage. It was a packrat dumping ground. It was drab. I cleaned, and then I decorated. I had a blast.

All the while we were going on home visits to put a face on the ministry and get to know the peeps.
We were loving God’s people and we thought we were making friends.

Mr. Savant was working full time at the prison, preaching Sunday mornings and teaching Wednesday nights at the church. We were spending every other waking moment either AT the church, or in some way ABOUT the busy-ness of meeting the church’s needs.

Mr. Savant became the pastor all right.

But what they wanted was a babysitter.

This Ain't My First Rodeo

2009-06-28T14:35:00.006-05:00

My first 18 months as a new believer were a busy time.

I was blissfully happy, attending every church meeting and service, working and playing at every activity.
Our 13-YO daughter was heavily invested too.
Mr. was never home, so involved was he, like a Jedi for Jesus.

I was still a new believer when we went to seminary.
It was a place so steeped in legalism it made my teeth hurt, despite the fact that I believed I had to do good to please God.
I wanted to do good to please God, for Christ's sake.

At seminary I learned how badly I failed Him. The church we attended was closely linked with the school, so my failings as a Christian were further revealed to me via the pulpit.

The rules (at school and church) were over the top and I could not meet their standard.

In our own home we were forbidden to have playing cards.
The Christian music that I liked was prohibited.

Cable television was forbidden by the school.
When we bought rabbit ears for our TV you’d have thought we were setting up a meth lab.

Someone later reported our window-mounted thermometer was a small satellite dish and they questioned my husband.

How do you say "mon Dieu" in French?

Women/Girls couldn't go on campus in pants, and it was suggested that we avoid being spotted in the hallway and/or outside our building in clothing that wasn't up to code.
We couldn’t wear certain colors of nail polish or open-toed shoes. No socks - hose always.

I was given a talking to by the powers that be when they decided my haircut wasn’t “decidedly feminine”.

But we survived the seminary years.

We survived four long seminary years which seemed longer; like dog years, because of the Suffering Index.

Unlike half the graduates we didn't stick around so Mr. Savant could waste away working in dining services or maintenance. We didn't take a church down the block.

He got High Honors.
And we got the hellouttadodge.

He needed two years in the pastorate to apply for a chaplain position with the Federal Bureau of Prisons. We returned to Wisconsin where he became Associate Pastor in our first church (with a new Senior Pastor).

Those were the gravy years.
Ministry was nothing more than a job. It was MR.'s job, and I couldn't be guilted or manipulated into it by church peeps.
I had thick skin, delightful kids, a wonderful home, a busy life, and no hesitation when it came to using my God-given killer instinct.

We moved to Southern Illinois in the fall of 2003.

During the first three years we visited tens of churches, occasionally staying someplace for weeks/months at a time but never thinking we’d found anything significant whilst always asking what makes it significant? and how will we recognize significance if significance comes along?

By 2006 we had a regular Sunday morning church. Mr. Savant was doing pulpit supply. (That means preaching only, not pastoring.)

After visiting tens of churches looking for a midweek place we’d finally settled on something we enjoyed. Kinda enjoyed, if by kinda enjoyed you mean it didn't hurt to assuage the guilt in those pews and the kids liked children's program.

And a certain book came into our hands.
And changed our hearts and lives.

When we recognized what horrible legalists we’d been it didn’t take long to start hearing the constant stream of buzz words and fundie phrases that are an affront to liberated Christians.

One amazing week, out of the blue, we decided to visit yet another church for midweek service.

Turns out they were voting to close their doors that night.

They had building problems.
We’d worked with missionary builders at our church during seminary.

They had no pastor.
Mr. Savant is a pastor, doing pulpit supply already.

They had no money.
Mr. Savant has a full-time position with the BOP, and the aforementioned missionary builder experience gave us some knowledge of funding options for building repair.

Most importantly, these people were hungry for grace (We were told.) after years of suffering under a militant fundie pastor.

We were amazed.

We were completely duped.

It broke our hearts.

It still pisses me off like little else.

And I’m so glad it happened.

I Know Whom I Have Believed, Albeit Wrongly

2009-06-27T11:36:00.002-05:00

Everything changed in ’96, when I became a Child of God.
I believe that still.

My lifestyle choices changed.

I began going to church.
We were involved in ministries and friendships formed.

Everyone was happy to see the nice man’s wife was now interested in things of the Lord.

I learned I was a new creation, asking , now what?

Concerned church peeps offered “discipleship” - counseling on all areas of my life; actions, attitudes and appearance.
They promised eventually I’d glean “convictions” of my own (read; guilt). Churches define spiritual maturity as adhering to a list of “Do”s and “Don’t”s.

I was taught about Progressive Sanctification - the concept that we must do our part toward making ourselves holy.

I scrutinized my every thought, action and feeling. I used scripture as reference, and created lists in my head.

Thus began ten years of Performance-Driven Christianity, striving to please God, knowing full well I could not.
(The dichotomy of Christian religion – saved by grace, holy by works.)

I was a fundie. A legalist. A miserable church girl.
I knew I could never achieve a perfect standard in light of a holy God, and I was weary from the cycle of trying, failing, repenting and recommitting.

Then Mr. was handed a book through the bars.
An inmate asked him to take a look. At a certain chapter.
He did.
He read another chapter. And another.
When he finished reading Bob George’s Faith That Pleases God my big strong seminary-educated man said, “This is the best book I’ve ever read. If this is true I could just cry. You’ve GOTTA read this Kel.”

It revolutionized our thinking and restored our faith in a loving God.

I’m not a Georgite. I won’t fill the pockets of my track suit with quarters and follow Bob George to Hale-Bopp. He doesn’t ask for that.
Faith That Pleases God offers Christ-centered principles about the sufficiency of God’s grace, that are God-honoring and scriptural.
Mr. would have it no other way.

Grace plus anything is not grace.

Living the abundant life with joy and peace is what it’s all about. And I’m hogging it now.

I Know You Are, But What Am I?

2009-06-25T12:39:00.003-05:00

Call me a Christian. I’ve been called worse.

I’ve been “born again” for 13+ years, and I’ve learned that Christian people are sunzabeeches.

I used to be Baptist. They’re taught self-righteousness, encouraged to embrace militant legalism and fear-mongering. (Don't feel bad for 'em. They like it.)
Baptists are sunzabeeches.

After a 13-year run of active church memberships and ministries this is the end of traditional church for us.
My husband is a pastor and I’ve learned that church people are sunzabeeches.

I am a dyed-in-the-wool fundamentalist, NEVER to be confused with fundie, pah-LEEZE.

You know why? You guessed it; cuz fundies are sunzabeeches.

Call me a Bible believer. I believe what God says in His Word.

Christ is the Son of God Who came to earth as a man to offer salvation and eternal life. By accepting this gift I’ve been saved from the penalty of my sins.
Christ lives in me and through me.
I have a loving relationship with God the Father because of what He has done.

I have absolutely no religion. If you’re looking for church Kel she is dead. She’s been replaced by a woman with faith in God.

My salvation story is simple, biblical.

I was 32-years-old when I learned that the Bible said I must admit accountability for my sins.

Romans 3:23 "For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God."

I learned that a perfect God could not be in the presence of my sin, so we would be eternally separated by my sin.

Romans 6:23a "...The wages of sin is death..."

I learned that Christ came to pay the penalty, not as a blanket of forgiveness, but for me on a personal level.

Romans 6:23b "...But the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord."

That's some great love.

Romans 5:8, "God demonstrates His own love for us, in that while we were yet sinners Christ died for us"

By this understanding my faith dawned.

Romans 10:13 "Whoever will call on the name of the Lord will be saved"
Romans 10:9,10 "...If you confess with your mouth Jesus as Lord, and believe in your heart that God raised Jesus from the dead, you shall be saved; for with the heart man believes, resulting in righteousness, and with the mouth he confesses, resulting in salvation."

Salvation by grace had no strings attached. I received eternal life with God in glory by simply believing what He says in His Word. Christ’s sacrifice paid it all.

My mind and heart were changed by Truth.

Things have never been the same.

I ended up right back where I started.

And it was church peeps that done it.

Sunzabeeches.

Baa, Baa Black Sheep, Have You Any Ideas for a Post?

2009-06-24T09:24:00.007-05:00

Grant me the serenity

to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know what makes for funny blog material.

(To the tune of, "I’m a Little Teapot")
I'm a snarky housewife, curt and sour.

Sitting in my office chair, hour after hour.
When I get all steamed up, hear me shout.

You’ll be sorry I’ll blog. It. Out.

Hey diddle diddle, when I run I piddle,
I’m middle-aged this is too soon.
My little Dolls laugh to see such fun.
And the Darlings just think I’m a loon.

Sing a song of sixpence a pocket full of wit,
Ex-fundie says what she wants, doesn’t give a sh*t.
When the blog was read by peeps from far and wide,
Savant got some readership and really hit her stride.

Now Mr. does the laundry. He vacuums and he sweeps.
When she gets done blogging Savant eats and sleeps.
Kids’ve been neglected. Savant never cooks.
People always said she'd hafta get by on her looks.

Wee Willy Winkie… (Poor Mrs. Winkie.)

(Georgie Porgie)
Smelly Kelly doesn’t wash her hair.
Sits in the office in her blogging chair.
When the kids cry out for chow,
Smelly Kelly says, “Not now!”

(To the tune of "You Are My Sunshine")
You read my blog posts,
My stupid blog posts,
And you say nice things,
When I am down.
You’ll never know dears,
How much I lurve you.
Please send cash cuz I want a blue patent leather

Dooney and Bourke Chiara bag.

Humpty-Dumpty sat on a blog,
Humpty-Dumpty ate like a hog.
All the intentions of dieting well,
Fell by the wayside and she looked like h*ll.

Little Tommy Tucker sings for his supper,
You think I’m cooking? for a song?
Puh-leez. Eat cereal.

Cry Baby Bunting
Daddy's gone a-hunting.
Gone to fetch a cake pan
Savant’s vomiting again.
(Cry ya dumb baby. No one's listening.)

Hickory dickory dock.
Housewife Savant is a crock.
The blog is fun.
Your hearts I’ve won.
What the H do I care if I’m really not this cool?

Three blind mice, three blind mice,
See how they run, see how they run,
They all ran after the farmer's wife,
Who squealed and she peed as she ran for her life.
I bet she wishes she bought those Poise pads now.

I pledge allegiance to the blog
At housewife dot blogspot dot com,
And to the repugnance for which it stands,
One moron under glass,
Undeniable,
With levity and jesting for all.

(To the tune of "Itsy Bitsy Spider")
Housewife Savant got started in oh-nine.
Posts flowed like water, she was feeling fine.
Then came Meniere’s and knocked her on her a**,
so Housewife Savant just posted Puke with Class.

A-B-C-D-E-F-G,
Leave a comment please for me.
Q-R-S-T-U-V,
I need love.

103rd Post Anti-Party

2009-06-22T07:06:00.002-05:00

I missed my 100th blog post.
It came quicker than I thought it would, like premature ejaculation.

I’d been watching my post tally and hatching a plan, but I took my eye off the prize for business with the Shea Clinic and The Shart Heard ‘Round the World.

I’d like to thank Macey again, for calling the sharts. She is the Queen of Sharts, a girl with a shart of gold.
I found that blog friends truly do wear their sharts on their sleeves, and I thank YOU from the bottom of my shart.
Your support and continued encouragement warms the cockles of my shart.
It was a shart in the dark and I admire your willingness to go into unsharted waters, my friends.
If you crapped yourself on Wednesday, it was worth a shart. Some folks may call it poor hygiene, but I know your sharts are in the right place. (They’re just jealous. Eat your sharts out, haters!)

Anypoo…back to my Not-100th Post.

There would have been a celebration, but to host it for my 103rd post smacks of desperation.

Not the desperation of “There’s food and drink. Enjoy the dancing girls and balloon animals. Avail yourself of free mani-pedis, and please, please love me. Remember to grab a Louis Vuitton bag on your way out.”
Cuz that kinda desperation is fun for everybody.

I’m desperate to conceal my uncool ways behind a façade of bloggy charm.
I’m not throwing a party cuz I’m afraid you’ll recognize my complete incompetence and a shun wall of Berlinic proportions would be constructed.

I’m desperate to look like my banter flows freely from a quick mind, when in fact it takes for-frikken-ever.
A post is like a fetus - you don’t want to see it ‘til it’s fully developed.
I’m desperate to avoid work at all costs and it would be just too. Dang. Much.

As I pondered the notion of a virtual celebration I couldn’t help but think about my youngest Doll, and her summertime bday.
She’s never had a party, cuz it’s mid-July and who’s staying in touch/taking time?

For the past two years we’ve been on Hilton Head Island on her birthday, enjoying the beach and all its diversions. Doll’s had primo food and delicious cakes, but it’s just with the fam, and I know she’d love to gather with a dozen of her ~~most annoying squealing giggling ridiculous silly~~ closest friends on her Big Day.

I’d love to host a party for my Doll. It’d be spectacular, and it’d be original.

I hate Hannah Montana. I hate that slut Tink. I hate Elmo, for his annoying giggle and use of third person.
I hate Disney, and the abundance of princessery.
You KNOW I hate Dora.
I believe it’s time to put the Wonder Pets to sleep.

I hate Bratz. (When did “brat” earn a positive connotation? And when will we see Martha Stewart’s “Homeless Crack Whore” line at KMart?)

Although I respect Bob the Builder, High School Musical, and SpongeBob Squarepants, I despise party goods emblazoned with their likenesses.

I hate tasteless, over-the-top party decorations adorned with the faces of annoying characters and celebrities.
I hate the uninteresting party games and offerings of lame makeovers for little girl bdays.

Your child deserves more, so how’s about you think outside the box?

For Doll’s virtual bday we’d do something along the line of The Boy in the Striped Pajamas, asking everyone to dress accordingly.
[Spoiler alert! The ending would involve corralling guests into our darkened garage for smoke bomb fun.]

I’d decorate my house Whitney Houston-style. I know she’s old school to these kids, but some things are just. Classic.

We’d play Karaoke Fergie, wet pants ‘n all. We’d run kites. There’d be bum fighting.

I’d arm the kids with squirt guns and have ‘em go at R. Kelly in effigy; turnabout - Gran Torino-style

Would it be too much to hire someone to drink them self to death with a hooker? It’d probably take a long time. It took Nick Cage for-frikken-ever, and after three hours I want these children GONE.

After stuffing them with carbs and caffeine we’d run ‘em through a WipeOut gauntlet.
Mr Savant wants a little American Gladiator flavor, so he’s going in as "Rockyt" to beat the livin’ crap outta some 6th-grade girls.

Each guest would take home a mixed bag of party goods including:
Amy Winehouse crack pipe noise makers,
Revolutionary Road bulb syringes for tub and pool,
Hillary Duff punching balls,
Jack Black toilet paper roll Tokerators and Yo Gabba Gabba DVDs,
Courtney Love syringe-shaped lip balms,
Fight Club soaps,
condoms and Fix-a-Flat, (cuz they’re funner than Silly String.)

I shared the vision with my Doll. She simply said, “Aw, Mom, I [shart] you.”

What eleven-year-old girl wouldn’t?

Six Syllable Sunday - Time to Make the Donuts

2009-06-21T08:15:00.003-05:00

If you give a Dad a donut,

he’s gonna want a Lil Sump’thin to Dunk It In.
If he has coffee,

he might ask for Some Sweet’ner.
The sugar will rev him up,

and he need to Burn Some Carbs.

When he's worked off the carbs,

the endorphins will bring him back for Seconds.
Things could get messy.
He’ll need a shower,

and a Shower Buddy.

When he’s sparkling clean,

he might want to Get Dirty.
He’ll gladly Put Up a Shelf.
While he’s laboring,

he may need you to Help With his Tools.
All the work is going to give him An Appetite.
He’ll probably ask you to Hook Him Up with Something.

When he’s Satiated,

he might enjoy A Nap, with a Nap Pal.
He’ll Rise Well-Rested

and be glad that you’re Near.
He might want a Lil Snack.
Offer him a Donut.

Give your man some sex for Father’s Day.
Cuz really; Who’s Your Daddy?

Doctor's Orders; Put the Lime in the Coconut

2009-06-19T12:46:00.006-05:00

I woke up yesterday looking like Jimmy Durante.
My shnozz was painful, ginormous, red and throbbing.

In true Savant fashion I thought, more for blogging.

As I went about the business of making a doctor’s appointment, I hypochondriacally wished for an exciting diagnosis like leprosy or advanced syphilis (without the negative connotations – I wanted the NICE leprosy/advanced syphilis. The cool kind.)

Turns out I’m so … [what’s the word?] …fabulous? delicate? glamorous? that a sinus infection spread into my nose and according to Dr. Substitute Doctor it had nearly infected my skin.
What?! An infection is oozing outta me?

Say gross now. Or ew.

That’s how I roll in the retard morass that is Savantery.

I take Remicade for Rheumatoid Arthritis. In the simplest terms; the medicine eradicates my immune system to manage the RA.
As an allergy-sufferer I get frequent sinus infections.

Somebody’s keeping track. And I can feel the stinkeye.
Lemme tell you about Dr. Ed Fullacrap, my Rheumatologist.

I was first seen by Dr. F. in late 2003. The initial, unimaginable five-month wait for an appointment at his busy office was whittled down to five days because of a cancellation.
Thank You, merciful Lord.
And Step One towards I am lovin’ this physician.

Little did I know.

I was in desperate need of some steroids and looked forward to a cursory exam and a lifetime of ‘scripts with no strings attached.

Turns out Dr. F. is the Living End as a doctor and a friend.

I’m a walking theasaurus of terms to describe the symptoms of Meniere’s disease.
I can regale you with stories of vomiting so colorful you’ll laugh ‘til you pee and faithfully follow my blog in hopes of more frequent attacks.
No worries. I’m okay with suffering for your reading pleasure (if “okay with suffering for your reading pleasure” equals socially deprived and basing all my self-worth on your opinion.)

I can spin an informative-yet-entertaining yarn about Meniere’s, but I can’t tell you about my RA.
Suffice it to say that it raged, unmanageable for almost ten years.

My half-assed wordsmithery could never paint an adequate picture of living like that.

On my first visit with Dr. F., I’ll be dipped if I remember why I ranted against the demon alcohol. It was somehow connected to the fact that I had to order ephedra via Wisconsin. It was illegal in Illinois.
I railed about the injustice of lawful booze and the destruction it brought to the fabric of families.
At some point in my lighthearted tirade I raved about phentermine.

When I paused for air, Dr. F. remarked, “I think this is gonna be a lot of fun.”

He took a detailed history and did a thorough exam. Then he began what’s known in “The Official Book of Really Big Doctor Words” as Effective Treatment.
It was all new to me.

Dr. F.’s excellent treatment of my condition allowed future conversations to progress beyond doctor/patient and small talk.
Doc: How’re we feeling today?
Kel: Good. Very good. I’m good every day.
As Doc palpated knuckles and manipulated elbows, shoulders and knees, we talked outside the doctor/patient stuff.

He’s seen me in a paper gown. And he kept a level head, so don’t even. Go. There.

One day he asked if my Mr. was The Chaplain who offered a blessing before the prison-sponsored half marathon. He liked what Mr. said in his prayer.
They’re both runners, both theologians, both brilliant and patient. It was bound to happen; Mr. accompanied me to an office visit. And another. And another.

It got to the point where Doc was insisting that we request the slot before lunch.
It gave us more time.

Conversation was lively when we got together.
And we laughed.

We tried for months to arrange an actual meal during Doc’s free time between patients.
After several failed attempts we took it 100% Social. We met for dinner.
Then for movies.
And in each other’s homes.

Our friendship has grown over 5+ years.
Our fellowship is an absolute haven. I know Doc agrees.
We’ve experienced each other’s victories and struggles; changes in jobs, churches, health, and relationships. Dr. F. and I have both lost our moms in the past five years.

Our kids know and love Dr. Fullacrap. He’s part of our family now.
We’ve begged him to accompany us on our family vacation and [eventually] this is a plea to that end.

I should tell you he’s 45 and single, rich, tall, handsome and smart. I don’t actually know if he’s rich, but he is tall. He’s a doctor! A man of honesty, integrity and compassion.
He’s funny as H and the nicest, most caring man I’ve met shy of my own Mr.

If he was a female you’d never blink if I described him as my RL BFF.
But the explaining takes too long, so disregard, but consider.

I love Dr. Fullacrap like a brother (if like-a-brother equals genuine affection).
My husband loves him like a brother (if like-a-brother means actual fondness).

I generally detest people. My social deprivation is by choice. With my sparkling wit and charming personality you’ve got to know that my social circle is a DOT because I like it this way.

Nobody stacks up. I had to become friends with a DOCTOR to get the intellectual stimulation suited to my intelligence.

And in this regard I am blessed. This is the Most Remarkable Non-Familial Relationship I’ve had in my lifetime.
In other words, I don’t have to like Mr. Fullacrap, but I do.

And I sure wish he’d find a way to Edisto Island next month.

... then you feel better...

Shart Not, H.A. Put the Kibosh on the Kaka

2009-06-16T19:41:00.005-05:00

HOLD UP, my Beloved Soiled Compatriots.

Health Alliance called a last minute audible. (They said "Eff you, Kel.")

They will not approve the provider (Shea Ear Clinic) or the procedure (profusion).

We were packed. Arrangements, reservations and appointments were made. HA said "No soup for you!"

I cried like a child.

I lurve my GP and my rheumatologist. We will devise a plan for World Domination, and/or an appeal.

I'll keep ~~pleading for someone to answer that d*mn ringing phone~~
~~having dizzy spells~~
~~falling and vomiting~~ updating.

For now all my maaaaad writing skills will be involved in producing my manifesto.

I'm torn between meaningless drivel, bathroom humor, religious banter and church tales, but I think with some careful editing I can include all of my gifts in one composition, with lots of threats and cursing, liberally peppered with medical terminology, of course.

No worries, I won't ask you to Poop Yourself ever again. Not for This Cause anyhow.

I'm disappointed. But not as much as I would have expected.

Maybe it's the hope I have in the appeal process.

Maybe it's the peace I found in a friend's loving counsel.

Of course, it could have been Ben & Jerry's New York Super Fudge Chunk.

Outpouring of Love - Shart for Solidarity

2009-06-15T20:27:00.004-05:00

Many of you have showed Great Bloggy Love with encouraging words and well wishes since Savant started getting sick in May.

As she heads off for treatment at the Shea Ear Clinic in Memphis, here is your opportunity to foster discussion about Meniere's Disease while publicly showing support for this lively, acerbic b*tch we all know and love.

Poop yourself.

Shart for Solidarity

Not a political statement, just an outpouring of love.

It's simple to do. Men & women, regardless of age, station, faith, marital status or shoe size, will shart themselves on June 17th, 2009. People everywhere will show their solidarity by wearing their shart pants, capris or shorts through the day (or until they chafe.)

Shart may be brown, yellow/green or gray. It may be formed or loose.
Don't shart a skirt. Or a thong.
If you have a beer gut, think twice.
Do not tuck a long shirt into sharted bottoms.
Washable footwear is recommended for those with fluid stools.

The shart is worn proudly to symbolize the inner compassion carried in the hearts of blog pals from all walks of life. Make flyers, call your politicians, or simply crop dust your workplace/home.

Dedicate your shart on behalf of these well-known sufferers of Meniere's…

Make a mud bunny for Marilyn Monroe.
Fire your rear thrusters for Alan B. Shepard.
Make a batch of hell’s candy for Martin Luther.
Evolve into a human espresso machine for Charles Darwin.
Make some sweet keester cakes on behalf of Emily Dickinson.
Craft a grunt sculpture for Vincent Van Gogh.

Let's all shout a collective, "Our sharts go out to you Kel!"

Questions regarding The Movement should be directed to Macey at Living in France. She is only too ready to help. (Thanks ♥M♥.)

Get the "Ridin' Dirty"badge here.

Meniere's Disease is a disorder of the inner ear which causes episodes of vertigo, tinnitus, feelings of fullness or pressure in the ear, and fluctuating hearing loss.There is a large amount of variability in the duration of symptoms. Some people experience brief attacks, and others have constant unsteadiness. High sensitivity to visual stimuli is common.A typical episode generally involves severe vertigo, nausea and vomiting. The average attack lasts two to four hours. Most people find that they are exhausted and must sleep for several hours following an attack.

Six Syllable Sunday - Naked Intermission

2009-06-14T13:40:00.000-05:00

In our 20s we rarely came up for air.
There was no conversation.
A break for water maybe. Or a clean towel.

In our 30s we checked the lock every 15 minutes.
“Did you hear that?”
“What've we got to eat when we’re done?”

In our 40s we kept our socks on as a courtesy.
“Put your… Move your… Ow.”
“We used to…”
“We can’t.”

In our 50s foreplay involved Tiger Balm, and not in a freaky way.
“Did you remember to lay out your pills?”

In our 60s we didn’t have the energy to put the dog out of the room.
“Did you hear who died on Monday?”
“Oh, good. He was Catholic. The KofC serves the best funeral lunches.”

In our 70s we should have the decency to quit (but we won’t).
“Did I do that?”

“Yes. Do it again.”

Gut Check Time, You Can Do This

2009-06-13T07:34:00.000-05:00

I've been tagged, which, as you know, is like an infection for me, cuz I end up being sick, as in caustic and sometimes vulgar.

But the lovely blogger who tagged me is lovely*, and I want to play well with others once in a while.
I’ve seen this tag and I thought it was cool.

I’m instructed to share a photo and tell its tale. Photo ten:ten can be found two ways, because I have Vista, and unlike me it does not cooperate.

The first result is a picture of some very dead branches against a brilliant blue sky. “I like branches” is my story.

Photo 10:10(2), according to the Evil Vista Photo Mucking Storage and Retrieval System (which is secretly a plot to rule the world and/or send Mac sales sky high), leads me deep into tens of pix of our kitchen renovation.

Once there I discover photo 10:10 is very dull indeed. “Here is an inset light,” is interesting only if you’d seen my indescribably bad kitchen ceiling/lighting PRE-reno.

I cheated. For you.
Here’s my tale.

Mr.’s fashion sense jumped the tracks in the 90s.

He threw himself off the “I care what I wear” bandwagon very early in our marriage.

Even in The Day he wasn’t good at style choices.

Lunch with college football buddies might send him looking for huaraches, bright floral shirts and Bermudas.

(Yea, but honey, he only goes to school in Wisconsin. He’s FROM Hawaii. Of COURSE he looks natural in it. He’s SAMOAN.)

In an attempt to shake his fist at the fashion industry, Madison Avenue, mechanical/maniacal trendiness and Decency in General, Mr. Savant fights for his right to Bad Style.

The Greatest Weapon in his arsenal is his light wash, tapered-leg, high-waisted jeans.
He wears ‘em as for battle. Tucked shirt and tight-belted. Just. Below. The nipples.

It’s doubly shameful cuz he’s buff.

Picture Daniel Craig dressed badly. Very, very badly.

If this has to be covered, shouldn’t it be covered

~~with kisses~~

~~in whipped cream~~

in something worthy?

My Mr.'s built like DC, and I rue the day when he says, "Honey, let's get out of bed, shower off the rest of this melted chocolate, get dressed, and take the kids to the mall."

The green work shirt is another of Mr.’s battle worn Favorites. It’s a flannel-lined wonder from the accursed LLBean. It is a Regular and Constant (like dry, cracked heels) during the fall and winter months (but no amount of pumice and balm can rid us of this horror.)

The Darlings (Oldest Dau and SIL, for New Readers) have been forced to venture into the public sector with Mr.

They’ve memorized his anti-style mission statement (for the badge. We all got badges.)

They've seen how Mr. gets a gleam in his eye when he hears the phrase “pinch roll”. They know. The. Horror.

My facebook abounds with pix from our kitchen project. This particular shot earned several comments from the Darlings.

G (son-in-law)
“See this shirt I'm wearin... I just found it stuck behind the cabinets wrapped around a pound of crack.”

M (daughter)
"This relic flannel will go great with the foo [Fu Manchu]. I wonder if I could score the wife something sweet from them walls."

G
"Wait, this is a woman’s shirt. I thought my shoulders looked huge in it."

M
"I think I'll wear it anyways...it's not often enough that green denim and flannel meet. It is a Sacred Unity."

G
LATER THAT DAY..."Honey, did you buy toilet paper today? Nevermind, I'll just use my sleeve.”

M
"SWEET!!! Dual pockets!! I can keep my Foo comb in one pocket and my Byran Adams cassette tape in the deuce spot"

In response I defended my husband’s Fu Manchu. He looks STUNNING in it, regardless of Darling’s opinion.

And that of the Aryan Brotherhood inmates, who think they’ve got some kind of ownership rights to this type of facial hair. Whatev, whitie.

On a similar note (fashion, not fascism); it should be said that a recent ban on a certain dress shirt was nearly vetoed this morning with Mr.’s declaration that it was Already Washed, and he was Wearing It One More Time before throwing it away.

He was over-ruled by a Marital Trade Agreement.

*Go visit the Lovely Sandy, from “It’s a Jungle Out There.” See her seriously cool contribution.

I Do It for the Funny (Seriousity, The Sequel)

2009-06-12T13:30:00.000-05:00

Everybody blogs to a different drummer.

I’ve read commentaries that do a stellar job of discussing the Act of Blogging and our motivation for eviscerating ourselves for one another’s reading enjoyment.

I can’t even approach a worthwhile explanation as to why I expose myself for your viewing pleasure. (Put it that way though, and it could be Scandalous Good Fun. But we’re still on the Serious. So cut it out.)

I can’t offer an absorbing description resulting from deep thought and soul-searching about the matter.
I can’t stir you with an eloquent explanation of my emotional need for online friends and the social nourishment that you offer.

In my college days I thought I was introspective. I took forty zillion hours of psychology and thought I had a pretty good handle on the inner workings of man.
I don’t pretend to know what Freud and Jung would say if they’d stumbled upon my blog while high on blow and surfing porn.

I partied ~~enough~~ ~~a lot~~ too much and I recall being an especially brilliant cogitationist while on the ganja. (Read; too paranoid to speak, dance or move.)
Even then I didn’t wax poetic. (“I love you man,” doesn’t count.)

I can tell you that blog friends are the closest thing to friends as I’ve got, and after our church experience it’s sufficient.

Yesterday’s post generated something akin to dialog betwixt us.
I love that.

I genuinely like you, my online friends, and I think blogging has created a whole ‘nother sort of family for me (minus the drunkenness, the lying, fighting and stabbing that were nowhere near as much fun as they sound.)
I'm blessed by you.

I'm crazy for my Mr. He is my friend as well as my spouse. He’s everything I want in a mate, but there’s something to be said about female friends.
Because as terrific as my Mr. is, our conversations aren’t the same as e-chatting with ya’ll…

Scene: Mr. returns from a long day of dealing with inmates who are Ridiculous Beyond Words.

Call of Duty released new maps for the killin’ of Nazi zombies and all signs point to a banner night of cooperative online PS3ing for Pop-Pop (Mr. Savant) and Funny Boy (Darling SIL).

I’m gladly giving up the TV for reading in bed just when Mr. comes in the door…

Honey, I’m home….

Him: How was your day?

Me: Long, but good. Calvin’s steroids kicked in and he’s full of energy. I didn’t get a shower.

H: C’mere stinky.

[hugging]

M: Ahh… This is nice.

[some prison talk ensues, all strictly confidential, cuz of the confidential nature of confidentiality, hugging continues]

H: Did you blog today?

M: Yeah. I called you my rock and my comfort, said you were the embodiment of love and patience.

H: That was nice.

M: You empty my vomit basins and soothe me when I cry about being sick. You’re awesome. It’s true.

H: You know what’s true? Your jugs feel amazing on my chest when I hug you like this.

I love you man.

Writing of Seriousness, Seriously

2009-06-11T14:18:00.000-05:00

I’m terrible at the writing of serious words of seriousness in a serious way.

That’s how I’ve fooled so many of you into thinking I’m enduring bouts of Meniere’s with something akin to serenity and courage.

Not so.

Truth be told I’m not serene or courageous ever. I have buttloads of giveuppedness. And I got getthehellouttadodgedness in spades. So I fluff ‘em (like a résumé, not like a porn star) to appear serenish and couragy.

For example; I’m freaked out and fearful of most wildlife, ‘cept if I see it in its natural habitat at the zoo.
I don’t want wild critters in my life or near my house and I don’t live in the country for that reason.

I don’t want lowlife, whitetrash, meth head, alley-dwellers trying to steal my car either, but a trade is a trade. No raccoons! Wait, we had a raccoon... It came up on our steps. No opossums! Nope, that’s not true either. We saw an opossum on the corner of our street… No skunks! Shoot. I’ve seen skunks.
I haven’t seen gators! I'm scared o' gators and THAT'S why I don't live in the country.

I’m terrified of bats and birds. Things that fly make my legs weak and cause me to shart. There is no shame in shrieking at my age, I tell myself.

I’m scared of bugs with the exception of Bugs That Sting which take it up a notch. To shartified.

I’ve mentioned my first experience with the dreaded Cave Cricket.

And just last week I was forced to forsake dry pants and dignity as I fled several large flesh-eating bugs that were guarding the fridge in our garage. I’m fairly certain they were Yucatanian Acid Spitting Beetles, so it was wise to retreat.
Nobody needs a soda that bad.

I’ve not been bravely enduring my Meniere’s.
Nope. I’ve not.

I've not been brave in the face of rheumatoid arthritis.
Nuh-uh.

Did I mention my foot surgery?
Stouthearted? Nope.
(I put the "more" in morphine.)

Things that happen to me just happen. They're happening. They're about the busy-ness of happenocity.
Unless they kill me.
So far they haven’t. But that’s honestly all I can say about any of my worst experiences.

In the midst of them I’m all about the going through them. I’m not liking them. But I'm not dead yet.

That means I’m winning.
So far.

My funniocity is all in the blog. My braveness is non-existent.

By the end of May I was having a rough time with my thought life. I had been so anxious about getting sick that I was exhausted from the fretting.
I had PMS.
It was not pretty. In my head.
With occasional outbursts of crying to Mr. Savant who is the Living End for patience and love. He’s my rock and my comfort.

A friend/nurse told me about the Shea Ear Clinic in Memphis.
I have an appointment next week Wednesday.

I am hopeful.

I almost hate the hopeful because it’s the perfect launch site for the butt rocket that is Crippling Disappointment.

I made them tell me that they’re going to be aggressive in my treatment.

I’ve tried all the baby steps to overcoming Meniere's and I don’t want failure.

I fear failure in this case, which is pretty much the same as worrying that my Meniere’s is going to flare, 'cept the ledge is higher, with the hopefulness and all.
Stinkin’ hopefulness.

Failure (AKA getting sick after starting treatment) would be worse on my emotions than on my physical body.

Tuesday afternoon we’ve got to drive our dog out to the boarding kennel. We’ve both taken days off on Wednesday. We’ll drive (4 hours?) to Memphis with our Dolls. We’ll lodge, eat, maybe enjoy the pool and/or a movie…
It could be fun, but listen carefully…
Shhh…
Hear that?
Be very quiet and you can hear me piss and moan about the expense...

This better work.

Thank you all. For reals. When I say I need pity I’m not lying. I lurve the feeling sorry of the me, and I can’t do it all by myself, so your kind words are genuinely appreciated.

Now I want prayer.

Please pray that these specialists take one look at me and some of them faint from the horror of My-Meniere’s-is-Worse-Than-Any-They’ve-Ever-Seen-Ever, and they retch and gag from the horror, and wonder how I’ve survived the horror. (Ya’ll can attest to my fortitude, never mentioning this post.)

Pray that the docs bring out their Biggest Guns, medically speaking.

Or that God’s will is done.
If by God’s will you mean miraculous healing.

Don’t ASK me to talk seriously about God’s will in this because I’m terrible at the writing of serious words of seriousness in a serious way and it involves crying.