Tuesday, August 30, 2005


1) have nothing to do 2) own a sharp knife 3) have a large lime 4) own a patient cat 5) drink too much tequila 6) and it's football season?

Friday, August 26, 2005

The Un-Martha

I am not Martha Stewart, and I couldn't be happier. Been seein' a lot about her on TV again, I guess she is going to be hosting her own reality show soon. We were both born with the same first name, and double X chromosomes, but the similarities end there. Many women turn to Martha Stewart as the epitome of perfection and stylish living.
(This quote is directly from the food network bio)
When America wants to learn how to make the perfect pie crust, plant an herb garden or fix a broken windowpane, it turns to Martha Stewart
But geez, she always manages to make people feel bad about themselves in comparison.

I make them feel better. Women look to me and say, "Oh hallelujah, there is someone here who": *Isn't a size six *Has unruly children *Is licking her fingers to smooth her hair down *Uses Vaseline for lip gloss Ms. Stewart's home was Nutley, N.J. Mine is more like Nuthouse. We lose things, break things, (including bones), get cranky, get even, and love each other fiercely. Continuing with the Food Network description:
Inspiration surrounded Martha at an early age. Raised in Nutley, N.J., in a family with six children. Martha developed her passion for stylish living, cooking, gardening and homekeeping in her childhood home on Elm Place.
My childhood was......ummm......less inspirational. My parents weren't bad people; they didn't beat me or anything like that. But we come from hillbilly stock in the Mazoorah Ozarks. Stylish living was getting running water. (Honest......the house I lived in as a child had a PUMP in the kitchen, and an outhouse. It was horrible in the winter, because I would always wait until the last minute to go out there in the cold, and if it was slick, I would run, fall, and......well, the trip would be a moot point. (Hey I was only four)
She got married during her sophomore year, and upon graduating became a successful stockbroker on Wall Street, where she gained her early business training.
Around our parts, "stock" meant the cows. Cows are cool though. I used to ride a cow like a horse and thought it was the neatest thing in the universe. (Hey I was only four)
Her unique visual presentation of food and the elegant recipes she created for her catered events were the basis for her first book.
"Elegant recipes" for us meant pigs in a blanket. Unique visual presentation meant putting a toothpick in them.

Martha Stewart was named one of the "50 Most Powerful Women" by Fortune magazine in October 1998.

Somewhere along the way, I think we may have had a family member on the 50 Most Wanted List......LOL!

Tuesday, August 23, 2005

Trench Warfare In Our Driveway

We have a gravel driveway that is a thousand feet long and ten miles deep. It is paved with gravel. That is until the Great Rock Eating Phantom that lives underground wants a midnight snack. We'll get a new load of rock spread on it, and soon, the gravel is disappearing into the ground. Irregularly of course, so that the lovely white, smooth surface becomes lumpy and pitted. We've been feeding the GREP for 20 years now, and there is no indication of his appetite diminishing. The first few years, we thought, "Well, sooner or later the gravel will have been shoved into the earth completely to the bedrock, and THEN we won't have to dump so much on so often." It didn't happen sooner, we're still waiting for later. In between loads of gravel, dips and bumps appear. Husband related this story to me the other day, and it gave me a chuckle so I thought I'd share. Since we are out in the sticks, there is a plethora of wildlife out here. Deer roam freely. Raccoons mosey up onto the porch and eat the cat food. Squirrels taunt the cats, dashing from tree limb to tree limb. Skunks, possums, moles, field mice and the rare mountain lion or coyote wander through. The cats have little interest in them. But the rabbits! There is something about the rabbits that enthrall the felines. A cottontail, hoppin' down the bunny trail, will catch the attention of even the laziest cat. Rabbits are very quick though, and can easily spot an approaching cat, and hop away to safety. The cats have realized that to give the rabbits a run for their money, they would need to be more devious. They have adopted trench warfare tactics. Because husband departs for work very early in the morning, he witnesses some of the nocturnal chicanery by the light of the silvery moon (and dual beam halogen headlights). Seems the cats have learned to flatten their bodies out in a dip in the driveway, and become one with the gravel. And wait. Husband will pull out slowly, look down the driveway, and see nothing but ears. Ears that are twitching with anticipation. Wait, wait...Ah! Here comes Mr. Bunny. Twitch, twitch...bunny pauses, glances around, feels secure and begins nibbling on the clover. ATTACK! Fur flying, feet pounding, the chase is on! Don't panic, the rabbits are still faster, but...the cats have taken up a collection among themselves and are paying the fox a consulting fee, so who knows what Fate holds for Mr. Bunny.

Saturday, August 20, 2005


This story happened recently in a little town in Louisiana, and while it sounds like an Alfred Hitchcock tale, locals swear it's real. Read to the end. This guy was on the side of the road hitch hiking on a very dark night in the middle of a storm. The night passed slowly and no cars went by. The storm was so strong he could hardly see a few feet ahead of him. Suddenly he saw a car slowly looming, ghostlike, out of the gloom. It slowly crept toward him and stopped. Reflexively, the guy got into the car and closed the door, then realized that there was nobody behind the wheel. The car slowly started moving again. The guy was terrified, too scared to think of jumping out and running. He saw that the car was slowly approaching a sharp curve. He started to pray, begging for his life! He was sure the ghost car would go off the road and he would plunge to his death, when just before the curve, a hand appeared through the window and turned the steering wheel, guiding the car safely around the bend. Paralyzed with terror, the guy watched the hand reappear every time they reached a curve. Finally, the guy gathered his wits, leapt from the car and ran to the nearest town. Wet and in shock, he went into a bar and voice quivering, ordered two shots of tequila, and told everybody about his horrible, supernatural experience. A silence enveloped everybody when they realized he was apparently sane and not drunk. About half an hour later two guys walked into the same bar. One says to the other, "Look Boudreaux, Dats dat idiot what rode in our car when we was pushin it in the rain."

Wednesday, August 17, 2005

Tick Tock Tick

School starts tomorrow. That means today is Crazy Busy Day. Although I had a "to do" list a mile ling, there were not a lot of the tasks that could be accomplished at 6:30 AM. I had filled my belly with a Monster Energy Drink, wrapped several orders from online sales, written a shopping list, answered some mail and laughed at the local news of a crocodile discovered in the Kansas City metro area. This isn't exactly 'gator country. Post office wasn't open yet, and the girl-who-wants-to-go-shopping was still sleeping. I took some food out to the critters, and noticed how unruly the lawn had become. Cloud cover had dropped the temperature, so I figured I could give it a quick buzz cut. (Just 'cause a lawnmower amputated one of my fingers, they don't scare me.) It is really quite a pleasant task. There are immediate, visible results of the effort. The smell is pure heaven. The delicious thrill I got from executing several hundred grasshoppers in a hideously torturous way will set my karma back a notch or two though, I bet. (I really dislike bugs.) The quicker ones leapt out of the way at the sound of approaching death-on-a-blade. But those who are slow, weak, or not limber enough to do the lawnmower limbo became fertilizer. Apparently a few of them sent out a clarion call to their insect brethren moments before their demise, to avenge their execution. I do not speak bug though, so I was unaware, until retribution was exacted. When I was finished, I stepped back and admired the freshly-shorn grass. It was lovely. I came in and showered, and by now, the girl-who-wants-to-go-shopping was awake. And nagging. "Come on, Mom," she moaned outside the bathroom door. "OK, OK, I'm just washing my hair......what's this?" I felt something on my head, which was neither scalp nor hair. "M-ahhhhh-m." "Just a minute, I've got.....ack! I've got shampoo in my eyes and something on my head." "Can I at least come in and go?" Trying to retain my eyesight, I am drenching my face with water. "Glurp, glub." She took this to be an affirmative, and entered. De-sudsed, I step out, still feeling around on my head for the not-hair-not-scalp lump. I see a momentary shiver cross sweet-sixteen's face at the vision of her dripping 52 year-old gene donor. "Can we go? Your hair will dry in the car. There's a sale at the mall that is only good for the first hour. Come o-o-o-o-n." I temporarily postpone the head hunt and get dressed to placate her. I know she is nervous about the first day of school and wants to find just the right thing to wear. Brushing my hair, I feel a snag, and poke around with my fingers again. Ah-ha! I grasp with fingernails and tug. Then tug harder. Release! I lower my hand to see a fat, wriggling tick. (A moment for all you city folk to go "ewwww!" Out here on the farm, it is commonplace, and one of those things you just get used to after a while. Did I mention how much I dislike bugs?) "M-ahhhhh-m. Come on, I want to oh my God you're bleeding!" Indeed. Dislodging a tick that has sucked all of the blood in your head to the surface to gorge on, causes quite a gusher. Especially with blond hair. I looked like an extra in a Wes Craven movie. Still holding the tick firmly between my fingernails, I turned on the hot water spigot full volume. (I can just hear my karma bucket emptying). Down the drain it went, a steamy trip to the septic tank. There is probably a mutant batch of bugs living in there, plotting to take over the world. Meanwhile Daughter had gone to the medicine cabinet and retrieved gauze. I have a vision of us marching into the mall looking like Revolutionary War soldiers, with her playing her flute and me with my head swathed in bandages, determined not to shoot the credit card out of my purse until we saw the whites of the sale tags. Fortunately, I am a quick clotter, and soon the spot was daubed and dried. We were determined to proceed, succeed and not bleed. Daughter is now also shorn, her hair cropped in a snappy new 'do, and we found a spectacular outfit. I mailed out many packages, answered questions, and sent out notices. Tomorrow a new day dawns. Please Lord, let it be bug-free.

Monday, August 15, 2005

Your Ad Here!

The carpet in front of my computer is wet. I am forbidden from saying why. So, play along here, the floor is wet. My hillbilly-ness, or my inner child, (or my hillbilly inner child) comes out when I am in my own home, and I go barefoot. Wet carpet and bare feet are an unpleasant combination. To be able to sit here and use the computer, I have placed many layers of towels, paper towels, blankets, and newspapers between my feet and the icky-wet carpet. The carpet has an astonishing capacity to retain water, so all of those soaked through, and soon, the soles of my feet were soaking again. Ewwww. I resorted to other materials in hopes of finding something with a slower absorbency rate, so I could finish a sentence before suffering Soaked Sole. I tried the glossy advertisements from the Sunday newspaper. Hmm, a few minutes went by without serious soak-through. Sweet. Then I tried to leave. My feet were stuck to the glossy ads, and when I peeled them off, I had a nice reverse-transfer of the ad copy on the bottoms of my feet. I've seen E-Bay auctions from people who are willing to auction off advertising space on their bodies, but it is usually on their forehead, or pregnant belly......somewhere prominent, and easily visible. So I have little hope of making any money from the advertising on my feet, but it made me laugh when I saw it, so I thought I'd share.

After all, who can't use a good laugh?

Sunday, August 14, 2005


BILL O' REILLY: That friggin' chicken is a *#@&* liar! HOWARD STERN: Let's see your breasts. MARTHA STEWART: No one called me to warn me which way that chicken was going. I had a standing order at the Farmer's Market to sell my eggs when the price dropped to a certain level. No little bird gave me any insider information. DR SEUSS: Did the chicken cross the road? Did he cross it with a toad? Yes, the chicken crossed the road, but why it crossed I've not been told. ERNEST HEMINGWAY: To die in the rain. Alone. MARTIN LUTHER KING, JR: I envision a world where all chickens will be free to cross roads without having their motives called into question. GRANDPA: In my day, we didn't ask why the chicken crossed the road. Somebody told us the chicken crossed the road, and that was good enough. BARBARA WALTERS: Isn't that interesting? In a few moments, we will be listening to the chicken tell, for the first time, the heart-warming story of how it experienced a serious case of molting, and went on to accomplish itslife long dream of crossing the road. JOHN LENNON: Imagine all the chickens in the world crossing roads together - in peace. ARISTOTLE: It is the nature of chickens to cross the road. KARL MARX: It was a historic inevitability. CAPTAIN KIRK: To boldly go where no chicken has ever gone before. BILL GATES: I have just released eChicken2005, which will not only cross roads, but also will lay eggs, file your important documents, and balance your checkbook. Internet Explorer is an integral part of eChicken. ALBERT EINSTEIN: Did the chicken really cross the road, or did the road move beneath the chicken? THE BIBLE: And God came down from heaven, and he said unto the chicken THOU SHALT CROSS THE ROAD. And the chicken did cross the road, and there was much rejoicing. COLONEL SANDERS: Did I miss one?

Saturday, August 13, 2005


When I die, I want to die like my grandmother who died peacefully in her sleep. Not screaming like all the passengers with her in her car. LOL

Friday, August 12, 2005


Sorry for not responding to recent comments, I apologize. Things have been crazy here in a not-funny-don't-care-to-share kind of way. I appreciate all of the input regarding blog comments. I have decided to maintain a dialog in my own comments section, (but not today, because I have too much else to deal with, she said in a schizophrenic fashion LOL) instead of going to the blog of the person who left me a note, and writing, "Thanks for your comment" at THEIR blog. I will visit the blogs of anyone who leaves a comment, and may comment, but if I do, it will be a response to a topic on YOUR blog, not me dropping in to say, "Thanks for stopping by my blog". I would like to thank Darren Rowse of ProBlogger for bringing his readers into the discussion, and to Gone Away for opening up the debate over there. Hope everyone has a great day. I look forward to having my personal issues resolved, so I can focus on being entertaining (as I hope I was before LOL) again.

Tuesday, August 09, 2005

Leaning Tower of Puzza

My darling mother-in-law loves jigsaw puzzles. She works big ones, little ones, round ones too. Sorry, starting to sound a little too Dr. Seuss there...... Actually, it is from a series of roadside signs that I made to promote our pumpkin sales. When the pumpkin patch is open, I have a series of small billboards, placed every fifty feet or so along the road in front of the farm, in the manner of the old Burma Shave shaving cream signage. {{All the young whippersnappers out there are scratching their Gen-X heads in confusion LOL}} My pumpkin signs read: Big ones, little ones, White ones too, We have the perfect Pumpkin for you! Pretty lame, huh? LOL! Back to darling mother-in-law and her pile o' puzzles. She regularly gives me a batch of jigsaw puzzles that she has finished, and lets me sell them at online auctions.{subliminal message please go look please go look lol} She said, "Now I GUARANTEE that all of the pieces are here for these, and that they are in fine shape. I promise, 'cause I am a good Christian woman and I don't swear". Then she giggles like only an adorable grandmother can giggle. I decided to be clever (which can sometimes get me in b-i-g trouble LOL) so I spiced up the listings with a little song parody about my darling mother-in-law having so many jigsaw puzzles (to the Beverly Hillbillies theme, "The Ballad of Jed Clampett"). The Ballad of Puz Rampant Come and listen to my story of my dear mother-in-law, A sweet puzzler, she has lots of them, jigsaw, And then one day, she was puttin' one away, But the closet was so full, that the box just wouldn't stay! Hmmmm, she said, "Gotta go! Selling spree!" Well the first thing you know, she told me of her issue, And she said, "Help! What is there to do?" I said, "Don't you worry, our solution is E-Bay, We will put them up for sale, and let buyers bid away!"" Great, they are, All the pieces! Guarantee! Well now it's time for you to come and gaze at what we've got, You won't be disappointed when you look at what you've bought. They're all a pretty picture, and the pieces are all there, We promise - 'cause she's so sweet that she doesn't ever swear! Y'all come back now, ya hear? Even lamer huh? (And you thought it wasn't possible - pshaw! LOL!) I keep selling them and she keeps giving me more - LOL The last batch was a whopper, so we have a very tall stack of them in here now. Since the boxes are all different sizes, and I have to pull them out to write the descriptions and take photos, or wrap them when they are sold, the stack has become somewhat discombobulated (isn't that a great word? LOL) I fear it could injure one of us if it collapses from the vibrations of Bo Jangles getting too intense on his dance pad LOL! I am going to attempt to sneak up on it {shhhh} so I can pull another one out to list. If you don't hear from me in a week, please call in Hercule Puzz-oit {snicker}

Sunday, August 07, 2005


I deeply appreciate everyone who has stopped by and left comments (your bribery payments are on the way - LOL!) Just curious, what do you think is the proper ('cause I am always proper ~snort~) way for the blog owner to respond to comments? I don't know how to add a "poll" to a post, and it would probably slow the webpage load time down to a crawl anyway. Plus I'd lose all of you lovely Blog Explosion folks who are watching the countdown until you can go to the next one, and if the page loads slowly, you'll be outta here before this ever shows up, so please respond in a comment. Question: When a blog owner gets a comment, should they...? A) Smile to themselves and be glad someone is taking the time to reply B) Respond via e-mail C) Respond in their own comments D) Respond in the comments section of the commenter's blog? E) All of the above Next, we'll tackle abortion, the government and the possibility of extraterrestrial life......... NOT! LOL! Thanks for all comments!

Thursday, August 04, 2005

Ready For the Booby Hatch

I wonder who manufactures those ubiquitous orange barrels that mark hiway construction... and what dirt they have on some highway official somewhere, to have gotten such a massive contract for placement? {{Mutters to self, "Why can't I ever have any good blackmail information?"}} LOL I can barely make it out my driveway (sometimes not even that, when I get stopped before exiting onto the street, by an irritated-looking, lime-green-vest-wearing worker-bee who has to be using some kind of drugs (perhaps lots of them) to stand out there in the blazing sun with nothing but a little reversible STOP/SLOW sign for protection from the over-amphetamined semi-truck drivers who are barreling down our country road to avoid the interstate hiway weigh station two towns down, because they have been driving for 72 hours and haven't updated their log book) before coming across those damnable orange barrels. I gather from the correspondence I have with folks around the country that this is not just a Mazoorah phenomenon, that orange barrels proliferate across the continent, despite the rampant, well-known corruption of the Missouri Department of Transportation. I admit, they need repair. We have horrible roads. Worst in the nation. {{Redneck cheer goes up, "Woo-hoo! We're numbah one!"}} But why, oh why do they increase proportionally to the amount of time/number of errands I have to run on any given day? {{Riddle me THAT, Michio Kaku, world-famous theoretical physicist LOL}} As I am sure you have gathered from this lengthy prologue, yesterday I had LOTS to do and little time to do it. So naturally, {{cue drumroll}} there were a plethora of orange barrels and green-vested drug-abusers between me and destiny (or at least destination LOL) Detours, delays and day-glo daredevils who sprinted across the freeway directly in front of me to retrieve an errant orange cone, (love child of two orange barrels who found one another on a dark and stormy night) which was flailing about in the wind, causing drivers to swerve around it, all conspired to make the journey harrowing and blog-worthy. It took me 30 minutes just to get through town, which is something, since the town is only slightly larger than a postage stamp, and has the locals' hackles up because the city is installing a {{gasp!}} stoplight. Installation has dragged on for months (probably subcontracted by the same company that has the goods on all public officials), adding to the frustration, as the trucks of various electrical and signal-installation companies block one or both lanes of the road. At last, I made it to the final stop, Walmart. There was some country music singer making a personal appearance and his large bus outside was blaring out honky-tonk tunes at ear-splitting decibels. A crowd of gawkers was blocking the entry, as he was signing autographs just inside the door, occasionally gracing the crowd with an impromptu overture, sung without benefit of instrumental accompaniment, or studio enhancement, which made his less-than-perfect voice sound rather tinny. Threading my way through the fandom lair, huffing and puffing from sprinting across the parking lot to make up time lost to road delays, and limping at having slightly twisted my ankle in said sprint, my own hackles were at maximum altitude, when I felt something go "sproing!" just above my left breast. I have not experiences breast sproing in quite some time, and paused momentarily, befuddled by this development. The river of acappella aficionados carried me unwillingly down the aisle, until I stumbled off to the side to discover the source of the sproing. My brassiere strap had broken. It was now disengaged from the cup, and was dangling jauntily down my back, as gravity tugged mightily at left-breast-yearning-to-be-free. I decided to continue my Quest for Completion, and kept on shoppin'. I did so somewhat Napoleon-icly, holding left arm across chest, to disguise the bared nipple and flopping bra cup under my T-shirt. By the time I reached the checkout, I was sweating, my ears were nearly bleeding from the country-music assault-on-sanity, I was limping worse, and was hunched over from holding arm in nipple-shielding position. {{ I ain't no Janet Jackson LOL }} I looked like Quasimodo on a bad day. By the time I got to my house, I was asylum material, crazed from the heat and hardship of the day. Me and my flopping breast made it inside to collapse onto the waterbed in front of the blessed air conditioner, to recoup and rejoice return to home sweet home.

Monday, August 01, 2005

New Design!

I would like to thank- Genuine One By One Media Shylah for their terrific work!