happy easter

you know something children, today is one of those potato salad holidays. Do you know what I mean? We all put on new flowery dress from the Lane Bryant, and our brand new white sandals that we got from Pay-Less but tell cousin Vynell (that is pronounced Vie-nell not vinyl) that we bought them at Nordstroms when we were (never) in New York because she beliefs such foolery and it makes our hearts warm to think she thinks we are cultured. Vynell is a delicate soul, very judge-mental and pretty much just mental. She thinks Macys really cares about her business which is why they allow her to return outfits she had already worn. She also thinks her late husband invented cruise control but alas was robbed by Detroit. That's another story for another blog, let's get back to our lesson about the Egg Day.

We watch the little children run around and look for eggs and laugh when it's our nephew that slams one of the other kids to the ground in the hunt for the Golden Egg. Maybe one day he'll grow up to be a banker. We pray we don't step in any sink holes or snake dens while walking around the grass helping him cheat to find those eggs, I mean help direct his little soul.

Our whole family gathers to partake in such wonderful cuisines as potato salad, german potato salad, potato casserole, sweet potato salad, lima beans with bacon and my personal favorite, fried chicken and deviled eggs. We pile our paper plates high and wash it all down with sweet tea. Then we do the obligatory raise of the plexiglass dishes to see who brought what? Where I come from everyone brings their homemade dish in a glass tupperware contraption with their name taped to the bottom. That way I can say, I don't know who made this potato salad but it is delicious. What is in that, is that seasoned salt? Then you lift up the dish and say, look here it was Cherlene. She needs to watch all that salt with her high blood pressure. Bless her heart.

Then we wash the dishes and high-tail it out there by 3 o'clock because we've had just about all the screamin' kids we can handle and we're about to push ourself into a diabetic coma with the pecan pie and the chocolate eggs.

But, when we all climb into our Buicks and head for home, I want you to think about what Easter's really all about? It's about new beginnings. It's never too late for you to change. You can do something exciting. You can pop that work out tape in your vcr? You can book that cruise you've been eyeing in the Sunday papers. Maybe you want to try highlights for Spring? Don't get too crazy. Or maybe you'll think, what do I need to change in my life? Do I need to be a better person? Is there a life I haven't been living? Did anybody else get that from the Bible or did you wait for one of those Mel Gibson movies?

Mama's got some changes on the horizon. Life is all about changing. It's got to be or else we'd never get anything done. There are 2 lives for all of us … the life we live and the “unlived” life within us.

I hope you and yours have a wonderful Easter and enjoy the potato salad.

my MaMe

Sometimes I have these flashbacks, sort of like the soldiers do about 'Nam. Only, I remember things my grandmother told me and it always makes me laugh. More often than not these episodes come up in the strangest places like the shower where I am laughing all to myself and thinking surely if anyone saw me they'd think I was Norman Bates' mother. Or, it'd be sometime more inappropriate like a funeral. So here is today's flashback:
Ma-Me: Honey, You really need to get to a church
Me: I'm good, don't you worry about me
Ma-Me: Naw, honey, it'd be good for you
Me: What am I? A sinner today? Why are you concerned about my worshiping habits all the sudden?
Ma-Me:Everybody needs a little God now and then. You know you were never baptized
Me: That's because I was raised 1/2 Jewish and 1/2 Church of Christ. How does one pull that off?
Ma-Me:God don't care where you go, as long as you show up
Me: Well if it's just role call you're worried about, I am sure one of my friends can sign me in.
Ma-Me:You're such a turd. I'm trying to help you. Speakin' of, what are you doing with your hair? You look kinda crazy.
Me: Or you could say you don't like it
Ma-Me: It's frosted
Me: These are highlights (the year was 1994 don't judge me) everybody's doing this, Ma-Me
Ma-Me: Everybody is not, just the sissies and the sluts
Me: And this is what church got you?
Ma-Me: Don't get me wrong, I had my fun in my day
Me: Seriously, I will go to church. I may need to beg for your forgiveness
Ma-Me:Hey, listen, sluts get things done.
Me: We don't have to talk about this
Ma-Me: People always make fun of sluts, but some people think Marilyn Monroe was a spy.
Me: What are you drinking?
Ma-Me: She had Kennedy in the palm of her hand. Sometimes, literally.
Ma-Me:And you thought she was a slut?
Ma-Me: No I thought she was a lot smarter than me.

does your mom know?

So I went to McDonald's today because I had a stressful day and I am a sugar addict. So, I fed the craving with soft serve. Yes, I am perfectly content to live my life in drawstring pants. I've given up.

But, while in line I had the distinct pleasure of listening in on the trials and tribulations of a certain plaid skirt wearing, all-girl-school world.
These girls, MaryBeth, MaryFrancis and MaryWhinesALot where in line in front of me, after ordering: a 6 peice mcnugget to split among the 3 of them, 2 diet cokes and one McCafe. I guess MaryFrancis has given up, too.

So Mary#1 says: "you're so lucky I have to drive my mother's hand me down shit volvo wagon."
Mary#2 responds, "I hate my Prius. I want a Range Rover, screw the environment. Al Gore's a fatass anyway."
Mary#3 says, " I got stuck with my Dad's Mini Cooper. Eww. It's so midlife crisis."
** I wanted so badly to say, "Does your Mom know? That your Dad's gay?"

But I kept it inside and decided to share my hatefulness with you, blog world. Amazing what a $25,000/year education delivers.

a lesson about comfortable shoes

Honeys, mama is having a awful time with this getting older thing. I went out Saturday night with my rowdy friends. We ended up at some club and let's just say things ain't what they used to be. No body asked mama for her number, no body looked my at me. I think I heard one rude child with an X on his hand yell, "Tommy, your mama's here to get you." Then at the end of the night somebody (I may or may not have had a previous romantic entanglement with) shoved a cell phone in my face and asked me my last name and proceeded to lick my face. There was a time in my life when I might have thought that was hot, or romantical even? But I just felt plain dirty. Not dirty in a good way, dirty in the way that I wished I had a wet wipe to clean up and disinfect. I think you don't get to lick someone if you don't know their last name, call me old fashioned.

Yes, I went into that bar feeling like a cougar. But I left like a lamb, or maybe more like an old goat that you need to put down. So, thank god it was daylight savings time. Yes, I was thankful the bar closed an hour early so I could jump in a cab and get home. I used to run for the bar at last call. This time I ran for the door. Nothing worse than that moment when they turn on the lights- people scatter like roaches. The cruel overhead lighting is like finding a million love letters and none of them true. Things just are better in the dark, with some bass, but not too much, my damn ears were ringing through lunchtime.

Sunday morning I woke up and my feet felt as though they had been run over by a truck. You know you are old when your feet hurt. You know you are getting old when you have to start thinking about what shoes you are wearing and if the floors are going to be concrete or carpet. You have to start planning for the terrain. You don't worry about that shit in your 20s. In your 20s you worry if you have enough cab fare to get home after you paid two covers and four rounds of shots named after bombs. You worry if you can find your panties and your house keys when you wake up and realize that is not your ceiling fan you're staring at. That's why I always kept a spare pare of panties in my glovebox and a key hidden in a decorate plastic rock in the garden. Nowadays the only thing in my glovebox is asthma medication and antacid pills.

Yes, I gave that weekend hell. I said, "take that weekend!" I had to do it. I was feeling old and you ain't no good to nobody when you feel old. By Sunday afternoon my age called up and said, "sit the hell down, fool. What is wrong with you?" Thank god for the magical healing powers of taco bell. So, kids, let me leave you with a few cautionary lessons: (1)You are never too old to act the fool (2)Always have cab fare and (3) for God's sake wear comfortable shoes. With any luck you'll have a long walk home

love,
do as I say, not as I do
yur mama

sit and spin

Momma went and did that bike thing I always see white women hoisted up on- the upright bike. The call it spinning if you're in a class. I don't like group activities, I just rode it today for 6 miles- 20 minutes. I am pretty sure I have fractured my vajayjay. Something is not right down there. I think maybe I was violated by the bike seat. Maybe it is just a bruise? I don't want to go to the Dr and telling him I think I have blown out my badussy area. This is just too delicate to examine.

It could be that I am just that out of shape. Yes, I know, I know, I need padded bike shorts. Well the good Lord gave me lots of padding down there. I just think it fell out and around the area some how leaving me exposed to a delicate situation. I probably cannot have children due to this unfortunate turn of events in gymnation. I fear had I gone for a full hour class (which was momma's goal) that it would have required two large men YMCA employees, a fireman, medic and a licensed badussy technician to remove the bike from my personal space area. This is no good.

I am off to cool in a tub of water and pray for daylight.

god bless your weekends, honey, you deserve it after reading this horror

food for thought

hello chuldren.

I know you've been neglected and mother is sorry about that. I have to focus myself- I need to take my life in for a realignment. If only it were that easy to get back on track with life like they straighten the tires on my Buick.

Mother is loving the 60 degree weather, and the first glimpse of spring. I drove home tonight with the top down and the wind in my weave (One hand holding it in place the whole ride home). I think it's the warm air and the way it makes the night more friendly. Don't you notice the world in a more friendly light when it is warm out? When it's cold it seems more quiet and when it is warm it just seems like life is more alive? Is this my Chardonnay talkin?

I feel inspired. I feel the need for some change. Now, don't go and worry yourself sick. I'm not going to do anything crazy. I won't go and get bangs, or highlights or anything hair related that I have to wait to grow out. I do have a hankering to travel, or to move for that matter. I think it needs to be a big change. What should I do?

I tell you what I am not doing... dieting. I do so good for a day or two and then I go to the grocery store hungry and it all falls in my cart. This time I got some sweets and potato chips- after I told myself I would diet. So, here is the confession: it was meant with best intentions. I bought a half a pie. Have you seen those in the deli? They cut the pie in half. So, I wanted some damn pie, and it was Oscar night. I needed to celebrate my inner PRECIOUS and I ate the damn pie. Not the whole thing - but 2 slices in a 24 hour period. that is 2/3 of a half - and I don't want to do anymore math than that because it will make me sick. So, what happened to the last 1/3 you ask? I poured Dawn's dishwashing soap on it and tossed it in the kitchen trash. I was afraid if I did not ruin it with soap I might be tempted to dig through the trash like a homeless person. It's shameful, truly shameful. Imagine if someone walked by my window and saw me digging through the trash looking like Nick Nolte with a piece of fudge pie? Well, they'd have some explaining to do if they were walking through my back yard and looking in my window. Of course, if the pie face didn't scare them my bedroom attire might.

Then I moved onto Kettle Chips. In a 48 hour period I ate almost the whole bag. I didn't douse this one in soap, however because it was meant as part of my lunch this week. Only, it became lunch, brunch, dinner and everytime the phone rang in between. It's just one bag- don't over exaggerate an already sad situation. I know you're picturing me looking just like Kirstie Alley, and I have to tell you off topic: I am a big fan of her's. Anyone with that much nerve deserves some respect - or medication?

So, children, don't judge your mama. It's a hard fact to accept when you realize your idols, your parents are not perfect. I have my crutch, salt and chocolate. But, I am a respectable old broad: I've been going to bed with the same man every night for more than 20 years: Johnny Walker-Black.

So, if you're still following this rant, leave mother a message - some food for thought? What should I change? What have you changed? Can I borrow some change?

And remember honeys: there is a reason the word DIET starts with DIE and GODIVA starts with GOD.

this posting was brought to you by the (:) tonight we are a big fan of a colon and the good people at Kendall Jackson.

The butt of the joke

So, I am trying to lose this damn winter weight. And, yes, these damn girlscout cookies don't help a bit. I'm an emotional eater- that means food makes me happy. What can I say? We all have our crutch? Look, I'm not looking for sympathy but Susan Boyle gets more action than me- ok. I need the damn cookies.

To counteract the Somoas, I am trying to run again. This shit is for the birds. Literally... I caught my own reflection in the window and it looked like a baby bird trying to run from the nest. I know I am struggling but my arms were all over the place. I need them for balance because I am bottom-heavy. They call it pear shaped. It looks like I have two bowling balls shoved down my Gloria Vanderbilt jeans, ok. I am aware of my greater assets. Sadly, they need to shape up.

Again, my own reflection betrayed me when I exited the shower feeling so fresh and clean to start the day I saw two slabs of unrolled biscuit dough staring back at me. Again, no sympathy please. However, I think I can parlay my fate into fortune. I am going to invent the ass-bra. Think about it? It would improve your form in your pants and help give you support to skip down the treadmill golden brick road.

So let it be said, I have pattened'id the Butt-Bra. Or the Bra-ass-eere? That part might be in development. I can see it now, me on the late night tv with Suzanne Somers. If that bitch made millions on here thigh master my butt bra has got to buy me a beach house in Cabo and a new Corolla. It's a sports bra for your butt- and my calling in life. You will applaud when your thighs stop slapping together... I gots to go and see if I can register the # for 1-800-ass-lift.