Adios, Amoebas! (Or, Tying Up Loose Ends Before I Leave For A Month)

Well, guys, this will be my final post before leaving for a month.  I’m going to miss you.  I wonder how many times I’ll want to make fun of myself over the next 30 days when I won’t be able to share here.  I’ll try to save them up for my 30 days of blogging in December.

I will check in periodically to post my guest slots and to give you updates on my word count.  50,000 is the goal.  To know me is to know my love of words so you know I can reach the count.  Let’s just hope they make sense.  You know, I signed up for NaNoWriMo two years ago.  I wrote 250 words on November 1, 2010 and then got a phone call from a friend.  We started talking about boys and that was all she wrote, literally.  NaNoWriMo was dead to me.   

Oh, I chose a football team!  I know you’ve all been waiting to hear that.  It took me a while. I had lots of input from you and most especially from Coach, who taught me how to look at stats and how to look up helmets and logos.  What really helped me, though, was Martie.  She said, “You can’t be a fair weather fan.  You pick a team and you support them through the good and the bad.  No waffling and changing to the team that plays better.”  And then Coach chimed in with the same advice.  He’s a long time Alabama fan and a longtime Cowboys fan, rabid even through the lean years.  So, okay.  I have no choice but to be a Titans fan.  Nashville is mine.  The Titans are mine.  They play like doody most of the time, and even though the lean years will last for ages, I will support them.  I was never more proud in all my life than when they beat the Lions and then the Steelers (!).  I realized I really want them to do well.  So call me a Titan. The end.

Except it isn’t.  I also have a secondary team.  I just can’t seem to get over the Ram’s horns.  Seriously.  Those helmets with the horns just slay me, and so those of you who lecture me about perpetuating the stereotype, get over it.  I picked a team because of a helmet that turns me on.  At least I didn’t pick a team because of a hot guy.  For the record, I also read the team’s history and would like to share with you that they were the first  NFL team to add a logo to their helmet (swoon) and also the first NFL team to add black teammates after the WWII era.  Suck on that, haters! (And also, while I’m being Fickle Fanny over here, I really want to see the Texans win the Super Bowl.  The longhorns!  Those uniforms!  It’s Texas, y’all.  I am moved.) (And yes, I realize that the Texans were not even on my nominated list but I hadn’t seen the logo yet.  I had no idea . . .)

And just because I can, because you expect it, and because this is me we are talking about:  

Hottie Titan

Hottie Ram

Hottie Texan

I haven’t talked about my dinners with my seniors in a while either.  I had dinner with them last week and as per usual, had a blast.  I love those people so much.  I want to tell you about a couple more of them.  JoAnne, who has only been two or three times, just embarrasses me to death every time she attends.  She’s adorable. She wears a fall (a chunk of hair you attach to your head to make you look like you have more hair) or a funky hat every time and so you look at her and think, “Well, isn’t she cute. Full of spunk, that one.”  And then she opens her mouth and proves it and you could just slam your forehead into the butter dish, you are so horrified. 

“NO! I don’t want a SALAD!  I have GALL BLADDER issues!  Take it AWAY!“

“This is the WORST coffee I have ever tasted!  I can make better at home! BRING ME more sugar!”

“Those CHILDREN need to be SPANKED!  My meal is RUINED!”

I can honestly say that I agree with her in nearly every instance but I prefer to keep my opinions if not to myself, at least confined to the guests at my table.  Not JoAnne.  Everyone knows where she stands.

The other person I want to tell you about is Bob.  Bob has only missed maybe one or two dinners the whole time I’ve been doing this.  He’s in his 60s, I guess.  He’s never been married.  He purchased his house in one lump sum, no payments, ever.  He’s terrified of being late and being left behind.  He ends every sentence with an “uh?” 

“Hey, Jimmie-uh?  Do I have enough-uh money-uh for dessert? Uh?”  He brings $28 to every dinner and we figure out what he can have for that price and still leave a fair tip.  He’s the gentlest soul and I love him.  He was the first of the group to realize that I knew how to work a standard cell phone and so asked me to program some numbers in for him.  Now we all spend the first ten minutes of every dinner shuffling phones back and forth to me so that I can clear out voice mails and add contacts.  Once a month everyone gets squared away.

I probably have so many other things to share but I’m out of space and time.  A whole month.  What will you do without me?

For those of you who are helping me this month, THANK YOU!  Boss, Prom Date Will, Jonquil, Esteban, Woney, and Studio Bukowski – thank you!  Boss and Esteban have already sent goodies over and I just hee hawed.  I cannot wait to read and post your stuff.  Anyone else in?  I still have a full grown cat up for grabs. 

NaNoWriMo And Other Assorted Nonsense

I got a catalog in the mail yesterday from Heifer International.  I’m going to let you marinate on that for a minute before commenting further. 

. . . . . . . . elevator muzak . . . . . . . . . .

I choose to believe that someone sent that catalog to me because they admire all the good deeds I do and wanted to help me further my philanthropic spirit rather than believe that someone sent it to me as a subtle hint. 

Actually, its pretty cool. You should check it outHeifer International.  Family, do not be surprised if you get a “share of a goat” for Christmas.

Madre was here last weekend to walk a 5K with me.  It was the Oktoberfest Bier Run in which loads of people turned out to trot around Germantown for the privilege of drinking free beer at 9:00 a.m.  I don’t get it.  Neither did Madre.  We were pretty stoked about the t-shirt and the free bagels, though, so we took off on the three mile jaunt.  Madre’s been hitting the walking pretty hard lately and she looks marvelous but walking with Madre is a bit of a challenge. 

See, Madre is 6’2”, and I’d guess about 6’1” of her are legs.  She has a long stride which makes it difficult to keep up with her.  While I’m pretty tall in my own right, I find myself doing this half jogging/walking/deep step thing to keep her pace which really tugs at my hamstrings.  It is an excellent workout but I could really use some of that stretching afterwards, you know, and some oxygen.  Yesterday, Madre walked/slightly jogged her second ever 5K and won first place for her age division!  I’m super proud of her but you know all those other participants were like, “Who is Leggy McStriderson up there?  She stole my trophy!  Heifer.”   Congrats, Mom!  Well done!

Now that I have you guys all sentimental about my family and my philanthropic good deeds, I need to ask a favor of you.  See, there is an event that I’ve been planning to do all year and this event will take place during the entire month of November.  That means I will have very little time to visit with you here and entertain you with my big sexy hair and my mad skills as a handyperson.

Have you heard of NaNoWriMo?  It’s a one month writing frenzy in which you challenge yourself to write 50,000 words.  They don’t have to make sense or fit perfectly although it would be nice if they did.   They just have to be done.  And I’m going to do it.  Did you know that 50,000 words is approximately the length of a third of a novel?  Some of you know this already, but I write a lot here to practice for other writing things that I really want to do, like a novel for example.  (This is the point where all of you rush to comment section to offer support and promise to purchase anything of mine that ever gets published.)  I’ve started four novels/books so I very much want to see if I have it in me to do this, to actually finish one.

The thing is, I don’t want my blog to be silent for a whole month.  I want there to be some activity here.  I’m asking you, my faithful readers, to blog for me.  Can I get some of you to guest post?  I have a list of items I am willing to trade for your prose. 

In return for your post, I am willing to offer any or all of the following:  my share of Channing Tatum (his neck is too wide for me); my share of Ryan Gosling (his neck is too long for my tastes); my share of any and all sushi (ugh, gross); my share of all onions (we have covered this); my share of Adam Levine (he looks a bit like a weasel); an eyelash flutter (I have some great new mascara); and/or finally, a full grown cat named Murphy.   I will also generously throw in some Big Sexy Hair volumizer to sweeten the deal.

For the record, I already have a guest post from Boss and a promise of one from Prom Date Will.  That leaves 28 open spots for the rest of you.  So, Freddie, Lorne (Ty), Martie, The Squirt, Woney, Studio Bukowski – any of  you up for the challenge?  Anyone else?  I hear Channing Tatum has some pretty sweet abs. 

Then, because I know how much you guys will miss me, in the month of December I’m going to go for NaBloPoMo.  It was supposed to be the challenge in November for bloggers but since I like to march to the beat of my own drum, I felt like it could be your reward for letting me have a month off. 

I look forward to the influx of comments/volunteers.  Holding my breath actually.  Don’t make me pass out. 

How Quickly I Get Spoiled

Sigh.  I had to go back to work yesterday after being off for an entire week.  Again, happy to have a job but am slightly resentful that I am not a self-made millionaire right now.  I think I could be a lady of leisure, don’t you?  I’d spend my mornings at the gym, doing all kinds of crunches and butterfly moves so that I could have abs of steel and then I would go get massages.  I’d be the most relaxed, fit person you ever met. 

You know, that’s probably not true.  I’d be as big as a house and lazy as a cow cause I feel certain I’d be able to justify lounging around in sweats while I ate bon bons all day as a “noble endeavor”.  Good thing I have a job I need desperately to pay all my bills so that I don’t get fat and lumpy. 

This trip was to South Beach, in Miami.  I yapped about it a lot to anyone who would listen before going and the reactions I got fell into one of two categories: 

  • “I’m so jealous, you guys will have so much fun!” and,
  • “Don’t get killed.  I can’t believe you picked that place.” 

Don’t rain on my parade, people. (It’s possible I’m speaking directly to snooty snothole Bianca here. She’s so lovely.)

So, yeah.  It was fun.  My two sisters and I went, for my 40th birthday.  Martie, The Squirt and I have never taken a trip together, just the three of us and I’m proud to say that I like them better after returning.  That doesn’t always happen you know.  Sometimes you realize that the ones you love have awful snoring habits or they really are high maintenance about a bathroom, so much so that you spend half a day trying to find one that meets some obscure and ridiculous standard.  Not the case here!  We had a blast!

I’m going to cover the basics of our trip here.  Items of note:

Martie and The Squirt are the fortunate sisters with regards to complexion.  Both of them can get as brown as a berry in short span of time and I, well I burned myself in nearly every available place on my body.  Some of those places were rather unfortunate which made sitting on the plane home big fun!  Also, the red and pink and freckled streaks across my body look beautiful. 

Three women tooling around in a Mustang convertible, (color: red), hair blowing in the wind, get a lot of attention.  Especially when The Squirt drives.  She has a lead foot, that one.  We got a lot of blown kisses and from braver drivers, other more vulgar displays of admiration. 

Tasty beverages do not make getting your fingers slammed in a car door hurt any less. 

The Speedo is making a comeback.  Either that or loads of European men frequented South Beach.  I found myself not nearly as offended as I thought I might be, probably because these men wore them with extreme confidence.  However, nary a single one of those men checked the elastic bands in their Speedos before donning them.  Men over 70, please note that gravity has already worked its magic on you.  Elastic can help. 

Seriously, this was such a fantastic trip.  My sissies . . . ah, they are so great.  I just can’t get over how much I love them and how much they love me.  Combine that with gorgeous sand and sea?  I’ve said this once before but it bears repeating.  I love the ocean.  I cannot get enough of it, especially with views like this.  How can you not love it?  How can you not see God’s hand in that, in all that love and beauty?  Happy sigh.

For those who had varying reactions about my vacay?  Final judgment:  You should be jealous!  We had a blast!


Guess Where I Am . . . .

Also, a PSA – Men, if you insist on wearing a Speedo to the beach, please do not jog along the shore in it.  You are doing yourselves no favors.



Pass The Toilet Paper, My Toilet Is Fixed!

What an ordeal.  Have mercy.  The drama is really over.  I’ve waited a whole week before telling you, just to make sure. 

Before I tell you how that stupid ceramic bowl was finally repaired, I have some other stories.  About two years ago, Daddy-O and JiJi came for a visit.  While they were here, the handle on the potty broke so Daddy-O, being handy with the tools and the plumbing, trotted out to Lowe’s and purchased a new handle for me.  Upon taking the potty apart, he discovered that the old handle was merely loose, so he fixed that and gave the new handle to me for return to Lowe’s.  Being the good, obedient daughter that I am, I stuck that handle in the backseat of my car and drove it around for two solid years.  All my friends and my nieces, every time they got into my car, would ask, “Why do you have a toilet handle back here?”  Yet I never felt compelled to take it back.

Also, after I posted that last potty post in which I lost my mind with bad words, I received three phone calls from three very handsome men who tried to tell me how to fix it. 

Zorro called first.  He’s a friend from Alabama who would have come over the very first day to fix it had we lived close enough.  He instructed me to sit backwards on the potty, lid down of course, and take off the back so I could tell him what was going on.  Our conversation went something like this:

Zorro:  “Okay, look at the flusher and tell me what it does when you push the handle down.”

Jimmie:  “What’s the flusher?”

Zorro:  “It’s the mumblemumblemuble in the back.”

Jimmie:  “I go by color.  What color is it?”

Zorro: “Well it could be either white or black. It does mumblemumblemumble.”

Jimmie:  “Right.”

So we got a lot accomplished.

Then Javier called and the conversation went much the same way.  I’m so fun.

Then Daddy-O called, after consulting a real live plumber for help, but since our conversation tanked (haha, I did that on purpose!) due to my lack of knowledge of working toilet parts, we all decided that I probably just needed a new toilet.  Awesome. 

THEN! In one final hurrah, Freddie and her father (both engineers, btw) came to my house last week to fix that blasted thing.  Initially Freddie and I had conversations similar to the one above, and Freddie, who really gets me, said she would just bring her dad over to see what was going on.  It helped that I promised margaritas. 

I won’t drone on about how we fixed it but I will tell you that even the engineers were stumped, at least for a minute.  We did have to take it apart twice and there was much holding of tanks and much screwing in of bolts.  Mostly I stood around and looked pretty but I was there, offering support and reminding them of the single margaritas that I purchased for each of them.

Halfway through the evening, after we thought it was fixed only to be denied as we watched the water, once again, drain completely out of the tank in just a matter of minutes, Freddie’s dad said, “I really wish we had bought a new handle when we bought all the other parts. That would really help.”

I said, “I have one in my car.  I’ll go get it.”

I trotted out to my car and came back in brandishing my (nearly) brand new toilet handle.   Both Freddie and her dad looked at me, eyes huge, like anime characters.  “What? Why?  Jimmie?”

“Viola!” I said. 

Do you know how funny that is?  That I, Queen of all Things Sparkly, had a toilet handle in the back of my car?  I amuse myself.  Never underestimate me, people.  I will always pull through.  When will you learn?

In one final toilet comment, last week I had to purchase toilet paper for the first time in six months.  Between Phranke and my anonymous toilet paper donator (Jonquil!), I haven’t had to buy any in that long.  I have the best friends!

Also, who do you know that blogs about their potty as much as I do?  I should win an award.

P.S. So that no one gets mad at the handy man who fixed it last time, please know that he gave me some money back because it didn’t work.  Aces, man.  That was awesome.