It Doesn't Get Any Weirder Than This

Natalee Holloway's mother married JonBenet Ramsey's father. Granted, they do have something in common. I guess they understand each other's pain. But still...it's weird.

Home Again, Home Again

It only took something as insignificant as a predicted ice storm in Nashville to keep us from leaving our cocoon in Tunica on Tuesday, as planned. We opted to wait until Wednesday, after an overnight snowfall left everything frozen white. Actually the roads were fine and the traffic was a little lighter than usual, so it was an easy trip home. As for the poker tournaments, not one of us did any good. But the slots were a different story. They were as loose as I've ever seen them. I have Sam's Town to thank for the buy-in's to all of my tournaments. Unfortunately, I didn't cash in any of them. But there's always next time. (Music to Ron's ears.) That's the thing with poker players. We always have to be looking ahead to the next poker tournament or we're just not happy. (Hello? Gamblers Anonymous?)

The scratchy throat I had for three days before the trip turned into a full-out chest cold on Saturday. That made for a fun time. I was coughing and hacking and blowing my nose all week-end. But by Monday, it was barely a dribble. Then I came home, and it seemed to re-boot. I think it's the dry air inside the house. That's unfortunate, 'cause inside the house is where I want to be. More specifically, on the couch, watching t.v. More specifically, watching the Australian Open. Or maybe a poker tournament. (For the placebo effect.)

Tunica or Bust

Bust is such an ugly word to gamblers.
And speaking of gamblers, PhillyTwo and I are leaving for Tunica when she gets off work today. It started out being a trip planned around the World Series of Poker events going on at Harrah's right now, but it ended up being a family gathering. First, Priscilla signed on with us, because when isn't she ready to roll when it comes to poker? Next, J.C. jumped in, because what else does she have to do besides travel and shop? Finally, with a little persuasion, Suzanne climbed on board, along with two of her friends, because she wasn't about to miss out on the fun. Seven ladies descending upon Tunica for a week-end of fun and games, hoping to get lucky...which has taken on an entirely different meaning than it once had back in the day. Well, except for PhillyTwo. She's still looking for love in all the wrong places. Perhaps she'll get lucky at the poker table this week-end...one way or another.

A Family Gem

My family has a LOT of sayings that we've used time and time again through the years, but of course, you have to repeat them often in order to preserve them, otherwise they might get lost by the brain trust (translation: the people who carry our genes). I can safely say that most of the good ones are firmly entrenched.
I was reminded of an all-time favorite recently.
Don't go away mad. Just go away.
To be used at the end of a disagreement to punctuate your "rightness", to the asshole who had the nerve to question it in the first place, and as a result, deserves this perfect dismissal.
The depth of the wound increases in direct proportion to the amount of flippancy with which you deliver the line, a sing song-y voice being the one that cuts the deepest, and therefore, affords the most pleasure. And who doesn't love that?

My Three Worst Car Buys

1. The '67 red convertible bug that I bought in 1975. It was a cute, but defective, bucket of bolts. It was 8 years old when I got it, had some paint issues, and was missing reverse gear, a rather essential mechanism, dontcha think? And I was well aware of its shortcomings when I handed over the $895. Actually, I could put it into reverse, move about a foot, but then it would just pop back out of gear, like a defiant child. No amount of harsh talking to or beating, however, worked with my little "Herbie". The challenge was to always park where I didn't have to back out, unless I was on a hill where I could just let it roll backwards. Herbie had other problems, too, but that was the biggie.

2. A brand new red 1989 Cutlass Calais. If you're not familiar with that blast from the past, it was on the smallish side, a compact family sedan, as it were. It would have been fine except that it didn't come with the sunroof that I had my heart set on. So I did what any accessory-minded shopper would do, I got them to add one. Big mistake. My already limited interior space shrunk by about 3 inches when they put in the sunroof. Tall people had to slump when they rode in my car...and by tall people, I mean anybody over 5'5".

3. The 1999 Mercury Sable I bought for PhillyTwo in 2003. Although I didn't actually buy this car for myself, I have to include it here because I bought it by myself, a point which PhillyTwo never let me live down. Why? Because it was a piece of shit that she was stuck with driving for three years, yet she had no hand in choosing. In my defense, I tried for months to get her to car shop with me, but she was always too busy. So one summer day, I just went to a dealership and bought the Sable. It was unfortunate that it was so warm that day, because I didn't bother to check to see if the heater worked. It didn't. And after that first summer, neither did the air conditioning. On the positive side, she could park it anywhere and never worry that it would get stolen...no matter how often she left the keys in the ignition.

Not Again!

Yes, again. There's a sickie in the house, and his name is Ron. His nose is clogged and he sounds just lovely. I suggested that he might need some vitamin C on a regular basis to ward off these phlegm-filled, coughing, wheezing, contagious events that take over his life like, much like the clover takes over our yard. His pat answer? "I'm fine. I eat oranges. I can't help it if there are bugs out there. Everybody's sick."


No. Everybody's not sick. Not as much as you are.

Calgon, take me away!

Trying New Things

I'm always up for new experiences, which is why I agreed (thanks, Kristin) to show up at the Y for a spinning class this morning. I made it through without dying, but now I CAN'T SIT DOWN! No kidding, it's not my legs that are sore, though that may come tomorrow, it's my ass. Seriously, I need one of those "doughnuts" that people who have just had hemorrhoid surgery carry around. Why does the bicycle seat have to be made out of cold, hard steel, pray tell? Please, somebody, come up with a really sturdy seat made out of foam rubber. As a person who loves to sit around, I don't need this torture.

The Glitz and Glamour

I didn't catch all of it, but I did watch some of the last hour of the Golden Globes last night. I'm always intrigued by the "beautiful people" at such a glamorous event. I noticed a few women (Drew Barrymore, Renee Zellweger, Cameron Diaz, Amy Adams, ) who desperately need to find new hairstylists. It looked like Drew got caught in a gushing wind (in L.A.?) and didn't bother ducking into the ladies' room for a quick smoothing. You'd think someone might have discreetly mentioned it to her, and by discreetly, I mean asked her if she had looked in a mirror lately. As for the men, Mickey Roarke's mop may have looked ridiculous, but Kevin Bacon was the one who didn't go home empty handed. He took the prize for the worst hair on the planet. And Nancy (formerly NumberOne Daughter, whose name I changed here) pointed out that it looked like he had slathered his face with - appropriately enough - bacon grease. She also pointed out that one actress who actually won for something or other, was beyond skinny. She said her arms looked like toothpicks and that the poor girl was so weak, she had to set the little statue down while she gave her acceptance speech. I didn't actually see that, but I looked it up and I'm pretty sure she was talking about Sally Hawkins, who won for best actress in a musical or comedy. And in the pictures I've looked at, she looks scary thin, and her head looks strangely large and out of proportion to her body. But, hey, let's ignore that little problem and focus on the important stuff, shall we? Hooray for Hollywood!

Do You Hear What I Hear?

Okay, I am the first to admit that my hearing isn't what it used to be. And one ear is definitely worse than the other. I'm not as deaf as Fred, but I'm gettin' there. Aging sucks in so many ways. Anyway, I tend to do most of my t.v. viewing in the bonus room and Ron does his in the den, not because we don't like each other, but because we're both control freaks. Remote control freaks, that is. We each have to have one in our hand in order for the universe to be in balance. Therefore, I learned a long time ago, that separate viewing is the key. Except, of course, for sports. I watch sports with Ron because, well, because that's a "team" activity. But back to the hearing thing. PhillyTwo bought me the surround sound package for Christmas for my bonus room t.v. and it really makes a huge difference. But with my weird sleep patterns, I tend to want to watch t.v. at odd hours (3:00 in the morning), and since I have to have it on loud enough to rattle the rafters, well, it's not exactly conducive to good night's sleep for anybody in the neighborhood, let alone in this house. Therefore, I decided that headphones were the answer. But with the short cord, I'd have to move the couch to within two feet of the 52 inch screen in order for that to work. Not happening. So I ordered an extension cord for my headphones. It came yesterday. Walla! I can plug those babies in, turn the "outside" audio completely off, watch t.v. and hear every word they're saying without disturbing anybody. Also, the cord is so long, I can move about the cabin freely when the captain turns off the seat belt sign.

Call It What You Like

I noticed on PhillyTwo's blog that she was explaining to someone that "Bud" and "Van" were one and the same, neither being the boy's real name. "Bud" was bestowed upon him in college because for some reason everyone had "beer" names then. I dubbed him "Van" because he showed up over here in an old, beat-up van one day and well, if the shoe fits. After all, our family rules Nickname Mountain and no one ever escapes. I really think my Aunt Mildred started it. She could never call anybody by their right name. She liked to switch 'em up a tad, usually with a close-but-no-cigar mispronunciation. From that seed, it just grew, or should I say, festered. Let's see, there was the boy who sat on our front porch and cried because I didn't like him. Sad, really. Except that he was sixteen. His name was Jimmy, but he was forevermore, Cry. And there was the boy whose last name sounded like Secret. We called him "Ice Blue". (Back then Secret deodorant was called Ice Blue Secret.) Another one of my boyfriends had, shall we say, rather full lips, so we gave him the very clever name, Lips. Later in life, I went out with a man named Bob. Of course, we never called him anything but "Boob". Anyway, the point is, if you happen to be someone we know, then you probably have a nickname. But don't ask us what it is. We'd rather walk on our lips than be catty.

Anything But That

Swear to God, I will never post about dog poop or smelly carpet again. Have you noticed the ads that google has been running on my blog?

I'm sick to death of seeing "Get Rid of Urine Odors Forever".

But the worst has to be "Dog Eating Poop on Sale."
What the hell?

Lesson learned.

Is This Gonna Hurt?

Ron dragged me kicking and screaming to the Farragut Y this morning for what he's hoping is the start of our twice-weekly, morning workouts. I'm sure he expects me to go on my own at least one other day each week. We'll see. I didn't hate it.
He bee-lines to another Y (near his work) during his dinner break at least three nights a week. He may cut back if we keep up this morning routine. So he was kinda leading me around the place, showing me the drills. Finally, we both got on treadmills; me to walk, him to run. I only fell off once. (klutz) I didn't realize you had to actually pay attention to what you were doing. I got sidetracked watching some class that was going on, and the next I knew, I was off the side of the dang thing. Luckily I didn't go down, just off. After that, I kept my eyes straight ahead. No one wants to be the joke of the gym on their first visit.
The best was the machine where you push weights with your arms. Ron did it first, of course. Then I sat down. He moved the pin up a bit to lessen the weights for me. Couldn't budge it. Moved it further up. Still couldn't budge it. Put it in the very last slot. I could barely push it. He said, "Do at least ten." I did almost two. So he "helped" me with the last eight by pulling while I pushed. I have what's known as upper-arm strength deficiency. It's like iron-poor blood. Only worse.

Definitions

Schadenfreude: Taking pleasure in someone else's misery.
Aka: Bad karma.
Aka: Boomerangs in the back; what goes around comes around.
Aka: Sweet justice.

Human Nature: Spontaneous reactions to complicated life situations.
Aka: Embarrassing behavior.
Aka: Going off the deep end.
Aka: Therapy.

Personal History: A sum total of a person's life up to this point.
Aka: A bio.
Aka:Checkered past.
Aka: Baggage.

Support System: People who have your back.
Aka: Family members.
Aka: Close friends.
Aka: Bail money.

Weapons of Mass Destruction: Capable of doing damage of epic proportions.
Aka: Bombs.
Aka: Natural disasters.
Aka: Words.

This and That

Don't leap to the conclusion that I've already broken my first two resolutions of the New Year - blogging every day and starting to work out - because I didn't intend to start my "new life" until next week. That's my story and I'm stickin' with it.

I was just introduced to Radio.com and it's the greatest thing since refrigeration as far as I'm concerned. Why refrigeration, you ask? Cold beer, of course. I'm listening to the Beach Music station right now. "She Shot a Hole in my Soul, I'm going crazy 'bout to lose my mind." - Clifford Curry. Such good stuff.

I've been trying to master (and by master, I mean sew a straight line) on my new inappropriately named Singer Simple that I got for Christmas from Ron. It shoulda been called Singer Good Luck With This Shit. No, Ron didn't just randomly decide to put me to work in a sewing factory. I actually asked for this torture. It's looking like lessons may be part of my "new life" this year. That, or some decent thread might help. I had no idea that thread quality mattered. A hundred spools for $3 may not be such a deal after all.

And speaking of Ron, he's been off work since Christmas and anybody who knows him knows what that means....we've been eating our way through the holidays. Our frig is leftover central. Needless to say, he's been mainlining Kroger. He also - BIG NEWS - shaved his mustache! I'm anxious to see if his station will have anything to say about it. "You'd better march right back home and get that mustache, mister. You're in big trouble."
Watch WATE Monday evening (cheap plug) and see what you think of the clean-shaven Ron.