An Update to A Story we Brought You Earlier

SOMEONE loaded the spare refrigerator we keep in the garage onto his dollie and rolled it down the street to the new house yesterday, along with the freezer. SOMEONE hosted poker night at the new house last night, and SOMEONE reluctantly had to make a trip back to the old house for paper plates and cornmeal, because I had forgotten them. Late last night when SOMEONE went to get his nightly bottle of water out of the garage refrigerator and realized it wasn’t there anymore, that SOMEONE said, “This is getting old!”

And while I’m beginning to suspect that SOMEONE has a spare roll of toilet paper hidden in the old house, SOMEONE mentioned this morning that he wanted to move our clothes to the new place before this weekend.

Game. Set. Match.

The Reason I Ended up with Briars All Over the Seat of my Dress on the way Home From A Funeral in the Country

And had to hide my backside with my purse when entering a McDonald's in order to pluck them off in the bathroom.

October 9th, 2009--Rural southern Illinois

Movin', Movin', Movin', Keep That Husband Movin'

I'm not naming any names, but someone around this house is dragging his size 13 feet on getting stuff packed up and moved to the new house. That someone is apparently overwhelmed at the thought of sorting through fifteen years of stuff and moving it to a new location. That someone needed some motivation since the holiday season is looming, and we need to get relocated before that madness starts.

So, yesterday I packed up every last item in the kitchen and moved it into the new house. There is nothing to eat in this old house and nothing to eat it with or cook it with. I figure that will get old fast and should speed things along nicely. Oh, and just as an additional precaution, tomorrow I'm sending all of the toilet paper except one roll to the new house. I figure he should be ready to load up our clothes in about two days, depending on the amount of fiber he eats this weekend.

And All Was Right With The World

We had new furniture delivered last Friday, so you know what that means. Yes, the Big Ass Chair has arrived. Never mind the beautiful bedroom suite or the cool coffee table, all Hubby could talk about was his new chair. The big 'ol recliner that holds two, count 'em TWO, people.

From the minute the delivery truck pulled into the driveway, he was all, "Hey, it's here!" and "Isn't she a beauty?" And, "LOOK, here it comes now!"

He parked his backside in it before the delivery guys' hands were off the smooth, soft microfiber.There was oohing and ahhing and, "Hey, check this out!" as he lovingly tested the chair like Ralphie fondled the leg lamp in A Christmas Story. And just like Ralphie, he snuggled up with his Red Ryder chair and drifted off to a place where little boys' dreams come true.

He needs to watch the reclining action on that baby. It could put somebody's eye out.

It's Official, I Have Become my Mother

When I was a kid and my parents built a new house, circa 1977, my mother’s favorite color was red. It still is. She picked out red shag carpeting and red and white curtains for the living room. Even in the 70’s it was a bold decorating move. Stylish too, up until around 1994 when she finally got rid of both items. For years, I would enter that room and shake my head at that red rug and curtains. I swore I would never put anything that loud in my house.

As I stood in our new house the other night, admiring the area rugs I had just picked for the dining and living rooms, I realized they are both red. Red, red, red. Not pale. Not shy. Bold, lively red.

Would someone please pass the salt? This crow is a little bland. And while I’ve never been a fan of it, I seem to be developing a taste for it later in life.

PS…Share with me dear readers, the moment you realized you had become your parent(s).

Weekly Photo Challenge-"Well Groomed"

This one is the story of two flower girls, one who looked forward to her job and another who didn't. I took it at a wedding back in April.

Check out the other entries here.

The Right Fit

As I write this we are socked into a two to four inch rainfall AGAIN, and it’s one of those fall evenings that makes you want to curl up on the couch in your baggie cotton pajamas with a blanket and a box of Whoppers. It is a far cry from the hot swimsuit weather we experienced in Florida just a couple of weeks ago. In fact, I wore little more than a swimsuit on most days down there. And I miss it. I went shopping for swimsuits while I was there. I tried on 23 of them because nothing is more difficult than finding the right swimsuit. Except for picking a great fitting pair of jeans. Or a bra.

I’d rather wrestle with a hyena than try on bathing suits, but sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, and this girl waited until all the swimsuits at home were gone from the shelves before she decided she needed another one. While trolling the Highway 98 Destin Target for a water bottle, I stumbled upon a swimsuit rack. Seduced by a clearance tag I tried on a mauve number that was a little edgy. I was all, “Ooh, $7.98 and it fits!” Now, we have all made the mistake of buying some outlandish hat or article of clothing while on a vacation high and the Calypso music is playing and the margaritas are flowing. It seemed like a good idea at the time and then you got home and realized you didn’t want the head of the Methodist Women’s Group catching you wearing that in the Piggly Wiggly. It’s how I ended up with a flowery skirt and tube top from San Juan, Puerto Rico. So, standing in the dressing room of the Destin Target, I eyeballed that monokini and said, “Self, just ‘cause you could wear it, doesn’t mean you should.” And after nixing every justification I could think of for buying that bathing suit, I put it back on the rack. And patted myself on the back for not crossing a line I’ve crossed several times in the past. And then I bought a wool flapper hat for this winter.

Flash forward to this week when Teen Angel and I headed out to buy her a Halloween costume for a school club function she has Saturday night. Now, I grew up in a time when we made our costumes out of whatever was lying around the house or stuff you picked up at the thrift store or dollar store. So, I’m not wild about store bought costumes anyway, given that they’re such a rip-off, and I HATE, HATE, HATE that they’re all so trampy looking. However, living in a rural area, our store bought costume options are limited so we headed off to the seasonal Halloween shop in town, which I won’t name but like to call Whores Are Us since almost everything in there is a g-string short of a stripper’s costume. All of the women’s costumes have the same basic form, a duck skirt (two inches below the quack) and a bustier with something on it to symbolize what the costume is supposed to be, such as a police badge or a dog in a basket. By the way, when did Dorothy start wearing stilettos and a garter belt? As usual we wandered around for an hour with Teen Angel pulling stuff off the rack and me going, “Hellza no!” or “You will not leave our house looking like a ho!” At one point we ended up in the tiny aisle of costumes with maximum booty coverage which consisted of a clown, a nun and a bottle of ketchup or mustard. After some gnashing of the teeth and a couple of eye rolls, we finally came up with an Alice in Wonderland costume that was okay once we bought some full length tights to go under it. Can I get an amen for full length tights?

While waiting for her to try this stuff on, I watched several young women, say ages 17 to 24, trying on costumes and was amazed at what I saw. I’m not criticizing anyone’s body shape, but many of these costumes only look good on someone who is a size 2 with a 38 inch bust. Ninety five percent of the female population does not fit that category and has more real estate to cover than these costumes allow. One girl squeezed into a “police uniform” (beige micromini with a badge), and with buttons popping from her bust to her hoo hoo, she declared it fabulous and headed to the checkout line. It was all I could do not to grab her arm and scream, “Girlfriend, just because you could doesn’t mean you should.” Another girl bought a “vixen” outfit that didn’t need a mask because no one was going to look above her neckline while talking to her at a party. EVERYTHING was hanging out.

I’m no prude, but I must be getting old because I sure did feel like my mama standing in that store. It makes me uncomfortable that young women today are so comfortable with being so naked in front of the world. And apparently, it works both ways. Teen Angel seems to be uncomfortable with some of my choices that have nothing to do with skimpy. When I showed her my flapper hat and asked her what she thought, her response was, (all together now) “Just because you could, doesn’t mean you should.” Smart aleck.