Pennsylvania 2017: Part 1

It’s hard to believe it’s already the end of August.  

The kids are back in school (can I get a hallelujah?) and Himself and I are staring at the last year of middle school for one Codefendant and senior year for the other.  In an act of parental civil disobedience, I informed The Diva that I wasn’t going to orientation; I wasn’t going to meet the teacher; and, in fact, I didn’t want to even know who her teachers were this year.  Frankly, I’m at the point where the less I know, the happier I am.  My folks, to the best of my knowledge, didn’t spend a significant amount of personal time up at my schools and I turned out just fine.  Stop laughing.

Where’s the time gone, I think.  One day, one’s ripping down my wallpaper after completely covering himself with magic marker; the other is helping herself to a midnight snack after scaling my sewing cabinet and opening the pack with my surgical-sharp Gingher scissors.  And far be it for me to pass up ratting them out for peeing against the bedroom dresser or dropping britches in the yard to take care of business.  Then there’s the nose goblins someone wiped on the walls.  Did you know snot strips paint?  ūüĎÉūüŹĽ  I can’t make this stuff up, y’all. 

So many memories.  A newly minted teenager with all the accompanying pains, sighs and eyeball rolls; another with a permanent driver’s license and, just seven short days after receiving aforementioned license, got his first speeding ticket and lots of talk about enlisting in the navy after graduation. ūüöĘ 

So our summer 2017 road trip was especially meaningful to me.  And it was going to be EPIC.  

Now my husband, Himself, is the original car nut.  Our home is filled with car crap, I mean treasures.  I even have to share the garage with a ’68 Plymouth Roadrunner.  Meep-meep!  So you know a vacation almost always involves cars.  This year was no different.

So we set out from Texas in a pickup truck that rode like a covered wagon: Himself, two unmedicated Codefendants (they have ADHD) and a newly medicated me.  Let me just say long-assed road trips aren’t the time to start an anti-anxiety/depression med, but it beats the hell outta wearing neon and leg shackles, amiright?!

It took two days to get there.  So many states, I’ve lost track, but each one prettier than the last.

Kentucky…the state where you can smell the color green

And this little diversion…


I kinda promised not to stop at any quilt shops.  I mean, I’ve got plenty and didn’t need anything, but Himself uttered ‘Paducah’ and all was lost.

West Virginia, we love you despite the fact you are Dr. Pepper-less.  And no, sorry, Mr. Pibb isn’t the same thing.  Remember my comparison of Tom Selleck and Peewee Herman? Yes, that.  And to our Bob Evans waitress, we’re sorry you got a little miffed when we scoffed about Pepsi products.  In hindsight, we should’ve kept our mouths shut, but bless your heart, Pepsi sucks. 

Where was I?

West Virginia…is for lovers of sunsets and Pepsi drinkers

Needless to say, all the scenery was gorgeous.  
Maryland (I think)
 

The Diva and I sat in the back, content to read and rubberneck at the gorgeous vistas.  His Awesomeness sat up front, Himself’s copilot because apparently screaming this exit! that’s what I said,! yes!  move over!  now! gogogogogogogo!! is frowned upon by Himself.  Full disclosure: I was allowed to drive with all of us in the truck for a grand total of…one hour.  No one and I do mean no one likes my driving.  

Between the two of us, The Diva and I finished seven books during our trip. ūüďö 

Pennsylvania

We made it…finally, on Thursday, July 13th.   Just in time for several days worth of thunderstorms and incomparable humidity.  

But there was fun to come.

Stay tuned.

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Revisiting Mary Ellen’s Sunflowers¬†

You remember this quilt top?


It’s the one my great-grandmother made, the one desperately in need of quilting, the elephant sitting squarely in the middle of the quilting room.  Since that blog post in 2011, I haven’t touched this baby.  I decided this was the time.

Luck and an escape from work allowed me to hit the road to Brazos House in Rainbow, TX again for the second time this year.  Squeal!  The Diva claims the chuckle I emitted and happy dance I performed were just this side of pure evil.  Something told me this wasn’t kid code for cool.  So I did what any self-respecting mother would do.  I hopped on my broom and blew that popcorn stand, leaving behind His Awesomeness who may or may not have marked my departure as his good fortune; The Diva who bemoaned being left behind with two testosterone laden beings; Himself, whom I’m fairly certain I kissed as I blew out the door; and the dog, whom I’m sure is planning a retaliatory poop for my return home.  Be sure to flick it onto the carpet like last time, you little schnitzel!

Himself just stood there and looked like he’d been shot out of a cannon.  

There may be carnage when I get home.  At the very least, the house will look like a merry band of marauding Vikings encamped in the living room.  But for a few days of quilting in the country, I’ll take it.

The Diva and Himself (before becoming cannon fodder)

The more I make this trip, the faster it is to get here.  This may or may not have something to do with my willy-nilly adherence to posted speed limits and my general disregard for my own personal safety.  I like to think of it as survival instinct.  Only in reverse.  Because, even though I love ’em, sometimes a little distance makes me love them even more and want to kill them a little less.  Mommy loves you guys!

My mission this go round was to make headway with quilting the sunflowers.  You remember them?  Go back and read the beginning of this post.  I’ll wait.  Yes, I got sidetracked, but I’m back now.  Keep up.

The going is slow and tedious and requires significant snackage.  Yes, that’s a word because I said so.  Don’t argue with Mother.  Here’s a bit of progress.  I’m not showing it all because I’m mean and I want you to come back for more.  Plus, I haven’t had coffee yet so I’m not even human.


These colors aren’t true, but I’m making do.  They are, in fact, lighter and more toward the pastel side of things.  Eww.  Again, I digress.

There are twenty (pause for dramatic sobbing and liberal use of tissues) blocks.  Twenty.  Like what I was twenty-two years ago.  

I am going to die before I finish this thing (more sobbing and perhaps a fit of the vapors.  Where’s my fainting couch?) !!!

I did have a nice walk yesterday morning, with two lovely escorts.  I bet their bathroom business isn’t vindictive.  Take note my dictatorial dachshund!


And there was a trip to Babe’s for chicken fried steak.  Yes, that’s leftovers.  In my purse.  You can never be too prepared.


I’m not so Pollyanna or delusional as to think I’ll actually get this whole thing quilted, but a quilter can dream.

Until next time.

December hodge-podge

Every year it seems the Christmas season is upon us before I’ve even exhaled from the hubbub that is Thanksgiving.  You’d think after 41 years it wouldn’t come as much of a surprise.  You’d be wrong, but you could think it.  The whole Halloween-Thanksgiving-Christmas thing is such a conglomeration of activity. Kind of like this post.  Buckle up, buttercup.

So, I’d cleared the table of the bounty that was the last holiday and started hauling in the stash that represents 18 years worth of Christmases for Himself and I and our precious little snowflakes, The Codefendants.  

So.  Much.  Stuff.

We’ve lucked out the last few years, or maybe it’s that Himself and I have cried ‘uncle’ and said “To heck with it; it’s not about the tree anyway” and let His Awesomeness and The Diva have *mostly* free rein to decorate as they see fit.  Having a prelit tree doesn’t hurt either.  Two thumbs up for the prelit tree creator!

His Awesomeness , tree master

I always thought my husband was anal (trust me, that is the word for it) about the tree lights and branches being just so.  He’s got nothing on this kid.
Yes, this is my son shaping branches from under the tree!  Who looks under the tree?!  I wish he’d give as much attention to his rank as a locker room bedroom.

  
  

Still at it.

The Diva, being the expert on fashion (hoodies are appropriate for all occasions) and all things decor, none too gently informed me that aqua and lime green weren’t appropriate choices for Christmas.  I’m such a troglodyte.  ūüôĄ

And so it was silver and red for the front porch.  
   

The only place I was allowed to touch was the treadle sewing machine in the living room.  I swear I don’t know how I leave the house in the morning without being a complete embarrassment to them.  Oh, wait, haha, I don’t.

Still, left to my own devices, I didn’t do half bad.  I love the little olive wood nativity.

 

And I snuck in a wreath after they’d gone to bed.  We moms are good at that sneaky thing, aren’t we?  How else would the little darlings learn to do it right?  

At the end of the frenzy, we have a truly awesome tree.  Can anyone spot my favorite ornament?  Hint: it’s a hockey player.  

There’s even been a bit of decorating where I work.  Who says bodily functions aren’t funny?!

 

It was in the 70s here today with 80% humidity and won’t get truly cold until about February.  And the trees still look like this…  

I’m pretty sure Santa wears shorts and a tank top for his flyover.  That’s Texas for ya.

And on a final note, WordPress kindly informed me the other day of my three year blogging anniversary.  As I hopped over from another site, this puts me at the 5 year blogging mark.  Holy crap!  Five years of torturing folks with my ramblings on all things kid, mothering and quilting, with a few expletive filled rants thrown in for good measure. My followers are saints.  Or masochists.  Yep, y’all are awesome!

So, in the spirit of giving, I made a little something to give away in celebration of aforementioned anniversary and in appreciation of you guys.

 

It’s meant to be a mat for a sewing machine, but let’s face it, once it gets to your house, you can do as you please with it.
  

If you’d like a chance at it, leave a comment and I’ll have a minion, I mean a child, draw a name on December 18th.

So, here endeth my 5th year of blogging and my 495th post.  I leave you with this…

There’s enough meanspiritedness and asshattery to go around. I should know: I ride a broom occasionally myself. 

So…

While we’re all winding down to make merry and, for some, to await the birth of the Savior, please remember the spirit of the season and be nice to one another…not just for now.  Make an effort.  For the love of Pete, go spread some joy and good cheer!

I Got Your Excitement Right Here

As a soon-to-be high school graduate, I had a rather nebulous vision of what my future held and it went a little something like this…

Find a calling, one that would pay the bucks for minimal work in a faraway land (preferably tropical but without those pesky vector-borne illnesses) where the hip folk eschewed all things involving razors and soap and water.

It was peaceful, purpose-filled (whatever the hell that means nowadays) and lovely, if you didn’t stop to consider the gorilla armpits¬†and¬†two-day old corpse smell wafting from all the hot bods.

I wonder whatever happened to that freak?

Ah, yes, I beat her to death with my mom jeans.

Whomever said motherhood was a cop-out, a bending to traditional old white man standards of keeping ’em barefoot and pregnant, has never experienced the fun and games that is parenthood.

Tell me your life is richer for having missed those experiences and I’ll call you a liar.¬† Sure, I’ll say it under my breath and just smile but it’ll be the one I reserve for¬†those asshats who don’t know how to comport¬†themselves in the school pickup line.¬† But that’s another post.

How could life be complete without these little gems…

* Rolling out of bed at the call of a child with a tummyache only to step in the still-warm inadvertent personal  protein spill on the way down the hall

* Sniffing that suspicious stain on the arm of the recliner only to discover that, yes indeedy, it’s poop

* Discovering inexplicable drip marks down the side of the dresser with accompanying bleached-out spots on the hunter green carpet…¬† it’s pee, yippee!¬† As a side note, did you know ancient cultures used urine to keep their whites white?¬† Consider yourself educated.¬† Moving on…

* Crunchy underpants, underpants teaming with more stool than a sewage treatment plant, and socks that have bred like minks between the sofa cushions

I’m practically giddy with excitement just typing this!

Now, I’m no Polly Homemaker, but I’ve learned a thing or two about getting¬†our humble abode¬†spic-and-span.

* Cleaning up any sort of icky bodily expulsion is far easier when you think of something else.¬† Like baseball.¬† When the dog leaves a cold, gelatinous lump complete with dry kibble bits as physical evidence of her gastrointestinal displeasure, I can almost convince myself not to launch my own lunch by saying ‘It’s filet mignon’ as I scoop that stuff up with a spatula.¬† Never mind the fact that I can no longer eat this cut of meat.¬† And don’t ask which spatula ’cause it could be the one I mixed up the brownies with last night.

* Boogers, especially the ginormous caked on, been-on-the-wall-so-long-it’s-practically-an-artifact-from-an-ancient-culture, will, when eventually discovered and cleaned off the wall, strip paint faster than a pole-dancer can shuck her skivvies.

*You’ll never get that oatmeal puke stain out of the carpet.¬† Invest in a potted plant for that spot and call it a day.

This list doesn’t even begin to cover the topics of conversation involving such things as where tampons go, why it’s socially unacceptable to whip it out on the playground to pee and why some people look like¬†men but sound like women.¬† There’s funny stuff, like explaining it’s the ‘Gorton’s fisherman’ and not the ‘Gorgeous fisherman’ and the stuff where I get to try and explain why our faith means we’re generally thought of as¬†a bunch of raging homophobes, islamophobes,¬†get-our-jollies-from kicking puppies douchebags¬†and that, yes, we will have and adhere to higher personal standards than those of the asshats in the federal government.¬† Yes, I did just discuss God and managed to curse all at the same time.¬† It’s a gift.

Go ahead and tell me what I’ve missed out on by buying into the whole wife/mother/worker bee role and try to shame me for my choices with your war-stories of nightlife, drinking ( I do that from the safety of my sofa with my flannel-clad hunk of burnin’ love right next to me and there’s no cover charge, thank you very much) and your hookups.¬† Whatevs, amateur.

What an exciting Saturday night?  Come by my house.

I’ll be Monistat-ing the dog for the next week.

Good times, y’all.¬† Good times.

Know Your Role

There are moments in time when I am completely convinced that I married a chick.  This is not to say that Himself is high maintenance, given to bloating or breast tenderness at certain times of the month or that I have to share my lacy underpants with him.  However, he has certain quirks which are typically attributed to those of the uterus-bearing gender such as almost overwhelming cravings for chocolate and, on occasion, a true life or death need for Midol.  Of all his quirks, I tend to find his penchant for hot flashes the most amusing.

Himself works outside.¬† No A/C in the summer (and in Texas they are BRUTAL); no heat in the winter.¬† So when he gets home from a day dealing with the public and has sweated like a pig at a luau, he wants the house to be cold.¬† As in corpse cold.¬† As a portly middle-aged female, I tend to like things a bit on the cool side myself, however, if I can hang meat in my living room, well, that’s a bit much.¬† The dog will lay out in full sunshine and 100 degree heat just to warm up.¬† And with the recent excitement of my own medical woes, let’s just say I’m running about in my purple hoodie looking for all the world like Barney the dinosaur.

The first thing Himself does when he gets home is turn the thermostat down, down, down and quickly hop into the shower.¬† Nothing alters this routine…not rain, nor snow, nor dead of night.¬† He won’t even eat dinner first.¬† Who the heck lets something, anything come between them and food?!

Imagine the¬†depth, breadth and height of his upset when one recent evening the power took a brief time out and the house heated up to a whopping 78 degrees (yes, I’m being snarky).¬† And I do mean brief…3 minutes tops.¬† After which, the A/C decided ‘Nope, not gonna do it’ and quit cooling.

When Himself goes all diva, it’s not a pretty sight.¬† Ever seen the Snickers candy bar commercial where Aretha Franklin’s going all diva because she’s hungry and all put out with the world, then eats the candy bar and turns back into a dude?¬† Yep, Himself is like THAT!¬† The amount and quality of whining could only be described as rivaling that of a teenage drama queen.¬† And he’s a 43 year old man.

All efforts to cajole him into being patient and allowing the damn A/C system to reset itself were met with a derisive sneer and huffy breath.¬† Let me be blunt: I am the mother to one, that’s ONE, snarky-assed teenager and one, that’s ONE,¬†nine year old female drama queen.¬† I didn’t birth you, big guy so knock it off already!¬† What I actually said went something like this…give or take a few well-used expletives…

‘Pray tell, what would you like me to do?¬†¬†It’s after 5pm and warranty service calls end at 5pm unless you’d like for me to pay time and a half for someone to schlep their ass out here just to tell you they don’t have the part they need and it’ll be the next day or ten until they can get it and that’ll be $200 bucks thank you very much!!’

He tried to stare me down, completely forgetting that I am a mother to two would-be extortionists and that crap just does. not. work. with. me.  Amateur.

It was then that he informed me he was starting to sweat.¬† Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit, Scarlett!¬† Why don’t you take a powder and lie down a spell!¬† What does this man know about hot?¬† His hair’s so closely cropped as be almost bald (not that I’d mind) and he’s not carrying around two 75 pound melons on his chest.¬† Don’t tell me about hot, mister!

If he were funnier, I’d swear he’s Nathan Lane, but¬†he’s not; therefore I’m stuck with Aretha.¬† God grant me mercy.

 

 

Himself Earns a Star in His Crown

I married myself a pretty awesome man.¬† Not that I’d tell him so…wouldn’t want him to go and get a big head or anything, but he is¬†awesome.¬† Shhhh.

This whole fibromyalgia thing is not sitting well with him at all.¬† Men, after all, are fixers and apparently a medical condition such as this is a bit frustrating…for all involved but especially for my spouse.¬† He bullied me into getting a referral to a rheumatologist.¬† Still waiting on that one, by the way.¬† And I’ve been getting something of the third degree about causes, treatments, what to avoid (apparently all food falls into this category…think of how skinny I’ll be…squeal!), etc, etc.

In the meantime, he wanted to do something that would make me feel a little better.¬† He tried to pass it off as a belated anniversary gift, but he eventually ‘fessed up.¬† It was a cheer up the wife gift.¬† He knows me well as it wasn’t¬†jewelry or flowers.¬† He showed up with¬†this…

001

Some men speak in flowery phrases bearing offerings of roses.

Mine?

He speaks laptop.

 

 

 

Quilt Show Penance: How Himself Atones

As a mother, I covet those moments of quiet solitude with only the voices of my multiple personalities for company ringing about inside my cranium.  I love those moments, live for them, actually.  Too bad they last all of five minutes and end with a flush.

So, it was with a sense of guilt/giddiness that I looked forward to a trip to the Wildflower Guild quilt show in Temple…all by my lonesome.

Yeah, right.¬† Himself decided that the little woman didn’t need to traverse the dangerous I-35 corridor alone and offered to drive us down there.¬† By us, I mean ALL OF US.¬† This was a red flag and highly indicative of Himself having quite possibly made some sort of unauthorized purchase for which I’ve yet to be informed.¬† He’ll, of course, wind up shacking up with the dog outside for the foreseeable future.¬† In the meantime, he’ll try to atone by driving me places he’d rather not go.¬† You should know that road trips for our clan¬†are about as much fun as a rectal exam from an arthritic physician.¬†¬†And in defense of my driving capabilities, I’d like to point out I’m the same chick who drove from here to San Antonio with only The Diva for company…and without the benefit of pharmaceuticals, I may add.¬† God and MapQuest had my back.¬† It was all good.¬† But I let him do the manly thing and drive us.¬† I’m surprised we didn’t have to don animals skins and have him drag me to the truck by my hair just to keep with the theme.¬† But I digress.

So, it was me and The Diva and the quilt show.¬†¬†Nothing spells fun like trolling a quilt show with a sulky nine year old in tow, know what I’m saying.

Now, when it comes to quilt shows, I follow a set pattern.¬† Up and down the aisles I go, not zig-zagging across like some drunk during Mardi Gras.¬† It’s orderly and controlled…all the better to see the quilts and whatever merchandise needs to come home with me.¬† I have a plan.¬† Once finished, I do it all again, just to make sure I didn’t miss anything the first time around.¬† This plan has the added bonus of driving The Diva (and Himself and His Awesomeness) bat shit bonkers.¬† It’s the little things, y’all.¬† I keep telling you, it’s the little things.

Here’re some pictures of my absolute favorites…most of which are paper-pieced because I’m a paper-piecing ho.¬† Roll with it.

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003

 

004

 

005

 

Are you sensing a theme here?¬† Assuming you and I are on the same page, I think it must’ve been Judy Niemeyer appreciation day or something.¬† All those perfect spiky points and smooth curves.¬† One day, I too shall lose my schmit and make one of these.

 

Once The Diva decided to act decent and join the human race, I was able to get a few pictures of her.  Enjoy.

010

 

008

 

007

 

It’s a toss up as to which was her favorite…Hello Kitty or this one…

 

002

 

Remember The Last Supper Quilt that made the rounds¬†of quilt shows several years back?¬† It was made of 1 1/2 inch (maybe smaller) squares.¬† If you viewed it up close, it looked like gobs of congealed color.¬† Kind of like gazing into the porcelain throne after having hurled your breakfast.¬† How’s that for a visual?¬† You’re welcome.¬† Anyway, if you backed way up and then looked, there it was…THE LAST SUPPER!¬† Jesus and the disciples…hooray!¬† Not globs at all.¬† That’s what this wolf was like.

I have scads (that’s code for ‘alot’) of vintage ladies hankies from my Granmommie and I thought this pattern would be a good way to showcase them otherwise someone might use one and then I’d have to dig a hole and we all know how anti-sweating I am.

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Last, but not least, I had to support local (and some not so local) quilt shops.¬† The batiks are to die for and the Halloween glow in the dark charms will make a cute I-Spy quilt which I’d already promised to The Diva if she’d quit being such a turd.¬† No longer do threats of going to the ladies room deter this child as she loves public toilets.¬† Frankly, I think she’s amused by my Exorcist-like facial contortions when I’m threatening to lay the smackdown on her.¬† Maybe that’s one of her ‘little things’.

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Afterward, Himself drove us to the dam and threw the Co Defendants over the side took us to dinner at the Dead Fish Grill.¬† Yes, that’s what it’s called.¬† Charming.¬† And tasty.¬† I still haven’t figured out what he’s done, but he’s in doggie doo.¬† Time will tell just how deep.¬† I’ll keep you posted.

 

 

 

Independence Day and All That Jazz

So, while the vast majority of folks in town have romped and stomped their way through Independence Day whilst sucking down suds and getting a head start on a lifetime of leathery skin and potential skin cancer, I spent it inside earning a paycheck.  Yay for gainful employment!  Did that sound sincere?  Somehow, I doubt it but I gave it my best shot.

Midway through the day, I paid a call to Himself who, lucky devil, was off and enjoying a homecooked meal with his folks and generally enjoying a childless day thanks to my folks.¬† The Grands had absconded with The Co-Defendants to parts unknown for a cousins reunion.¬† I’m hoping they’re not working on a case of heat stroke and food poisoning.¬† Time will tell.

At any rate, during the course of my call, Himself mentioned having something in store for me when I got home.¬† Now, let me just say when Himself gets an idea, it involves one of two things: sex or car shows.¬† He is that predictable.¬† I should bottle him and sell him as a laxative.¬† So, you can imagine the haste with which I drove home, being so giddy and all at the prospect of my ‘surprise’.¬† Not.

I got about half an hour to myself which, in mother-speak, means I cleaned two toilets and tossed a load into the washer.  Mine is such an eventful existence.  After that, we were in the truck and on the road headed to parts that, I feared, included rumbling engines and migraine inducing exhaust fumes.

Imagine my surprise when he turned into the local DQ and ordered me something scrumptious and chocolate (lactose intolerance be damned) and paid for it himself.¬† Something was afoot.¬† We headed out of town, me trying to figure out what the heck he¬†was up to and him looking for all the world like a choir boy on Sunday morn.¬† We wound up at the lake and¬†gazed upon the sweating masses as they barbequed themselves and some brisket under the blazing Texas sun.¬† Packed like sardines in a can.¬† Elbows to a**holes, as the redneck version goes.¬† Around and around he drove ’til I started to feel the full effects of the ice cream in my stomach swirl hither and yon¬†thanks to the dips, twists and potholes in the lakeside roads.

Himself lamented his lack of binoculars as he’d spotted what he felt certain was a rare and wondrous creature down on the shore.

Aw, I replied, spotted the big-boobied coed, huh?

Nope, it’s the big-boobied bikini bird, he replied.

He had the nerve to smirk.  Perv.

Wonder where I’m going with this?¬† I’m getting there.¬† The story, like the car ride, takes some time.

So, we bid adieu to the glistening masses and headed out, back toward Casa Imperfect Life when he chimed up and said You don’t get it, do you?¬† It must have been apparent that I hadn’t the foggiest notion based on the look I gave him.

I’m recreating our first date…you know, the one we had on July 4th?¬† I could feel my eyes widening and my mouth doing that hanging open thing it does while my brain does it’s HOLY CRAP, SOMETIMES HE ASTOUNDS ME thing.¬† Isn’t that just the sweetest thing this side of ever?

You’re a peach, hon.¬† You really do remember stuff and all.¬† At which point, he asked that I not think so, thereby ruining his reputation as a thoughtless jerk.

Should I tell him our first date was really July 2nd and we ran into my ex-boyfriend who happened to be the brother of Himself’s ex-girlfriend?

I think not.

He’s a peach.

The Meat Market

In my ‘what-if’ moments, I’ll admit to having thoughts of what would happen if Himself kicked it first and left me alone.¬† Yes, that’s rather dark and unpleasant and considering how I’ve told him I searched twenty-three years to find my Prince Redneck¬†and kissed more than my fair share of toads,¬†a somewhat odd thought to entertain.¬† But, there it is.¬† Susie Sunshine I am not.¬† Granted, I fully intend to nag and confuse the man to death, but I’m in absolutely no hurry to seal the deal.¬† The process itself it just waaay too much fun.¬† He got a little antsy when he discovered I bought new plates while he was in South Carolina and started looking about for other crap I’d changed in his absence.¬† The last¬†big roadtrip he took, I rearranged the furniture.

Oh, it’s the little things, y’all!¬† {laughing, guffawing and generally trying not to pee in my pants}

Ahem.

Anyway, back to the ‘what-if’ and what would happen.¬† I got my answer yesterday thanks to that social media giant, Facebook, which started an email avalanche from which I’m still trying to dig my way out.¬† Apparently, you click on certain ads or games or apps and, presto! change-o!, you’re signed up for a dating site.¬†¬†No more Candy Crush Saga for me, thank you very much!

When the first email hit my inbox, I borrowed a line from The Co-Defendants,¬†did an eyeball roll and hit delete.¬† Several emails later, and it was no longer amusing.¬† It was creepy.¬† Is THIS what’s out there these days?¬† Y’all, it’s not pretty.¬† Yes, I’m pushing the big 4-0 and I’m no beauty queen, but criminy, I’m talking chasing Yugos kind of ugly here!¬† And lie?¬† Oh, lawd, y’all, they lie like roadkill.¬† If ‘average’ means multiple piercings and facial tattoos, I think I’ll have to pass.¬† BTW, aren’t teardrop tattoos indicators of having served prison time?¬† Aaaaaarrggghhhh!

I tried furiously last night to unsubscribe, but apparently, this site didn’t want me unsubscribing and I was stuck.¬† It was about this time that Himself walked in and I had to ‘fess up that I was inadvertently having a cyber-affair with multiple men and some I’m pretty sure were chicks.¬† He thought it was a riot.¬†I shit you not.¬† Even I, the evil queen of off-color and downright potty humor, do not find this funny.¬† Is it odd that I felt like I was cheating and I hadn’t even gotten my hands on anyone else’s goodies yet?

So, it’s official.¬† Himself can never kick it and I can never push him so far that he’ll actually take a nosedive over the brink.¬† I’ll have to up my game here and just string it out ad infinitum.¬† I am that good.