Wordless Wednesday - Belted

Caution: Extreme interpretation of seat belt laws may result in :

WOCKA! WOCKA!

WOOHOO! I just noticed that sometime recently I topped 10,000 visits from people who may or may not think that I'm totally insane. Heck, half the time I'm not even sure, so I went searching for a scientific process by which to determine my level of mental stability. And this is what I found.


The Muppet Personality Test

"Wocka! Wocka!"
You're the life of the party, and you love making people crack up.
If only your routine didn't always bomb!
You may find more groans than laughs, but always keep the jokes coming.

	You Are Fozzie Bear

Scares the fuzz right off my backside to think how accurate this test is. Ain't scientific research providin' some amazin' modern advancements!

Peace, Blessings, Thanks for stopping by, and WOCKA! WOCKA!

A Very Handy Tale

This time of year I really miss working in one particular office. They had absolutely the best cooks of any place I’d ever worked before or have worked since. The people there made those usually marginally bearable holiday and special occasion potluck lunches downright delectable!

When I first started working there, one lady and I always ended up in the bathroom at the same time. Once I even laughed and commented that our bladders must have been on the same schedule. She just smiled.

After a few months we’d become fairly good friends. I’d also noticed that each time we had a new female employee she was followed to the bathroom by my friend. It dawned on me that she must have also been following me in those early days! One day while we were at lunch I finally got up the courage to ask her about this particular idiosyncrasy. (I wasn’t nearly as brave back then as I am now – I actually had to work up the nerve to speak my mind!) Here’s what she said:

“You know all those potluck dinners we have around here? I follow them to make sure they wash their hands because if they don’t, I’M NOT EATING THEIR FOOD!”

Until then, I hadn’t really thought much about it. Since then, every time I eat somebody else’s food I always wonder about that hand washing thing. And if you know any of thes folks, I'd be doubly cautious!



And on that fine note, I bid you Peace, Blessings and Clean hands preparing all your feasts.

Port-O-Potty Fishing

Heather's Great Port-a-Potty Adventure reminded me of something I hadn't thought of in years.

Twig was about 3 when Bug was playing T-ball. The local field had a plumbing problem that year and brought in P-O-Ps to... ummm.. relieve the problem. Half way through Bug's game, Twig HAAAAAAD to go NOOOOWWWW!!!! The smell hit us before we ever opened the door. I tried to talk him into just going behind the bushes, but NOOO.

Once inside I realized that the quarters were way too tight for me to be able to help him get his pants off and back on. The only easy way was to leave the door open. Twig, however, even at the tender age of 3, was a modest little guy and would have no part of pulling his pants down in front of the whole world. After a couple minutes of him screaming, "Noooo Mooommyyy!! Cwose it! Cwose it!" I gave up and squeezed in beside him.

We had just managed to get his britches off when he realized that this was no ordinary potty. When he saw the bottomless pit over which he was expected to dangle his exposed derriere he began grabbing at me like some wild baboon trying to keep from falling out of a tree. He was sure he was about to fall in and never get out again. It was about then that I heard the keys hit the hard plastic surface. All I had time for was a quick shriek before they slid over the edge and vanished into the murky depths of port-o-potty hell, taking my stomach with them. Hubby was out of town and that keyring held the only set of keys I had to both the house and the truck.
I immediately grabbed Twig, forgetting that his pants were still down around his ankles, and hightailed it, with a screaming child tucked under my arm, for the concession stand. The whole way there I kept praying that there was something I could use to fish out the keys. All they had was a wire coat hanger that, as it turned out, wasn't long enough to reach the bottom of the muck. One of the dads came up with a ball of twine out of his tool box. And thus was invented a new Saturday-evening-at-the-ball park event: Port-o-Potty fishing.

For the next 2 or so hours every man within a 1/2 mile radius had to try his hand at port-o-potty fishing. Each just knew that if you hooked your wrist this way, or held your mouth that way, or dragged the string the other way, that he could land his prey. We never did get the keys back, and you do NOT want to know what all else was hooked!

I'd love to be around a thousand years from now when some archaeologist happens on that particular ... er... dump sight and finds a set of keys to a 1985 Ford F150 embedded in the remains. I wonder what weird conclusions they'll draw about the eating habits of the human inhabitants of that region. If you don't think that's ever gonna happen, go check out this article. It may just make you take a little bit closer look at the funny looking rock you pull out of the ground the next time you are out gardening.

And, not to worry you or anything, but beware the next time you enter a portable public facility. You may get this surprise on the way out:




Love, Blessings and Port-o-Peace to you all.

CLEANING IT UP

My new Freecycle friend, Richard, e-mailed me this picture.

I took one look at that license plate and immediately thought that it was something my daddy would have had a hand in coming up with. He was always cleaning things up for my delicate ears. Here are just a few of his favorites:

- Colder than a well digger’s ELBOW in Idaho
- Colder than a witches BOTTOM IN BRASS BRITCHES
- Cold enough to freeze the APPLES off a brass monkey
- Wish in one hand and SPIT in the other and see which one fills up fastest
- Does a bear SNEEZE in the woods?
- Son of a BISCUIT EATER
- Scared SPITless
- Fidgetier than a WHALE in church

Of course, I didn’t know until I was mostly grown that he’d taken it upon himself to rewrite those jewels of good old boy-ology. And I’m sure there are others that have slipped my mind at the moment.

In keeping with Dad’s literary licentiousness, I, too, over the years have utilized revisions of certain expressions. These are things I often think, and would usually LOVE to say outright, but instead clean up for more fragile audiences:

PPA (Pi## Poor Attitude)*: The mood resulting from any number of undesirable stimuli, including, but not limited to having to:
· Get up early in the morning. (Ok – so that one’s probably just a “me” thing!)
· Pick up after everybody in the house – again.
· Finish a lazy/sloppy/stupid person’s project so the whole group isn’t penalized – again.
· Stand in line for 10 minutes at Wal-Mart at one of the two open registers while 15 store employees stand around chatting and laughing. (You KNOW they are taking bets on which customer will be first to get mad enough to just leave the basket and walk out!!)
· Cook dinner AND clean up afterward – again.
· Get up, walk half way across the house to let the dog/cat in/out because the people sitting in the same room as the door have INCURABLE CONVENIENT HEARING.
· Explain the rules of the Stair Dance. Again. For the 100th time.

GOBS (Good Old Boy Syndrome) – Not a permanent condition, but instead the intermittent attacks of overbearing, chauvinistic, stubborn-headed, idiocy experienced by all men (and some women).**

Terminal HIB – A disorder caused by having ones head so deeply imbedded in the lower-most body cavity as to cause permanent, irreversible stupidity.**

FMD (Rhett Butler syndrome): The lack of sympathy or concern over the continued bad results gleaned from another person’s perpetual bad decisions. “Frankly, my dear…” (I came up with this one after watching Gone With The Wind at the end of a very long day of dealing with whiney employees giving ridiculous excuses for why their projects weren’t finished.)**

Newbossitis: The condition in which a person recently promoted to a position of authority temporarily loses all common sense and alienates those on whom he must rely to keep his backside out of hot water. The condition is not terminal unless the person also suffers from Richarditis, but does usually involve a long recovery period.**

And lastly, (with sincere, profound apologies to my new friend who sent me the picture and started this whole thought process; Really! This does not apply to him!)…

Richard Craniumosis or Richarditis – A socially fatal character flaw illustrated by the sufferer’s inability to understand how to cordially interact with others. Gets its name from the part of the male anatomy that shares its nickname. **

Now, since the sun is going down and I don’t want to develop PPA when it gets cold enough to freeze the apples off a brass monkey in this house, I’m going to go close the windows and get dinner ready.

Wishing you Peace, Blessings, and useful euphemisms.


Credits:
*I have no idea where that came from or who said it. If you know, please share the info so proper credit can be given.
**This is mine – straight out of my warped old brain.

That causes cancer... DUH!

We are having our kitchen remodeled so every morning to get my coffee fix I head down to the local Texaco station. Yes, I know, gas station coffee is notoriously horrible, but this stuff is so surprisingly good that I may just keep popping in for my morning jolt even after the kitchen is done! Anyway -- Yesterday I was finishing up my extenisve ritual of culinary exactness... add some creamer (read add a bunch: I like a little coffee with my creamer!), add a little sweetner, taste... add more of what's missing and taste... add.. oh, you get the idea... as the guy next to me was fixing his coffee. While eyeing my actions knowingly, he said (after my third try at getting enough sweetner out of the pink package to make a difference), "You do know that stuff causes cancer?"

"Yes, but at this time of morning I'm more of a threat to my well being than this stuff is," I laughed as I headed off to the checkout counter.

Shaking his head, he finished filling his cup and trailed behind me. A few minutes more and I'd checked out and was heading out the door when I heard Mr. Health Hazard Announcer ordering cigarettes!

Be proud of me, loves. I resisted the urge to go back in and nail him on the ludicrousness of it all!

Peace, blessings and much love