now that? that there’s some *special* handlin’

30 06 2010

pros and cons of cleaning your shower while nekkid

29 06 2010

About cleaning the shower naked:


  • You can really get in there and get after it, rather than standing outside and reaching like crazy.
  • Better use/access to water to rinse off the chemicals during/after cleaning, on the shower itself. Turn on the water while you’re IN there, scrub away, turn off water, scrub more, rinse, repeat. Far more efficient progress, and easier to clean.
  • You don’t have to worry about running your chemical laden clothes immediately to the washing machine, and doing a load of just them by themselves so the chemicals don’t seep onto your normal non-shower-cleaning clothes.
  • Easy clean up of you when you’re done. Just soap off in your fresh & sparky clean shower. You’re in there already, might as well be efficient about it.


  • Instead of clothing, or probably a more appropos haz-mat suit, now you’re exposing the largest organ in your body, your skin, directly to toxic goo.


I’m really not that bright sometimes. (Maybe it’s the shower chemicals.)

one key truth we true Southerners hope the Yanks never cotton onto

26 06 2010

IzzieDarling has a point about Customer Service.

First, everyone (and I do mean Everyone), oughta hafta do a stint in food service, and in retail. Kinda like the thou-shalt-do-military requirements other countries have. IMHO, the world would be a much nicer place.

Second, there’s a natural order to the universe: it’s tough to have credibility playing the Nice card if you already trotted out your Mean card. Play Nice first. Then, if and only if it’s required, trump with the Mean card.

Thirdly, besides…. we true Southerners know how to cover anything in sugar.

Example: A dear Bostonian friend of mine is super-sharp, quick-witted, and delightfully snarky. LOVE her. She was remarking about how Wonderful X person was. Meanwhile, X person had just slain her with some sugar covered razor blades, and Bostonian friend didn’t even realize she was hemorraging blood from the damage. I clued her in. Now she calls me semi-regularly to replay conversations to see if she’d been Sugar’d or not.

Now ain’t that just the sweetest little thing you ever did hear? Bless her little heart.

rewind blip

26 06 2010

One year ago today was a Friday. I’d taken the afternoon off, and my sistah-gurl Delightful and I were fetching bawdy provisions for another close friend’s weekend bachelorette soirree at a lakehouse. I had wicked cramps all weekend, and was clawing my way into being sociable, but managed OK (I think). I adore the gals, and wouldn’t have missed it for the world, and fortunately our idea of a bawdy evening mostly consisted of Michael Jackson dancing and Ouija board shenannigans. Oh yeah, and Amish butter. (That stuff is like crack.)

It was also the day that mother went into the hospital for “back pain”, but I wouldn’t know it until a few days later. (And I wouldn’t know about the cancer, or the falling, or any of the rest of it for a goodly while even after that.)

I still don’t have the real details about why/when/how this first hospital stay really started, only snippets and fragments that I’ve pieced together in some kind of mosaic picture. I’ve thought about my side of the experience (how could I not?), but what strikes me now is how unsure and unsettling this particular day must’ve been for her. Other than maternity stuff, she’d never stayed in a hospital, or had any surgeries, or anything prior to then.

She had to chose to rely on a (very dear) neighbor to bring her 60 miles to the hospital, and stubbornly kept the whole thing a secret. Looking back, we know now that the tumors were affecting her brain at this point, but oh the burden that must’ve been on her and her kindhearted friend. That German stubborn streak runs deep, and she would never admit she was frightened, but she had to have been scared shitless.

And despite the best neighbor/friend/angel that was helping her out, she must’ve felt very alone, too.

She lived by herself for so long, and was so damned Independent (with a capital I), that it bit her in the ass. I confess, I tend to be Independent a bit myself too, but the lightbulb is starting to flicker on for me sometimes– so some independence is a good thing, but is too much really fear (Oh yeah? I don’t need you FIRST.), arrogance (I’m so wonderful I can do it myself…), anger (…screw you very much), or just plain ignorance (dunno whatcha dunno) in disguise? So I’ve tried to purposely be a little less Independent. It’s tough. I’m working on it. And I fail sometimes. But what’s weird is it’s allowed me to finally start to see the support that’s been around me the whole time.

*sigh* Who knew?  (Yeah, I know: YOU knew, but I was clueless.)

Why in hell she didn’t let me know then (or before then) what was going on will always baffle me. I’ll keep struggling and hopefully continue to make progress finding harmony around independence myself. I just wish she could’ve too– that pigheaddedness means she missed out on a lot of goodness.

You might not’ve learned it for yourself, Momma, but because of that, you accidentally helped teach it to me. Thanks. I’ll keep trying to learn, promise.

Dear John, er… Summer

25 06 2010

Dear Summer,

We need to talk.

First, let me say it’s me, not you. And you know how much I adore you. Poems are written. Daydreams are had. Delightfully warm days, lazing about, watching the heat waves shimmer off the water.

But lately, you’re stifling me. I can’t breathe. What was so warm and enveloping has become a burning desire to escape. You’re driving me away, towards the indoor air-conditioned sterility, and neither of us wants that.

So please, before someone gets burned, let’s take a small breather.

I beg you not to go far though… I only need a little space. Yes, I confess that my head can be turned by a little air-conditioning. But you and I both know that about 10 minutes after I have to put on a sweater inside due to overzealous a/c’ers, I always come running back to your warm embrace.

You’ll always be my favorite. I’m a Summer girl, through and through. But please, just for one day, stop smothering me. I’m begging you.

Warmly forever yours,


get your own highlighter, whydontcha?

17 06 2010

My deliciously quirky Mema had a *thing* for self-help books. Of all kinds. From Nostradomus (sp) stuff, to the pre-Martha (godforbid, insert her trademark here) domestic goddesses of the 50’s, to even a how to please your man pamphlet from the 40’s that I ran across while going through everything before Mother’s Estate sale. (Now THAT, is worthy of a post of it’s own. HI-LAR-ious, I tell you. And kinda creepy. The pamphlet, I mean.  But I digress.)

In any case, combine her self-help fetish with a slight passive-aggressive streak, and you’d come home to find various and sundry books, with bookmarks and highlights strategically placed on your bed, car, etc.

Gee, Mema. Trying to tell me somethin’, are ya? *sigh*

The best had to be the little late 80’s Nancy Reagan era Just-Say-No propaganda number she’d scavenged up somewhere. Finding that bugger had to be no easy feat, being that we lived in a town whose population is still to this day smaller than my now current subdivision. (A great place to be, but at the same time it’s a little like living on an island– since everything has to be “brought in” from elsewhere. Except rice.)

It took me about a month to figure out why she thought I needed THAT particular missive. It wasn’t until mother came to me gingerly, wringing her hands, all concerned about some razor blade they’d found in my car.

Um, heh? OHHHH…. Sheesh. Settle down. I scraped the AARP sticker that Mema had on the car window before it became mine. (Tip: An AARP sticker doth not attract the eye of young squires. And if it does, then I’m skeered of dem boyz. Talk about Cubs after some Cougars, yowsa.)

The point of this little trip down memory lane, is that I just fired off a few copies of books to a couple far flung friends.

They weren’t self-help books, nor were any passages highlighted. Each reader can find their own bits that stand out for themselves. The book was merely a choice I enjoyed the hell out of, and I thought they might too– so I wanted to share. I’m cognizant enough to be super grateful that I don’t have to choose between doing that, and buying groceries or paying the light bill.

I even threw in a summer CD mix (confession: or TWO. There were too many good songs, I couldn’t cut back to fit on one CD.), just for grins. Why the hell not?

So I guess I’m channelling Mema a bit.

Minus the passive aggressive streak.

I hope.

why don’t YOU stick it

15 06 2010

A little reminder to myself–

Five years ago, a bumper sticker was the catalyst that put in place a whole string of events which ended up moving me, Lovey, and Leeloo 900 miles away, finding a whole host of new goodnesses, characters, and adventures along the way.

The sticker? You Deserve What You Accept.

Yeah. I damn near wrecked the car.

Granted, you may not be able to change everything you’re not fond of, but that doesn’t mean you have to roll over and call it “acceptable” either. This may sound like a negative post, but quite the contrary: it was an eye-opener for me, and frankly I’ve never been happier. I treat myself well. And by doing so, the mojo around me becomes more faboo all the time. Go figure.

And you should Take Care of You too.

If you’re not ready quite yet, don’t worry. You’ll decide you are someday. (Clue-bat: The key word there is Decide.)

Until then, BIG HUGS.  And sleep well, friends.