Fishing for Advice

Dear nonBaptist friends:  what kind of rosaries does one have to recite to do penanace for murder because the man I am married to is mixing catfish stinkbait in the kitchen and we have people coming in.

P. S. It will be an "accident"
Please react with an appropriately surprised  demeanor when you hear the news of his demise.  

I Have Seen My Future

I saw my future in line at Walgreens (no, not Walmart...Walgreens) this afternoon.

Little old stooped over white haired lady in line in front of us with her cart and recyclable shopping bag lays 3 items on the checkout counter:  rubbing alcohol, a container of salt, and Ben Gay. 

IN her cart was a case of Dos Equis.

Ben Gay and beer, people. 

Wine Trail

Once again, under the hashtag of #OtherPeopleGoOnTripsIGoOnAdventures I have hit upon another one of those moments that makes MyPoolBoy so glad that he didn't marry someone boring.

We decided that we needed a bottle of our favorite winery's blackberry / blueberry wine.  Alas, it was before the winery was open (because apparently civilized people don't start going to the winery before noon -- or they are going to "sell no wine before its time" or some bullsh1t).

That's ok, I think.  The liquor store downtown opens at 10 and they have it.  (Because white trash folks WILL go to the liquor store before noon.)
Alas, they were sold out. '

What to do, what to do?

Soooooo, I went to the winery website and found locations where it could be procured, and I tried to keep a straight face when I instructed MyPoolBoy that he needed to drive out to the deer processor.

Deer.

Processor.

I sent him in because HE would not look out of place in the deer processor shop.  He opened the door and turned right back around and motioned for me to come in.  Because while he does not look out of place IN the deer processor shop, he does seem out of place BUYING WINE at the deer processor shop.  Y'all.  We bought wine at the deer processor.

I am happy to report that as a result of our efforts, we successfully obtained not just one but THREE bottles of wine.

And a bag of jerky.

Old Hat

So. Yesterday we took our kids to the local museum (read: former school admin building full of random old crap that local families donated after they cleaned out their dead mother in laws storage building and couldn't even get Goodwill to take it - we have only donated Native American dance regalia, so definitely random but not technically old). 

In the back room alcove there was a pink cowboy hat with rhinestones or some other bling crap on it. My students immediately came to get me and asked me if my family had donated it. 

I replied to them that it was not mine. 

And then instructed them that we could make it mine, if a few of them were willing to be a self-sacrifice and create a diversion by knocking over something expensive-looking so that I could grab it and make a run for it. Told the rest of them to save themselves and meet me back at the classroom. 

No takers. I'm not so sure it was because they don't have a sense of teamwork but more because they do possess a healthy level of fear of whether I'm kidding or not. 

Wining

Y'all know that wine they have in stores that is a) not in a box and b) costs more than $6 a bottle. 

Yeah. I got my PoolBoy to buy some.  Yall.  That sh1t is good!

Playing Chicken

Add to my already extensive list of useless talents: the ability to successfully thwart the Mullet County Post Office's attempts to erroneously deliver a mislabeled package of live chickens to our place of business. 

Yeah.  That happened. 

Snack Attack

DonnyCat just jumped up on the bed while MyPoolBoy and I were finishing off some pineapple and powdered sugar.  This in itself was not highly unusual since he is a moocher and takes it upon himself to get a taste of just about anything that I am cooking, serving, or eating.

So plop!  He's on the bed. Thud thud thud.  Lumbers across the bed because although I affectionately refer to him as my baby kitten,  the larda$$ weighs 17 1/2 pounds, and let's face it,  there is nothing dainty or delicate or even cat-like about a 17 1/2 pound cat's footsteps across a pillow-top mattress.  

Sniff one was of the bowl containing the powdered sugar.  He glared at me like I had set out a trap or poison of some sort. 

Moving along....

Sniff two was of the pineapple.   This elicited  a surprised look as of perhaps it WAS a trap or poison that I, myself should not have, either.  

He proceeded to deftly maneuver past the bowl and plate on MyPoolBoy's side. Because, at this point he had determined that this inedible crap in the snack bowls was somehow MyPoolBoy's error in judgment. Or that perhaps MyPoolBoy had set the trap for ME to eat the poisonous not-a-real-snack. 

So here he stands, his attention alternating from the plates, to My PoolBoy.  And then, the next response was him looking at me. I'll narrate (I often do for DonnyCat because his English is a little hard for common folks to understand sometimes) :  "Dude, what is THAT?  That's not a snack!" 

"Momma, did you EAT that?  Are you ok?"  

Then he proceeded up to put his face right in my face (I surmise to smell my breath to see if I had been drinking and perhaps that is why I fell for "the trap" ).

Beauty

MyPoolBoy texted me the other day that a local convenience store was going out of business and had what was left of their wine on sale.  "How much 'on sale' are we talking?"  I asked.

"$4 a bottle. How many do you want me to get?" 

Silly PoolBoy....how many ARE there? 

So. Don't judge.  This Ho-ficially makes me a cheap drunk! There's  something to be said about the beauty of cheap $4-a-bottle convenience store clearance rack wine.

1) $4 a bottle - it won't hurt your feelings too bad if you spill some or if you have to toss some out because a fly gets in it and drowns to death in what I can only imagine is the happiest of deaths. 

2) After  the first 2 glasses you don't even notice that it is convenience store clearance rack wine anymore.  After the 3rd glass you won't notice the dead fly, either.  

3) Fabulous easy-open screw-top lid that doesn't leave those pesky pieces of cork floating around in the bottom so that, because you are determined to drink every infinitessimal drop of that sh1t, your last glass won't cause you to hack like a tomcat yakking up a hair ball thereby initiating a gag reflex that could cause you to hurl intimating  to your fellow party-goers that you cannot hold your likker, which we all know is NOT TRUE.  

4). If you do, in fact, hurl up ,some of this beautifully cheap wine later in the evening, you won't feel too much remorse, because Hey!  It was only $4! 

Checklist for a Friday Evening

Meet Lucilles at bar.

Consume beer between raucous fits of laughter. 

Get up and briefly leave patio when one of the Lucille's breaks a fart bomb capsule. 

Become concerned when her finger begins dripping blood from the cut she received while breaking the fart bomb vial. 

Drink and laugh until the band on the patio starts setting up and getting in our way. 

Discuss karaoke options. 

Leave.

Text three Lucille's when a viable karaoke option is located.

Turn  vehicle around and drive back  downtown for karaoke.

Consume beer while laraoke guy attempts to set up FOR ALMOST AN HOUR. 

Speculate if karaoke guy is distracted more by us or the DTs that he seems to be shaking off while trying to earn his 7 day chip.  

Cheer when karaoke guy finally starts. 

Sentd Hammy to request songs to sing.  

Get bummed out by first two singers because their songs are serious downers AND they sing too well for this to be any fun at all.

Laugh at toddler dancing because parent saw fit to bring a toddler to a bar.  

Laugh when me and Felix both have the idea to stick our foot out to male the toddler trip and fall while dancing.  

Discuss buying our own karaoke business to put a stop to all this nonsense.

Drink more beer.

Abandon beer briefly for the restroom, where you find the dancing toddler getting her diaper changed.  

Return to find a former student singing some alternative song.  Badly.

Remark to Felix that due to her height, she might get a traffic ticket for driving her car without a car seat. 

Sing karaoke with MyPoolBoy. Finally.  

Eat a nacho. 

Resume beer consumption. 

Try to decipher what song the next guy is singing.  

Use Siri to try to locate what song he is singing.

Accidentally hit head on table while laughing at Siri's response that she does not understand the request!. 

Sing a Britney Spears song.  (Cuz that's how I roll.  Deal with it.) 

Convince Hammy to sing  and play air guitar on next song. 

Dance maniacally to a Billy Joel song. 

Do the Cupid Shuffle.  Explain to Hammy that it has remedial lyrics available as a modification for dancers who are unfamiliar with the dance.  

Sprint for last swig of beer in bottle when it is announced that you and Hammy are up to sing next after the aforementioned mainiacal dancing.  

Perform unfreakingbelievable rendition of Pat Benatar.  

Scream at an eardrum splitting blood curdling pitch and volume when 80s Night is announced for Month of April.  

Embarrass the crap out of MyPoolBoy.  

Say goodnight to Felix and Hammy because MyPoolBoy is DONE.  

Arrive home and find DonnyCat impatiently awaiting my return.  

Happy Howlidays

So what started as a fabulous holiday evening of raucous merriment and mirth complete with classic movie quotes done in the vocal stylings of Mr. Rogers ("say hello to my little neighbor". "Ask yourself, do i feel lucky? well do ya neighbor?" "frankly my neighbor, i don't give a damn") has deteriorated into quiet uncomfortable giggling as a senile old dog tried to drink everyone's cocktails.   We thought she was doing it because she was just seriously thirsty.... But her water dish is full.  She's just, in fact, a senile old dog trying to drink everyone's cocktails!  How do you do an intervention for a dog?

Parental Guidance

I feel obliged to impart some of my unsolicited folksy homespun wisdom from time to time.  Luckily for me I keep a filter around so that I don't impart in public.  I call this filter MyPoolBoy, because if it wasn't for him, there are times that I honestly would probably land in jail.  Or get shot.  Or both.    It is often a blessing and / or a downright miracle if I encounter situations that I consider blogworthy and can be quieted long enough to get it typed in without commenting out loud or falling in the floor in fitful snorts of laughter and a puddle of urine.  

So. 

I sat at dinner tonight and in walked two people with their kid.   Said kid had a mohawk. I have nothing against self-expression through hairstyles or even mohawks.  BUT Here's the thing, people.... Mohawks "open up" and "frame" your face.  If your little Oompa Loompa  is ugly, we do not want to see any more than we absolutely have to.  Please, please fortheloveofgawd  do us all a favor and encourage him to grow his hair long and do one of those beatnik/social outcast type hairstyles that hangs down over his eyes and covers his homeliness.  

Denied

The alternate title to this post is: Sh1t-MyPoolBoy-won't-buy-me-no-matter-how-much-I-beg-or-what-sexual-favors-I-offer.

Granted, he bought me a pulpit that I turned into a bar thereby securing my spot in H3ll, he built me a beach in the backyard, and he got me a piece of crap convertible BMW that I subsequently painted pink and covered with glitter, rendering it hopelessly undrivable by any male of the species.  But still, a girls has wants and needs....

Of course, he always tries to deflect the little thoughts I get in my head about purchasing something new with the dreaded question:  "What the h3ll would you do with a XYZ.?"  (Where XYZ is the latest pretty that my heart fancies -- did you see how I made that all algebraic and sh1t?). 

First.  A small steamroller that I saw at a pawn shop..  So it was a USED steamroller.  Plus it was a SMALL steamroller.  Like, kid-sized.  Which meant it couldn't have been very expensive.  I got "the question."  I offered the answer that I could use it for playing the home version of the game "pave the roads and sh1t."  I was promptly told NO.  

Also.  I would like to have a cannon.  Not even a BIG cannon, mind you.  And, again with "the question."  Honestly I couldn't come up with a quick snappy comeback and sheepishly shrugged my shoulders and offered up that I just think it would be cool to be able to say that I am the first person on my block to have a cannon in the yard.  I won't even put glitter on it or anything!  His reply:  "You'll put your eye out, kid!"

He is NO FUN.  

Driven to Drink

To Chunk and other teenage boys:  If you are, in fact, so desperate for Drivers' Ed that you will blindly allow your parents to sign you up online using their credit card and their merlot-dulled wits, be assured that you will NOT like he login password they select for you.  

Please also note that the acquisition of said drivers' license may give you a false sense of freedom, because you now can be considered a DD and are therefore now at my beck and call!

Written Warning to All That Cross My Path

If you don't want a "blog name" you'd better behave yourself!

Joyful Noise

You know what's worse than a van full of teenagers singing along to blaring rock music in the parking lot of Walmart?

A van full of teenagers singing along to Christian rock music in the parking lot of Walmart.

Gifted

My students have to endure much of the same relentless sarcasm and offbeat witticisms that y'all do, except they get the G rated versions. When they leave pencils and paper on the floor, I tell them that they can trash a room like rock,stars. If somebody just guesses at an answer and gets it right I tell them that even a blind squirrel finds a nut once in a while. And when I have to put up with the little cherubs misbehaving beyond all limits of human patience I have a phrase that is a conglomeration of Banned. Camp similes to describe the overtly hyperactive: like a band of howler monkeys hopped up on Pixie Stix and Mountain Dew. So today, for Teacher Appreciation Week I received what is hands-down the BEST FREAKIN' TEACHER GIFT I have EVER received. I laughed to the point of nearly urinating myself. Of course it is hard to tell if the almost-urination episode is truly due to the hysterics from the gift or merely your everyday middle-age incontinence, but I am pretty sure it was the gift.

What Happens When We Die

All erroneous speculation as to my whereabouts can now cease.  I have NOT fallen off the planet, nor have I been in prison. The REAL explanation for my lengthy absence from blogdom is that I have been taking care of MonsterInLaw in hospice care for the past few months. Luckily, Blogger didn't mistake my lack of posts for disinterest or disappearance due to alien abduction and I still have an account.

MonsterInLaw was able to peacefully pass on, and in addition to the assets left to us in the will and an elderly Weimeraner, I also inherited this fabulous taxidermied armadillo to enhance my home decor.... please contain your envy and try not to covet it too intensely.  If we all had one, it would be less special.

It took us longer to get back home than expected, due to a typically unbelievable chain of events that some day will go into a book titled "Sh1t That Only Happens to Me" 

1) She passed away on Easter weekend and we were working around the holiday to make funeral arrangements.

2) The truck stop where I usually acquired my fix of the absolutely most decadent and comforting millionaire pie on the entire planet has STOPPED SELLING PIE!!!! 

3) We all got some sort of allergy attack or backwoods influenza or some sh1t and we were sick for half the week. 

4)  There is NO cell phone service and only DIAL-UP internet in the particular subdivsion of BFE where her house is. 

5) The will was not in the safe where she said it would be, thereby necessitating a sh1tstorm of overturned baskets, ransacked cabinets, and dumped out drawers which did not yield the will, but DID give MyPoolBoy the disturbing discovery that his sweet little mother kept a Smith & Wesson in her nightstand with her VIBRATOR.  (He commented that both of these items made sense since his father has been dead for over 5 years and she kept insisting that she didn't need a man..) 

6) The will WAS in her closet underneath apprximately a BILLION boxes of shoes and 3 empty cigar boxes. 

And the BEST part: 

7) Her attorney that was supposed to handle filing the will was almost as elusive as the will itself.  He was  reportedly depressed because his wife, who was some sort of counselor or therapist left him for one of her mental patients.

Somebunny Stop Me

So.  Trainwreck and BrideOfTrainwreck and the Grandsh1t are visiting this week.  Y'all know I have mercilessly tormented BrideOfTrainwreck  with the warning that my babysitting skills consist of a bottle of vodka (for me) and a rabbit hutch (for the little "angel").
Yesterday we were all hanging out in the backyard, and the Grandsh1t walked over behind the bbq area and proceeded to mess with the latch on the rabbit hutch.  The verbalizations that followed that event were one-sided, yet hysterical.

BrideOfTrainwreck:  Grandsh1t, get out of the rabbit hutch.
This followed by a brief pause where I was mustering an ear-to-ear grin in preparation for an all-out guffaw -- which was interrupted with this:
BrideOfTrainwreck: Shut up, WTP.

Intruder Alert

So  Last month we got this heads-up email from an administrator telling us that the district safety crew was going to conduct a test to see if we would let evildoing strangers into the building. The gist of it was that they were sending in a mock intruder and we were supposed to follow correct procedure and protocol.  Correct procedure and protocol is this: everyone is on red alert for a big ol' effed-up game of "Where's Waldo" except Waldo doesn't have a stripey shirt OR a visitor's badge and we were to immediately accost and then Spanish Inquisition the poor guy until he gets flustered and forgets that he was there to do whattheh3llever evil deed it was that he had originally intended to perform upon unsuspecting helpless schoolchildren.... which only proves that everyone completely underestimate the "helplessness" of the schoolchildren in my homeroom.

Anyway, I was cleaning out my inbox and ran across the email.  And I got to thinking -- hey!  No one ever said how things went.  Did they never send anyone after all?  Did they send someone and they forgot to let us know how it all went down? Was it all a big hoax just to keep us on our toes?

Or here's my REAL suspicion: Someone DID get in and NO ONE caught them and the poor sonofab+ch is still wandering aimlessly around campus.  Guess we'll find out after Spring Break.

Three Little Words

So. The Larva got married tonight.  And The Lucilles showed up and very crassly began to shove tables together so that the reception area would suit OUR needs and who-the-h3ll cares about your effing wedding ettiquette just don't run out of beer and I will sort-of behave.

Seriously,  if the matron-of-honor's speech contains the words "I had too many Jello shots" then it is really too much to ask us to pay attention to a seating chart!

In lieu of a guest book at the door, she had this photo-book that I immediately noticed bore a very close likeness to a high school yearbook.  Luckily, the night was still young and I was still sober, so I was able to contain my urge to sign it with typical yearbook quips such as "stay kewl" or "I want to be the first to sign your crack!"

During the course of the evening however, I failed to restrain myself and I managed to: help DownUnder take her first shot of tequila EVER, danced the first Dollar Dance with the bride and shoved money into her cleavage.  AnD SOMeONE had the brilliant idea of leaving cards and pens for us to contribute Marriage Advice to the happy couple.

Our table(s) had some great ones:  Nothing says I Love You like clean underwear,  No women at the deer lease, There are other things you can do in the kitchen besides cook, and a gem of a quote that only proves that once I have had beer AND tequila, all implements of communication should probably be taken out of my reach:

Condoms Sometimes Fail.