June 18, 2004

Being from Kentucky, there are a lot of catchy phrases we get to use.  It's one of the very few stereotypes that is actually true about people from Kentucky.  The rest are pretty much bullshit.  In fact, a lot of the catchy phrases we used had to do with shit specifically.  I never particularly thought of Kentucky folk as being shit oriented in any way, but as I consider it, it seems we talk about it a great deal.

When I saw this webset, it made me think of that very thing. My dad was the king of the turn of a phrase.  He was not a particularly creative man, but he heard phrases, stored them and used them well and frequently.

My aunt once was fussing about something her husband, George, had said or done and my dad retorted, "Well, I'd tell you George has a trumpet up his ass, but you'd blow it."

That was one of the oddest things I ever heard come out of a person's mouth and I never forgot it.  I was about 6 or so and it just stuck there.

This webset made me remember one of his favorites.  If he was faced with a dilemma in which his feelings were confused on the matter, he'd look puzzled and say, "Well, I don't know whether to eat shit or howl at the moon."  If he felt disdain for someone, he would say, "Pfft.  Well ______ [insert name here] can shit and fall back in it for all I care."  If my mother or one of the kids happened to be whining about something we wanted, he'd say, "Well you can want in one hand and shit in the other and see which fills up first."

Lotsa shit references going on there.

I'm sure there were others and I hope they didn't die with him and I will remember more of them.

This set brought the "eat shit or howl at the moon" thing to my forefront.

Lately, I don't know whether to eat shit or howl at the moon.  I've had such amazing, blessed things happen, but at the same time, I've had the most freaking frustrating things happen too!

Joshua, my son who is 22, lost his job last week.  This is a tragedy because he has two little step daughters who are 3 and 4 and a son, Aiden, on the way in August.  His girlfriend is on disability for her pregnancy and they are barely getting by.  Losing his income was just tragic.  Eric and I did some heavy spell work for him and yesterday, he called to tell me, less than a week after losing his job, that he'd gotten a job through a staffing agency.  It's in a metal shop, temp to hire and when he's hired, he'll get almost a 50% raise and full benefits.  He also gets LOTS of overtime now.  This will be enough to get them through, so this is a wonderful thing.

I forgot to show you what Josh gave me for mothers day:

This fabulous thing is something like a pig punch bowl.  I can't imagine anyone using that much gravy.  It has a huge ladle that goes with it.  I'm holding my pudgy little hand with it just so you can get an idea of how huge this little swine beast actually is.  He is the one thing worthy of sitting on my tiny counter space.  He is my "junk pig."  Some people have a junk drawer (and I do, but it has things like the tupperware lids, my flour sifter, the staple gun, etc and not a TRUE junk drawer, of which my previous houses had 4-5.  The junk pig holds lighters, the keys, pens, etc.  I love my junk pig.  It is da bomb.

My sweet hubby brought me home an ala carte pollo fundidito from my favorite Mexican restaurant last night.

That was a wonderful thing.

The problem with his business partners seems to have been ironed out for now and although I believe it will represent itself, I think it's stable for the time being. That's a wonderful thing.

I am definitely making wonderful headway in adjusting to the life changes that are both here and headed my way.  That feels great and I feel a phenomenal sense of peace from that resolution.

That is also a wonderful thing.

Lots of wonderful stuff.

I can't find my favorite deck of Tarot cards, dammit.  I keep them in my purse always.  They're a Morgan Greer deck.  They look like this:


In my purse, they lived in a beautiful brocade and velvet pouch with lovely fringe on it.  Both pouch and card are gone from my purse now.

I likely left them at some restaurant in the past two months, which limits it to two places.  I called both and of course, they haven't seen it.  As was confirmed on "Scrubs" last night, "Lost and Found" is actually a box in an establishment labeled "Free Stuff."

The dog, after a week or so of good house breaking, has started peeing and pooping in the house again, even when the door is ajar so he can get out.  >:<  I think he's mad at me for yelling in his face about the barking.

I just so don't dig dogs.

It's 89 degrees here.  That means it's over 100 degrees in Sacramento.

I should turn on the AC, but I'm feeling stingy.

I hope the kids don't pass out.

Eric had to leave for work at 4:30am.  I woke up with him and couldn't get back to sleep for another hour.  When I went back to bed, I thought I wouldn't be able to sleep, but the next thing I knew I was opening my eyes at it was 10am!!  ??!  Where were the kids.  As it turned out, the were playing video games quietly in their room and had fed themselves cereal for breakfast.  Wow.

Are they really growing up that fast?

Can't go to hamburger night tonight.  Eric is working late and then is picking up a motorcycle from a guy with whom he struck a bargain.  It will save us a lot on gas.  Our Caprice is a real guzzler and isn't set up for driving these mountains daily.  It will be a good investment and the guys worked out a payment plan we can afford.  Read:  I now have a car.

It reminded me of when Paul and I were in a motorcycle club.  Those were fun times.  My nickname was "Tits."  That part wasn't very fun.  Why couldn't it be "The Bod?"

Georgia, my beeznatch, moves away in 2 weeks. :(  I will really miss her.  We're going out for a day on Wednesday.  Dammit.

Tomorrow, I need to go through our storage shed (ugh) and find the window fan, see if one of my books is in there, find Eric's motorcycle helmet and dig out the boxes of baby clothes for Josh and Valerie.  It's going to be a 2-3 hour job.  I tried to poke around in there for 20 minutes or so last night and realized it was going to be a much bigger job that I originally thought.  I'll need to do it early or it will be too hot.  I also managed to break one of my ceramic pumpkins in the harvest decoration box.  Evidently, ceramics have a critical breaking point when you stand about 225 pounds on top of it after mistaking it for a box of books.  Who'da thought?

Other than that, as far as I know Saturday is an open festival of lethargy.  I imagine we will go to the river and be layabouts.  Sunday we celebrate Summer Solstice, so some of our coven folks are coming up to revel in the sun and welcome the new season. 

I've really been feeling the urge to make homemade ice cream.  Anyone got good recipes?  I don't like fruity stuff like peach or strawberry or such.  I also don't like coffee flavor in my ice cream or my world.  I'd love the perfect vanilla, but other ideas minus the above ones are welcome.  I have an electric ice cream freezer (of course).

Tonight's dinner is roast, potatoes and carrots.  A far cry from Hamburger Night, I can tell you that (harrumph).  I'll have to play some polka music and a little Leslie Gore to not miss it.  What am I talking about?  All I miss is someone else cooking for me.  I have some kind of less than admirable fetish for other people cooking for me.  I'm almost embarrassingly grateful when I get to eat food I in no way prepared.  It has been known to produce much puddling and moaning.

In fact... I've almost decided that I hate cooking.  No, that's not true.  I'm just done with it.  Like birth.  I gave birth to six children.  I taught Lamaze classes for 17 years.  It was like when Forrest Gump stopped running.  I was just done.  I think I'm just done with cooking.  I am very, very good at it, but I'm done.

I might even need to hire a Mr French or an Alice or a Hazel (for those old enough to remember the Baxters) when I'm rich.  They can clean my house and cook for me, but I don't know that I want them to live with me.  They might hear me snoring.  I mean, I don't want a roommate.  I just want someone to clean and fetch and cook for me.

"Will that be all for tonight, Ma'am?"  "Absolutely, Mavis, you may go home now and may I say, that was a magnificent chicken alfredo you made tonight. Are there any of those marvelous chocolate chip walnut cookies left?"  "Yes, Ma'am, I noticed the jar was getting a bit light, so I made a new batch to top them off for you."  "Thank you Mavis.  Have a good evening."  Why Mavis has a cockney accent, I'm not sure.  Maybe so her relatives back in the Motherland can send me McVitte's Digestive Bickies and Milky Bars.

Either is fine.  I'm not picky.

Having just received word that Big Daddy Eric is on the way home, I should likely start something like dinner (since Mavis is sadly absent).  I hope you have a marvy weekend and I'll be around next week.

I still have to write the ho versus whore versus slut column (a diatribe on female sexuality) and may even be brave enough to write my "Why I have an aching disdain for Oprah" column.

For now, I'm going to do some howling at the moon since by Kentucky colloquialism, the alternative is fairly grim.  Regardless of who cooked that one, I don't think I'm up for eating it.   

Have some peace or some quiet or both,



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