SoCS –Clean v Dirty

Have y’all seen the commercial where the couple climbs into the backseat during the automated car wash, presumably for a quickie? My husband said the woman’s smile is false advertising. I said prolly now people are buying Corollas, deeply disappointed every time they go through the car wash. I definitely like my car clean, and speedily. Someone needs to vacuum my car and sadly, I’m someone. I don’t mind to get dirty, even I don’t mind gettin my hands dirty, but then, I like my hands clean, clean, clean. I like my hair dirty. Tis true. It’s a whole hair thing. In 2016 I went eight months without using shampoo and then I took up a bar shampoo that’s composed entirely of oils. Yes, that’s right, it’s true, three years, oiled hair. After I oil it, I put more oil in it. It’s not for everyone but it’s definitely for me. I like my body clean. If I don’t have to oil my hair, I prefer baths. I swear, I’m half-human, half-sponge. Hydrating from the inside is absolute rubbish. Good for all my internal organs and functions, but for the skin, oil. And more oil. I like my house clean. Remember when my house was clean? It was tidy, too, with everything in its place? Was it May? I think it was May. Now it’s somewhat clean on some days and almost never tidy. We spend a lot of time in our bedroom. Where the sheets are washed on Sunday because clean sheets are the cat’s meow. I like my clothes to be clean, except jeans, which are better dirty. I prefer my husband dirty. Just a lil. Man smell. Mmm. Which takes us back to the car wash.


Stream of Consciousness Saturday — SoCS ‘clean/dirty’ is brought to you by LindaGHill

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Friday, Once More, With Feeling

I am having a weird summer. I had mono one summer. This one’s better than that one. It’s a strange time in my life. It’s mostly not about me, which is abundantly clear to me, and which is as it should be, roots and wings and fledglings and all that, but they’re called growing pains because ow.

Let me tell you the best medicine for my growing pains — sleep, ice cream, cocktails, and what True calls Dippy Fings. Any fing you can dip into another fing to make the first fing flavored. Chips and salsa, bread and soup, fries and chetchup, pita and hummus, apples and peanut butter — Dippy Fuckin Fings. I’m pretty sure those are also the best remedies for the menopause. You know what women don’t need during menopause? Being subjected to the mood swings of young women.

People comment on how loving and fun we are around here, and we are, but there’s been a lot of tension in the house lately. Sibling rivalry or someshit. There was a screaming fight about cake. Passive-aggressive squawking about television usage and dishwashing. I’ll be away from it all, getting texts like, “Don’t tell Mottern1, but …. ” and “Will you please speak to Mottern3 about her….” and people are all sarcastic and snippy and avoidant. Three is an unhappy number of siblings, cause Tag Teams.

I don’t spend much time on my sofa. It’s in the boy’s room. He doesn’t have another room. Because he’s twenty-fucking-six.

Remember how in March he had to go in and out of hospital and they’d partially mend him and pass him on to the next better hospital? Well, praise be to puppies, we live in the city proper and the boy went to one of our best hospitals with one of the nation’s best surgeons and they fixed him right up on the first shot and he does not have to endure a more invasive worst-case-scenario procedure. He even recovered faster.

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No offense to people who enjoy rural living, but have y’all thought about maintaining your body beyond the fresh air and scenic hiking? As my husband put it, “Redneck General” : not an optimal medical facility. So, on day three of recovery, when Bubba no longer needed his pain meds, I said, “Oh good, does that mean they don’t need to live on my coffee table anymore?” He smirked and asked me, “Where do you want me to put them?” and I said, “In your apartment.” He smirked again, but he’s looking at apartments.

I know somewhere there’s someone thinkin I’m not as supportive and compassionate as I should be. Anyone who thinks they have more support and compassion to offer, more clean surfaces they’d like cluttered, well, they can hit that Contact Me section and submit an application. It takes a village, you know. I joke. You can’t have him, he’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I am tremendously proud. You can’t tell, mea culpa.

We had a cold front. We slept with the windows open. It was DIVINE. Still, my hair is like a Chinese finger trap, and other proof it’s summer.


Work is good. I’m almost through a momentous pile of rusting projects left by predecessors. I have one more struggle of this sort. From where I sit, my metal’s all shiny and hot. I like this metaphor. I’m a blacksmith. I forge swords. Mentor wields them. Haha, occasionally I wield a lil bit, but then I run back to her quick, sometimes like, “Didja see me? Didja see me?!?” and other times, like, “Oh dang! Cover me!”

The Mister and I are feeling old and tired. He’s old and I’m tired. Still, every weekend is a holiday and we sit around smugly enjoying the chaos.

Happy Friday Everyone!

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#ThursdayDoors — Smoke in Your Eyes, Mud in Your Eye

Remember that one Friday in June when The Mister picked me up at work and swept me away from MommyWorld and took me downtown to be free? I DO. One of the things we did that night was go to a cigar bar. Well, martini-slash-cigar bar. We went for martinis within walking distance.

I had been there more than twenty years ago, but The Mister had never been. We had to pay a cover charge. The last time we paid a cover charge, I had a flat stomach and he had a head full of hair and we went to a club, to sweat to a dj, all glowsticky and strobed-out. That was a whole nother life, eh?
Anyway, because of the cover charge, I didn’t photograph the main door, but I got the actual entrance.


It’s exactly the same as I remember it. The major difference is that I am now more *achem* demographically suitable to this venue. And sitting. And enjoying speakeasy tunes at a reasonable volume.

The Mister and I sat on a leather loveseat and struggled to choose martinis. I mean, struggled. And then we chose and we drank and we talked and smiled and laughed. Five stars, would recommend. If you can handle the smoke.

We did not partake of the cigars. This time. There is always next time. Perhaps if we get there before midnight. They’re open til 3am. But see, next time, we could have excessive numbers more than a few many, many martinis, maybe a few bourbons, maybe then we’ll make time to cigar, and that big dude who took our cover charge? He can carry us back to the hotel.

#ThursdayDoors is part of an inspired post series run by Norm FramptonTo view other interesting doors, click the link and see what others are posting today.

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#ThursdayDoors — Florida Home

Always I saw great doors. Sometimes when The Mister drove, I’d snap shots. Rarely, they came out well.


Bit crooked. Best one I got, though.
Can we marvel over real shutters in use? I love that part. I really like the door and the windows, and the gate.
Of course, the flora is hideous because it’s all tropical and pokey-spiky-ick. Also, as we all know, Florida is inherently evil and full of fire ants.
But you know, this is still a pretty house and a good door.

#ThursdayDoors is part of an inspired post series run by Norm Frampton. To view other interesting doors, click the link and see what others are posting today.

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How to Go to Bed Like Joey

I have already provided a tutorial on How to Make a Sammich Like a Bitch, so I’ve decided not a how-to-cook post. In fact, given the defensive, combative comments some readers leave, it’s likely best I don’t tell you how to do things I do exceptionally well. I’m a big picture person. I care about results, not processes. It would be infinitely more joyful and much more fun to tell you how to do something I’m bad it, so you can either feel superior or commiserate.

First note that time after dinner is moving rapidly and your list of things to do and read and watch will keep you up til 3am, but you have to rise to work in the morning, and you’re not down for that kind of tired. At that point, you should pout about how being an adult who is not independently wealthy is a tale of woe. Pout only to yourself, because everyone feels the same way. Momentarily dream of a life where you can rise at will and do all of your best work before dinner. Then note the increasing frequency of your husband’s yawns. Type faster. When he turns off the tv, type rapidly and tell him you will join him shortly. Take your bottles/cans/glasses/mugs/plates/wrappers/silverware, kleenexes, and napkins to the kitchen. Go back for your phone. Stop to hug Moo. Walk into the bedroom, see your husband in bed. Undress/dress for bed. Wash your face. Forget you have glasses on your head, watch them fall into the sink. Pee. You’re very old now and every time you run water, you need to pee. Moisturize. Get some in your hair. Brush your teeth, floss. Sit on your bed and try to scroll your Instagram. Check your bedside for specs, because you can’t read a fucking thing. If you have readers in the there, you get one gold star. If not, go in search of one of the five pair you cannot find when you need them. You have already forgotten there’s a pair on the bathroom sink. Don’t look now, but there’s another pair on the dresser and another on the chest of drawers. Once you have your glasses, like and comment on your Instagram and plug your phone in. Remember you need to take your medicine. Get your medicine. Stop to hug Moo. Question whether you have water in the bottle at your bedside… From what you can recall it’s mostly just kleenex. Odds are not in your favor. Get water to take your medicine. Walk around holding pills in one hand, trying to make a glass of water with the other. Try to drink water and take pills while walking back to the bedroom. Choke. Trip on cats who are rushing to the laundry room to be fed. Feed the cats. Remember you have a load of towels in the wash. Rotate those. Turn around, hug Moo. Sit on the bed again. Balm your lips, cream your hands, and maybe lotion your legs and/or feet. Find clickie. It’s probably under the bed. Turn on shows. Cuddle husband, being sure to flip and flop to acquire the perfect position. It’s hot. Get up, walk to the other end of the house, and turn the air down. Moo wants another hug. Moo will follow you to the bedroom. She will want to talk to you about what hurts on her body now. Sassy will arrive, to lie between you and your husband, to demand petting and to talk about her feelings. Moo will be jealous, and will stick her leg in your face so you can tickle it. The cats, having eaten, want to be part of. While Catticus perches at the end of the bed and begins his nightly bathtime ritual, the other two cats climb over whatever body parts are bridges to where they can best situate their bottoms in your face. Meanwhile, the dog, beside herself with jealousy, licks the leg you just lotioned. As you do regularly, announce to the children that you must get some sleep. Hug and kiss the children at least three times. Repeatedly tell them you love them. You love them, too. No, you love them more. Lie upon husband. Flip and flop again, because that perfect position is long gone now. Yell about how your door is too open and there’s a light on in Tibet. Begin to relax. Realize you forgot to set your alarm. Do that, but yank it, so that it comes unplugged so you may spend considerable time trying to plug the damn thing back in. Lie on husband. Do you have to pee again? Go pee. As soon as you lie down and get comfy, the dryer buzzes. Do not get up and fold it. That can be the thing you remember before bed tomorrow night.

Stream of Consciousness Saturday — SoCS ‘instructions’ is brought to you by LindaGHill

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Pie Bookends

It is so cute how many people wished me a long, happy weekend. Thank you. However, we went to work Friday. (Four of us did. I saw no indication that Moo worked.)  Our boss gave us the choice of July 5 or December 23 and my mama ain’t raised no fool.

I walked out the door at 5:00 Friday though. And no one was in the city, let alone at work, so I pulled out of the lot and drove right over to the left lane and went through every light the first time and I got Sassy from work and was home by 5:27 and that is one for the record books.

Then I went to see Marian! Marian Allen, Author Lady! For the third year in a row!

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We are blurry and happy!

Every year, I say I will go to the ATM, but there are no ATMS on the right side of the road on the way there so I don’t go to the ATM. Every year, I get into the left straight lane and then Sassy asks me if I should be over and every year, I start to tell her it’s up ahead on the left and then say, “Oh No! You’re right!” and move over a lane and then hustle to turn in and realize I’ve driven into the first entrance when I should go directly to the second entrance. Every year. I love traditions.

Marian was there to people (gross) and to sell books (sweet). Unfortunately I am a bad friend, having bought soap from The Soap Goddess, and not books from Marian. In my defense, I have several (tens of several) unread books, however, our last beloved honey soap is matchbook-sized.  (And soap does not come in a Kindle version as many of Marian’s books do.)


marian’s latest book

Click this link to go to Marian’s author page on Amazon

In truth, I would love to buy out all of Marian’s books, then announce, “No more books must be sold today!” I’d kidnap her and take her someplace quiet where we can make the nice uninterrupted chitchat. I suspect even if all of you purchase all her books, she’ll just write more books, because that’s what writers do.

At Marian’s event, Moo got a new rock, which is shaped like a rawrosaur. On the way home, I heard Sassy tell her daddy about the dino. Initially he was upset that we had rescued another animal and then he grew concerned about how we would care for a dinosaur.
“It came with its own box.”
“Moo says it’s a herbivore. It can feed on the back 40.”

Much to The Mister’s dismay, the man who sold Moo the rawrosaur accidentally charged me $107.60 instead of $10.60.
I knew something was wrong when The Mister sent Moo from the room, saying, “Mama and Daddy need to talk about grown-up things.”
“What in God’s name did you spend one hundred dollars on?”
“I didn’t.”
A little more scrolling revealed the vendor had credited it back, but Oh.My.Word.

Me: I’m going to go see Marian at the con. I won’t be gone too long or spend too much.
The Mister: Good.

So not a long weekend, but so far, a happy one. Today’s the kind of day one can bookend with bowls of cherry pie a la mode. And I shall.

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Tomorrow I have big plans with laundry and Agatha Christie, and well, more pie. I hope your weekends are going splendidly as well.

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#ThursdayDoors — Blind Owl Brewery

Happy Independence Day! Woot! This is my very favorite holiday. We’re doin it weird. I’ve noticed we do it weird when it’s not connected to a weekend or vacation. I’ve been cookin all mornin and the fellas are smokin pork out back and soon I’ll bake pies. Bubba bought hellarums (rums, plural). We may just stay home and eat a lot and get lit. Maybe walk to the park and see the fireworks. I love fireworks. Or, maybe we’ll just climb up on our roof…

Anyway, it’s quite nice to be home on a Thursday, sleep til 8:30 and do the door post. I’m wearing pajamas and an apron which I NEVER do at work.

Blind Owl Brewery is great! Its selling points include being HUGE, offering a FABULOUS menu, and best of all, being NEARBY with GENEROUS parking.
Truth: I will park ten blocks away to dine in a crowded phone booth if the food is good. My husband might would drop me off at said phone booth, if the traffic’s not too bad and there’s takeout, but he needs space.

So we five arrived at Blind Owl starved out of our minds because we sat around doing the, “I dunno, what sounds good to you?” song and dance. Bubba was the only one who specified he would like to eat meat, as he may or may not have a hard time readjusting to living here and not eating meat every goddamned day like the carnivorous beast he is. The carnivores outnumber Moo and me, but whatever, I’m the mama. I finally suggested this place and said people should look at the menu, so they did and they were down and we goed.

How we goed was Bubba Google-mapped it and I suggested we take 71st to Binford and drive south, because I’d seen it, but I dunno where. Bubba said 62nd, so The Mister drove us through all the shortcuts he took when he usta drive to see his townhouse girl. *blushes*

They had a veritable encyclopedia of beers delighting Bubba. The Mister didn’t let me choose his beer, so he was just “okay” with his.


Then we ordered food, and Bubba was overjoyed then, because they brought him brisket. Goodness, he went on about the brisket. It had potatoes and sweet potatoes and an egg and I dunno what else, but I’m tellin you, Bubba did go on about it at length. So nom. Very moan.


The Mister had the gyro. He makes sheep sounds while he eats lamb. Ba-aaa-aa and whatnot.

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I ordered a burger. Made of meat, thank you very much. They have veggie and bison, but I went with the standard beef. I ordered The Early Riser, which is a laugh for me, but it had — a fried egg, Gouda, bacon jam, and garlic aioli. It was tasty and came with a slaw that hit the palate dully, but then brought the heat. Good stuff.


Moo had the blt


and Sassy ordered chicken tacos.


Everyone was giddy with grub and we spoke of how we will return to eat this and eat that, and try the other, la-la-la.

Can I just say I didn’t have to filter a single food photo? The lighting is surely intended for iPhone snaps of their plates.

Lemme show you around.


stuff all in front of doors, cause you know, restaurant, not door exhibit




modern jukebox, giant ipod, i dunno, plays tunes






prolly not gunpowder

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bocce ball and stuff outside



i was tryina get the beer vat on the roof. instead i got photobombed

In case you’re wondering, no, they haven’t paid me to tell you how great it is. No one ever pays me to blog. I blog for the love of blog.

#ThursdayDoors is part of an inspired post series run by Norm Frampton. To find other doors of interest or to share your own, click the link.

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SOCS – Three Fours, Fours are the Best

For my next post I will ponder for/fore/four.

For is for so much. Can’t hardly communicate without for. For instance, I love to shout, “For me?!?” Yes. for sure. When given something wonderful, often this is something yummy, hm? I light up and ask, “For me?!?” and this is followed by “Thank you!” and “How delightful!” for receiving yummies is fortunate business.

FORE! is an important word.

Four is my favorite. I dunno why. Always has been. Like yellow. Four is yellow, of course, and it smells like bananas and feels like pencils. I dunno. You’re either like that or you aren’t.

Four parts of plants and four moon phases. Four seasons are best. Four halves of toast with jam. Four kids are good for me. Two sets, two times. Big uns and wee ones but also two in the middle, because who should bear that middle child burden alone? Ours paired off in opposites, too — one older, one younger. Sassy worshiped Bubba and Moo belonged to Sissy. Plenty of photos of that. Most recently March, still paired up that way. Maybe birth order, maybe temperament, maybe resemblance. Dunno. Four is perfect. Four pets are good for me, too. Three cats and a dog. I thought it could be a hundred cats and a dog, and two goats, and six chickens, and a goldfish, but it turns out three cats and a dog are ideal.

For now, that is all I have to say about for, fore, and four.


Stream of Consciousness Saturday — SoCS ‘for/fore/four’ is brought to you by LindaGHill

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Friday Thyme Has Come Again

I hate thyme, remember? When I posted that, I found out a lot of my regular readers like thyme.  Sickos!  Right, we’re all deeply flawed and yet perfect as we are.

If you didn’t remember I hated thyme, now you know I still do, right?

Set that aside.

A few weeks ago, there was a panic at work when “a huge spider” was spotted in the basement. It was, I quote, “a huge spider”.

Our basement is creepy af. It is. I’m not particularly creeped out by basements. I spent three years sleeping in one. So dark. So cool. However, I understand that if one doesn’t care for basements, generally, overall, then our office’s basement is particularly creepy. When the property was first acquired, the basement housed old iron beds with blood-stained mattresses from prior questionable medical practices. It now stores files and things you’d expect to find in a basement, like the mop bucket, tools, and old window screens.

It’s also got a kitchenette. It’s not as fancy as the upstairs kitchenette, but it has one. That’s where we store the beverages. We are heavily dependent on soda. Mostly diet soda, I suppose because we eat candy like we are six and every day is Halloween. Some days I don’t eat candy. Because there’s pastry. Or ice cream. Or cookies. Or cake. Seriously.

Office Assistant generally buys the treats. She works 10+ hours and consumes only black coffee, water, and an apple. She tries to help us junkies by setting out naturally sweet items or lightly sweetened nuts and we eat those, too, BUT WE WANT THE CANDY!

She says things like, “I’m going to Rome for two weeks,” and my first thought is not oh how nice or bring me some door photos, it’s OMFG we’re going to run out of candy! We had some serious deadlines in the last two weeks. I thought we were running out of candy, but Receptionist found the other half of the two-ton bag, Phew!

Anyway, back to the basement — Receptionist has the task of collecting beverages from downstairs and stocking the upstairs, which is when she saw “a huge spider” and informed the boss, who said she’d have Office Assistant ring the bug guy. It was just the three of us during the spider conversation, and I was the only one who hadn’t experienced some sort of heinous spider attack. I certainly did not mention that I did not share their feelings about spiders. I’ll kill a spider in my house if it frightens the kids or looks like it’s sizin me up. If it’s a big’un and I can see its eyes and it’s all “This my bathmat, Bitch!” I’ll kill it. I carry the baby ones out of my house, like, “Here, live in the garden, be happy, do happy spider things! Wheeeeeee!” One huge spider in the basement won’t keep me from the soda unless the spider is some Aragog-lookin thing.

Yesterday, the bug guy came. And he sprayed and sprayed and sprayed and the entire office stunk of THYME OIL. Prolly still does, fml.

Happy Friday Everyone!



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#ThursdayDoors — Hotel Letters

So that hotel The Mister swept me off to a few weeks ago, it had some gorgeous doors. Seriously gorgeous — Federal, marble, stone pediment, lots of architectural interest. I didn’t photograph any of that, because Hilton made sure to obscure it with a bright blue sorta awning breezeway type thing. I dunno. On the way home, I checked the pamphlet for bulletin points marked

  • Inconveniences
    (but did not find it)

See the edges? Marble.

The lobby was stunning. Use your imagination. Can you tell what this hotel usta be?


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I feel like the stairway shot is a huge clue.

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If you guessed “bank” you may collect one gold star.

The Letterboxes Tho.



#ThursdayDoors is part of an inspired post series run by Norm Frampton. To find other doors of interest or to share your own, click the link.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged | 39 Comments