Who Drives A Moped? Another Favorite Southern Euphemism

Some people call this:

a “MOPED.”

But here in the South, we have another word for one of those. It’s definitely not a car, not quite a bike and not really a motorcycle, either. My friends, when you are driving in your car and you see this:

outside your window driving along side you well then, son, that boy’s takin’ a ride on the

LIQUORCYCLE

Oh Dear!

While it is unfair to generalize, it is a widely held notion that the reason a fella is peddling along through morning traffic on his way to work is because his driver’s license was either a) revoked or b) suspended for being chemically inconvenienced by alcohol while driving a motor vehicle. More specifically, nicked for DWI or DUI.

Should I perpetuate the stereotype that every redneck on a moped is actually a drunk with no license? Well, since my state has no searchable moped laws or regulations, I’m just going to go ahead and be a troll.

Remember folks, the next time you see a moped on the road, give that puppy a

W I D E B I R T H…There’s just no telling why or how a man ends up driving…the Liquorcycle.

Don't Drink and Drive...Click HERE

When The Only Solution is Samuel L. Jackson

In his amazing, if not under-read masterpiece of a short story, “The Metamorphosis,” Franz Kafka writes… “As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a monstrous vermin (or insect, depending on the translation)…”

I, myself, awoke the other night…but not due to uneasy dreams or due to being transformed in my sleep in to a gigantic beetle, although I had had my usual nightly wine, but not enough to awake to feeling like a slug.

No, no. I was woken up to my husband shoving me in the shoulder yelling, “Oh my God! Do you hear that? Oh NO! Our air-conditioner EXPLODED! AHHHH!” and an ominous THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD sound, which continued until Big D turned off the air conditioning. Scary. And disturbing. What the eff was occurring just outside our bedroom window? Was somebody trying to get in? Trying to steal our A/C units? Were there the notorious copper thieves we’ve been hearing so much about, looming just outside our door?

“I’m going out there,” said Big Daddy with purpose. I opened one eye just long enough to ensure he was donning a pair of khaki shorts and NOT strutting out au naturel…I mean, we DO have neighbors, after all…and suppose other folks came out to investigate the ruckus? There’d be Big Daddy, bare-ass necked, in nothin’ but what the good Lord gave ‘im. Bless.

We have two “zones” in our home, which means we have two outdoor compressors. Big Daddy was trying to determine which compressor said HORRIBLE noise originated from. Shortly, he came back into the bedroom (I was still trying to sleep) to propose that when he “BANGS ON THE BEDROOM WINDOW,” I was to turn on the A/C to see which compressor was broken. I (am such a GREAT wife!) um…politely declined due to sleep.

Unable to determine the root cause, Big Daddy assumed (and you all know what happens when you ASSume…)

that a belt had come loose, and was prepared to call the repairman in the morning. However, when I awoke (that morning to restful dreams…) I was actually chilled by the coolness of my room…I deduced the A/C was now, in fact, functional. So what was the AWFUL, thud, thud, thud…we heard last night…I knew there had been a rash of cooper thieves in the area…do we have copper in our air conditioners??? Was Big Daddy sent into danger (in his khaki shorts) as he rushed outside into the darkness after the strange sound last night?

“Did you notice the air works?” queried Big Daddy during his first morning phone call, “I found out what was wrong!”

“Ok, so what was it?” I asked, even though in my gut, I had already figured it out.

“Well, I carpooled today, so I had a little extra time. I walked around the side of the house to get the serial number, model number and brand of our units so I could tell the repair man what to bring. But…when I looked in the unit in the light of day I saw…”

Uhg.

“…a snake.”

“Dead, right?”

“Um…YEAH!”

“So…uh…what…uh…”

“Well then M showed up to drive me to work, so I recruited him to assist me in extraditing the snake.”

“What kind of snake was it?”

“Black with a white belly.”

Damn! That’s the kind of snake that EATS the bad snakes! DOUBLE Bless! AND, just when I thought the story couldn’t get any worse or disgusting…As if the fact that there was a friggin’ SNAKE mere INCHES from my PERSON (albeit behind the confines of the brick wall that separates inside from outside…) but now Big Daddy was about to take the gore-factor up a notch…

“OH, and uh…”

“And WHAT [Big Daddy]?”

He started to giggle like a 10-year-old boy who has accidentally stumbled upon Grandpa’s collection of “Playboys.”

“WHAT is it?!”

“Well…I tried to throw it into the “jungle” (our family word for the woods behind our house,) but it got hung up on a little scrub tree and it’s just kinda hangin’ there…but don’t worry, if you go out there, you can just THROW SOMETHING AT IT and it will fall down."

It is a fact that I am a lover of all animals…however, I do NOT do snakes. I don’t wish them any harm…I just don’t want to see them, touch them, hear about them, know about them. I don’t even want to see a picture of one. But the sheer horror of what I imagined was waiting for me in the jungle
) was causing me such a dichotomy between curiousity and anxiety. Would I have to purchase a sign warning visitors that we have (gulp) a snake-infested jungle?!

I couldn’t resist seeing it with my own eyes.

Again, as if I thought the situation couldn’t get any worse, I found the poor, pitiful snake hanging tangled from a scrub tree…COVERED IN BEES. Kind of makes me think twice before using our yummy, delicious and healthy local honey. God only knows how SNAKEY it may be. Ick.

I’m sorry for the snake, I really do love all living creatures. No, I did not “throw something at it,” I am relieved to report that “something” mercifully removed the little guy from the tree during the night (hawk? owl? pterodactyl?) and the A/C is fully functional in this 100 degree Southern heat. I’m still grossed out, but I’m sure in time, that, too, shall pass.

Even Pee-Wee saved the snakes from the burning pet store...would you? Click here.

Are You *Ever* Too Old to Soil Yourself?

As parents, we have or will at some point experience the rigors of potty training. There are books. There are videos. There are methods. There are entire philosophies written with the length and complexity of the Tao Te Ching

(Yes, Grasshoppa...Same is true of Potty Training!)

penned with the express purpose of getting your little one to “tinkle,” “wee-wee,” “pee-pee,” “poopie,” “number(s) 1 and/or 2” in the potty…to, in other words, further evolve into functional members of society who, for the next seventy or so years will go diaper-free until that point in old-age diapers become, again, a daily requirement.

With my oldest (a boy), potty training was a snap. Boys are so logical. At age 2 years, we told him that he needed to “pup” (our obligatory familial nickname for doo-doo) and “pee-pee” in the potty. We were reluctant to use “Pull-Ups,” (which, for those of you without kids) is essentially a toddler version of a “Depends Undergarments,” for use with those individuals who KNOW they are supposed to use the toilet but whose circumstances prevent them from doing so,) but opted to use them sparingly…at night, on long shopping trips…in situations where finding a potty could prove precarious. Literally two weeks later, my son was among the toilet-trained. Bless.

Our daughter took a little longer, mainly because she is a TOTAL Diva, who demands things to be her way or NO way. Her potty training was much, MUCH more drawn out than the two-week-miracle that occurred with our son (and spoiled us) and the speed bump proved to be nothing more than linguistics. We used every G-rated euphemism in the English language short of “whiz” to urge our darling Princess to urinate on the potty. For 1: She would NOT use a “practice potty.” It was the BIG, “regular” potty or no potty at all. Ok, fine, we “give.” And second, she absolutely would NOT let her bladder go until she told us the password…

“Mama, iths called “TINKLE!” She finally revealed with her Cindy Brady lisp and then let loose like a pumped and primed fire hydrant. Could you hear that? It was a palpable sigh of relief. We finally knew the magic word.

So yes, one child “pee-pees” and one child “tinkles.” Whatev. At least they’re both in underpants. I’m not complaining.

But here’s the thing. Big Daddy and I were watching TV the other night and were privy to a VERY disturbing commercial…geared at young, naïve, unsuspecting parents just like us. The commercial was introducing “Pampers Underjams.”

They range in size from a respectable 38 lbs. to a questionable 85 lbs. As in, the average weight of a TEN YEAR OLD. Which raises the query…How badly does Pampers want your money? Pampers ABSOLUTELY does NOT want you to potty train your kid. Assuming the child has no special needs or developmental delay…Its simple economics…potty training = loss of profit, which is why we believe they keep increasing the “target age” on their products.

I can hear their product development meeting now…“Geez, Bob…Diapers work so well with babies…maybe we can do like the cigarette companies and make parents ADDICTED and DEPENDENT. We can just keep making and advertising diapers but under the guise of “training pants” or “bed-wetting aids.” BRILLIANT! It makes sense, right? It’s SOOO much easier to just shell out fifteen bucks on a bag of diapers for your kid that to spend ACTUAL time with them doing all that pesky, time-consuming loving and nurturing. Just schlep a Pull-Up on their butt and call it a day. The breadth of human laziness never ceases to amaze. What’s next? Underjams for PARENTS!?”

“New, from the makers of Pampers…You used them with your newborn. You used them with your toddler. Hell, they worked so damn well, you just kept on using them…So Mom…too tired after your long day to use the bathroom? No problem! Did that last glass of wine make you a little too relaxed? We’ve got you covered! LITERALLY! Are you an adult ASTRONAUT who needs to drive cross country to attempt to assault their lover’s wife?

Well, we have to draw the line somewhere…sorry. PampersPanties are the perfect solution for your too-busy-to-take-the time/too-lazy-to-purchase-real-underpants lifestyle. Now you TOO can experience the ease of eliminating in your pants and wallowing in your own filth…just like your OWN kids who are WAY too old to still be in Pull-Ups, using a pacifier and drinking from a bottle. (Yes, THREE is TOO OLD.) PampersPanties are PERFECT for soccer games, PTA meetings and of course, Bunco Night! Turn over the stress of toileting to us, so you can do the things that really matter…like watching “All My Children” and taking Xanax. PampersPanties…

because we can care!

If you just wet your pants (but are still dry!) Click here.

The "Two Coreys" of a Happy Marriage

It has long been well-known lore to those close our household that Big Daddy and I share more than a joyful marriage and two progeny. Sure, it may seem on the surface that Big Daddy’s strikingly “Superman/ Brawny Man’s love-child” good looks and my 21-year-old er, um… ”Liberal Intimacy” policy, fiery personality and quick wit drew us together like *lobsters.

(G-Rated Picture of Big Daddy Gettin' Into Brownie's Pants...)

*[For more than twenty years, Dr. Jelle Atema of the Marine Biological Laboratory has been studying lobster mating behavior. He claims lobsters make tender lovers.

A female lobster can mate only just after she sheds her shell. Lobster society has evolved a complex, touching courtship ritual that protects the female when she is most vulnerable. When she is ready to molt, the female lobster approaches a male's den and wafts a sex "perfume" called a pheromone in his direction. Unlike a female moth, whose sex pheromone may attract dozens of random suitors, the female lobster does the choosing. She usually seeks out the largest male in the neighborhood (like Big Daddy) and stands outside his den, releasing her scent in a stream of urine from openings just below her antennae. (UM, How does she pee out of her face? I'm just wondering...) He responds by fanning the water with his swimmerets, permeating his apartment with her perfume. He emerges from his den with his claws raised aggressively. She responds with a brief boxing match or by turning away. Either attitude seems to work to curb the male's aggression. The female raises her claws and places them on his head to let him know she is ready to mate. They enter the den, and some time after, from a few hours to several days later, the female molts. At this point the male could mate with her or eat her, but he invariably does the noble thing. He gently turns her limp body over onto her back with his walking legs and his mouth parts, being careful not to tear her soft flesh. They mate "with a poignant gentleness that is almost human, " observes Dr. Atema. The male, who remains hard-shelled, inserts his first pair of swimmerets, which are rigid and grooved, and passes his sperm into a receptacle in the female's body. She stays in the safety of his den for about a week until her new shell hardens.]

From: http://www.gma.org/lobsters/allaboutlobsters/society.html

But if you went with “Lobster Theory” alone, you’d be wrong.

It was our birthdays that hurled us together like a hurricane. A hurricane only a world renowned psychic could have predicted. Like a hurricane named Cleo. Miss Cleo.

Big Daddy and I share a wonderful life, and we could and should be satisfied with just that. But no…without even realizing it, we raised our own bar.

That’s because we also share…

Wait for it…

Wait for it…

We also share our birthdays with Corey Feldman (July 16) and Corey Haim (December 23), respectively. That’s right. The Two Coreys. Much like The Feld-Man and the Haimster, our coupling was meant to be. We had no other choice BUT to be together. Our partnership, our union was inevitable. All signs pointed to “Yes.”

To quote Feldman himself, “When we’re together, there’s no stopping us.”

Jealous? Click HERE.

Not My Typical Week, But In A GOOD Way!

It’s OK to hate something you’re really good at. Case in point…my cake baking/decorating abilities. I'm creative, original, GREAT at decorating...BUT...I hate it. And NO one would pay for my "imperfect" work. Yes, I leave "lines" in my frosting, and my kids DO stick their grubby fingers in in when I'm not looking. No "Ace of Cakes" here, more like "Roseanne of Cakes." Ya' dig? First was M’s most awesome Lego cake, and only a short 6 days later, came Big Daddy’s “Refrigerator Cake.”

Much like M’s birthday, Tina was like, “Brownie, what are you going to do?” When I asked for a cake suggestion, Tina’s instant recommendation was “Refrigerator!” as a nod to Big Daddy’s livelihood as a design engineer for a major appliance manufacturer who also employs one of America’s Sweethearts as their adorable Spokeswoman.

In other news, I just signed on for an awesome NIGHTIME race (the coolness factor of the South never ceases to amaze me…just when you think someone else is doing it bigger or better, we have a race…at NIGHT…) I’m doing the 1 mile and then a half hour later, the 5K. Don’t tell my mom (remember the first rule of Brownie Exercising? Don’t talk about Brownie Exercising…she thinks I’m just doing the 5K…)
Even though my Gay, who saw a recent picture of me asked me, “So, how hungry are you?” A compliment, a jab AND an inside joke about cheerleaders dating back to WAAAAAY back when…(side note: if you EVER have a chance to have YOUR Gay mimic a bunch of high school cheerleaders winning a competition by yelling, “Yeah! Yeah!!! Oh God, I’m so hungry…” take it!!!)

I’m still excited about trying this race. Which brings me back to paragraph Number One. I also hate running. I wonder…does anyone actually LIKE running? Or do we all just like being thin and fit, and don’t want to admit to it because then we sound shallow? Not me. I’ll take “shallow and vain” because I do NOT like running. Although running in a race is pretty “ok.”

Speaking of fitness…has anyone else heard that the DAY before Nicole URBAN had little Sunday Rose she did a FULL BACK BEND in yoga class? Like I said…there’s always someone who can do it bigger and better. And don’t try to tell me she did that because she likes yoga. She did it because she doesn’t want her baby to make her fat. Is NINE MONTHS out of your life too much to ask? I’m just sayin’. Seriously, Entertainment Media, thank you for constantly reminding me that Nicole was preggo, because GOO, couldn’t tell AT ALL by the pictures. It’s your first kid, Dude! Live it UP! Love your kid, Nic, but give it a damn break. M’kay? Take one for the "team." I can't WAIT to hear all about how "breastfeeding" helped her shed all her "baby weight." Riiiiiiiiigggggt.

Speaking of kids…Tina and I brought our kids to the farm and to the pool on Friday! I don't acknowledge them very often, but...Thank you, Stay at Home Momma Gods, for the day was OURS!

One of the Guardian Dogs. And YES, he WILL NOT HESTITATE to EAT you in ONE gulp…if you mess with his girls…including ME!

The boys achieve a DOUBLE “Butt Buster," while V watches, in awe, from the sidelines...

Totally good times! Check out me and my favorite macho (our awesome Latin worker’s name for the bucks on the farm)

and my “mystery drink” at the pool. I wonder what’s in that cup??? (Hint…if you know me…you know.)

I Won't Make Fun of You...If You Promise To Admit It..."ALCOHOL MOUTH"

Alcohol Mouth: Adjective: verbal diarrhea caused by drinking too much beer, wine or other spirits.


Example: "By that point I'd had too much to drink and Honey, I had Alcohol Mouth, so I just told them what I REALLY thought about all of them...


The thing that makes "Alcohol Mouth" such a FANTASTIC slang word is the fact that NO ONE (other than Tina) is brave enough to OWN Alcohol Mouth.



Most folks who shoot their mouth off while drunk, will NEVER admit that said words were a result of too much to drink.
You have to be ballsy as hell to even ADMIT to "Alcohol Mouth." But if you can't own it, well then, my friend, you are simply shit-faced.


Boo. Sometimes Alcohol Mouth sucks, but only when it's you. Every other time, it's funny as HELL.

Vive la Libertad....vive la Bouche D'alcohol!

Self Congratulatory Birthday Blog

How To Apply the KISS Principle: Keep It Simple, Stupid!

“It seems that perfection is reached not when there is nothing left to add, but when there is nothing left to take away". Antoine de Saint Exupéry

“It was the best birthday of my life.”

And thus M summed up the celebration we had for his 5^th birthday.

M’s birthday party kind of snuck up on all of us. Of course we were acknowledging the day, knew it was rapidly approaching…But when, a few days before Big Daddy and I were laying in bed talking over wine and beer (and the sweet absence of kids who were up in bed asleep…) I had an “OH SHIT!” moment when I realized I had about 2 days to throw something together.

Now, in my defense, it was never my plan to have any kind of a formal birthday party this year. In the years past, both M and V have had amazing birthday parties at a local horse ranch and the Art Center. I always go into a friggin’ tizzy with invitations, who to invite, the venue etc…when all M (a.k.a a rising 5 year old) really wants is to hang out, open presents and eat birthday cake. But, as Murphy’s Law dictates, shortly before my “Oh Shit” moment, M suddenly had a 30 person guest list whipped up including everyone from my hairdresser to his former preschool teacher (who is also my friend who I love!) So I was trying to find a way to gently explain that his entire preschool class, MOMS Club and YMCA childcare buddies were not going to spontaneously show up to celebrate.

Since we are living credit-card free (yes, it scares me still, to type those words…I just got my new Southern Living at Home catalog and I just about went into withdrawl convulsions…)

we thought this would be a good year to “keep it simple.” Quite frankly, in this economy, it felt foolish to do something garish and over-the-top when all it becomes (as my father would say) is a 3-Ring Circle Jerk that only serves to raise the bar for the next year. At the rate some folks go, they’ll be on MTV’s Sweet Sixteen for their SIXTH birthday and that’s just not our simple, laid-back, surfer style. Been there, done that, taking a year off. In fact, I may NEVER go back…there is something so satisfying about a good old-fashioned do-it-yourself birthday party. It feels like a really kick-ass homemade Halloween costume.

"You Tube Video"

"Tron Guy"

…And although I held my breath the ENTIRE DAY, ready to throw myself in the lake for breaking my son’s heart and filling him with irrevocable damage and disappointment, at the end of the day, as he lay his perfect 5 year old head down to bed, he told us he had the “best birthday of [his] life,” and you know what? So did we! And it went down like this…

July 10 2008…8 am: Phone call from Tina: “Hey, Brownie, Whatcha doin’?”

“Trying to figure out something for M’s birthday…he wants a party, I don’t know what to do?!”

Tina: Ok, well, we’ll have dinner, give him our presents…you make a cake…we’ll bring bread…you make a salad…

“Ok, ok, and I’ll make hamburger helper...all the kids like that…”

“Ok, I have some, I’ll bring it over…with the meat…right now…”

“Ok, we can hang up now, you’re in my foyer…”

So it was decided that we would get another package of Hamburger Helper and more meat and of course LOTS of wine…and it was a done deal…all planned in 2 minutes the DAY OF. Break! Start the clock…

Our first stop was Toys R US. M was allowed to pick out one (or three!) presents (all LEGOS, go figure…two Lego Batman and one Mega Blocks Pirates of the Caribbean) and V was allowed to choose something, as well. She got a new lunch box for “Lunch Bunch” at preschool (I. Can’t. Wait…I am going to have ACTUAL “spare time” this fall! I’ve waited THREE YEARS for this…I’m 32 years old, I have *marginal* energy, and I’ll have both of my kids in school…Woo Hoo!) and a new cheerleading mat and light-up pom-poms…(again, go figure!) Total bill? Around $50 (some of M’s birthday money from Andrew’s mom.)

The next stop was Party City…we got some Darth Vader party plates and napkins, 5 balloons with an extra special Darth Vader mylar balloon (one to grow on!) and a party game (pin the control panel on Darth Vader. No, seriously. That was the game!) and some candy prizes for the participants. Total bill? Less than $20.

Finally, we stopped at the grocery store for salad, Hamburger Helper and meat. I had the cake ingredients at home, but found some super-cool candles, so we threw those in the buggy, too. Total bill? About $10.

Yes, we did his entire party for less than $100 CASH. Here in the South, we compete with SAVING money they way folks compete, where I used to live, with SPENDING money. My wallet thanks me.

Fast forward a few hours…I fastly and furiously baked, froze and iced this:

"Lego Cake"

Note: the Legos in the Background

Here’s the thing…I HATE to decorate cakes…and yet, I find myself strangely drawn to them. Probably my LEAST desired job would be “Iron Chef Cake,” but still, I won’t let a birthday pass that I don’t make a creative cake. It near kills me, but I do it. I love having my kids in the kitchen, watching me create, and as the project comes together and they squeal with delight upon recognizing what I have made, it makes all of my “cake-stress” worth it. It is not enough for me to make a plain ‘ol rectangle cake…I’m like Emeril. I gotta kick it up a notch. BAM.

"The Keeper of Tony's Beer Cooler"

Ding Dong

Cue Tina and Family…

The Boys Building the "Black Pearl" in the dining room...ARRG, Matey!

The kids played, we had cheese and crackers and Tina made the Hamburger Helper while I finished up the cake. We had salad, dinner and then…M got to blow out his candles!!! The cake was a hit (cause of the whole Lego thing…DUH!) and the night was complete when V snuck all FIVE candles onto her one, itty, bitty slice of cake. She really IS my “Mini Me,” making it all about HER.

When it was time to open presents, M had ours, Tina’s families’ and then some family presents mailed to us by Big Daddy’s sister and parents. To end the night, the kids moved into the office to build M’s brand new Lego “Agents” set and the adults got to enjoy some…well… “adult time.” With beer and wine.

I could NEVER have imagined the day would have turned out the way it did, with two minutes of planning, and LESS than $100 bucks…We pulled the whole birthday out of a hat, the very day the shindig was supposed to go down, oh man, it felt like sliding into home base and dodging the catcher for the perfect home run. Or this chick.

It was a fabulous lesson in budget, priorities, friendship and parenting. I suppose, at some point, I realized that just like everything else with kids (my kids? Or ALL kids? I don’t know…but this is our experience…), they are so easily satisfied…their wants and needs are far less comlex than those of their adult counterparts. That for them, the “best of the best,” doesn’t necessarily come with a heavy price tag. On the contrary, simplex sigillum veri which is Latin for: “Simplicity is the sign of truth.” And for as complicated and convoluted as things usually turn out for me…I like that.

Yeah, Bo-yeeeee!