A lot of people look at me with crazy eyes when I tell them I have been married three, yes, three times. I am not ashamed that I have taken the ceremonial walk down the aisle three times, I am just old school - meet someone at a crowded party, sleep with them on the first night and marry them three weeks later. I am proud to say there has never been drugs or alcohol used during any of these three marriage ceremonies, although it probably would have been in my best interest to have gotten sloppy drunk and passed out with my head wedged in some space much too small for it to be removed without liberal amounts of butter, Clinque daily moisturizer or Crisco rather than say "I Do". This head stick was my most effective contraceptive method throughout college and worked fine until the morning I woke up with my head stuck in the SAE Fraternity House Lion's Mouth and a pink Vespa scooter containing a litter of pygmy guinea pig babies and a half eaten Stromboli in the scooter basket. After that I had to swear off the Goldschlager and just use plain old Absinthe. (Turns out the Vespa, Stromboli, and Guineas belonged to a Luxembourg exchange student majoring in veterinarian medicine whom I had befriended at a luau and plied her full of Everclear jello shooters in exchange for a ride and a snack. I heard she is now the CEO of Goldschlager Europa.)
The marriage ceremony and 2 week honeymoon part of my relationship history was not that bad. I would wake up each morning to the various rainbow prisms off a variety of engagement rings and try to remember the name of the fellow next to me. The divorce part however is like taking a dull bread knife and sawing at the dorsal aorta trying to expunge life killing plaque. I have tried to be trite in my view of divorce, saying things like, "I crapped out on the marital table of love" or "I folded before the diamond and my husband lost their shine".
While this makes me no expert on marriage, it certainly has given me the advantage of knowing how toxic divorce is to a person's heart, mind and soul. The new car smell of a 62 inch plasma tv or your soul-mate always dissipates in the most inconvenient manner. The sweet early morning high of a new marriage bed, waking up with sweet smelling breath and filled with an agenda of pleasing each other becomes mornings filled with rushing off to some outside responsibility like the gym, job, carpool or walking the dog. Suddenly this person we promised to cherish is just another item on our agenda to check off in our daily routine. Some folks keep their routines fresh and alive while so many others just slowly die on the vine inching each day further away from their partner.
Because I have failed at so many marriages I have watched with the precision of a love starved stalker how marriages survive and even more amazing how husband and wives continue to delight in each other. What I have learned from digging through numerous bedside tables, breaking into personal e-mail accounts and crashing countless anniversary parties is that these happy couples continue to honor the promise of their wedding vows made many years before. The promise to love is the foundation but it is the cherishing of one another that raises the cream to the top. Cherish seems to be about as close to unconditional acceptance that two people can gift to each other. This promise to cherish keeps marriages solid because they know despite the $20,000 Visa Bill or the socks strewn all over the bathroom floor that this family unit is special, precious and deserves to be protected like an infant child.
I have promised to cherish on three different occasions and have failed each time. Serial adultery and being chased through your neighborhood by a drunk spouse wielding a crow bar can tarnish those promises and at the time I felt and still feel that divorce was the best option for me. This decision does not come without a price tag the size of one found on a haute couture Donatella Versace Hog-tying Gown. Breaking those promises that were made to another person, to family and to what ever higher power was ordaining the wedding service just strips away little pieces of the crucial self. I will forever carry a sense of "what if" in my ever growing emotional luggage set and a bit of failure in my matching hatbox. For me it was hard to cherish when there was a strange woman wearing a corset and garters drinking my Coca-cola in my bedroom or from behind dark wet shrubbery because I didn't want to find the prying end of a crowbar.
If you are one of the lucky ones still married then do yourself a favor by putting the kids to bed early, turning off the internet, letting the kitchen stay dirty overnight and go cherish that person who held your hand on your wedding day and promised to love you. Chances are you will find that you still delight in that person and that the dirty little bits of life have just temporarily clouded your marital vision. Cherish it is a beautiful word that we should use more often than the overworked love.
As for me, I am going to rummage through my emotional Gucci baggage put on my Versace gown, stick my head in my dear Joe's desk drawer and see if we can use the crowbar to dislodge me and then cherish him for being my savior. Put on your crazy eyes cause maybe there will be a number four, yes, four!
Monday, September 21, 2009
Sunday, September 20, 2009
This isn't MY bucket list it's just a bucket of shit
Note: This is the first post for my new blog. Old blog posts have been imported to this site and are denoted as Re-Post
In November 2006, I started a blog about being a southerner living in the far north on the shores of Lake Superior. Since that time, I have:- Moved to Fresno, California
- Discovered my husband was dating
- was sexually harassed and subsequently fired
- got a divorce
- received joint custody of my only child
- earned elite status on an airline
- spent 2 days in a mental ward
- moved to Mississippi
- worked for a suck-ass not for profit
- had all of my worldly belongings stolen during the move from California
- lost luggage on flights that has never been recovered
- had job offers in Oklahoma and Buffalo
- worked at a horse race track
- moved to Baton Rouge
- testified as a federal witness against my boss who fired me
- read that he was arrested
- became the primary caretaker for my physically and mentally ill father
- fell in love with an amazing wonderful man
- got a weimaraner
- eulogized and buried my 26 year old brother
- decided I don't want to be an LSU fan any longer
- gained, lost and gained again around my waist
- moved to Jackson so my wonderful man could attend law school
- got a Mexican chihuahua
Gentle reader at least at sometime I hope someone will read me again. Fasten your shoulder straps and put on your hazmat suit because it will be one crazy toxic ride.
The Jingled Belle is finding peace in Jackson.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Re-Post on Cocktail Playdates
Friday, February 2, 2007
Meredith Vieira drink with me! Our Kids are busting out the Barbies!
More and more I wonder have I become an anachronism. Cocktails and dishing with my friends both mommy and non-mommy are the only things that actually get me through the endless winter whining days of my precariously unbalanced life.
This method of coping with mommy madness has been passed down within the mothering genes of my family. Both of my grandmothers* mothered all of their children with a dark colored liquor in hand. These women were smart well-educated and living in a time when you had to face girdles and white gloves everyday prior to passing through the front door of your home. Hell, I would have to have at least two good shots of Jaeger and maybe a valium (from my dead dog’s stash which I have saved specifically for uterine induced mental breakdowns) prior to squeezing my fat baby producing ass into an elastic vice grip. At that time society knew the value of the cocktail hour and quite frankly so many of today’s “right wing, anti-alcohol” mommies and daddies proudly tout that our society needs to get back to those “Leave it to Beaver Family Values.” Hey, I’m all for having a couple highballs with June and Walt, especially if I can flirt with that young good-looking Wally,
My own Mother, who raised all of us to be good contributing citizens, was often photographed in a bikini with a baby on one hip and a big bottle of vino in the other hand. There have been many times that I have wished to be half the mother she was to all of us. She was the Mommy who would load up her 1979 Navy Blue Land yacht Buick with a dozen kids (who needs seatbelts when you’re surrounded with luxurious plush velour seating!?!) and set-out for educational field trips most every weekend. On many of these excursions the mommies would monitor our learning adventure with bloody mary in hand. (by the way a Bloody Mary is only 1 point on Weight Watchers and really helped me get that last 20 pounds off)
Now me, I had a baby late in life, struggle with marriage, work full-time, volunteer in the community, and my husband wants me to look like a friggin’ Skipper Doll (he likes the petite perfect toys) so I really really need some time to unwind with a glass of wine. If the non-drinking mommies frown on this, well I would like a chance to visit their medicine cabinets to find their secret little helpers. My stepmother, who is a Southern Baptist (drinkin’ and dancin’ pave the highway to hell) never, drank in front of her two sons – fast forward 18 years to 2005 when they each receive personalized
Don’t we have enough to worry about these days from global warming to school shootings – I mean REALLY, is the 1-2 glasses of wine at a cocktail play date newsworthy enough that Meredith needs to segment it on the Today Show. I’ve taped it (another anachronism) so that I can invite my friends over to watch it while we listen to the sounds of our children pummeling each other with Barbies and Legos upstairs and we sip our
Sidenote: *My maternal grandmother is former flapper, college student in 1929 and manager of Auto Parts and Tools business was the mother of three: oldest is a lesbian and dance costume designer, middle son petroleum engineer with the Peter Pan complex, and the youngest is a psychometrist who I am proud to call Mama. Paternal grandmother a deep south socialite who also had three children: oldest ass-kicking fun aunt who is paid to throw parties at country clubs, middle son (my dad) former member of the LA State Senate who was impeached for sexual misconduct in 2004 and the youngest, very beautiful but always slightly stoned on who knows what drug well-heeled dilettante.
Re-Post Turning 42 in 2007
Friday, February 23, 2007
Holy 42nd Birthday...All I want is some control (top pantyhose, that is) this year!
I found a picture from my 22nd birthday that makes me reflect on my birthday today. Seems like just a split hair second ago that I was 22 getting photographed at a table in Pat O'Brien's courtyard. All of us wearing vintage hats with our hip designer clothes (I am taking some writer's liberty here as I have never been very hip and most of my designer clothes were hand me downs from my brother) drinking hurricanes and smiling like the world was our oyster. Of course we were the pearls with our cute little figures, shiny hair and endless supply of energy.Fast forward at hyper-speed to today. I still have not achieved any vestige of hipness. Vintage hats deteriorate in the humid heat of the south and unfortunately so does the body. My cute little figure takes a lot of outside maintenance to keep it even a little bit cute. I consider myself very lucky however as I have the luxury of a personal trainer who is happy to spend my birthday with me at the gym. She really is just amazing and such an inspiration to me. Paramount in my book, she has an wicked sense of humor and she loves David Lee Roth. There is nothing better than laughing through ab crunches because I some how rolled off the ball while Van Halen is blaring in the background.
22 to 42 - my mind says, "You are the same, you can do cartwheels." Note to readers do not ever listen to your mind when you have consumed 5 Jack and Diet Coke tumblers. But taking stock in the mirror there are quite a few differences.
- Oh where, oh where have my boobs gone? Just because all of God's creatures leave my current Northern residence to go south does not mean my boobs needed to go that way as well.
- I have many de ja vous moments with blue cheese sightings. I think to myself "where did I see this before?" and then I realize it was this morning in the bathroom mirror as I was getting my stockings pulled on.
- I now understand the why the word "muffin top" is used in conjunction with tight jeans.
- Glasses who needs glasses, I can read fine if my nose touches the pages.
- David Lee needs hair extensions at least I just have to touch up a little color now and then (okay it's a lot of touch-up and I do find myself fixated with Rogaine Ads)
- I can't wave bye-bye sleeveless with out looking like I am about to take flight into the bat cave.
- I used to believe I could live on Love. The hell with Love give me dark chocolate and wine - Make it Fast and bring it NOW!!!!!!
- Drugs were great for kick-starting diets. Drugs are now necessary for surviving housework, children, husband, pets, work, laundry, dishes - oh did I mention the husband?
- It takes a village to remove all of the unwanted hair from my face.
- What's that creaking sound? No it's not a loose floorboard those are my knees bending!
- A hot time for me is a steamy shower with my anti-aging body scrub and the miracle cellulite remover. (see number 2 on how that cellulite remover is working for me!)
- I end up in rooms and can't remember why I went in there or what I was looking for...
- I just want a pair of jeans that I can sit down in without flashing the world my butt crack!
Peace and Greens
Debalicious
Re-post on Cancer from January 2007
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Cancer
So what does a girl do when she finds out that her husband has the big C? I guess if he was just any ole run of the mill husband it would be easy. After all any Southern female from a halfway nice family has been thoroughly trained on taking care of our menfolk.But I felt like I needed to stretch my cultural boundaries and marry a man from God only knows how to get that close to Canada without wearing a Mountie get-up and spatting out "Ya Betcha" and still be from the United States of America. He is an alien. Even his cancer is out of the ordinary.
My husband is not the type who wants me to "baby him" or be the strong heart he can lean on. No he wants to go live in the woods with a Malamute to heal. I guess he is gonna kill what he eats and wash his clothes with a rock. He doesn't shine up much to people in general so he won't miss that social aspect of life, after all he will have his furry canine companion.
Hmmmm, perplexing as this is to my sensibilities I am sure that in some way the return to nature is a healing process. (For myself, a return to the Jimmy Choo store on the upper east side would be very healing) So life's journey takes another unexpected turn and gives the opportunity to build some character. As if I haven't had enough of that in the past 6 years of living in Minnesota Weather. Really, just the winter footwear alone is enough to push a Southern girl right slap through the doors and on into The Sanctuary of St. Prada Mental Health Rest Haven Institute.
I am going to ask the ENT surgeon if he will save the tumor in a jar that I can display in my parlor. That's called Redneck Fu Schwing decorating. Hopefully my stepmother won't drink it during one of her connecting with Jesus through a bottle meeting. (she drank all of my cooking wine during her last holy moment)
Cancer it's not just an astrological sign in the shape of a large clawed crustacean. It's knocking at our door - close the shades, turn the locks and break out a big bottle of Jack Daniels and Moon Pies.
I'd rather watch Scarlett craft a dress from her velvet drapes again. Even Scarlett, with all her wonderful flaws could be tough. My husband, he's a tough one even General Sherman looks like an emotional whiny Atlanta-burning waste of muscle and bone next to him and his ability to be completely devoid of emotion. Do I smell smoke? Oh it's not Atlanta, it's just my gray matter burning due to having to think of someone other than me...or maybe I am building some character. Nah, that is way too deep of a concept for someone who thinks that People magazine is classic literature.
As God is my witness....I am just gonna put on my big ugly Wolverine snow boots and think about it tomorrow. Mammy tighten my corset we're in for a bumpy ride!
Peace and Greens
Debalcious
Re-post of Repeat from January 2007
Thursday, January 18, 2007
The Repeat...it ain't just the only thing on TV!
Over and over and over and over again...I am just like the scratched 45 record that Uncle Boog was always playing at the fish camp. He would pull out his little monogrammed flask and ukulele and play along to the scratchy recording of Don Ho singing "I Love The Simple Folk."Maybe that is where my wires got crossed (and all this time I thought is was from drinking Bogalusa tap water that is laced with 100 percent pure plutonium.) A clinical study should be conducted to review if repeated exposure to Uncle Boog's 45 disc record on a cheap dusty Ron-Co record player can cause a significant slow down in the brain.
So I repeat myself again...it drives my husband absolutely crazy that he got stuck with a woman who not only walks at the speed of dark cane syrup dripping from the bottom of a Crisco can but who is also slow on the verbal draw and has a slow drip line for information absorption.
Maybe it is my roots (not just the ones that I am trying to cover every seven weeks at the hair salon) we are a slow talking culture with a lot of nothing to say. We like to commence on a topic, then take off on a tangent around the world and return to the original topic for final emphasis. For example ask one of us how to bake a red velvet cake and you will get not only the recipe but also the color of my granny's favorite apron, the flavor of cake served at the last family birthday party, an opinion on real vanilla versus the fake stuff, an aside on the latest diet Cousin LouAnne Raye is undertaking and how it is not working out so well for her to just eat that high fiber diet cause it causes her diverticulitis to flair and then we round back to the Red Velvet recipe once again with secret family ingredients revealed to create the final conversation flair.
This type of verbal tangent does not work well in this neck of the woods. All that lip flapping just allows precious, and may I add very expensive, heat to escape. In my house it is best to say it once and get it right away. Our family must be in the midst of an energy crisis that is of epic proportions. Here I thought by getting the furnace serviced every year I would be able to circumvent that worry.
It's taken me awhile to find the answer to this dilemma of trying fuse shut my motor mouth (in my world everybody is fair game for conversation) but not to explode from the build up in my vocal chords. I am looking to the great ladies from the way-up Northland. The women who quietly blazed trails and silently nursed their babies while chopping ice. I am going follow their lead right yonder to the ACE hardware store and buy an axe.
Chopping wood will be the panacea for my unfortunate ailment of repeating myself. Besides a wood pile ready to burn will alleviate my husband's worry about my excessive use of our hot air. Whenever I feel the need to repeat I can go split a log and not only release my vocal compression but also connect to the spirit of those strong silent women who lived the life....Right like I am going to break off my french tips.
I think I will have my doctor prescribe high doses of tranquilizers and wash it down with a couple of ice cold Corona Lights for dinner every night until repeating myself just isn't a problem because I am laid out on the couch with a box of Chocolate Goo-Goo Clusters in front of my husband's giant-ass TV. That will close the cosmic circle as my repeats are channeled (pun intended) into televised repeats of all of my fav-o-rite TV shows.
Chopping wood, nah, I will leave that to the strong women of quality, this redneck just wants the e-z road to martial bliss bring on the Xanax and beer...the remote is in my hot little hand.
Peace and Greens
Debalicious
Re-post from January 2007
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Glitter on the Snow - Welcome Home from Hollywood!
One of my most fav-o-rite and most glittering girlfriends just flew back into our chilly city from her short sojurn in Sunny L.A. Listening to her star-filled antics it's hard to believe that California and Minnesota share the same Continent, much less the same country. At lunch my girlfriend raved about the Golden Globe Parties while I raved about how I can party all night with just 2 Michelob Golds (lite of course). Good thing she has a big heart for itinerant dumb southerners otherwise she might begin think that I'm a tad uncouth.
Now quite honestly I am not a big fan of Los Angeles, it is too much sensory overload for a true redneck like me. All those beautiful people with perfect white teeth and long muscular tanned and sculpted limbs in their beautiful one of a kind designer clothes really intimidate me. Of course this stems back to my southern upbringing and a simple comparison made to me in July 1976 in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.
1976 was a formative sixth grade year for me. I was graduated from my public inner-city elementary school and was moving on up to some fancy private school that my daddy thought would better his political clout. If this wasn't enough of a tragedy looming big on my adolescent horizon, I also had the immense responsibility of being the Head Bunson Burner Bluejay Craft Leader in my chapter of the Camp Possum Firestarter Girls. This meant that I needed a big splash to emblazon my mark for future sixth grade leaders who would follow.
I had the A+ plan. The bicentennial committee in Baton Rouge wanted to deck the town in red white and blue - no stone was to be left Un-Americanized, so I volunteered my Bunson Burner Bluejay Troop to create little fire plug patriots around town. Our plugs would represent George Washington, Ben Franklin and of course our most famous sewing female in Revolutionary history, Betsy Ross.
My troop spent three weekends painting hydrants all over town. Our Bicentennial Birthday Bonanza culminated with the adorning of the Betsy hydrant on a busy college thoroughfare where we receive many salutes of support for our patriotic painting. A van load of cute college frat boys even stopped to admire our work at which point they pointed out that I was identical to the Fireplug Flag Maker sans white powdered wiglet. Well, Lard oh lardy be, they was right! And all this time I thought that hanging upside down for hours on the monkey bars would stretch out my bones.
Truth being that thanks to my fine genetic profile I do have the exact figure of a fire hydrant. Now try to imagine being a squat little plug next to all of the glittering flag poles of Hollywood. Even when you try to balance a hydrant on 4 inch Stuart Weitzman stiletto heels (which by the way is a disaster worse than the time Uncle Earl Dean got his Achilles punctured by a banty cock in the chicken coop) it still doesn't measure up to the the stature of Southern California's beautiful glittering people.
First off there is the whole fashion predicament - like any good southern I think that High Fashion means having a big curlicued monogram placed prominently on my breast. I just get confused by all of those fancy European names that design satin (which shows every little dimple and roll that one may have acquired thanks to late night counseling sessions with an entire roll of slice and bake chocolate chip cookie dough.) and micro pieces of fabric that strategically cover the unmentionables of these tall slender humans.
Then there is the har, or as they call it in L.A. the hair. All that stringy straight as a board in the face stuff just won't do for a short squat gal - I learned early on that my best fashion accessories were multiple bottles of Aquanet and a teasing comb. I added a record of four inches to my height during the big har heydays of the 80s. Now thanks to the dry Minnesota air I can still get at least an inch and a half. That plus help from the winter's ever-present static electricity adds to my illusion of height.
Finally the shoes. My beautiful tall friend regaled me with a tale that only could happen in Hollywood where a $2500.00 pair of Roberto Cavalli sandals were retrieved from a designer garbage can to wear to the In Style Magazine Golden Globe Party. Holy cow, to have my bunion cut off cost less than those fancy smancy sandals and my surgery is guaranteed to last at least 40 years. Where I come from we like pretty sandals but we aren't the type of people to acquire our shoes from some else's garbage can. Our mamas all warned us about getting the flesh-eating foot fungus from sharing shoes with other folks. However, I am sure in Hollywood everyone has their own live-in podiatrist that performs a daily sterilization of all their dazzling footwear and accouterments.
At our lunch my girlfriend's glamorous glow made her stand out among us winter weary souls. The one small coveted beam of sunlight that is allotted to Duluth on dark winter days, gravitated to encircle only her within its radiant warm fingertip much as a moth is drawn to a flame. Because of this, I could not help but note the difference in our ensembles - mine the requisite wool sweater and turtleneck finished off with baggy acid wash jeans and rubber soled boots. While my tall thin friend glittered in her high heeled boots , sleek designer sweater and slim-cut 7 jeans. She had graced our lunch appearing as Snöfrid the beautiful Swedish Snow Queen glittering brightly in the endless sea of white snowscapes and big gray sky.
I am blessed to have such worldly friends that have the patience with my lack of fashion sense and limited knowledge of all things cutting edge. She just smiled her beautiful Hollywood smile at me when I asked her if the the really big stars got their own bottles of squirt cheese at the after awards parties. Now that there is an honor saved for the really big wheels where I come from - cause then it is guaranteed that no one else sucked cheese straight from the squirter except them. My friend has inspired me to to get more glamorized - this year I'll have an Oscar party at my house with personal cans of squirt cheese for everyone plus their own roll of Ritz crackers, hell we may even get some fancy screw top strawberry wine!
Peace and Greens
Debalicious
Now quite honestly I am not a big fan of Los Angeles, it is too much sensory overload for a true redneck like me. All those beautiful people with perfect white teeth and long muscular tanned and sculpted limbs in their beautiful one of a kind designer clothes really intimidate me. Of course this stems back to my southern upbringing and a simple comparison made to me in July 1976 in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.
1976 was a formative sixth grade year for me. I was graduated from my public inner-city elementary school and was moving on up to some fancy private school that my daddy thought would better his political clout. If this wasn't enough of a tragedy looming big on my adolescent horizon, I also had the immense responsibility of being the Head Bunson Burner Bluejay Craft Leader in my chapter of the Camp Possum Firestarter Girls. This meant that I needed a big splash to emblazon my mark for future sixth grade leaders who would follow.
I had the A+ plan. The bicentennial committee in Baton Rouge wanted to deck the town in red white and blue - no stone was to be left Un-Americanized, so I volunteered my Bunson Burner Bluejay Troop to create little fire plug patriots around town. Our plugs would represent George Washington, Ben Franklin and of course our most famous sewing female in Revolutionary history, Betsy Ross.
My troop spent three weekends painting hydrants all over town. Our Bicentennial Birthday Bonanza culminated with the adorning of the Betsy hydrant on a busy college thoroughfare where we receive many salutes of support for our patriotic painting. A van load of cute college frat boys even stopped to admire our work at which point they pointed out that I was identical to the Fireplug Flag Maker sans white powdered wiglet. Well, Lard oh lardy be, they was right! And all this time I thought that hanging upside down for hours on the monkey bars would stretch out my bones.
Truth being that thanks to my fine genetic profile I do have the exact figure of a fire hydrant. Now try to imagine being a squat little plug next to all of the glittering flag poles of Hollywood. Even when you try to balance a hydrant on 4 inch Stuart Weitzman stiletto heels (which by the way is a disaster worse than the time Uncle Earl Dean got his Achilles punctured by a banty cock in the chicken coop) it still doesn't measure up to the the stature of Southern California's beautiful glittering people.
First off there is the whole fashion predicament - like any good southern I think that High Fashion means having a big curlicued monogram placed prominently on my breast. I just get confused by all of those fancy European names that design satin (which shows every little dimple and roll that one may have acquired thanks to late night counseling sessions with an entire roll of slice and bake chocolate chip cookie dough.) and micro pieces of fabric that strategically cover the unmentionables of these tall slender humans.
Then there is the har, or as they call it in L.A. the hair. All that stringy straight as a board in the face stuff just won't do for a short squat gal - I learned early on that my best fashion accessories were multiple bottles of Aquanet and a teasing comb. I added a record of four inches to my height during the big har heydays of the 80s. Now thanks to the dry Minnesota air I can still get at least an inch and a half. That plus help from the winter's ever-present static electricity adds to my illusion of height.
Finally the shoes. My beautiful tall friend regaled me with a tale that only could happen in Hollywood where a $2500.00 pair of Roberto Cavalli sandals were retrieved from a designer garbage can to wear to the In Style Magazine Golden Globe Party. Holy cow, to have my bunion cut off cost less than those fancy smancy sandals and my surgery is guaranteed to last at least 40 years. Where I come from we like pretty sandals but we aren't the type of people to acquire our shoes from some else's garbage can. Our mamas all warned us about getting the flesh-eating foot fungus from sharing shoes with other folks. However, I am sure in Hollywood everyone has their own live-in podiatrist that performs a daily sterilization of all their dazzling footwear and accouterments.
At our lunch my girlfriend's glamorous glow made her stand out among us winter weary souls. The one small coveted beam of sunlight that is allotted to Duluth on dark winter days, gravitated to encircle only her within its radiant warm fingertip much as a moth is drawn to a flame. Because of this, I could not help but note the difference in our ensembles - mine the requisite wool sweater and turtleneck finished off with baggy acid wash jeans and rubber soled boots. While my tall thin friend glittered in her high heeled boots , sleek designer sweater and slim-cut 7 jeans. She had graced our lunch appearing as Snöfrid the beautiful Swedish Snow Queen glittering brightly in the endless sea of white snowscapes and big gray sky.
I am blessed to have such worldly friends that have the patience with my lack of fashion sense and limited knowledge of all things cutting edge. She just smiled her beautiful Hollywood smile at me when I asked her if the the really big stars got their own bottles of squirt cheese at the after awards parties. Now that there is an honor saved for the really big wheels where I come from - cause then it is guaranteed that no one else sucked cheese straight from the squirter except them. My friend has inspired me to to get more glamorized - this year I'll have an Oscar party at my house with personal cans of squirt cheese for everyone plus their own roll of Ritz crackers, hell we may even get some fancy screw top strawberry wine!
Peace and Greens
Debalicious
Re-post on mens fashion in Duluth
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Men in Dusters
Lo and Behold (who really talks this way except a few pretentious people I know) I happened to run into a man straight from Raiders of the Lost Ark Fashion Institute. He was as slick as his oiled coat with a polite nod of the head. Did he just get back from recovering the Dead Sea Scrolls in some remote desert land yet still managed to keep his threads so dapper. And believe it or not he actually made eye contact, polite small talk and held the door open for me. Lucky for me! The only thing missing was his cat o'nine tails whipping in the wind. Obviously he was a foreigner.The majority of men where I live just don't dress like that. Duluth men love to complete their wardrobe with flannel and a big greasy spot of whatever they were eating while hunched over their hunting guide. They are manly men who aren't afraid to mix patterns and sport a variety of facial hair. They are the men of the woods and damn the metrosexuals who try to bring their big city ideals and corrupt our stores and children. The big male sweater is the symbol of wholesome and clean living. Add a turtleneck and welcome to the Heartland.
Where are the the gay men! Stand up and declare war on this fashion travesty. Look what Queer Eye did for some many men - where is your spirit of community. The women of Duluth look to you for leadership and an Armani jacket or two.
Re-post from my lost blog
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Granny's Holiday Table
A Mississippi Christmas is vastly different from a Minnesota Christmas.
A few notable differences:
1. Snow - I don't know what the hell is so great about a white Christmas. When it snows it means I have to wear ugly boots and have a whole lot of mopping of floors staring me in the face.
2. Gifts - in the Northland the presents are practical useful gifts, like a window ice scraper (I swear it was a gift in my home) - I miss the frivolous gifts from Southerners, like the year I was so poor I could only afford grits for every meal and my daddy gifted me with an entire set of Louis Vuitton luggage. Mind you, this was not just any Louis Vuitton luggage it was a special regift from one of his numerous illicit gal-pals who decided that Daddy should really buy her the classier Gucci set.
3. Family - while the lack of emotion displayed by my Minnesota family helps to keep the day relatively stress free, I still long for some drama to take place. I guess nothing will beat the year that my daddy decided that his children should build a bonfire to light the way for Santa. The fire was a slow starter so Daddy commanded that we add Diesel to the wood pile. That sapsucker still wouldn't burn so Daddy decided to take matters into his own hands and add some petrol to get things moving. Daddy has never been known for his sense of distance or balance a combination that resulted in a whole lot of charred hair and clothing along with a diatribe that Santa surely heard all the way in the North Pole.
4. The Most Important Difference - Food!!! Southerners began talking about Christmas Dinner as soon as we have polished off the potato salad and deviled eggs at the Annual Labor Day Church Picnic and Gospel Sing-along. Being a hospitable people we keep in mind the discerning palates of our guests and loved ones. For example: Being naturally thin, Aunt La-La loves her turnip greens cooked in Fatback but her boy Webber has the unfortunate affliction of weight so he will need his turnips cooked in low-fat/low-sodium (he has high pressure) chicken broth.
This Christmas got me to missing my Granny and her wonderful holiday table. She was renown for her expertise in the kitchen. Every holiday would be filled with friends and relatives coming and going through her tiny house in Mississippi. Everyone left feeling like a big fat tick on a hound dog's ear from all the wonderful food she served.
My brother Michael and I would stare in wonder at the mess of pies, cakes, hams, birds, crown roasts (with little chef hats on the bones)and, Lordy, the casseroles. Granny could take any vegetable combine it with Ritz crackers, Winn Dixie store brand cheese and create a gastric masterpiece. We knew what dishes would taste best by the degree of our reflection in each. The shiniest food was the tasty because they had been heaped full of Granny's double top secret ingredient - BACON GREASE. Granny would save grease all year long in a Ball-Mason jar on the top of her gas stove. Few things could get her hopping like a mad hornet, one was throwing away bacon drippings. (Once she flew across to kitchen to retrieve grease filled paper towels I had thrown in the trash pail. She then gently wrung the drippings out of the towels into the Mason jar.)
I believe that the shine also reflected Granny's deep love and faith in all of mankind. She had the amazing capability to truly love her neighbor. Her table was open to all who cared to feast. Regardless of affliction or social standing, she welcomed all on equal ground. If the leaders of the world would have set down for a heaping of fried chicken, gumbo, okra and tomato and zucchini casserole, there would now be peace among the nations. In her little kitchen filled with good smells, greasy spoons and cast iron, I witnessed what is truly selfless and good in this world.
Peace and Greens
Debalicious
A few notable differences:
1. Snow - I don't know what the hell is so great about a white Christmas. When it snows it means I have to wear ugly boots and have a whole lot of mopping of floors staring me in the face.
2. Gifts - in the Northland the presents are practical useful gifts, like a window ice scraper (I swear it was a gift in my home) - I miss the frivolous gifts from Southerners, like the year I was so poor I could only afford grits for every meal and my daddy gifted me with an entire set of Louis Vuitton luggage. Mind you, this was not just any Louis Vuitton luggage it was a special regift from one of his numerous illicit gal-pals who decided that Daddy should really buy her the classier Gucci set.
3. Family - while the lack of emotion displayed by my Minnesota family helps to keep the day relatively stress free, I still long for some drama to take place. I guess nothing will beat the year that my daddy decided that his children should build a bonfire to light the way for Santa. The fire was a slow starter so Daddy commanded that we add Diesel to the wood pile. That sapsucker still wouldn't burn so Daddy decided to take matters into his own hands and add some petrol to get things moving. Daddy has never been known for his sense of distance or balance a combination that resulted in a whole lot of charred hair and clothing along with a diatribe that Santa surely heard all the way in the North Pole.
4. The Most Important Difference - Food!!! Southerners began talking about Christmas Dinner as soon as we have polished off the potato salad and deviled eggs at the Annual Labor Day Church Picnic and Gospel Sing-along. Being a hospitable people we keep in mind the discerning palates of our guests and loved ones. For example: Being naturally thin, Aunt La-La loves her turnip greens cooked in Fatback but her boy Webber has the unfortunate affliction of weight so he will need his turnips cooked in low-fat/low-sodium (he has high pressure) chicken broth.
This Christmas got me to missing my Granny and her wonderful holiday table. She was renown for her expertise in the kitchen. Every holiday would be filled with friends and relatives coming and going through her tiny house in Mississippi. Everyone left feeling like a big fat tick on a hound dog's ear from all the wonderful food she served.
My brother Michael and I would stare in wonder at the mess of pies, cakes, hams, birds, crown roasts (with little chef hats on the bones)and, Lordy, the casseroles. Granny could take any vegetable combine it with Ritz crackers, Winn Dixie store brand cheese and create a gastric masterpiece. We knew what dishes would taste best by the degree of our reflection in each. The shiniest food was the tasty because they had been heaped full of Granny's double top secret ingredient - BACON GREASE. Granny would save grease all year long in a Ball-Mason jar on the top of her gas stove. Few things could get her hopping like a mad hornet, one was throwing away bacon drippings. (Once she flew across to kitchen to retrieve grease filled paper towels I had thrown in the trash pail. She then gently wrung the drippings out of the towels into the Mason jar.)
I believe that the shine also reflected Granny's deep love and faith in all of mankind. She had the amazing capability to truly love her neighbor. Her table was open to all who cared to feast. Regardless of affliction or social standing, she welcomed all on equal ground. If the leaders of the world would have set down for a heaping of fried chicken, gumbo, okra and tomato and zucchini casserole, there would now be peace among the nations. In her little kitchen filled with good smells, greasy spoons and cast iron, I witnessed what is truly selfless and good in this world.
Peace and Greens
Debalicious
This isn't MY bucket list it's just a bucket of shit
In November 2006, I started a blog about being a southerner living in the far north on the shores of Lake Superior. Since that time, I have:
Gentle reader at least at sometime I hope someone will read me again. Fasten your shoulder straps and put on your hazmat suit because it will be one crazy toxic ride.
The Jingled Belle is finding peace in Jackson.
- Moved to Fresno, California
- Discovered my husband was dating
- was sexually harassed and subsequently fired
- got a divorce
- received joint custody of my only child
- earned elite status on an airline
- spent 2 days in a mental ward
- moved to Mississippi
- worked for a suck-ass not for profit
- had all of my worldly belongings stolen during the move from California
- lost luggage on flights that has never been recovered
- had job offers in Oklahoma and Buffalo
- worked at a horse race track
- moved to Baton Rouge
- testified as a federal witness against my boss who fired me
- read that he was arrested
- became the primary caretaker for my physically and mentally ill father
- fell in love with an amazing wonderful man
- got a weimaraner
- eulogized and buried my 26 year old brother
- decided I don't want to be an LSU fan any longer
- gained, lost and gained again around my waist
- moved to Jackson so my wonderful man could attend law school
- got a Mexican chihuahua
Gentle reader at least at sometime I hope someone will read me again. Fasten your shoulder straps and put on your hazmat suit because it will be one crazy toxic ride.
The Jingled Belle is finding peace in Jackson.
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