I Need Anger Management

Lord ya'll. This lookin' for a job bullshit is about to kill me. In the past week, I've done two interviews, uploaded, downloaded, speed tested, brain tested, answered questions and been rejected three times.

The first was for the Wallyworld website. I made it as far as the second interview there before I got tossed aside. 

I don't know why.

 The next was for Frontier, who actually offered me a position, but because my upload speed is limited to .85 milli doohickeys or whatever, and can't make the minimum of 1. milli doohickey, I got rejected. 

Did I mention that Frontier is my actual ISP provider? I called them and asked if they couldn't do something on their end because I was going to lose a job opportunity.. WORKING FOR THEM.. because I had sucky internet service. "Jim" basically told me that naw, not in The Holler. That's as fast as you're gonna get. 

Ain't that just sucktastic. There are third world countries with faster internet than we can get in Frog Pond Holler. 

So today, I had another email from another company I'd applied to. They were "excited" about my resume! I went to their website and checked their internet requirements. My speeds were triple what they required. 

Awesome!

Of course they sent me to a website to test my computer connection, software, memory and all that jazzola, but I was confident because I had MADE SURE my computer was up to snuff. I clicked that "GO" button and sat back as the website worked it's magic. There were about 20 different things that they tested for. My computer and connection passed 19 of them.

Do you know WHY my computer didn't pass? DO YOU?

Because it's more than 6 years old.

AIN'T THAT SOME SHIT??????? Isn't that like... AGE DISCRIMINATION????

I finally just threw my hands up, hauled out the trash and cooked dinner. Then I sat on the couch with my spaghetti and played Solitaire on my phone. My brain needs to regroup. 

Also, since I'm bitching anyway, I'm in pain. My joints have gone all Rice Krispie because I've been without drugs for over a month. And every time my thumbs pop or my knee jerks the wrong way, I get pissed. Pissed off that for a few short months, I HAD good insurance. I HAD decent pay.

Then I think of sitting in that Pillsbury Doughboy looking mother fecker's office while he told me that while he wasn't saying I didn't have any skills, they just weren't the skills needed to perform my job the way they wanted it done... that I may have skills that might be useful to SOMEONE. 

And then?

Then I want to get in the truck, drive up there and plant my sizeable right foot up his ass, sideways, and jam it so far up that my toes are sticking out his nose. 

Because it's BULLCRAP.

I spend 80% of my time trying to talk myself out of being pissed off... and THAT pisses me off because I'm still letting that place control me.. and it needs to stop. 

While I'm on the subject, I'm still kind of hurt that the people I spent 40 hours a week with for the past 20 years can't even respond to a text message when I KNOW their phone is never more than six inches from their hand. 

Especially Lulu. I don't even try anymore. 

As for the drugs, I ordered about 3 months worth from India for about half what I'd pay for 1 month here. I've done it before, they're legit. 

Also, my blood sugar has been all kittywampus. Like.. ridiculously high. I could sit here and say I take my medicine and eat right, blah blah blah... and I don't know what the deal is, but that would be a lie. 

It's high because there's a half a sack of off brand Coco Krispies in the cabinet. 

So yeah, that's on me. 

I stress, I eat. I didn't get this voluptuous bootay munching on cucumbers.

Anywho...  I just needed to vent. I feel better already.

Ya'll have a good one and hang in there, it's almost the weekend.

Later Taters!

Horses and Bunnies and Melon Heads, Oh My!

See more pictures from the fair here.

It's cold and icky in the holler, a huge contrast from the sunny weather we had yesterday, when I took advantage of my extra day off and went to the county fair. There wasn't much to it,  barely worth the $2 admission fee. I did see a BUNCH of draft horses though, ya'll know how much I love me some hairy hooved horse critters.

Aside from loafing around amongst the hill folk, I hauled some stuff to the dump, where the dump dude dropped a metal cabinet on my head, barely missing my fabulous bling-bling shades (I'm fine.. no really) and took a load to the community thrift store.

I keep hauling stuff out and yet, the pile doesn't seem to get any smaller.

Our front porch is starting to look more like a place to kick back and relax and less like the overflow in a hoarders wet dream. While I was out there, I devised a plan to enlarge the bunny romping area using the screen door that separates my bedroom from my bathroom. Currently it serves no purpose other than tempting Ayla to ram her head through it.

God made sure I adopted that melon head from the pound because I'm positive anyone with any sense would have killed her by now.

I won't be doing any door moving today, however. My legs are all like, "Oh. Mah. Gawd. Bitch sit yo ass down. YOU ARE OLD," (said with an accent reminiscent of John Leguizamo in "Too Wong Foo," because all my body parts have foreign accents.) Most of what I've accomplished today, I've done on my butt, like sitting out on the porch with the bunny hutch open, trying to bribe them with parsley to like me the most. I've also been cussing, clicking and banging my head into the wall, attempting to teach myself Gimp. I had a bootleg copy of that other super expensive photo editing software on my other computer, but it's out in the girl cave and I need business cards and nail oil labels.

I could save myself a lot of heartache and bad nerves if I'd get off my lazy ass and go fetch the other computer, but sometimes the lazy outweighs the common sense.

I reckon things are looking up on the financial front. I got an email from one of the eleventy billion work-at-home customer service jobs I had applied for. My tax forms have been notarized and faxed, now I'm just waiting to pass the background check. I'm not sure how much of a criminal you have to be to flunk, but I'd say I've got a decent chance of making it through okay. I think I was bonded when I worked at the bank and I've not shacked up with any more ex con drug dealers since then.

So we're good.

Anywho...

I'm going to go piddle some more, maybe take a nap in front of the bewb tube. Ya'll have a good one. We'll talk again soon.

Later Taters!

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Mahala's State of the Holler Address

I have a feeling this is going to turn into a huge, babbling mess, but that's never stopped me before.. so here goes.

My recent absence from the blogosphere, Twitter, Facebook, etc has been due to an array of life's little complications, the main two being a sudden avalanche of work at the Asylum and the destruction of my netbook charger by Pupzilla.

Seriously, when do they outgrow the need to gnaw every remote, charger and battery in the house?

I ordered a new one online and it came Friday. Hoo-ray.

Speaking of the Asylum, PG will be retiring at the end of the month. He was the purchasing manager since way before I got there and had recently taken over as the plant superintendent. It didn't take him long to figure out that it just wasn't worth driving all the way from Sevierville (the land O' Dolly) to load trucks and get bitched at, so he's cruising along on his wife's insurance and leading the life of leisure, looking forward to a future career as a Wally World greeter. He's also a pervert and likes to talk to Lulu's boobs, so no one's really heartbroken over his leaving.

The rumor was that the Cutie Patootie would be taking his place, news which tickled the flippen chit out of me and Lulu. The Cutie Patootie is our age, fun to work with and he smells REALLY nice, all important qualities to have when being considered for a management position. At least where me and Lulu are concerned. We were giddy with the prospect of having the Cutie Patootie back at the Asylum with us, but alas, it wasn't to be. Instead, PG will be replaced by someone that is sure to rattle a few cages. The official announcement was made earlier this week. Bossholio, Jasper and a few other select knuckledraggers will now be answering to...

A WOMAN.

I'M SO EXCITED!! I MAY TINKLE MY GRANNY PANTIES!!

Seriously. This is going to be SO DAMN AWESOME.

I've never met the new plant super, but I've heard she's a no-shit-taking kinda gal.

Meanwhile, back at the trailer...

Since I checked in last, I've spent one whole night at the E.R. with Ma. After it became painfully obvious that the Hee-Haw clinic's efforts to refer her to a mental health specialist were half-assed and getting us no where, I loaded her up in The Amazon's truck and hauled her to the hospital, with the intention of giving her a short vacay at the nut hut which would hopefully result in some extended care options. We were there for about 12 hours. She was evaluated, questioned, x-rayed and examined. We spent about an hour with a psychiatrist around 4 a.m. when we were told the nut hut had a waiting list and I really just needed to take her back home and call doctors myself instead of waiting for the clinic to refer her. I swear to you, he actually said it was "crazy" for me to expect them to handle it.

BECAUSE OBVIOUSLY EVERYTHING IS MY F(&&%#@$ FAULT.

And for the record, while we were there, the woman who had been searching the house for "the baby" for two days, insisted that there was a house full of people partying there the night before and who's been meeting Romeo in the middle of the night when he sneaks in the house regularly, was suddenly completely sane.

It was then that I decided, I just don't care anymore. She can walk around and either be or play crazy all she wants. The next time she goes out in the middle of the highway with her walker and someone calls the law, they'll just have to take her somewhere. I don't know what else to do.

In the meantime, I set out to find a psychiatrist who will take medicare, a feat everyone told me would be nearly impossible. I made two phone calls. TWO. I found a psychiatric office in Big City that has two nurse practioners who take medicare.

Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. Her appointment is next month. In the meantime, I just tell her I don't wanna hear her made up crap when she starts babbling nonsense. It might not be what I should do, but ya know, she pretty much treated me like crap my whole life. I've mustered all the compassion I'm capable of.

Since we're on the subject of health care in America or rather, the screwed up state thereof, I went to get my colchicine refilled last weekend and was told Wally World didn't have enough to fill my prescription. I had mentioned before that it was being taken off the market and I'd be forced to buy the same drug from a "brand name" manufacturer once that happened. Well, to have my 90 day supply filled with the new supplier, the cost would be $541 vs. the $12 I'd paid before.

Okay, maybe that's not the exact amount. After her mouth formed the words "five hundred" my eyes kinda glazed over with shock and I may have yelled "GOOD GAWD ALMIGHTY!" right there at the drop off window at the Wally World pharmacy.

Luckily they had about 10 days worth of the old, non FDA approved stuff left, so I took that instead. When I got home, I went to the Colcrys website and found that you can make up to six times the national poverty level and still be  eligible for a discount. After entering our family income and household size, it was determined that I could get it for free.

Which is awesome.. and sort of sad at the same time. I got Dr. Sexypants to fill out some forms and mailed them in, along with proof of income and I've got my fingers crossed that I'll get it before I run out of the old stuff.

I'm thankful I can get it for free, but when they can offer that big a discount to people making WAY more than I do, it makes you wonder if they're not just sticking it to the insurance companies like crazy if they're charging them over $500.

Just a thought.

Let's see.. what else? Well, It's hotter 'n demon snot here in the south, but I figure most of ya'll know that already. My grass is butthole deep to a heifer and I can't get to the garden at all. It looks way too snakey out there. If there's ever a break in the heat (less than 100 would be great tvm) I'll at least cut a path to the tomatoes. The garden has pretty much completely gotten away from me. Next year's will definitely be smaller and there will be way less zucchini. Once I get the tomatoes harvested, I'll probably just till it all up and start over next year. I got myself way in over my head.

Live and learn.

All the critters are fat and sassy, spending most of their time soaking up the a.c. The Amazon is still working at the call center for the pretend bank. I've been stuck at home most of the time, sharing my truck while she waits for payday so she can buy a new fuel pump for her Blazer. It's business as usual here in Frog Pond Holler.

I hope ya'll are having an awesome summer, free of boob sweat and skeeters. We'll talk again soon.

Later Taters!!

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It Just Keeps Getting Better

I don't even know where to begin...

I guess we'll start with Friday. I'd been feeling a little crotchedy, compounded by the fact that EVERYONE either left early or took the whole dang day off from The Asylum, leaving me alone with Jabba the Engineer, whom I love to pieces but isn't worth a hill of beans when I need someone to watch the phones while I go pee or  need rescuing from disgruntled former employees who show up on four-wheelers wielding shot guns and wreaking of bargain basement beer.

Not that I'm paranoid or anything.

Anyway, it was a day of ticked off customers and angry phone calls, the kind of day that makes you want to crawl under your desk, curl up in the fetal position and whistle show tunes.

I was glad to get out of here and start my weekend. I had grand plans to track down some tires for Jolene, get some housework done and piddle around in some clay. At about 2 o'clock Saturday morning, it became apparent that there would be none of that taking place as I assumed the position and proceeded with, as Ma used to put it, "hugging John and screaming for Earl." The pukefest continued until daybreak. By then, I'd given up on going back to bed, setting up camp in the living room, closer to the fore mentioned John.

I can't blame this one on Mr. G. This latest little attack was kicking me much lower in the abdomen, near where about 15 years ago I had 2 feet of intestine ripped out, the result of a grapefruit sized blockage, leaving a scar to rival anything you'll see this Halloween and my navel in a permanent state of winking.

No lie, Ma used to threaten to show my belly to my trashy big boobed cousin with the lazy eye's youngin when she misbehaved.

I know, I know, my sexiness has once again left you in a mind altering fog of awe. Try to fight it. It'll be okay.

Of course, the pukefest is always followed by two days of that other unpleasant intestinal carnival, no longer hugging John, but perching atop him repeatedly.

So yeah. That was my weekend. I slept a lot in between.. ya know.. that other stuff. And? I showed up for work this morning, because I'm an idiot I rock that way.

But wait, there's more!

After I got to work this morning and fixed a cup of hot tea, because coffee just doesn't sound like a good idea right now, I get a text from The Amazon.

"Aunt Moses is going to try to get Nana to go to the hospital or the doctor because her craziness has apparently seeped out of the house."

It seems she's been calling assorted neighbors and family members yelling at them for not inviting her to imagined parties and telling everyone she's lazy.

Great.

That's my life at the moment. Updates to follow.

Later Taters!

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No Plumber's Crack Here

Let's check in and get caught up on everything around town, shall we?

Here at the Cubicle Asylum: One of the freight companies we use has hired a new sales rep. We always know when she's scheduled to come by, because PG (purchasing guy) wears aftershave and his assistant, Donald, wears his least holey britches. She's got that sweet little flirtatious laugh that turns their faces red and she's blonde and tiny.

I don't like her. She doesn't bring donuts. The old guy used to bring us a box of biscuits from Bojangles. Someone needs to explain the sales rep rules to her.

In other Asylum news.. Bossman has finally realized that I do a metric butt load of work around here and has started to take up some slack. Someone told him that it used to be two sales people and the sales manager, but that the old manager used to do part of the paperwork too. And now, it was just me. So he's slowly learning to do some of the easy stuff.

It is awesome and I am getting caught up.

Yaay.

Around Frog Pond Holler: I reckon the big rock slide up on I-40 has finally been cleared after months of bumper to bumper traffic being detoured through town. Yesterday, it was like someone flipped a switch. It went from cars, trucks and RVs for as for as the eye could see, to hardly any vehicles on the road at all. There's still traffic, foot traffic from hikers wandering down off the trail, but at least they stay out of the road... for the most part anyway.

I hope to get some pictures while all the redbuds and dogwoods are in bloom. Town looks sorta like a Thomas Kincade painting with all the flowering trees, right before the weather turns insanely hot and we all start bitching about under boob sweat and threatening to run over tourists in our pickup trucks.

Meanwhile, back at the trailer: It pains me to say this, but the sewage ordeal is still... stewing. Warmer temperatures have given our Curative Pool of Natural Healing a strong aroma, right by the front steps. Of course, there are now five huge lengths of pvc pipe laying over it, pipe that Ma honestly thought I was going to go out there and install.

Ain't no way in hell.

The latest I've heard is that the guy who came out last time is coming back, but he's busy now so we have to wait. Well what the hell is another month or two at this point?

*insert eye roll here*

There is hope (sort of) on the garden front. Aunt Moses was supposed to come down and till it out for me, but now Ma informs me that Aunt Moses has to drive the school bus and teach school, so she won't have time to do it.

I'm not even 100% sure Aunt Moses graduated from high school. She might be working as a substitute or an aide or something. Maybe she's doing lunchroom duty. Who knows? The way Ma gets messages all discomboobilated, there's no tellin'.

Anywho...

The plan is that Aunt Moses is going to bring the tiller down to the house and leave it and I can use it.

*blink*

I can't even walk through the house without breaking toesies, so this ought to be interesting, but I'm bound and determined. If I have to do it in shifts over several days to get it done, that's what I'll do. I'll just have to wait a day or two until my current FMF flare has time to settle it's little ass down.

Why does everything have to be so COMPLICATED?

I'll be so glad when Hidden Mahala finally makes me rich and famous.

Heh. That was sarcasm, in case you were wondering.

I guess I should get my bootay in gear. I've got papers to shuffle. Y'all have a humpalicious Humpday. We'll talk again soon.

Later Taters!

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Of Pupzilla and Bingo Wings

They're calling for more non-specific ... stuff.. to fall out of the sky over Frog Pond Holler this weekend. The general opinion is that we'll get more freezing rain than anything else, but we're right on the rain/snow line so.. who knows what'll happen.

I figure it'll probably be a blizzard, seeing how I have to take Pupzilla and the Boston Baked Beagle to the vet in Scary Hillbilly Town tomorrow morning. Pupzilla needs her incision checked and the Beagle butt's hair is falling out again.

I think I'm gonna make him a full body doggy toupe'.

I'm still convinced he's got mites. If I haul him all the way down there and they give me more antihistamines (they do nothing) ya'll might hear about me on the news.

SCARY HILLBILLY TOWN-A Frog Pond Holler woman was arrested on Saturday when she unleashed her ginormous puppy, dubbed "Pupzilla" by locals, on the employees and patrons of a local veterinary clinic. Cries of, "Oh my goodness look how cute she is," turned to screams of horror as Pupzilla lept on unsuspecting heads, ripping the hair from their scalps and growling like an angry gorilla instead of the 11 week old pup she was.

An eye witness to the carnage had this to say, "The blood.. the hair.. the gut wrenching puppy farts fueled by table scraps of Bojangles chicken.. it was horrible!"

So yeah.. pray for mange treatment or I may have to take up a collection for bail money.

Back at the trailer, our plumbing still isn't fixed. We're having a horrible time getting anyone to come out and take care of it. We've had lots of promises, but no one has shown up yet. It's getting a little smelly.

Guys who do plumbing work tell us they can't because they don't have a backhoe. We found someone with a backhoe who said he'd come dig it up, but he and the plumber/handyman guy can't seem to agree on a time when they're both free.

Here at the Asylum, it's busy ya'll. I've got papers up to my bingo wings and Bossman is back to his perpetually pissed off state of being. It doesn't bother me though, I'm too busy trying not to doze off. My friend FMF has been hanging around a little the past few days, making it hard for me to get anything done. I have a feeling that once I get out of jail get home from taking the furbabies to the vet, I'll sleep the whole weekend away.

After I haul a bunch of stuff to the dump. Oh yeah.. and go to the laundromat. And mop the kitchen.. to remove puppy footprints and other puppy byproducts, which get wiped up yet are still screaming for a good scrubbing. I should probably do my taxes too.

I do hope I get a chance to play in my clay a little this weekend, I've got a few things I'd like to make. I'm not on another big money making scheme by the way. I just like to play in the stuff.

Anywho, it's Friday ya'll. We've almost got this week licked. Hang in there and we'll talk again soon.

Later Taters!

The Latest

Let's just say to hell with the polite introductions and get down to business, shall we? There's some catching up we need to do. Sit. Pour. Sip.

Here we go:

The Amazon: Walking Tall

Why is she walking? Because she's not driving, not her own vehicle anyway. She wasn't approved for credit to buy the nearly 6 year old, slightly musty smelling pick up truck with 74K miles, even with a 2K down payment. My offer to co-sign didn't help. I reckon when the finance nazis credit people looked at my income and considered what I already owe, they deemed it impossible for me to make ends meet. Sadly, they're not aware of my juggling talents, my coupon ninja skizzles nor my ability to make money magically appear right before they send a cut off notice.

So for now, she's hoofing it around town and taking Jolene when she needs to go to Big City.

I'm walking around with my medicated smile, telling everyone that everything happens for a reason, but deep down, it pisses me RIGHT off. It's not fair. She's a good kid. She pays her bills and she works hard. And honestly? I feel like a piece of crap because I can't buy it for her.

Old Faithful Has Nothing On Us

There's something disturbing about taking your morning shower, your head covered with soft, citrus scented suds, lost in your thoughts of a tall, dark, handsome man and hearing the gently perculating sound of the coffee pot.. then remembering that coffee pots don't do that anymore and realizing the sound is coming from your toilet.

Brushing your teeth becomes an adventure when half way through, water starts bubbling up in the bathtub, making that angry, gurgling noise just before spewing all sorts of nasty, brown substances all over your freshly scrubbed tub.

We just had the dudes with the uber rooter hickey out here in the spring. We paid them a small fortune to clear the line, ripping out a tree root and making our lives flushable again. Now they must return.

Seriously? Is there a hidden camera somewhere? I'm feeling a little punked.

Do you have ANY idea what it's like to put off buying a decent washer for like.. two years.. then finally getting one and not being able to use it because when it drains it causes a hellacious shit storm in both the bathtubs?

But I keep smiling.

43 is Kicking My Ass

I hate to whine.. honestly.. but since I seem to be on a roll, what the hell, right? My FMF (aka Familial Mediterranean Fever, Armenian Disease, Recurrent polyserositis, pick one) flared up about a month and a half ago and hasn't calmed down at all. It's not as bad as it was before treatment, but still.. it's Not. Going. Away.

Prepare yourself. I'm fixin' to enter into some serious TMI territory.

Attacks are always worse when it's time for Aunt Flo, but she's being a real bitch lately and keeps acting like she's going to show up.. ya know.. sending her luggage, calling to make sure I've her room ready, but then she never gets here. I see her run right up to the door, then she rings the bell, turns and runs, giggling insanely,  back into the woods. She's done this like.. three times lately and it's starting to tick me off.

In the mean time, the FMF has my hands feeling like this:

And my back and legs? They're acting a lot like this:

Please don't tell me I'm "getting to be that age" where Aunt Flo is going to start acting stupid and that it's "just a part of getting older" because in my current perpetual state of turbo bitchiness, I'm probably not going to take it well.

Other Odds, Ends and Tidbits

• I still don't have a new job, although I am still looking.
• Bossman is still a ginourmous, steaming pile of buttmunch.
• The formerly hairless Boston Baked Beagle has put on so much weight from the 'roids that he's now got man boobs.
• When a medication label says not to stop taking it abruptly, for the love of Pete, pay attention. I ran out of batshit crazy drugs for a couple of days. It was unpleasant. It will not happen again.
• I was on the Mediterranean diet thing again. But then Thanksgiving happened. Between the Turkey Day fixins and the take out Chinese from Saturday, my fridge is looks like the blue ribbon winner at the 7th grade science fair. I gotta get back on the yogurt, nuts and rabbit food.

Anywho.. I think that sorta gets us caught up for now. I hope ya'll are having a bootay kickin' kinda day.

We'll talk again soon.

Later Taters!

Toilet Monsters and Being a Dork

• It's official. Sammy, the Hairless Boston Baked Beagle is no longer hairless. He has a full, brindle coat. He is also full of piss and vinegar and wants to play for about an hour every night, until he collapses on the floor, on his back, insisting his belly be rubbed. Both Yoda and the demon kitty are very confused and a little annoyed that the formerly hairless couch lump now pesters the hell out of them, slapping them on the head and barking like a sea lion inches from their faces.
• Ma fell again yesterday. No one bothered to tell me until after the ambulance left, having been called to help her out of the floor. I was a little ticked.. not that she fell, but that I was left out of the loop. In honor of Frog Pond Holler tradition, there was a steady stream of well meaning townsfolk banging on the front door like the mountain- was on fire stopping by to get the scoop so they could run down to the Grab N' Go to spread gossip check on her. Neither myself nor my house were in any kind of shape to receive guests. Ma's bruised up a little but we're pretty sure nothing's broken. An X-ray would be a good idea, but she doesn't want any part of it.
• Do we really need to be setting off blasts on the moon to look for ice? Why do we constantly have to be messin' with chit?
• I appreciate all ya'll's advice on my weed growing experiment garden area. I looked into renting a tiller, but the closest place is in Big City and they won't lease equipment this far out. I've decided to buy a second heavy duty extention cord, run it out Ma's bedroom window and use my electric weedeater to whack the wilderness down. Then, after everything starts dying off, I'll get an aerobic workout by hoeing the hell out of it, a little bit at a time, until the ground freezes. Maybe I'll have it done by the time next spring rolls around and I can look for arrowheads and pottery shards while I do it. That's right, I'm a dork. Deal with it. (Oh and I'm gonna see if I can get some of those berries for ya TNDaisy, if the birds haven't gotten them all. I've got that stuff growing all over the place. )
• Last night I caught part of the "House" episode where he diagnoses a father and daughter with FMF, which was kinda cool, sorta, since I've been in the throws of an attack for the past few days. And ya know, not to be gross but, for as often as I get the belly issues, why am I not as thin as a rail? Anyone else would be, but no.. not me.. I gotta do the fat girl waddle up and down the hall at work, running to the potty.
• Speaking of the potty, as some of you may know, here at the Asylum the female office staff all share a one seater, centrally located in a glorified closet. Recently, something has gone awry with the plumbing and every time you flush le twalett, it emits a low growl which slowly grows to a primal scream, screaching loudly, sending all the woodland critters in the surrounding forest scampering away, fearing for their lives. Yes, it's that loud. We've nicknamed this noise as the terlit monster and have decided that the GM has it rigged up to keep track of how many times we use the facilities.

TGIF ya'll. This week is almost licked. I need to go look busy now, we'll talk again soon.

Later Taters!

Uncle Mullet, Riding Ponies and Baking Cakes

Some people weren't into bikes this weekend, preferring the old fashioned way of getting around.

Aunt Moses called Ma yesterday, telling her to get some clothes on, brush her hair and go sit out on the porch, she was bringing something to show her. Luckily, I was on my way out the door to make a run to town, 'cause I had a pretty good idea of what the "something" was.

As I climbed in the truck, I saw Aunt Moses pull in behind me. There were two people in the cab of her vehicle, one I recognized immediately.

Uncle Mullet.

I knew he'd be in town. He considers himself part of the biker scene, although I'm pretty sure if he'd ever met any of the real bikers I ran around with in Ocean View, back in the day, he would have pissed himself with fear and curled up under the nearest barstool in the fetal position.

For those of you late to the game here at Hidden Mahala, Uncle Mullet was married for a long time to one of the few halfway normal acting people in our family. Unfortunately, he stayed drunk every weekend, when he was off from his railroad job.. just like his daddy did and slept around with every skanky ho from here to Boston.

He talked to my aunt like a dog and kept her having babies right up into her forties. He liked to point out to her how much nicer this cousin or that one looked than she did, they weren't fat.. why was she? And, oh my Lord, how she would do anything for him.. that's what sickened me the most.

She died two years ago after having repeated surgeries to correct the gastric bypass she'd had. Oh she lost weight... and her hair fell out.. she aged 20 years in five. Her body just finally couldn't take anymore.

So he got what he wanted.

He came by yesterday to show off his new, twenty-something, skinny wife. It made my stomach turn.

Anywho...

I had to stop at the ATM for Ma. When I got back to the truck, I saw this emerge from between two buildings:


While I question the judgement of anyone who'd go trail riding through Frog Pond Holler while there's a feckin' HARLEY RALLY going on, it was still cool to see.

I miss riding horses.

Ah well... someday.

I slept too long yesterday. It wasn't that "I think I'll close my eyes and take a mini nap" kinda over sleeping. It was the "I wonder if there's any instant coff.. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz" kinda sleep. I had to fight to make myself wake up at 1 o'clock. Once I came to life, I managed to get all the laundry caught up (a miracle.. believe me) and rearrange the bedroom. Oh and I baked the most beautiful, incredible tasting, pineapple upside down cake you've ever seen. I wanted to take a picture, but it's been pretty much slaughtered.

The Amazon said it looked like a Christmas ham. Don't worry.. I only threatened to whoop the snot out of her.

I've still got Rice Krispy joints this morning ("snap, crackle, pop") but not as bad as yesterday. I'm gonna take it easy, maybe work on some website junk today. I hope ya'll have an awesome Sunday.

We'll talk again soon.

Later Taters!

No Craig Ferguson and Amphibians in My Head

Gray skies hanging over Frog Pond Holler made it really hard to get out of bed this morning.

It's been a rough one ya'll.

I've been having a bad spell the past few days. I can't get my rings on, my head's all froggy and walking feels like treading water. I know it's only temporary and it's no where near as bad as it was pre-colchacine, but it's still annoying. By lunchtime I'm usually back to normal, the frogs have cleared out and my fingers look a little less like Jimmy Dean sausage links.

In other news, my DVR is borked. I think (hope) it's just that I've worn out the DVD I was taping Craig Ferguson on. In any case, I won't know for sure until I'm able to make a trip to civilization to get more. I bought some about a month ago, but they were DVD +R, not DVD -R. (WTF?) In the meantime, I can't watch Ferguson in all his butt wiggling glory until I get it fixed. This makes for a very unhappy Mahala.

Anywho, the Hee-Haw County Weekly comes out today, so I'll be back after lunch with all the holler news that's fit to tell. In the meantime.. ya'll know what day it is.

Hump it real good.

Melungeons, Lulu and Prayers for Our Cousin

I met Lulu when I first came to work at the Cubicle Asylum about eleven years ago. When we'd get on the subject of family, I'd often joke and tell her that someday I was going to figure out how we were related (because everyone in Frog Pond Holler is related if you dig back far enough.) A few years ago I started discovering my family history and eventually did find that Lulu and I were related. Lulu, half jokingly, began her own research to prove me wrong and as a result found a several more lines where our family trees meet.

That's also when I started to find out about Melungeons, a secretive group of dark skinned, multi racial people who lived separate from the general population up in the North Carolina, Tennessee and Virginia mountains. There are several theories on their origins, a lot of which is outlined in Brent Kennedy's book,The Melungeons: The Resurrection of a Proud People : An Untold Story of Ethnic Cleansing in America. My grandmother's "people" came from one of those secluded groups, tucked back into the mountains.

Lulu's father's family also came from the same area of the mountains, but we've never found any absolute Melungeon links in her family. Lulu doesn't have any of the physical traits like the eye fold, the Asian shovel teeth or the Anatolian lump, nor does she have a skin tone that is even the slightest bit tan. Lulu does, however, demonstrate several of the same symptoms that I do and I've often urged her to mention to her rheumatologist the possibility that she could have FMF. She poopoos the idea, although the lines through which we're related are close to my suspected Melungeon lines. She refuses to take a pill every day, so she reasons, it wouldn't matter if that's what they said was wrong with her anyway.

Lulu has been seeing a rheumatologist for two years now for her joint and muscle pain. She's been seen by a cardiologist for her chest pain, which periodically brings her to tears, yet they found nothing wrong with her heart. She's been to a neurologist for her lifetime of migraines and to a gastroenterologist for her "puking spells" and bouts of diarrhea. Last year they removed her gall bladder, but it had no effect.

Lulu just turned forty on her last birthday.

So yesterday, Lulu comes to my office and starts telling me about she and her mother going on their weekly trip to Big City last weekend. They were in the car, Lulu was driving and she was telling her mother how her shoulders were popping and grinding and how nothing seemed to help. She was laughing, telling her how we were both having a "bad spell" yesterday morning at work, hobbling up and down the hall, grunting and groaning like two old women. Her mother asked her if I had arthritis and Lulu explained to her about Melungeons, FMF (Familial Mediterranean Fever) and the physical characteristics associated with the group.

She explained to her about the Anatolian bump and how to find it by running your hand from the spot where your spine meets the back of your head, up the center. The "bump" can vary from a pea sized lump to a wide ridge. Apparently Lulu was driving with one hand and groping the back of her mother's head with the other, to demonstrate. Can you imagine the explanation to law enforcement if she had wrecked?

"I'm sorry officer, I was groping Mom's head to see if she's a Melungeon."

Lulu's mom just had eye surgery about a week ago so any poking of her eye lids would have to wait. She then went on to explain about shovel teeth and how she used to lovingly call me an "Asian shovel toothed mongrel," usually after I'd called her "Gomer the friendly ghost." With shovel teeth, the backside of your two top front teeth is curved, like a cup or shovel.

Lulu's mom looked at her oddly

"What? I'm serious, Mahala's are shaped like that. She said she thought everyone's teeth were the that way until she read that feller's book."

"Aren't yours?" her mother asked.

"No! They're flat..."

"Hmph.. I thought everyone's were curved."

I can not believe that after four years and all the conversations she and I have had, she never thought to mention it to her mother before.

Lulu's mother has shovel teeth, which doesn't necessarily mean she has Melungeon ancestors. It shows up in Native American families too, but it's possible.

She is on vacation this week, so I'll have to wait to find out more, but she's promised to get her mother down on the couch where she can get a good look at those choppers.

For more on Melungeons and our ties to the Turkish people, look for From Anatolia to Appalachia: A Turkish-American Dialogue (Melungeon Series) another book by Brent Kennedy.

I read recently that Mr. Kennedy is going through some personal struggles. I had the pleasure of meeting him at a lecture he gave at a local university a few years ago. He autographed my copy of his book and took a couple of minutes to ask me about my family, where we discovered we share a common link in our Davis line.

You are in my prayers dear cousin :)

The Hunchback of Frog Pond Holler

Okay ya'll, fess up. Who snuck in my house last night and beat the beejeezus out of me with a baseball bat? Lawd I'm like an old woman, my hands won't work right, my hips are all locked up and I'm hobbling around like Quasimodo.

Do you think maybe I over did it.. just a tad over the weekend?

I scrubbed, I cleaned, I picked foreign substances out of the bathtub drain. It didn't help that the outside temperature didn't dip below 90° until about 9 o'clock last night. It hovered right around 80° in the house all day. Maybe I sweated off a few pounds, I'll go sneak out to shipping after first shift leaves and borrow the scales to find out.

I've got so much to do today but I just don't see myself getting much accomplished. Luckily Bossman is still out of the office a couple more days.

One thing I do have on the agenda for today is to call the Big City auditorium/theater to find out when tickets go on sale for Craig Ferguson's November visit. I'm determined to place myself front row center, so I can sit there grinning like a fool and possibly embarrassing the heck out of myself.

Never let it be said that I don't plan ahead.

Ah well, I'd better get my nose to the grindstone, my ass in gear, get crackin'... but not ass crackin' .. I'm not a plumber.

In the words of Bubbles, Ya'll have a PUUUUUUUUUUUURFECT, AWWWWESOME, GREEEAT DAY!!!! (somebody shoot me..)

When Guts Attack: Part Two

If you missed part one, scroll down.

After I called the office and left a message for Bossman, stating only that I'd been up sick all night and wouldn't be in today, I went back to bed. I didn't sleep very long, I was still making repeated visits to the potty palace. I eventually gave up on staying in bed and migrated to the couch, followed by the boston baked beagle, who seemed to think I needed looking after.

My head was still kinda woozy but at least the tummy pain had subsided. I knew I was on the backside of my current flare up. I got comfy with a cold cup of Coke to sip on (don't tell Ma I dipped into her stash) and watched Craig Ferguson while I curled up with the blanket. About half way through his monologue, I had to pause the DVD and make an emergency run and ya know, it made me wonder. What the hell could there possibly be to come out?? I mean, I don't want to gross ya'll out or anything, but really.. after puking all night and being in the bathroom since the butt crack of dawn, what else could there be to come out of me??? Were organs starting to liquify and attempt an escape? You have to understand, I'd had no sleep and my not-that-sharp-to-begin-with brain was operating on minimal fuel. It's not unheard of for one's thoughts to turn to the irrational under those circumstances.

As I rose from my seated position, I noticed something in the bowl. It was odd shaped and for just a second, I thought it was an alien pod that had escaped from my body. It took me minute to think about it, shake off the morning fog and re analyze the situation to realize it was just an undigested time relased capsule.

I watched a televsion on the couch for the rest of the day. I listened to Craig Ferguson rant about the Sopranos ending, which sort of pissed me off too. It bordered on cruel to make the viewer watch Meadow struggle to parallel park her car for no apparent reason. The Amazon said it was a metaphore for her struggle to straighten out her life, but I dunno. All of this talk about letting the viewer decide for themselves how they wanted it to end is just bullcrap. When I read a book or watch a movie, I expect it to have an ending. I invest my time and attention in the vision of the writer, if I wanted to write my own ending, I'd write my own story. To me, it sounds like an artsy fartsy excuse to end it the way they did. If you couldn't come up with anything better or make up your mind or whatever then just admit it.

Ferguson also touched on his continued lack of affection for kitty cats. Dude, don't fear the pussycat. Embrace the pussycat. Make it your friend.

I watched reruns for the rest of the day. Wally and Eddie Haskell were competing for the attention of Carolyn Cunningham, the high-fallooting rich girl who goes to boarding school. They always go for the snotty girls don't they? Lucy and Ricky were celebrating their aniversary and Martha Stewart showed me how to make angel wings for the dogs at Halloween. I was thrilled to find out that Oprah's show focused on embarassing bodily functions, a subject that I'd become an expert on in the past few days.

Ah well, I think I'll live anyway. I hope ya'll had a good day :) We'll talk again soon.

Karma, Bubbles and Hippy Van Trauma

Sorry for no post last night ya'll. I've been a victim of intestinal warfare combined with a full-fledged FMF attack, allergies gone totally haywire and a dose of the feminine curse. Factor in the slow demise of the air conditioning at the office and well... all I could do last night after pecking out a tiny sponsored post was lay down.

I've not been a pleasant person to be around.

I feel much better today, not "puuuuuuuuuuuuurfikt" (as Bubbles would say) but much better. I may actually live.

The door on the van is being a pain in my left cheek again. I swear I'm going to dislocate something major trying to get it shut. I was leaving work the other evening, struggling to get it to closed, slamming it repeatedly, feeling like crap and on the verge of tears from the embarrassment of it all, when I glanced in my rear view mirror just in time to see Bubbles walking to her gigantic SUV, giggling at my failed attempts to close the door.

That's cold up as a mofo.

At first my feelings were mushed like fresh frog roadkill, but after a moment or so I just took a deep breath and repeated the comforting words that I always turn to: What comes 'round goes 'round. Or as Oprah once put it: Let go and let God. Lulu says it's scary when I speak those words and compares it to a gypsy curse, ever since the time my aunt ran out and bought the used car she knew I was trying to get a loan to buy. I was really upset when it happened, but I thought about it and calmed down, then announced to a kitchen table surrounded by myself, Ma and two of my aunts, "What comes 'round goes 'round."

A week later my cousin drove the car down to her job with the paving company. It was the only time she ever drove it to work. They had to pack explosives in to the side of a mountain to move some earth but something went wrong and the rocks blew out instead of caving in. A huge boulder landed through the roof of the car, right in the drivers seat. It was totaled. Certain family members have called me a witch ever since.

Ya'll may notice that I moved one of my sponsor buttons up to the top of my sidebar. I got an email from Torrid.com yesterday. They're having a killer sale, 50% off already marked down clearance items through Memorial Day. Torrid specializes in plus sized clothes, so if you're built more like a fertility goddess than a Barbie, you might want to check them out. If you do, use the button in my sidebar and I'll make a little moolah too.

So I'm watching Craig Ferguson this morning and he announces that he'd been to the orthodontist and needed implants.. in his mouth. Say wut? I have no idea what that is and I'd Google it but I really don't need to know what he's having done in there. It can't be pleasant. Bless his heart. He'll have to stock up on pudding cups and Jello for a while.

Anywho, I'd best get my hiney in gear and get some work done. It's almost Friday, ya'll hang in there.

Possums, Turtles and Virtual Ferguson

Due to the sympathetic nature of the scheduling gods, I only had to actually work two days this past week. Monday I made my six month visit to the rheumatologist, Dr. Purdyeyes. It went well in the beginning. Doc Purdy told me that after comparing the something something levels in my bloodwork from before I began taking colchicine to now, he was confident that FMF was an accurate diagnosis and that as long as I continued taking it as prescribed (and not forgetting) things should be fine and maybe even continue to get better. I have to keep going back every six months so they can make sure the drug isn't building up in my system, but other than that it's going to be smooth sailing.. almost.

I asked him about my gargantuan ankle swelling up like a elephant's and somehow we got into a discussion about aging, support hose, thigh highs and the probability of my ever wearing a garter belt. This made me uncomfortable because, up until this stage in my life, any discussion involving garter belts was one of a sexual nature and not with a physician which I have the sorta hots for. It was all very confusing. I've been scarred. I don't ever want to have that talk again.

Dr. Purdyeyes made a HUGE deal about my quitting smoking, discounted the weight I've gained since as no big deal and repeatedly gave me kudos. I was right damned proud of myself by the time I got out of there. Hoo-rah.

Tuesday and Wednesday I worked and scrambled to get things done. Bubbles continued to laugh sadistically, like Elmo on angel dust and Bossman grumbled around, slammed his door and appeared to be pouting. Sales are down. Thursday I had to leave the house an hour early and drive over into the next county, meet Rosie from work then ride with her to another of our locations in Asheville for AED/CPR re certification. I was NOT looking forward to it, other than it meant a day away from the office with pay. But when we arrived, I gained a whole new perspective on the situation at hand. The instructor was a cutie patootie. A hawtie. A fine hunk o' man meat.

Things were looking up.

I giggled, sighed and batted my eyes for the entire class. It takes a lot for someone to have that effect on me. He looked a bit like a cross between Barry Manilow, Dennis DeYoung (Styx) and the dad from Family Ties.

We finished the class by noon. The lady who was riding with us threatened to go back to work, so instead of going back to our cars, we went to EarthFare (the organic grocery) then to Sam's Club. Had she gone back to work for the rest of the day, Rosie and I would have had a hard time explaining why we didn't.

I took a long nap when I got home yesterday. I guess getting up an hour earlier then trying like hell to rescue that damned dummy from cardiac arrest with CPR, then from choking, then from another apparent heart attack with the AED.. made me a little tired. I've decided that no matter how bad a day I may have, it won't be as bad a day as that dummy was having yesterday. I was ready to suggest shooting it to put it out of it's misery. Oh and when we covered the "Blood Born Pathogen" portion of the class and Mr. Goodgawdalmightyhe'sfine asked "What is the best way to prevent exposure to pathogens while administering emergency care?" Rosie answered, "I'm calling Mahala and not getting involved."

Gawd.

On the drive to EarthFare, I mentioned that portion of the class to Rosie (our Human Resources Manager by the way) and pointed out that when recently, a man on second shift got in a fight with his wife in the parking lot during his break, which resulted in his being drug across the parking lot with her vehicle and run over and his being airlifted by helicopter to the hospital, his ripped up, bloody clothing was kept in a brown paper bag in the corner of Festus' office.

Not exactly a good bio hazard containment practice.

Anywho...

So I was pretty tired when I got home, took a long nap and then I was up for the duration. The littlest dog drove me nuts wanting outside all night. I figured that Dubya's (our neighbor.. I'll have to tell all you new readers about him some day) daughter's dog.. praaaaaaaaaaaaaayshus... must be in heat again. I'd let him out and he'd bark and bark like crazy until I couldn't stand it any more, then I'd go go out on the steps and threaten him with all sorts of horrible acts to get him to come inside. The last time I let him out, both he and Ozzy were raising holy hell out there, barking and growling and carrying on. I tried in vain to get him to come in, he'd have no part of it at all. I finally gave in and ventured outside, wearing nothing but a tee shirt, my granny panties and some house shoes. There's a embankment behind the house, no neighbors can see into the dog lot.. At least I hope not. I was carrying a cup of dog food so I could go ahead and feed Ozzy while I was out there, thinking I'd just scoop Yoda up with my free hand.

We all know how my plans work out.

So I go out there, forgetting the massive COLD FRONT that is moving through our area. It was just a tad bit nipply out there. Yoda is standing in a Kujo stance (which is kinda funny under normal circumstances) inches from the fence, all hair on his body standing straight up. As I leaned down to pick him up, I became face to face with a very pissed off possum, about twice Yoda's size, just on the other side of the fence. His teeth were bared and he was hissing like a cobra.

Rut roh.

I grabbed Yoda, dropping the dog food, suddenly realizing that if that thing decided to come after the little loud mouthed chit, it would eat him alive. I ran back to the house, in the dark, in my house shoes, my granny panty clad ass shining in the moonlight. I was a sight to behold I'm sure. I tossed the still growling Yoda in the house, then walked back over to the cup of dog food. I still needed to feed Ozzy. I leaned down and picked up the cup, with most of the food still inside. I glanced over towards the fence. The evil possum was still there, still baring his teeth, still hissing. I thought.. what an ungrateful little cuss. I know he's been getting in my garbage. The least he could do is be thankful that he gets a free meal occasionally. I carefully opened Ozzy's pen to feed him and of course, he made a run for it. Straight to the possum. Within seconds, Ozzy had worked himself into a tizzy with the stupid possum still hissing and growling. Now.. Ozzy is a far cry from a chihuahuaranian. At about 85 pounds, it was with a bit more difficulty that I drug him back to his dog lot, using both hands on his collar and a few select four letter words. In a tee shirt. And my granny panties. And some house shoes. At around 1 a.m.

I was thankful that I was off today and looking forward to sleeping in. What with the the doctor's appointment and the garter belts, the CPR dummy and the possum-crazy-dog 'rasslin', I felt I was due. Imagine my JOY at the sound of my aunt and her lawn mower, bright and early at the butt crack of dawn. There was a bright spot however, when she came running into the house to tell me that she and her lawnmower had been accosted by a renegade turtle. Apparently she got a little too close to his personal space and he decided to take action. Ma told her it was probably mating season and to take that damn ball cap off her head.

Never a dull moment.

Some of ya'll may remember in a past post my joking around about putting a shrine to Craig Ferguson in my Second Life business venture, a virtual house of ill repute. Well, I shared my blogsite with one of my friends there, something I don't do freely and he read that particular post. When I logged on yesterday there was a gift waiting for me, a picture of the Fergburger himself. So after some consideration, I decided to do this....

This is the welcome area of my little hourly rental property on Second Life and that's my foxy little avatar. Now Craig Ferguson has a presence in virtual reality. Knowing his love of technology, his skin would probably crawl with disgust if he knew.

*Snort*

I'm not sure if I'll leave it up, but for the time being, it makes me giggle. It's just cheesy enough to be amusing.

Wow, this is like.. the longest post I've written in forever. I'd better get off my big ol' hiney and get some work done.

Happy Good Friday ya'll.

Be blessed.

Warm Breezes, Falling Stars and John Tesh

It's supposed to be a balmy 59 degrees here in Frog Pond Holler today. It makes it hard to come to work and sit behind my desk all day.

I haven't been posting as often as I'd like, nor have I been answering comments like I should and I owe several people emails, for which I'm feeling guilty as sin. I'm still having a hard time staying awake when I get home in the evenings and it's cutting into my computer time considerably. I get home, fix dinner, sit down and I'm out. I usually come back to life around elevenish, just in time to go to bed. I don't know if it's the lack of nicotine or what, but I've got a doctor's appointment scheduled. I'll be damned if I'm going to sleep my life away.

In other personal developments, the FMF has been really kicking my ass lately, which could also be the reason I can't stay awake. I've been doing some reading and from what I gather, nicotine sometimes masks the symptoms of rheumatic diseases, therefore, when you quit.. you get worse. This makes sense, sort of, because it's been a running joke between me and Lulu that every time I've tried to quit smoking, my body has fallen completely apart. There was a lady here at work a few years ago who'd had some weird aches and pains and unusual medical problems and when she quit smoking ended up on full disability with a diagnosis of rheumatoid arthritis. I'm not condoning smoking or planning on using this as an excuse to go back. I refuse to be out done.

Things at the cubicle asylum are about the same. Bubbles' over-the-top exuberance for life still makes my skin crawl, but really it's not all her fault. We sit practically on top of each other with only about 9 feet and a half a cubicle wall between us. I'm thinking about asking to move offices if I can figure out a way to do it without hurting anyone's feelings. But honestly, when you have to stick your finger in your free ear and practically stick your head under your desk to hear someone on the phone, it starts to wear on you after a while.

The death of Anna Nichole Smith saddens me greatly and the surrounding media circus is sickening, yet I'm right there on TMZ.com and Entertainment Tonight gawking at the latest developments just like everyone else. I think they should just let me have the baby, they can keep all the money and split it between all those men who are claiming paternity. I'll raise it here in Frog Pond Holler right there in my crappy little trailer and I'm sure she'll be just fine. While they're at it, they can go ahead and bring those Spears youngins too and I'll look after them until their Ma gets her scattered mental shit together.

The recent media developments have had me thinking. I should move to L.A. and open a new business venture. "Trainwrecks R Us" I've decided that what these pampered starlets need on their downward spiral is the southern version of tough love. Someone to come in, take over and make them see the light. Someone who isn't afraid of pissing anyone off, who can tell them it's time for them to put on their big girl panties and suck it up.

Yeah I know.. it would never work.

Yesterday Loner left this comment:

"Did you see the bit where Craig (Ferguson) said he wasn't going to make fun of Britney because she was vulnerable? If you didn't already just adore the guy - that display of mercy would have done it."

The answer to that is yes. And it is at those moments that I do realize just why I do adore that man. During the same monologue, Ferguson went on to tell a story from back in his drinking days. Whenever he tells stories of his past, be it his childhood or his later, wilder days, his accent becomes just a tad bit more pronounced, the gentle, lilting rhythm of his words entrancing the viewer (or at least me.)

Oh yeah, and then there are those moments when he bursts out into a Clinton-esque boogie.

Good stuff.

On a side note: Who knew John Tesh had such a potty mouth?

Anyway, my lunch break is almost over. I'd best get back to the grindstone.

Ya'll be blessed.

Fall in Frog Pond Holler

The leaves have finally turned and the color is more incredible this year than I've seen since moving here almost 14 years ago. Another sign of fall is the constant chatter on the scanner as law enforcement tries to keep bear hunters and property owners from shooting one another.

If you want to take a leisurely stroll in the woods around here in the fall, you'd best be wearing an orange vest. Unless you happen to wander on to private property, then you could get shot after being mistaken for a bear hunter.

"Move to the country," they said. "It's safer," they said.

I'm having freaky FMF related muscle spasms in my hands, making it difficult to type, so that's all for now. I'll check back in later.

Happy Saturday.

Collecting Socks and Lotion for Eddie

It's been a long day. Straight from work to the grocery store and back. Everything that had to be put away is in the fridge. The rest can wait. I'm a tard puppy.

There is something about me that I'm not sure I want to admit, but the current situation demands that I fess up.

I check the gossip on the TMZ at least once a day. It's total brain candy and I'm almost ashamed to admit that I read it, but hey, no one's perfect. This evening after I got home and finally got to sit down for a minute, I clicked on over there to see the latest. It was then that I discovered something terrible about one of THE icons of the eighties.

Eddie Van Halen has some nasty assed toes. See it for yourself here. I can over look the boots held together by medical tape and some pink and lime green crap. But good Gawd. There ain't no damned sense in that. Maybe he lost most of his dough in the divorce and maybe a pedicure is too rich for his budget, but I know the boy can get some damned dollar store lotion and put it on those dried up little piggies. That ain't right.

You know those boots have to stink, hummin' right damned hard I'd say. And where the hell is that boy's socks? You put boots like that on without socks and the resulting odor has GOT to be of epic proportions.

I'm disturbed. I may have nightmares. I swear I think I can smell those boots from here.

Later Taters

You Can Take the Hillbilly out of the Hills but...

I know it's a little confusing, telling a story from the middle rather than the beginning, but the rest can wait, all that really matters is Saturday night at The Orleans in Las Vegas.

I had taken a nap that afternoon, I'd only slept a couple of hours the night before and I knew it would hit me that night, right about the time that Craig Ferguson was scheduled to take the stage. When I woke up, my eyes were bloodshot...again. They stayed that way the entire time I was there, I looked like I'd been on a drinking binge for a week. I used so much Visine this weekend that I think I had the crap oozing out of my pores by the time I made it home.

I got in the shower, trying to wake up and get my aching joints moving again. I hadn't been taking my colchicine on schedule (for the FMF) with the flying around and everything so my body was trying it's best to give me hell. As I washed my hair (which is still way too short for my liking) I thought, for the umpteenth time in the past month, "What the hell am I doing here?" It was then that I remembered the phrase that I'd read in a transcript of a radio interview a few weeks earlier, a phrase that I'd repeated to myself everytime I'd had second thoughts about this whole trip.

"Just show up, even if it's ridiculous."

I took a deep breath, got out of the shower and proceeded to attempt to make myself at least partially presentable. Now, this is no easy task, given what God's given me to work with. I'm sure He's got a plan, but it would be REALLY nice if He'd let me in on it occasionally. I worked on my hair, then stood with my face over the ac vent to cool back off. The blow dryer in my room must have had a freakin' heated turbo engine, stolen from a NASCAR reject because I thought it was going to blow me bald.

I'd been outside earlier, where it was extremely hot, taking pictures of the marquee. I had to stand there for a while, waiting for the screen to change to shots from The Late Late Show, then missing the shot a few times because of wayward drunks and parents chasing runaway children. It didn't take that long, but apparently it was long enough for me to develop a nice rosy red sunburn on my face. Not having planned for this, I was a little disturbed when I applied my foundation, which was perfectly matched to the color of my complexion when I left home, and found that I now looked remarkably like a damned Geisha girl wanna-be.

I worked my magic as best I could. I spackled, painted, filled, dusted and brushed. When I apply makeup it's more like a home improvement show than a make over. I probably spent a good thirty minutes on my eyes alone. I used to have killer eyes which with one look, could bring a man to his knees within seconds. Learning the wonders of makeup application from your hoochie mama, stripper friends when you're seventeen has it's advantages. Unfortunately, time has taken it's ugly toll on those formerly fabulous eyes. I did the best I could to bring them out, but without much success. A forty year old hag who's spackled, painted, filled, dusted and brushed for an hour, just looks like an old hag who tries really hard.

At the very least, it was an improvement over no makeup at all.

The Amazon had made me pinky swear that I'd take pictures of myself before I went to the show, so I did my best to comply. I can tell you this, there is nothing more ridiculous feeling than standing alone in a hotel room in Vegas taking pictures of yourself in a full length mirror. I looked positively shell shocked in all of them, they're all from weird angles and I resembled a bull dog that got into her master's makeup bag.

I walked over to the dresser and retrieved my copy of Craig Ferguson's book "Between the Bridge and the River" to take with me. I'd stressed over whether to lug it along on the trip and it was a good thing I had because as I wandered around the casino floor Friday night and found the showroom entrance, I discovered a large sign by the front door announcing that Barnes and Noble would be hosting a book signing after the performance. I'm sure I stood there staring and dumbfounded for a minute because earlier in the week I'd made an inquiry about this very thing, an inquiry made to someone who had to have known this was taking place, yet offered no clue that it might be to my advantage to bring my copy along.

It was just one of many mysterious unanswered questions, most of which I can't go into which presented themselves during this little adventure of mine.

I knew I'd feel a bit foolish walking around the casino carrying his book, like a chubby little school girl full of childish expectations, so I grabbed a bag I'd gotten from the gift shop earlier to put it in. I made my way to the elevator (which was a fuckin' hike, let me just tell ya) and made my way from the 17th floor down to the lobby. I said a silent prayer as I walked because I tend to break out in an embarrassing fit of facial perspiration when I'm nervous and this was my greatest fear through all of this. I'm not sure if it's something to do with the FMF, just nerves or what. It's not (as some people have speculated) due to my um... rubinesque form, the same thing used to happen when I was fabulously thin or at least, substantially less fat. It may just be one more way in which I'm a freak of nature. There's a laundry list, believe me.

I was apprehensive about approaching the box office. In my heart, I knew what was going to happen and this time, I was right on the money.

Due to certain circumstances, I can't go into a lot of detail here. I wish I could because it makes a great story, but I made a promise and I keep my word, even when my brain is screaming not to. Let's just say that there was an "incident" at the box office. Well, maybe not an incident exactly, that's a little harsh. Let's call it "a situation." I can tell you that there was no record of a ticket in my name, that there were implied accusations made by the box office staff, idle threats and a sudden miraculous resolution of the situation (and I have NO clue what changed) which was followed by the most beautiful display of backstroking ass kissing I've ever seen. The ass kissing, although justified, did little to repair the embarrassment and humiliation of the situation. For obvious reasons, I like to blend into the wood work. If I feel I've drawn attention to myself in any way, I go into panic mode. Find me the nearest rock and let me crawl safely beneath it where I'm protected and I don't have to deal with anyone. Other patrons in line at the box office were looking, they were whispering, there was a gathering of box office employees at the rear of the room shaking their heads, shuffling papers, digging in the trash can for God's sake, all while on the outside I was calm, smiling patiently and on the inside silently screaming, fighting the urge to flee, waddling like the wind back to the safe solitude of my hotel room.


I could have, I suppose, whipped out the plastic and just paid for another ticket, but I was already worrying about what I'd spent, my credit cards already on life support. Eventually, I was given a ticket. Thank God that was over. It was still an hour before showtime, so I waddled my fat and now embarrassed ass over the cafe for coffee and a quick call to a friend back in Missouri just for the satisfaction of saying "I told you so!!!!!" That and I needed to calm myself down all over again.

Feeling a bit better after having vented to my Missouri friend, who by now was probably debating on whether to answer her cellphone anymore until I got back to North Carolina, I headed back to the showroom.

I was lead to my seat in row H, by a nice older gentleman. I sat down, nervously holding onto my camera, my purse and the huge gift bag, trying to figure out where to put them. Eventually I got situated and relaxed. Flash photography wasn't allowed inside the showroom, which I kinda figured anyway, and although I could have taken some without the flash, the way things were going I didn't want to chance accidentally setting it off and getting kicked out on my keister. I was still a little addled by the whole box office experience and I didn't think it was a good idea to push my luck.

I watched as people filed into the theater. It wasn't a full house but it was a nice sized crowd. As showtime approached, I began to notice something. The row I was in was completely empty other than myself and one couple on the other end. There was no one sitting in at least six seats to either side of me. Maybe there would be late comers, at least that's what I hoped, but no. So there I sat, wanting to blend into the crowd, where there was no crowd. By now I was beyond getting freaked out, I had to smile and shake my head at the obsurdity of this entire adventure.

I don't remember the name of the comic who opened the show, something Kagan I think? He was okay, funny enough I suppose, truthfully my impression was probably more a result of my state of mind at the time than the result of the talent of the performer. Other people were cracking up, the lady behind me sounded like a leopard seal with it's tail caught in a vice.

Finally, Craig Ferguson took the stage. He came out like a bullet and he didn't slow down through the whole performance. He worked himself into an honest to God hissy fit, taking us all along with him, full of energy and ending winded and wiping his brow. Kind of how you feel after a round of really good, acrobatic sex. It was a great show and worth every single moment of embarrassment I'd gone through. He touched on his first experience witnessing gay porn ("stop!!! he's gonna hurt him!!!), his Jewish/Scottish wedding, childbirth films with giant ungroomed coochies, which included sound effects and nearly had me in the floor, doing ether at a rock concert, Scrappy Doo and why it takes ten weeks to get a sofa from North Carolina, where sofas are apparently born (who knew?)

For the first time since I'd set foot on that plane in Knoxville, Tennessee the day before, I was grinning like the Cheshire cat after a bong hit.

Of course it was over too soon, as these things always are, but I had a great time seeing him unrestrained by cameras and the all seeing eye of network censors. Ya'll go see for yourself some time :)

The book signing immediately followed the show and yes, I've got more to share about my brief encounter with Craig Ferguson, but it's after 4pm and I'm still in my robe, I had to do laundry before I could get dressed. We're out of toilet paper and I'm almost out of smokes (yes I intend to try to quit again), so I'm going to have to make a run to the dollar store soon. Check back tomorrow for the continuing saga of......

"Mahala Does Vegas"