Through the Bannister


Three Trees and a Sky

I was going to make it a Biscuit Friday, but the VBD refused to sign the photo release. Truthfully, the VBD refused to "stay," so I couldn't get a photo that wasn't his giant brown nose up against the camera lens. So bad.

I took these two photos this past Monday, and I titled this post then, too. That was before my blog was awarded its 15 minutes of fame. I felt on Monday as I do today, I have nothing to complain about. The pictures you see here are the first sights on which my very near-sighted eyes focused on Monday morning, as I came down the stairs to start the day. And I just thought, "Wow, look at that. How blessed am I to be greeted by such a bright, Springy sight, first thing on a Monday morning?" Then I thought, (because I'm a hopeless addict now) "I'll share it with the bloggers!"

Thank you for commenting yesterday, for playing along. I can say with certainty, I have never laughed so hard at comments, here and around the blogworld, as I did yesterday. I especially enjoyed "the real William Shatner" over at Dang Cold's place. I laughed so hard I scared the dog. (Maybe that's why he won't sign the release.)

Feeling thankful for bright Springtime views out my very own windows. Also feeling very thankful for good surprises, the gift of humor that God has so lavishly bestowed on those who visit here, for people who live and let live, and for friends who have the ability to feel true happiness for someone else's good fortune.

(Johnny Depp is SO not gay.)

P.S. If you saw a celebrity comment somewhere, that was really funny, please share with the rest of the class!

It's been quite a week here at the house. In case you've heard, yes, it is true, and in case you haven't heard, well, yes, it is still true, that on Tuesday, a STAR stopped in and commented on my little blog. This EVENT came about thanks to a one-man volunteer PR firm, who liked what he read here and went around blogworld commenting on the site of any famous person who'd let him in. Sort of the blog equivalent of writing my URL on the bathroom wall: For a good time, click Susie... So that my "visits per day" jumped from 187 on Monday to 590 on Tuesday! Now, mind you, the rich and famous LURK here all the time (hey Samuel L, hey Julia!) but they don't often comment. Until Tuesday.

So once the butterflies had settled down, I said to myself, I said, "Sweet potato, (what? that's what I call myself; shut up!), this is a THANG that has unexpectedly happened to you here. And you need to use this thang, and not just let it slip away without making some difference to someone." So with that in mind, I'm going to milk it. I want to tell you just a little about one particular commenter who stopped in here on Tuesday. This person is a unique, gay American, whom I haven't known for long, and have only "met" here in blogworld; still, I have a tremendous amount of admiration, respect, and yes, love, for this person. This commenter is also a blogger, who recently wrote very eloquently about issues such as gays adopting children, and relationships between gays and straights. I'm going to go ahead and give you the link, and I'd like for you to go visit my blogfriend, and don't go actin' all starstruck and goofy, just leave some love there. Go read, comment and then come back.

And now, just so I don't have to go cold turkey on the celebrities-leaving-me-comments, how about leaving me a comment, posting as your favorite celebrity! (Oh, I guess you could tell me your real identity, too, so I can give you credit in your permanent record.) And tell us which celebrity you'd really love to get a comment from. And heck, it REALLY is cool getting a comment from a celebrity, so:

Go ye forth into all of blogworld, disguised as a celebrity that the blogger you're visiting might enjoy, and leave NICE, ENCOURAGING and/or FUNNY comments. Think of it as a bloggers' masquerade party.

This would be a good time to let you know that the beautiful and brilliant mrtl waltzed in here yesterday sportin' an idea that was dangerously close to this one. So I had to have her silenced. Nooooo, she most graciously let me go with it. After I whined and threatened to wet my pants. *

I hereby challenge you to spread this thang! Oh, and as Bucky likes to say, "If nobody does it to you, do it to yourself!"

*If you leave a "faux" comment with someone who takes offense, this was totally mrtl's brainy idea. She has agreed to handle all complaints, returns, exchanges, etc. I don't wanna hear it.

Between the routine gotta-do-it visits to the gynecologist, and various sadistic treatments for infertility before and after LG's arrival, I have spent more than my fair share of time butt-nekkid in the stirrups. I have shared (with another audience) a few short vignettes, which I call "My Life in the Stirrups." This is one of the stories from that "collection."

WARNING: The following is for mature audiences only (no, wait, no one who comes here could read it)... what I mean to say is, the following is the one and only post on this blog that contains the words, "my" and "vagina" adjacent to one another in the same sentence. If that troubles you, go read something else and come back later in the week.


Booty Flies

I’ve had a long and wide-ranging career in the stirrups. The best, most beloved gynecologist I ever had was a 50-something, Colombian-born doctor named Joaquin. I didn’t call him by his first name, but that’s how I always thought of him, because I’d never known a Joaquin, and because I was pretty sure he looked just like one. He was happily married, as was demonstrated by the photos of his pretty, smiling wife with their 8 or 10 or 15 beautiful, smiling children, which were allovertheplace in his office. He was kind and gentle, and explained everything he did. “This is just my finger. This is just the speculum.”

My sister-in-law, who recommended him, told me how gentle and thorough and explanatory he was. One time he said to her, “This is just my foot . . .” We figured it must have been a language thing. English was clearly at least a second language, if not a third or fourth, and his Colombian accent was quite thick, albeit thoroughly charming.

I liked him first because he asked me, as part of his get-acquainted interview, whether I had any trouble reaching orgasm. Well, no I don’t, Joaquin, but I thank you very kindly for asking. No other doc has ever asked that (before or since). And shouldn’t they all? So many women do have trouble, but don’t say anything, and wouldn’t it just help so much if someone would just flat-out ask? So I liked him, because he cared about women’s sexual happiness.

So I’m there in Joaquin’s stirrups. He’s examining me prior to my wedding, when I’ve come to be fitted for the diaphragm that I will never ever use even once in my life, but I’m going to be grown up and responsible now, so I’ll have proper adult contraception. While he’s doing his thing, and I’m looking for a pattern in the holes in the ceiling tiles, he says very sweetly, “Susie, you have booty flies.” I am stunned. He says it again. “Just booty flies.” Ohmygod. How can this be happening to me? I am a good girl. I am so clean. I am so careful. How will I tell Jif? Did I get them from Jif? Wait. What are booty flies? And how do you get them, and deargod how do you get rid of them before the wedding?

I am panicking. I am sweating, trying to control my breathing. My eyes fill up with tears. I am frightened and embarrassed. Something off to the right catches my eye. It is the nurse, there to witness, to chaperone, and she is frantically waving a hand to get my attention. She wants me to look at her face. She’s been watching me deteriorate into a frightened, shamed, booty flies carrier. I can’t look at her.

I look at her. She points to her eye and then she silently mouths, very slowly and deliberately: “BEE-YOO-TEE-FULL EYES.” Over and over, she does this. OH!!!! I don’t have booty flies!!! I have beautiful eyes! I have beautiful eyes! I have beautiful eyes! Thank you, Jesus!! Thank you, Joaquin. And now I’m laughing. The gathered tears spill out and run earward, and I shake with laughter, and then I shout it, loudly and happily, “Thank you!! Thank you!!” Joaquin suddenly stops what he’s doing, is still for a long moment, while I laugh out loud and repeat thankyouthankyouthankyou. Then he leans sideways on his stool to look at me, smiles a small smile and nods. It’s been several minutes since he diagnosed the booty flies. He has no idea for what I am thanking him so enthusiastically. Did he just discover a happy new spot, to be named later with a letter of the alphabet and a hyphen? The J-spot, for Joaquin. The nurse has turned away so he can’t see her laughing. I smile at her back – her bouncy hair shakes, her shoulders shake, her hips shake with silent laughter.

I like a man who can look deeply into my vagina and tell me I have beautiful eyes.

After the shocking content of last week's post, I thought I'd better simma down a bit and offer something of some redeeming social value. I love stories -- I love to read them, hear them, tell them, use them in my work. This is just a short one, but I truly love it. I clipped it out of my church newsletter, laminated it and put it up on my fridge. I read it often. The woman in this story is my super-hero; she's whom I'd like to be if I ever grow up.

The Woman and The Stone

A wise woman who was traveling in the mountains found a precious stone in a stream. The next day she met another traveler who was hungry, and the wise woman opened her bag to share her food. The hungry traveler saw the precious stone and asked the woman to give it to him. She did so without hesitation. The traveler left, rejoicing in his good fortune. He knew the stone was worth enough to give him security for a lifetime. But a few days later he came back to return the stone to the wise woman.

"I've been thinking," he said. "I know how valuable the stone is, but I give it back in the hope that you can give me something even more precious. Give me what you have within you that enabled you to give me the stone."

****
(BTW, tomorrow we return to completely socially unredeeming, shocking content.)

This is the Mama, at about the same age. I think I had been crying here. Probably crying about what they'd done to my bangs!

Sunday Post ~ Have you made a mess of things? You're still loved.

Psalm 103:8-12

file under: &Sunday Post

If he were a cat, you know what kinda cat he'd be...

Biscuit. Makin' copies. The Biskinator. Bisco-ramma. Biscuit-eatsa-Triscuit. Makin' copies.

I love to copy. Sometimes I even exploit my dog in the process. My motto is, "Originality? Whose brainy idea was that?"

Anything worth doing has already been done. Go do it again!

The new neon sign has arrived for my office. What do you think? "Let's put the fun back in dysfunctional," is attributable to Mary Engelbreit, as far as I know. I have a tote bag and a fridge magnet with this sentiment on them. My brother-in-law saw the fridge magnet once and thought it said, "Let's put the func back in dysfunctional." And I REALLY like that idea. I'm trying to develop it into a group therapy model in which I get a bunch of clients together once a week and we go to Funky Town, dancing to James Brown, the Brothers Johnson ( get the funk out ma face, get. the. funk. out ma face), et. al. Let me know if you're interested, I'll send you a flier when I'm ready to start the group.

You can make a sign for your office (or your blog) here.

Thanks to Trisha, whom I don't know, for the sign source.
Thanks to Mary Bishop for the color:)

Recipe for a lazy post (also known as "letting your commenters entertain one another"):

Take one woman whose judgment is so clouded by blogging that she writes a post about her ass...
Add a bunch of clever ass-cracks written by equally addled commenters...
Plus a good suggestion by the lovely and talented Annejelynn...and...
VOILA!

46 Comments Close this window

Collapse comments

Susie said...
Before you even ask...AW, HELL NO, there will be no pictures to accompany this post.
1:21 AM

Krankipantzen said...
That is very funny but the question remains; If I can't rely on your ass, Susie, whose ass can I rely on?
1:31 AM

Greenthumb said...
Oh Susie! Oh Susie! You made me laugh...that's right...You made me laugh my ass off. Clever little wench.
1:42 AM

Rina Bee said...
That was hilarious! I've never seen this SNL skit, and for some strange reason I imagine Dana Carvey's voice as Hanz or Franz (Pump you up!)
5:33 AM

Anonymous said...
I was so going to ask for pictures. That was so funny. I started reading it half asleep, Im wide awake now from laughing!
lawbrat
7:06 AM

Susie said...
crankypants, you do have a point there. OK, YOU can rely on my ass, but NO ONE else. It is powerful, but it can't save the world!

greenie, THAT really would be my exercise regimen of choice; if I could only get it to work, I'd make videos and be rich: "Laugh Your Ass Off With Susie!" Move over, Richard Simmons!

Rina Bee, you gotta see it. I've heard it's on the "Dana Carvey: Best of SNL" video/DVD. Go rent it; don't be a girlie man!

lawbrat, see, I know you. I was thinking, lawbrat comes by early sometimes, and she'll be all, "Pictures!" So happy to wake you up laughing!
7:38 AM

Circus Kelli said...
Wow, Susie. I don't know quite what to say. Your ass could DESTROY THE WORLD?! You have one powerful ass, girl. I don't care what Jif says. I feel so... in-ass-equate now. The only thing my ass can do is make a better door than a window. Oh wait... and it can do a pretty good imitation of jello. The hard part, though is getting it to stop jiggling once you get it goin. ;)
8:33 AM

Mamaramma said...
I don't know whether to feel happy or sad for you that your ass doesn't have the power to block the sun. I mean, I know it might be kind of depressing if it could, but, COME ON! Just think of the power you could wield if it could! Power beyond your wildest dreams!
9:23 AM

laurenbove said...
Awww....no pictures? This is truly the funniest post. Excellent, Susie! (Ass blocks the sun...still laughing at that one.)
9:32 AM

LadyBug said...
Making mental note...do not rely on Susie's ass to protect family from ultraviolet rays...Well, I'd leave a longer comment, but it looks like I need to run to Wal-Mart and stock up on sunscreen now.Sigh.
10:16 AM

Ern said...
Holy cow, that is sooo funny! But remember that an ass IS in fact a powerful tool, and its powers should not be taken lightly. While it may not be able to block out the sun, or calibrate british scientific instruments, it can be a powerful magnetic force. It can draw people irresistably into its proximity (as I imagine yours does for Jif) or it can repel with the strongest of force as well (Closet Metro's story of the deepest crevasse in MN is one example, plummer's crack is another). So before you go poo-poohing the power of the ass, remember George Michael, and also your own magnetism!
10:56 AM

Ern said...
By the way, I was reading the comments on your post from a couple of days ago, and "Jesus Doesn't Give a Rat's Ass if I Say, 'Fuck'" is my new favorite quote! I may use it myself if you don't mine, with full credit given, of course, to you.
11:01 AM

marybishop said...
Oh my, I've thought my mouth could block the sun but never my ass. Hilarious!
11:17 AM

mrtl said...
Thank you for not posting a picture of your ass, Susie. Didn't Dana as George also say: "You have to look at it. You can't take your eyes off of it. It's mesmerizing!"? Talk about not getting anything done!You just too bootylicious, girlfriend!
11:30 AM

Comment Deleted
This post has been removed by the blog administrator.
11:30 AM

Robyn said...
Susie, I'm starting to burn. Could you shift the eclipse a little to the left? Loved it. I needed a good laugh.
11:39 AM

Squirl said...
That was great. Why is it that women always worry about their bodies. A guy could stand up in the sun and never get any tan on his front thighs from his giant beer gut hanging over. And he would still consider himself one of the most studly guys on the beach.
12:14 PM

Annejelynn said...
this post has saved me, as recently I've become a lil' more obsessed than I already am on any regular day.... to realize I'm not the only woman, neurotically concerned with her ass and its size and its ability to BLOCK THE SUN and mess up proper sun exposure (as if sun exposure is what we want) - oh no, trust me! I'm well versed in the proper and most thorough application of SPF - I slather it on baby! yer post made me laugh my ass off (I wish!)
12:36 PM

Torrie said...
My ass has an SPF of 435.
1:06 PM

Sierrabella said...
I'm so glad you were not em-bare-assed to share this story!
1:49 PM

Spurious Plum said...
I was going to make a 'Total Eclipse of the Heart' joke that involved your ass, but I'll just laugh instead. Susie, you're a crackup.
1:51 PM

Susie said...
Oh, dear, I went out to make a living and got a little behind (a BIG behind?) in my replies; let me go from the BOTTOM up, this time (I'm killin' myself, here...)

Plum, I know that song! "Once upon a time there was light in my life...NOW SUSIE'S ASS HAS BLOCKED THE SUN!!!!

SierraBella, ba dum BUM! You know what they say, "If you've got it, right a story about it on the internet." What? They don't? Oh...my bad.

Torrie, THAT, my friend, is a powerful sunblocking ASS. Do you rent it out? You could put the beach umbrella guy out of business;)

Annejelynn, I'm so happy to see you here, darlin'. Of course you're not the only one! I think everyone should write a big ol' post about their ass! (Or a little one.)

Squirl, that is SO true. Sometimes you just look at 'em and think, "Wonder if he knows he looks like that." And the answer is, he doesn't care. Wish I could be more like that. Although, as you can see, I'm headed in that direction. (Ohgoodlord, what kind of woman writes an internet essay about how huge her ass is? I need serious help.)

Robyn, OK, just this once. But you know, you could eat a lot of cookies and sit and blog a lot, and develop your OWN...

Mrtl, yes, I'd forgotten the mesmerizing part. Hey...I use hypnosis in my work. I wonder if...

MB, maybe we could take turns? I know you're about serving your fellow man, as am I...

Ern, as always, you bring keen insight to the discussion. I am most thankful that while signifant repulsion may be at work, Jif still remains attracted, as you so accurately hypothesized. Yes, let us celebrate magnetism! (Hey, you're a scientist, don't larger objects generate greater magnetism?) And as for using that quote, I would be honored. Use it freely. Even before I began blogging, an essay of that title has been rolling around in my head. I'll write it someday. On the other hand, I think the title kind of expresses my opinion pretty well on its own;)

LadyBug, save your receipt...if I spend much more time sitting on it, blogging, I just might be able to protect you and your family. I've never SAT so much in my adult life!

laurenbove, both Jif and I had trouble sleeping last night, so we had some tea, I finished this piece and posted it, and I visited a few blogfriends, including you. And I said to Jif, "Oh no, what have I become? I used to think I was fairly intellectual...look at this...laurenbove has a very thoughtful, intelligent post with patriotism, and the Ottoman Empire...and I just posted an essay on MY ASS! Waaaaa!"

Mamaramma, the challenge, as always, is to look on the bright side (ASSuming my ass hasn't obscured it entirely)...the truth of my ass is, it's somewhere between me lying on the beach bottom-up without giving it a thought, and being powerful enough to destroy the world. I wish it would just go all the way, in one direction or the other...

CK, you are so assequate! Don't hate it, celebrate it! Nominate it! Decorate it! Sounds like your ass is a real mover and shaker!

WOOHOO, I made it through this round! You all are so much FUN:)
2:38 PM

Greenthumb said...
Thank you for finally sitting down, it was getting a bit cold up here in Seattle, but the sun is out again and things are looking up.
3:10 PM

Susie said...
greenie, spoken like a true little brother.
3:22 PM

Summer said...
Hmm..."Susie and her magnificent ass. Look at it before it destroys you!"A great tagline for when you join the circus sideshow. ;) Great post. Enjoyed it tremend-ass-ly. :D
5:01 PM

kimmyk said...
That's nice you and your husband can talk about yer booty. I'm sure your booty is absolutely bootilicious!
5:44 PM

Susie said...
oh, SierraBella, I just read the comments and the copyeditor in me must make a correction: that shoulda been "write a story," NOT "right a story," of course. It's write. It definitely ain't right.

Ah, Summer, you are such an inspiration. Psychotherapy is my second career. Now I know what my third will be. Only tricky part will be breaking the news to my clients, "It has truly been my pleasure and privilege, accompanying you on your journey...but now I must take my MAGNIFICENT ASS on the road..."

kimmyk, your comment tickles me. We've been talking for over 27 years. Yea, I'm not even gonna make a joke. It is really nice. Now he has read the comments and is very proud that my ass is famous; he came home from work and patted the famous ass, and said to it, "Finally, you're using your powers for good."
6:07 PM

little sister said...
LMFAO! (if only that were physically possible) Susie, that is the funniest ass story I've ever heard! But then, it might be the only ass story I've heard...
6:15 PM

Torrie said...
Susie, JLo has nothing on me.
11:25 PM

Nilbo said...
I used to have an ass that had its own gravitational field. But I lost a whack of weight in the past year, so now I have white guy flat-ass syndrome (WGFAS)... I miss my ass.Damn I love reading your blog ...
11:26 PM

Nicolette said...
I am compelled to link to you for the second time in a week, I hope you're pleased with yourself!
1:04 AM

Circus Kelli said...
Nilbo! If you'd like, I can send you some of my ass... trust me. I have enough to go around! (and around and around)Oh, and that "using your powers for good"... THAT cracks me up! (heh, ass - cracks me up! HA!)
9:07 AM

Susie said...
little sister, I don't think there are nearly enough ass stories on blogs! I say there should be an ass-post day!

torrie, you sound pretty self-ASSured, there, girl. Jlo is fame-ASS for this sort of thing...

nilbo, my condolences on the loss of your ass. Sounds like it was most impressive, with the gravitational field and all. Probably easier to find pants now, though, you know, looking on the bright side.

nicolette, I am actually a bit more pleased with my ass today than I was yesterday. I knew of its obvious 2 or 3 functions, but was not so aware of its ability to bring people together, as has happened here. Yes, I am most pleased. And thank you for the linkage;)

CK, I hope you know what you're getting into, offering Nilbo your ass (or part thereof). Very funny, comin' over here makin' ASS-CRACKS. This is a RESPECTABLE blog, you ass-clown!(You know I love you:)
Actually, it WAS a respectable blog. I think the last of my evangelical contingent just packed up and headed for cleaner pastures:(

10:03 AM

Circus Kelli said...
Oh no... I hadn't thought of that, Thanks, Susie! You just saved my ass!Sorry, Nilbo. I'll have to take back the offer. You understand, don't you?What?! This is a RESPECTABLE blog?! Why didn't anyone tell me? I'm SO sorry...
11:18 AM

Citrus said...
Just discovered you through another blog. HILARIOUS. SNL was great back in those days. So was George Michael. How things change. Thanks for this post. I laughed until I stopped.
3:12 PM

Annejelynn said...
susie, I think you should post your responses to our comments as a post (did that make sense?)they are just as amusing and hilarious as your original posts for which we make our comments...maybe my interest in this proposal is selfish - but I don't wanna miss your responses to my comments, specifically BUT in generally, I love your responses to all our comments...the one to Torrie about JLo's famASS? again, I'm laughing my ass off (and it just comes right back!?!)
3:53 PM

Annejelynn said...
Greenie's typical lil' brother comment is the best! ...thanks for sitting down... (evil snicker)
3:54 PM

Susie said...
citrus, thanks for stopping in. I still like SNL and George Michael. Laughed until you stopped...then I started. You seem like a smartASS, and I like that.

Ah, Annejelynn, THAT is what's known as "boomerang ass." You know, the commenters here have entertained me quite a lot. If I can figure out how, maybe I'll just copy it and post it as a post. You know what I mean.
4:04 PM

Bob Smallwood, Blogger-at-Large said...
That was really funny!
4:22 PM

Torrie said...
Aaaa huh, huh huh... ASS.
5:53 PM

Nilbo said...
When Circus Kelli offered me her ass, my first thought was to come back with the new York City cabbie response: "Lady, aintcha got nuttin' smaller?" But I decided to be all nice, and now look what it's got me ... no ass. Mine or hers. (sigh)Anyway ... it was the best offer of a piece of ass I've gotten all week ... so that's nice.
6:53 PM

Dang Cold.. said...
man did I miss out on this string of comments.Susie baby I have no problem living in a world that can be destroyed by your ass. In some texts, the hindu god Shiva destroys the world by doing a dance. He will then dance again and thus create the world. One could say He shakes his ass and creates or destroys life. Your ass is divine;
Shakin' that ass
Shakin' that ass
As for Nilbo and CK's ass. That item, sir, is the sole property of Dang Cold. All solicitations are prohibited and subject to prosecution unless state otherwise by said owner. Any offers by CK of said ass, as a result, are null and void automatically. Love ya Susie!! :D
dc (denny crane)
11:02 PM

Susie said...
Dang! You came back to my ass! We've all missed you so much! Denny Crane. You're killin' me here! Look everyone, Dang's back!
11:07 PM

Closet Metro said...
I'm curious as to how Torrie measured the SPF of her ass.
1:00 AM

Nicolette said...
"nicolette, I am actually a bit more pleased with my ass today than I was yesterday. I knew of its obvious 2 or 3 functions, but was not so aware of its ability to bring people together, as has happened here. Yes, I am most pleased. And thank you for the linkage;) "

I believe that it could make the UN obsolete. All we have to do is beam an image of your ass across the world - and out into space - and all wars will cease.
1:55 AM

Susie said...
Torrie, please explain to Closet Metro and the rest of the class...

Aw, Nicolette, for THAT, I would have to publish a photograph....well, OK, I'd do it for that. I think on THAT note, I'm going to take Annejelynn's suggestion and try to publish this puppy, because where could it possibly go from here? The post started out with my ass as a DESTROYER, and now, through the wisdom(?) of blog commenters, it has evolved to the point of being a PEACEKEEPER.
My ass is a uniter, not a divider...
7:40 AM

OH! One more...

Circus Kelli said...
Nilbo - Your comment made me laugh. So sorry to disappoint. As to the "ain't you got nuthin smaller?" Hee, well, yes, I do, but I'm afraid that would take this conversation a little North of the current topic.

Dang Cold, DC, Denny Crane, whoever you are - I was not aware that ownership of my ass had been transferred to you. When did that happen? Why am I just finding out about this now? I believe that possession is 9/10 of the law. Since I am in sole posession of my ass, I think I may have to take this up in court. My lawyer says I have a pretty good case. His exact words were, "I think the case involving your ass has two legs to stand on."
8:57 AM

The following post contains the word, "ass," about 13 times. There are specific references to George Michael's ass, and to my own. If this disturbs you (and it probably should), then go away and come back another day. I'm usually not like this...

A couple of weeks ago, in the comments here, after I outed myself as an Aaron Neville groupie, we got into a discussion of George Michael (of WHAM! fame), and then of George Michael's butt, as explored by Dana Carvey in a late '80s SNL skit. Dana-as-George was a guest on Weekend Update, talking about the formula for a hit music video. Turns out, that formula relied heavily on George's ass. The following lines are some of what "George Michael" said to Dennis Miller, who was conducting the interview. Keep in mind, "it" always refers to George's butt:

"It is so perfectly round that British scientists use it to calibrate their instruments."
"Look at it!!! Look at it, Dennis! The worst thing you can do is try to ignore it!"
"It's a force to be reckoned with!"
"Look at it before it DESTROYS YOU!"

Jif and I were equally broken up by the absurdity of this skit, and over the years, whenever mention has been made of someone's bottom, we have resorted to quoting these outrageous claims and admonitions.

What does that have to do with me? Well, for starters, it gives you even more insight into the wacky workings of my sense of humor. But beyond that, I fancy that my own derriere is endowed with certain powers, as I revealed last summer on the beach at Assateague Island.* The following script is taken from that scene:

Susie (lying on blanket, face down, looks up and notes that sun's rays are aimed directly down the line of her body, from head to feet, and says to Jif): Am I getting any sun on the back of my thighs?

Jif (sitting in beach chair reading and watching LG playing with new friend in surf; he takes a long moment to look at the thighs and ponder the question): You're lying on the beach, face down, in a swimsuit, on a sunny day. Why would you not be getting sun on the back of your thighs?

Susie: Well, I... you know...

Jif waits.

Susie: Just because, you know, the angle of the sun...

Jif waits.

Susie: You know... shadows...

Jif (laughs): You think that your ass is casting such a shadow on your thighs that they're not getting any sun?

Susie: Well, yea.

Jif laughs. And laughs.

Susie: It's not FUNNY! Am I or not?

Jif: You're getting sun on your thighs. There is no shadow. (More laughter.) You really think that your ass can BLOCK THE SUN?

Susie: Oh, honey...I KNOW my ass can block the sun. In fact, I think, if I position it just right, my ass can CAUSE AN ECLIPSE. No, more than that. If I position my ass just right, for a long enough period of time, I think it COULD CAUSE THE NEXT ICE AGE. MY ASS COULD DESTROY THE WORLD!!!!
By this time, we are both in stitches.

Jif (shaking his head): I never thought I'd say this to you, but your ass is not nearly as powerful as you think.

Susie: Oh. Well, good.

End of scene


See? Me and George.

*OK, because I am pathologically honest, I must admit, it was Chincoteague Island. But ASSateague works so much better!

Disclaimers as required by law:
1. Sunbathing is bad for you. Don't do it.
2. If you choose to sunbathe anyway, use a high SPF sunblock. DO NOT rely on your ass (or mine) to protect you or your family from the sun's harmful rays.

Had a lovely weekend, visiting with friends on Saturday and taking Nana and Pop Pop (Jif's parents) out for brunch after church on Sunday, to celebrate Nana's birthday. A little housework, a little yardwork, a little too much blog surfing. One of my blog visits was especially enjoyable, because it yielded quite a surprise.

As I've mentioned briefly here, when I was in the middle of my freshman year in high school, my family moved from Delaware to North Carolina. It was a difficult move for me in many ways. One thing I always regretted about that move was that we somehow missed getting my school pictures from my old school, the one where I left the friends I'd known since first grade. While cruising around blogworld yesterday, I discovered that the (in)famous Nilbo knew of an international database for archived school photos. I checked the link he provided, and sure enough, there I was, along with friends I hadn't seen since forever. To see if your alma mater participated in this project, click here.

Sunday Post ~ May you encounter something that shimmers for you today -- a loved one's laughter, a memory, a hope, a beautiful stone in the road...

John 1:1-5

file under: &Sunday Post

If you visit here regularly or even semi-regularly, and if you've let me know who you are, you're on the first team, described here. I am so tickled at the smart, kind, funny people that have wandered in here. The first part's for you. The second part, well, I don't really know who it's for, because they won't say who they are. If you come here very often, you'll know this is not a ranting, complaining blog (aside from the occasional, "I'm Just Sayin'..." post). Not that I have anything against that -- if it's your blog you can say whatever you want. I even read some of those kind of blogs, they make me laugh or make me think. But that's not my strong suit, not my temperament, as those of you who've gotten to "know" me know. However, feeling just a little "ranty" this morning. Bear with me, or if you don't wanna hear it, git outta here, go have a fun Saturday, and come back and see me next week ;)

Do you ever wake up in the morning, and feel thankful for the day? And resolve that today, I'm going to do something that makes the world just a tiny bit better? Decide that today I'm going to encourage someone, compliment someone, praise someone, give someone the benefit of the doubt, smile at someone who's not smiling, laugh at myself, make someone laugh? Ever think that, today, wherever I go, I want to leave that place a little brighter for my having been there? Think that, today, I'm going to be mindful that life is pretty difficult a lot of the time for most people, and that if we can find a place to go, a thing to do, that makes it a bit more manageable, gives us a bit of a break, lets us rant or be goofy or sentimental or childish for a few minutes, that would be a good place to go, and a good thing to do, and we should keep it a welcoming, nonjudging kind of place?

You ever do that? Yea, me too.

How about this one. Do you ever wake up in the morning and not feel particularly benevolent toward anyone at all? Ever wake up and resolve that, today I will give my negative opinion to someone who didn't ask for it? Decide that, today, I will see if I can hurt someone's feelings, discourage someone, wipe the smile off someone's face? Ever think, EVERYTHING anyone is doing is MY business, and it is my job to tell them what they ought to do, and how they ought to do it? Ever think, I will be unkind to someone today, maybe even a stranger, and I've discovered a way that I can do it ANONYMOUSLY, so I don't have to be accountable, don't have to accept any responsibility for my actions? Ever think, today, I will be a spreader of poison, in person, or on someone's blog, or in an email?

You ever do that? Nah. Me neither.

This one was inspired by recent posts at Julie's place.

A few years ago, when we were househunting, we went from one bizarre prospect to the next, trying to get into the grotesquely overpriced excellent school district where we hoped to raise LG. We looked at about 40 houses before we found the one in which we now live. One of those houses had carpet so ugly, it nearly changed our eternal destinies.

We walked into this brick rancher, about 30 years old, and saw that it was decorated with all the latest colors and textiles. And by "latest," I mean the most modern available. And by "available," I mean available in the mid '70s when the house was built. At one time, it had been "all that," but all that had not been updated in any way. It was like stepping into "That '70s Show," but Ashton Kutcher* was nowhere in sight.

Who was very much in sight, however, was Buddha. This appeared to be the home of a devoutly Buddhist family. There were books on Buddhism, there were shrines, there were figurines and statues of every sort of Buddha, every shape and size. As we approached the family room, I could see that it was a step down from the kitchen. No, I don't mean it was inferior to the kitchen. I mean, you had to walk down one step to get into the family room. But this was not so easy to see. The step and the floor below were covered in long shag carpet. This long shag carpet was black and brown and white spotted. Big spots. Can you picture it? If you close your eyes and picture that carpet, and if you're really getting the picture, that carpet starts to move -- to wave and undulate right before your eyes. That's the kind of carpet it was. The kind of pattern it was. It moved.

I followed the realtor down into the rolling sea of carpet and took a few steps into the room. Just then I heard a "Phhhhuh. Thud." sound behind me. I turned to see my husband on his knees beside a rocking chair, head bowed toward the two-foot tall Buddha he cradled gently in his arms. I just stared for a moment. We read the Holy Bible, various versions. We pray "in Jesus' name." We are both officers in the Presbyterian Church. We had never discussed this bowing and loving the Buddha thing. But there was Jif. On his knees.

"What are you doing?" I asked, in what I hoped was a religiously tolerant tone.

"I didn't see that step," he answered, flustered.

"And your friend, there?"

He looked at the statue in his arms as though seeing it for the first time. "It fell out of the rocker when I bumped into it. I caught it."

"But you still love Jesus, right?" We both started to laugh so hard, from exhaustion, frustration, and the absurdity of the scene, that the realtor suggested we call it a day.

This family story has become known as "The House that was So Ugly, It Brought Jif to His Knees and Converted Him to Buddhism."

I know that some blogfriends are moving right this minute, and some are househunting. If you're doing that sort of thing today, may your new home be blessed. BLESSED.

*or "Asthma Catcher," as blogger spell-check calls him :)

LG took this pic of Biscuit. Pardon me while I brag about my kid for a moment: LG won first prize in a PTA-sponsored competition for this. The theme was "I feel really happy when..." LG explained that this photo captures the theme because she feels really happy when she sees Biscuit watching for her out the window when she's walking home from school, and he feels really happy when he sees her coming home.

Jif and I have identical cell phones. LG decided I needed this ID sticker to distinguish my phone from Jif's.

About cell phones. Three things.

First. If you come to me for marriage counseling, I want you to turn your cell phones off. Both of you. I mean it. No, it is not OK if I talk with one of you while the other does business on the cell phone. It's not OK with me. (Hmmm. I know we've just met, and I don't want to jump to conclusions. But could it possibly be that there's some correlation between you answering your cell phone during the marital therapy session, and your spouse's complaint that you NEVER LISTEN? Or how about your partner's complaint about not feeling important to you? I don't know, I'm must wondering...) What's that? You're paying me for the hour? That is true. But here's why that doesn't change the fact that you gotta turn it off: If you called me up and said to me, "I would like to pay a significant hourly rate to have you sit there quietly and watch and listen to me talk on my cell phone," I would say to you, "No." Yes, I understand that you may be perfectly willing to spend your money that way. And I am sure you will be able to find a therapist who will take your money in exchange for that service. It ain't me. I am not willing to spend my time that way. Turn. the mofo. OFF.

Second. Don't look at me like that when I look at you like that. When we are in the store, and you come up right beside me and you're talking out loud. How am I supposed to know that you're on one of those invisible cell phones? The kind that's stuck in your ear or implanted in your neck, or wherever the hell it is. If you are beside me, talking to me, my first reaction is to smile at you, then listen very intently to what you're saying, so I can try to catch on to just where in the conversation we are, so I can jump in. Because I'm friendly like that. Then when you don't return my gesture of friendship, my second reaction is to try to discern just which mental disorder I am witnessing; because it is obviously one of those few that is accompanied by delusions or auditory hallucinations. That is, you're apparently hearing voices. And even worse, you're talking back to them. Out loud. I can help you with that. It is only when you continue to look at me like that, that I finally realize, "Oh, it's one of those." But you don't have to be nasty. As I said, I was only trying to A)be friendly or B)begin the necessary paperwork.

Third. In church. No. On Easter Sunday, not once, but twice, my pastor's sermon was interrupted by your phone. You know those little "I wish..." cards we have in the pews? The ones where you can request a visit from the pastor, or request that we sing your favorite hymn? I wrote out a wish on that card, and addressed it to the pastor, and put it in the offering plate. It said, "I wish that the next time someone's cell phone rings during your sermon, you would say, right from the pulpit, "That had BETTER be the Lord calling." Come on. In church? No.

I'm just sayin'...

file under: &I'm Just Sayin'

Here's another "bad word" story -- well, sort of.

Background: We're not allowed to say "shut up" in our family. Last year, in second grade, LG still had the teeniest tiniest bit of a lisp (lithp) left, when saying a word with the letter S.

One day we three were "working" (OK, hanging out) in the backyard, and she says to me, "If Daddy doesn't stop teasing me, I'm gonna say it. I mean it, I'm gonna say it."

"You're gonna say what?" I ask her.

"I'm gonna tell him the F-U word!" Jif and I look at each other; I have a heart attack. There's no way. I have her repeat it a couple of times, and I finally get that with her lisp, what she's saying is "ETH-U," which still isn't registering with me, so she comes and whispers the bad words in my ear, "You know, 'shut up.'"

Oh, ETH-U!

I am not particularly "dirty" in my speech; nor am I squeaky clean. While I believe that words have power, I also believe that any particular word only has the power that we choose to assign it. Even so, when LG began to imitate our speech, Jif and I became very careful about what words we used. We were never ones to curse at each other in anger or call names, or anything like that. Just the occasional "excited utterance" at the occurrence of a stubbed toe, a broken dish, that sort of thing.

I thought I had completely eliminated any words that I would not want LG to whip out in polite company, but one day when she was about three, I realized I wasn't as "pure" as I liked to think I was. We were in the car, and she was happily coloring in the backseat, in her carseat, as we drove along. Then she says, not too unhappily, "I dropped the green! Well, isn't that a dammit?!"

Did I hear what I think I heard? "Isn't that what, baby?"

Very matter-of-fact reply, "A dammit."

"LG, what is 'a dammit'?"

She rolls her huge green eyes. "Mama, you know what a dammit is. You know, if you drop something, or if something doesn't work properly, we call that a 'dammit.' You know that!"

Yes, I do. I didn't go into a "bad words" talk; I just resolved to say something else when I dropped something or when something didn't work properly. And I did so, and she copied whatever my new expression was, as well, and the "dammit" disappeared from her vocabulary. But even now, if she's not around, you might hear me say, "Well, isn't that a dammit!" Because that's just too cute not to say.

Tune in another time for more good kids/bad words stories. I've got a few. And tell me some of yours!

Sunday Post ~ “My hope is that the description of God’s love in my life will give you the freedom and the courage to discover . . . God’s love in yours.” (Henri Nouwen, in "Here and Now")

Romans 8:38-39

file under: &Sunday Post

In the late Spring of 2002, the Fairchilds moved out of the crackhouse (see 3/15 post) and into a respectable neighborhood. It was a hellatious move. The crackhouse was tiny, a bungalow, don'tchaknow, so we thought, "How long can it take to pack?" Longer than we thought. Even though the rooms were small, and there weren't many of them, there was a full attic and a full basement, which had accumulated staggering amounts of stuff. Clothes, college notebooks, unused-for-19-years wedding gifts, various sports and exercise equipment, baby supplies, and so on.

I began packing early, neatly organizing everything, putting lists or even Polaroid pictures on the outside of the boxes, so we'd know where everything was when we went to unpack. This was going to be one smoooth mooove.

Then it went rough. First, we couldn't move directly from our old house into the new one we were buying. Something about the boy in the new house wanting to finish his last two weeks of high school where he was, and having to remain a resident, blahblahblah. Which meant we had to move into an apartment for a couple of weeks, in between houses. This complicated the packing process. Some boxes were for the apartment, and some were to go into storage until we moved into the new house.

Then we had a lucky break. We learned that our church yard sale was to be held the weekend just before we moved. This would be perfect, since moving means getting rid of stuff, and where better than at the church yard sale? As time grew tighter, my organized, polaroided packing deteriorated into hurling things and stuff into boxes, and labeling those boxes with only the room in which they should go in the new house. Then even the box labeling slowed down, and I went with the tried-and-true "wildly tossing" method of packing.

As each box was filled, Jif or I, or a friend or relative would carry the box out onto our large, covered front porch. Boxes to the right of the door were to be taken to our storage location. Boxes to the left of the door were to be taken to the church basement for the yard sale. Right, storage. Left, yard sale. Right, storage. Left, yard sale. And so on, we packed and loaded and drove boxes away.

The annual church yard sale is a delightful occasion. It is held indoors, and the church basement/fellowship hall is packed with things and stuff, and their people. Jif and I took LG to the yard sale that year. Jif was off helping people load large purchases into their cars, and LG was wandering around with a few dollars, buying things like huge, "beautiful" earrings to give to her mama. I was browsing and chatting, having a good time, until...

"Isn't this you and Jif?" I looked at a gold-edged 4 X 6 photo frame, just purchased by this yard sale shopper who thrust it in front of me. On the glass of the frame was an orange sticker marked "50 cents." It took me a moment to realize what I was looking at. Then I saw it. Under the glass of the frame was a photograph. Of me. And Jif. Dancing. At our wedding.

I freaked. "Where did you get this?"

"At the yard sale."

"WHAT yard sale?" (OK, I was a little slow; I was in shock, give me a break...)

"I bought it, right over there with the picture frames. And this one, too." And this shopper who had recognized us in our wedding photograph showed me a second picture frame he had purchased at a bargain price. From this one, my mother- and father-in-law smiled and waved at me from the coastline of Nova Scotia, where they'd gone on vacation a few years earlier. Can you say, @#$%!!!!? 'Cause that's what I said, right there in the fellowship hall.

"ARE THERE MORE?!!!!" Oh, hell yea. There were more. Many of the significant events of my married life were for sale on the frame table. For 50 freakin' cents apiece. As you've no doubt deduced by now, someone took the wrong box to the wrong place, and my cherished photographs which should have been in storage were being sold off like so many huge, "beautiful" earrings.

Of course, word travelled fast around the hall, and I was teased unmercifully. In a most unChristian manner, I might add. People told Jif I was obviously "trying to tell him something," by selling off our wedding pictures and pictures of his family, at the yard sale. A gay friend who had once been married got all excited, "I always wondered what to do with my wedding pictures! I didn't know you could SELL them at the yard sale!!" Wise guy.

To answer the question everyone asks when we tell them this story: we think so. We believe we retrieved all those that had already been purchased (and you wouldn't believe it, but some people did not want to part with their purchases), and we "bought" those that were still for sale. Some may have walked out the door before we realized what was happening, but if so, they weren't any that we've missed. So if you do find that in your yard-sale-purchased picture frame is someone who looks suspiciously like a Fairchild -- I don't even want to know.

Post-post: The photo of Jif and me at our wedding, posted here on 3/12/05, was the one that started it all.

One more pic from our trip. These stone chimneys are what's left of the farmhouse in which my great-grandparents lived.

The Blue Ridge Parkway

This is where I went. To the Blue Ridge Mountains of northwestern North Carolina. It is where my parents grew up, and where I went to 3 1/2 years of high school. I have a love/hate relationship with the place. I may write more about that down the road, but for right now, the "love" part is probably easy to see -- it's a spectacularly beautiful area of the country. The hate part has to do with unpleasant things that happened there. But nothing TOO unpleasant this past weekend.

I went to visit my Mom, who will be 82 next month. She had seven children, the first when she was 18 and the last when she was 42. I came near the end of her illustrious birthing career. And I went to attend the 80th birthday party -- a surprise -- for my Aunt Louise. Aunt Louise is my father's baby sister, and they were extremely close. (My father died about 11 years ago.) He and Louise were SO close that at times my mother and Aunt Louise's relationship was very strained. However, they are now better friends than ever, with what they have in common having been devotion to my father.

Because of my history with the place and some of the people who still reside there, I didn't want to go visit unless my brother, Mike, came along. I talked him and his beautiful family into it weeks ago. And don't you know, he cancelled on me at the last possible moment (we were halfway there, 4 hours into our 8-hour drive when he calls me on my cell). His reasons were absolutely legit. Couldn't argue with him. That didn't stop me from phoning him last night when I got home, and saying, "God will forgive you for bailing out on me. And THAT'S the difference between God and me."

Well, that sort of sets the stage. I won't bore you with a moment-by-moment account. Let me bore you instead with some of my keen observations:

Overheard at the Cracker Barrel:

Assistant Manager: I'm the Assistant Manager, ladies. What seems to be the trouble?
Lady in Blue: Well, my sam-wich was awful. It tasted like somebody had stepped on it.
Ass. Man.: Stepped on it?
LiB: Just stepped right on it. That's just exactly what it tasted like. The whole thing tasted just like that.
Ass. Man.: And did you have some trouble too, ma'am?
Lady in Red: Yes, I did. I eat at Cracker Barrel all the time, and I never had a vegetable plate like this one.
Ass. Man.: Like that one? Like the one that's sitting in front of you empty now?
LiR: Yessir. It was the worst-tasting food I ever ate. And I gave it every chance to get better. I kept eating it, thinking it would get better, but the more I ate, the worse it tasted.

The Weather
When we arrived at our motel, it was like THIS RIGHTCHEER:


April Blizzards bring....WHAT?

Can you see that? We went SOUTH in the SPRINGTIME into a freakin' BLIZZARD. Winds were so high that a number of ginormous evergreens were uprooted or broken in two, blocking roads and creating power outages. All because THE FAIRCHILDS CAME A'CALLIN'. With their suitcases full of NO WINTER CLOTHES.

Worrying about Things that Never Happen
Well, I've told you that Mike and his crew did not make the trip. And while that was distressing to me, it did alleviate one worry that I had about "what to do if..." See, the party was a covered-dish affair. Coming from so far away, we just decided to bring a ham from Heavenly Ham. We've taken this to reunions and such before, and it's always been a big hit with the relatives. Southern Baptists will flat-out put away some pork products. However, my brother and his family are of a religious persuasion that has led them to refrain from eating pork, among other things. Now, I would never SERVE pork to Mike and family when they visit my home. But doggone it, the Southern Baptists were looking forward to the Heavenly Ham. So my dilemma: if we carpool, and if Mike's bunch rides with us, is it insensitive of me to ask them to ride in a van with a ham? What would Emily Post say? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? I try so hard to do the right thing...

Granny
On the day of the party, we went to pick up my Mom, whom we now call Granny, because the latest crop of grandkids call her that. Granny had some strokes a few years back, from which she has recovered remarkably well, thank God, but which have left her with some immobility on her right side. When I arrived, her left side was ready to party, but her right side still needed some stylin'. I put on her right earring, sparkly hair clip, etc., so she was lookin' good.

Granny goes sprinting for the front door, to get in her motorized lift outside, and I say, "Hey, Granny! Aren't you forgetting something?" I'm standing there leaning on her walker, laughing. She hurries over to get the walker, then heads out the door. She said she would need it later, and I know that's true. I don't mean to imply that she's malingering or faking the need for the walker. It's not that at all, it was just that for that moment, her brain forgot how uncooperative her body can sometimes be. For that moment, she was just a girl going to a party. And that tickled me.


Happy 80th, Aunt Roo-leez

Party Highlights
Aunt Louise was totally surprised, thought she was going to a baby shower. She was also surprised to see Granny, who hardly ever leaves the house anymore. They hugged and cried. Beautiful. Then Granny sat and held court while in-laws, out-laws, nieces and nephews came to hug her and proclaim her "still the prettiest girl in the county."

When it came time to blow out 80 candles, my Aunt Louise, clever girl, just picked up a Styrofoam plate and waved it across the 4-alarm cake like she was swatting flies. That fire was history.

LG and Cousin Anna were on candle-removal duty, which they accomplished with a flourish, leaving the cake looking uncannily like a scene from the movie, "Holes."


80 candles were quickly extinguished and removed, before the sprinklers went off...

I got to visit with cousins I hadn't seen in years. Linda and Pam were my very favorites. Linda hosted the party for her mom. Pam, in her late 40s now, is still cheerleader-cute and I would still follow her into any type of trouble she might propose because the girl knows how to have FUN. That was like a mathematical equation of my childhood: Cousin Pam = FUN.

I got to watch Jif's eyes glaze over as Cousin Andy regaled him with a 40-minute description of the road construction and his various efforts to circumnavigate it, en route to the party from Myrtle Beach. Followed by a 30-minute description of the time he met Dale Earnhardt, Jr., in a "restrunt," and parlayed the meeting into a photo op. But the funniest part was seeing Andy's obvious GLEE at causing Jif's eyes to glaze over: "Looky there! I can talk a'body into a coma! I surely do have the gift of gab." Jif remains catatonic, but is beginning to respond. If I say, "Cousin Andy," Jif can mutter, "gift o' gab...Dale, Jr." We're working on him.

The Question
Some dooce readers in the house have already asked, so I will answer:
All the Grannies and Aunties
Were wearin' their panties.

The Morning After
The next morning, we had breakfast with a friend I hadn't seen in over 25 years, let's call her Fiddler, and her beau (bow?). It was delightful to see her again and to meet her love. Also delightful was the exchange between Fiddler's Bow and the waitress:

B: How big are the pancakes?
W: They're purty big.

And THAT was enough information for Beau/Bow to know that he only needed to order one pancake. You see, he had eaten there before, and been told that the pancakes were purty big, but didn't know what that meant, until he was served a stack of three pancakes that hung off the sides of his plate and were each so thick that it appeared he was expected to eat a layer cake all by himself. With butter and syrup.

So, if you are ever in Ashe County, North Carolina, and the topic of pancake-size comes up, you will know, dear reader, that "purty big" is approximately equal to one foot in diameter.

Who says my blog isn't educational?

Something I Realized on the Trip
Before we went away, I saw Jada Pinkett Smith on the Today Show, talking about her new children's book. It's about empowering, encouraging little girls to be all that they can be. She made the observation that children know very early in life what they want to be, if we'd just listen to them. At first I thought, nah, not me. But I thought about that theory as I reconnected with immediate and extended family these past few days, and perhaps it was true for me. You might say that much of my early life was spent practicing the art of the diagnostic interview, the initial therapeutic assessment. Between parents, brothers, aunts, uncles, I cannot begin to tell you the number of times in my childhood that I asked someone:

Are you CRAZY?
What's WRONG with you?
Have you LOST YOUR MIND?!!!!

Now, I do have a little more finesse to my interviewing skillz today than I had then, but that's still pretty much what I need to know to get started doing my job.

I'm back home, and I want to write a bit about my travels. While I'm unpacking and seeing which pictures I can actually show to decent folk, and which stories I can actually tell without getting anyone arrested/disbarred/excommunicated/divorced/suspended/pissed-at-me, here's a little something you might want to play with. I picked this up at Plum's place a while back, and since it was "all Aaron, all the time" here last week, I thought I'd whip it out as a grand finale to the Nevilleness. (Plus, it's fun to say, "whip it out.") It's sort of a "meme," I think, but I'm a techno-dunce, so what do I know?

Copy it and post your own. You know, if you want.

Step 1) Pick a band or singer
Step 2) Answer the following questions about yourself, using only song titles from that band or singer
Step 3) Post

Band/Singer of choice: Aaron Neville

Are you male or female? "Sister Rosa"
Describe yourself: "Betcha by Golly, Wow"
How do some people feel about you? "You Never Can Tell"
How do you feel about yourself? "Try (a Little Harder)"
Describe your worst ex: "Ain't No Way"
Describe your current significant other: "Don't Take Away My Heaven"
Describe what you want to be: "Bridge Over Troubled Water"
Describe your current mood: "Down into Muddy Water"
Describe your friends: "These Foolish Things"
Share a few words of wisdom: "Show Some Emotion"

There you go. And I'll give Aaron a rest now, I promise;)

Back in a bit to give the highlights and lowlights of my little trip.