Tell Your Exes Where To Go
Month: January 2014
Rearview Mirror
This year, this picture will be 20 years old. I took this the first (and last) time I ever went water-skiing. After that summer, my toes would never again touch that lake water, nor would I return to that little town. I didn’t edit the picture in any way; it just has that curious green hue. Now it seems like a metaphor for looking back at youth, vigor, athleticism, the wide hope of your whole life ahead of you–all in the past, but captured by that cheap little camera. For those of us living insular lives, not traveling the world or checking off entries on Bucket Lists–those of us just trying to get by–it’s a nice reminder to know, as Sandra Bullock’s character says in Hope Floats, “Once upon a time your mama knew what it meant to shine.”
Passport To Refreshment
I’d be pretty miffed, too, if all I had to drink was 12 oz in a Coke bottle. What’s that–three sips? That’s like drinking one glass of wine, one Pringle, one chip with salsa. It’s just a tease. But no worries–as soon as school was out, the kids hit the corner drug store for (no, not anti-depressants) fellowship, gossip, and soda pop.
Toss ’em back, girls. Finals are tomorrow and you’ll have to pull an all-nighter. And I’m not sure NoDoz has been invented yet. But take heart; in just two score years, the soda will be flowing like the River Thames.
SEVEN OUNCES! AM I READING THAT CORRECTLY? THAT’S A SHOT GLASS. But mercy, did it triple, quadruple, and whatever words there are for getting six times bigger. But that ain’t nothin’. Sonic sells the Route 44. Don’t you want to take the Nestea plunge into this cherry limeade?
Come to think of it, where’s the Route 66? Would that fit in the cupholder? Maybe, but it would dilute by the time I got home. Ugh! First World Problems!
Now, honestly, do you think they were only drinking one soda per sitting back in the day? That’s not what the soda companies wanted. When research in the 1930s showed that people’s blood sugar went down at 10:30am, 2:30pm, and 4:30pm, Dr. Pepper was all over that with their new slogan. Those of you who are slaves to the man have real jobs recognize these three times. I bet you get your caffeine on at 10, 2 and 4.
Yeah, there’s no way they just drank one. Think about it. If you’re on a date with Johnny, it only takes about three minutes to get through an entire bottle. Then what do you drink?
What did they drink before free refills? Did they order water? Did they just sit and get dehydrated for the next hour? There is no way I could eat Mexican food with only 12 oz to wash it down, especially if I just swallowed a serrano pepper.
Maybe they only drank one soda so they could save room for this:
I meant the ice cream, not the soda jerk. Although he looks dapper in his starched whites. Can you begin to imagine what that would taste like? Ice cream from a cow that ate grass, that roamed around on a farm, not pumped full of growth hormones or antibiotics, before the estrogenization of dairy, before man boobs and low T. Sorry, I’m off on a tangent. Where were we again? Oh, yeah. Soda. Could it get any crazier?
It has.
So what’s the answer? Where do we go from here?
Oops. Nevermind. That’s actually a lighter.
Huddle Up
Pre-Star Wars Lightsabers 1953
We Have Lift Off
It is an uncontested fact that the men of Cobra Kai, while not victorious against Danielson, did in fact possess enough feathered hair to construct another Feather Bed for John Denver’s grandma, which we all recall was “nine feet high and six feet wide, soft as a downy chick, and made from the feathers of forty ‘leven geese…” Or in this case, three Cobra Kai.
It is also a universal truth that Farrah Fawcett wore the crown of queen bee for female feathered hair. However, I have just discovered evidence of a firm runner-up to the title.
This unnamed vixen was a member of Akers’ Angels at the University of Texas, whose job it was to show prospective Longhorn football players around campus. No, that doesn’t sound like an escort at all. She evidently took the title of Angel seriously, by copying the hairstyle of one of Charlie’s Angels. But while Farrah’s locks twirled and swirled like a spiral staircase, this lady’s feathers formed an impenetrable brick wall, eight inches high, so that neither fiery darts nor a linebacker who looks as confused as Moose in Archie Comics could get through it.
Yes, her hair is powerful. But here’s a word of advice: stay out of the humidity before it goes all Kristy McNichol on you. Ain’t nobody got time for that.
Kiss These Angels Good Morning
These gorgeous gals can hardly contain themselves, anticipating the opening number at the Charley Pride concert. They are duded up and ready to get their country music on. What is that, you say? Who is Charley Pride? I can’t hear you over the squeaking of her leather jacket as she shifts uncomfortably against the wallet in her back pocket. Charley Pride is a country music singer who had hits in the 70s and 80s, scoring his 29th No. 1 in 1983 with “Night Games.” Back then, he was a pretty big deal.
Apparently, Charley Pride has been forgotten. I did not know it until I saw this picture. I assumed he was very much remembered, since everyone and their dog wants to call Darius “Don’t Call Me Hootie” Rucker the modern-day Mr. Pride. True, they have the honor of being the only two African-American artists to have solo No. 1 hits in the Country Music genre, but Charley is a traditionalist, and Darius is a crossover artist, writing his own songs as well as scoring hits with covers like “Wagon Wheel,” originally co-written by Bob Dylan.
If you know anything about me by now (aside from the fact that I don’t get it), you know Mama likes her ties, even this silk handkerchief thingy that isn’t really a tie. A man who wears this can never truly be forgotten. Especially since he’s still alive.
Now I’ll tell you who’s really been forgotten. Eddie Rabbitt. God rest his soul, he has been forgotten. Case in point: I waltzed into the local Best Buy nigh on seven years ago, back when people still purchased CDs, looking for a “best of” collection. I grabbed one of the associates, bordering on the edge of adolescence. He had never heard of Mr. Rabbitt, but he went to his trusty keyboard at the end of the aisle, punched in the name, and came up with…nothing. What? Who erased Eddie Rabbitt from existence? Who does Worst Buy think they are? I put a hex on them that day to perish in the manner of Blockbuster Video, and mark my word, they will. As sure as Kilimanjaro rises like an empress above the Serengeti.
I said, “Boy! Go fetch me your most elder statesman, for I wish to speak with him.” Eventually, a schlubbier version of gawky teen made his way over to me, and he could not have yet been thirty. I told him I wanted to hear “I Love A Rainy Night.” This ditty he could not recall.
“What about ‘Driving My Life Away?’ You remember that one about the windshield wipers?”
“No. No, I don’t.” At that point, he sounded just like Robin Gibb on The Barry Gibb Talk Show, but I figured making reference to the Brothers Gibb would get us nowhere.
“Surely you bought the Soft Love Adult Contemporary three cassette collection from a late-night infomercial in the 80s like I did, the one that contained Rabbitt’s hit with Crystal Gayle, ‘You And I.’ “
His eyebrows raised. “The lady with the long-ass hair?”
“Yes, her!” Victory was in sight.
“I know her. But I don’t know that song.”
Exasperated, I explained, “He wrote ‘Kentucky Rain’ for Elvis. Have you heard of Elvis?”
“Elvis, yes. Kentucky, yes. Eddie Rabbitt, no.” And even though he was only saying the words, I knew that he was misspelling Rabbitt in his mind. Curse him.
Ugh. So don’t cry for Charley Pride, Argentina. Cry for Eddie Rabbitt and his smoldering bedroom eyes.
Mapache’s Gettin’ Big and Mapache’s Gettin’ Bigger
Today’s Spanish word of the day is mapache. Mapache. You know, like Apache Indians. It’s totally fun to say. It means raccoon. Wouldn’t mapaches be a great mascot for a team? They are certainly more menacing than Delta State University’s Fighting Okra.
Don’t get me wrong; that vegetable looks tough. But he lends himself to getting beat easily, or “fried” or “stewed” or “chopped.” That’s no good. But not this guy. He’s clever. He’s sneaky. He’s crafty. And he’s just my type.
Does he remind you of anyone?
Hungry Eyes
Nobody puts Baby in a corner, unless it’s a corner drug store. After performing the iconic lift scene with Johnny, Baby took a break with a malted down at Cunningham’s Drug Store. Looks like she had the time of her life.
An Honor Just To Be Nominated
Award posts are time-consuming. You can’t just go through the motions. It takes some thoughtful consideration. You have to make sure you’ve followed the rules, picked the right/appropriate/deserving nominations to pay it forward, and thank your nominator. It’s like winning Miss America while naming a dozen other girls who can twirl baton and are just as worthy of the crown, if not more so.
The last time I did an award post, I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt regarding the blogs I did not include in the list of nominations, so I resolved never again to do one. But I DO have to show my gratitude for two nominations as of late, so I will happily name them. The truth is it is a big deal to feel appreciated and to feel connected to this community.
So–thank you to Michele at http://lifeasagarden.wordpress.com/ for nominating me for the Awesome Blog Content Award. That’s the main goal of all our blogs, right? To be awesome! I learned from her alphabetized list of qualities that she likes beer, wine, and pizza (check, check and check), as well as cats AND dogs (those seem mutually exclusive to me, since one is clearly superior to the other). It’s like saying you’re a Democrat and a Republican. Or maybe it’s just about balance.
I also have to thank Limbi at http://limbiley.wordpress.com/awards/ for nominating me for the Sunshine Award. I am liquid sunshine, sending warming rays out into the universe, as far away as London. Anyway, Limbi is a young man (who probably doesn’t feel young) who is new to WordPress and has somehow already racked up a bunch of awards. 🙂 He addresses issues of faith and God (the deep stuff), which keep my mind engaged and focus my attention away from the seduction of entertainment.
Anyway–I appreciate you both, and congrats to you as well for your nominations. Now I have to go record another duet with Tim McGraw.
What Does The Owl Say?
The Barred Owl is also known as the Hoot Owl and the Eight Hooter and the Rain Owl and the Wood Owl and the Striped Owl. Oh, my goodness, I think that’s all the adjectives and nouns that exist. We saw this sign at the Nature & Science Center and cracked up at the mating call of the barred owls:
Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you all? Is that a rhetorical question?
Actually, where I live, it should be, “Who cooks for y’all?” But owls probably don’t have a regional dialect.
Making Plans
I Don't Get It 