Doing my part to disrupt the space-time continuum.

Even if you’re one of those who thinks Mother’s Day doesn’t have anything to do with you, you’re wrong.

You know a mother. You came outta one.

In fact, you probably came outta her while as she screamed.

You might have come outta her while she cursed your dad for EVER coming near her with his pants around his ankles.

She might have even threatened him with a Lorena Bobbitt if he ever so-much-as THOUGHT about doing it again.

I know you don’t like to think about your parents having sex or about the fact that your dad has a weener but that’s how you got here so maybe I’ll save all that creepy stuff for a Father’s Day post. But in the meantime, on Mother’s Day, I just want to remind you of an important fact: You OWE your mother.

It is not my intention to take the gushy, lovie sentiment out of Mother’s Day by bringing up the memory of the indescribable pain you caused your mother while giving birth to you. But you did. And it was a pain that triggered a guttural, primal wail heard for miles at 2 am on that cold winter night when your life was just beginning and she thought hers was ending.

It’s because of this pain that you OWE your mother and it’s why she sometimes uses guilt to move you in a more intelligent direction. You owe her! You do. You owe her big time.

On this Mother’s Day, tell your mom in your own special way that you’re sorry. Tell her you’re sorry that you woke her up in the middle of the night. Tell her you’re sorry that you didn’t just slide outta there like a little pickle wrapped in Saran Wrap. Tell her that for enduring the pain of your birth and for still loving you after those wretched teen years you heaped upon her that she is your hero!

Go. Call … or Write a letter or send 50 ecards or utter the words in your prayers … Just tell her you’re sorry you weren’t a pickle.


6 am: Every tick of the clock signifies another moment lost, buried beneath the snow and ice, hold-up in our home in Georgia. At least we are together and warm, I tell myself. At least we have cheese. But after 4 days, a stunning revelation has emerged: even cheese is not enough. And I’m troubled by the thoughts that haunt me … worried that we may plummet to depths, the likes of which, this family has never seen.

7:15 am: The disturbing behavior of my cabin mates gives pause to the thought that they, like me, may be on the verge of utter madness. I must keep a close eye on the small one. He appears to be up to something, coming in and out of the house with sharp icicles, pretending to harbor pride over the size of each one. But will he use them against us … or ME … his mother?! I’m careful to admire the icicles as they glisten in the light so as not to upset him … but I’m watching out of the corner of my eye for any sudden movement.

9:32 am: Found my larger cabin mate pilfering about in the kitchen claiming to be looking for another “coffee pod.” I think the truth is something far more sinister, for he NEVER has a second cup at home. I believe he’s plotting something and may have aligned himself with the small one. They’ll be growing hungry soon … I must prepare myself for whatever comes next … even if they turn against me. I must try to save this family!

12:47 pm: As predicted, lunch time is slowly bringing a level of angst to the males of my group in spite of the fact that the snow is, indeed, MELTING. It appears they’ve turned a certain measure of expectation toward ME to provide sustenance beyond grilled cheese sandwiches.  Being snow-bound has caused a discernible deterioration in my culinary faculties … yet I fear that if I fail them, they may resort to something so dark that I cannot survive the evil. I MUST think! THINK! What else can I do with this bless-ed cheese! There must be something!! I’ll send the small one outside for some fresh air so I can work without distraction.

1:15 pm: The small one returned hungry from “playing” in the slushy snow. The large one has taken a break from his “work” on his computer. I’ve contemplated the thought that they may be using some sort of telepathy to communicate. I’ve managed to convince them that sustenance is coming – at least enough to keep them settled for the time being. The small one has insisted that tomato sauce out of a can will provide him the nourishment he needs. But I don’t trust him with the sharp lid once it’s removed. The tall one remains stoic, but I’m not easily fooled. He’s tapped his cheese-tolerance, anxiously combing the pantry for something more … I fear he will snap like a mouse trap when he sees the paltry offerings. Then what?! My confidence in his ability to remain sane is waning. I feel his clouds rolling in. He is on the brink. As am I.

3:45 pm: They’ll never find me here! I’ve been hiding in the back of my closet for almost 3 hours.  I know I must escape and find a non-cheese food product lest the madness overcome us all. I’ve contemplated the worst: Baking a mixture of the remaining cheddar and the last of the prune jam at 350 degrees until golden brown. What I wouldn’t give for just 1 can of Spam …

No wait! That would be worse.

5:02 pm: I’ve not heard a sound in hours but I can hear the snow continuing to melt. Perhaps the males have devoured one another? Maybe the tall one overtook the small one and is lying in wait. Either way, I remain alone … here in this closet … wondering how we could have ever anticipated JOY in this snow storm to begin with. Georgians are not prepared for such an event.  I was not prepared. Next time, (if there IS a next time) I will take another course.

In the meantime, I’m left to consider my present circumstances  … cheeseless, Spamless, hungry and alone in this cold closet fearing I’ve lost my family in this snowy madness.

Our Snowman Fail.

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Awaiting Snow

Living in the South means that when the forecast calls for snow, everyone in my house gets REALLY excited! I am no exception!

I spent the day nesting and preparing. In my head, the dialog went like this:

ME: We might be stuck inside all day tomorrow because of snow!

ME: How exciting! Better tidy up so it’s a pleasant place to be stuck!

ME: You are soooo right! But what about food?

ME: Gosh! Let’s run to our local grocer and buy all the bread.

ME: Ok. Let’s get some of those little packets of hot chocolate, too. You know… the kind with those little mini-marshmallows.

ME: Isn’t it just STUPID the way ‘marshmallow’ is spelled?! It should be ‘marshmEllow’. How annoying!

ME: Yeah! I know what you mean. It IS stooopid. Now I’m mad. Let’s also get oatmeal. Oatmeal is a great breakfast for snowy days.

Then I cleaned all day.

Right now, we’re hunkered down in our tidy, snuggly home …. fireplace ablaze, marshmallows melting in hot chocolate … and we’re waiting – waiting – waiting for snow. It’s just so exciting … in spite of the minor spelling annoyance.

Happy Snow Day, Y’all!



Reason number 1. Ham can serve as a practical solution to life’s problems

There are times in life when an unforeseen need arises where ham can actually step in to save the day.

Reason number 2.  Moons Over My Hammy is fun to say

Anytime I go to Denny’s Restaurant, I order Moons Over My Hammy . . . even if I don’t want to eat it. I order it just so that I can say in public, “I’ll have Moons Over My Hammy.” But if I REALLY don’t want to eat it, I’ll add, “No. Wait. I changed my mind. I don’t want Moons Over My Hammy, after all. I’ll just have toast.” Then I’ll sit there and giggle inside.

Reason number 3. Pigs are humorous and ham comes from pigs

They roll around in mud, which is weirdly appealing but also oddly tempting. Plus, they simultaneously grunt as if to say, “OMG! This is by far the funnest fun I’ve ever had in my whole life! And after I eat that crap in that trough over there, I’m going to roll around in this mud all over again.” On top of that, if you’re lucky enough to see a piglet at play, it’s totally hilarious, especially those little mini pigs. They ride low to the ground and they bounce like they have little boingy springs in their feet.

Reason number 4. Ham can be used humorously to make a serious point

You know how when you’re talking with a friend about the many possible outcomes of any given situation and it’s filled with, What ifs? Like, “I could change gas stations, but what if my car blows up?” or “I could switch shampoos, but what if my hair catches fire?”  Or the ‘what if” question that’s top of mind, “What if I go to the john and am hit with an overwhelming craving for ham?”

Well, I once had a friend who would respond wisely to a pile-up of “What ifs” with … “Yeah, but … what if you had a baby and a ham fell on it?!”

Sobering, isn’t it?

Look, I like ham and I don’t even need 4 reasons to like it. Ham is fun,  it’s practical and it’s versatile. However, the REAL purpose of this post isn’t to convince you to like ham. It’s to share with you the most Fan-tab-ulous SOUP recipe on the entire planet that also (and serendipitously) has ham in it … ham and potatoes … and other practical stuff. It scored a WAY past perfect 10 on the Man/Food-O-Meter in my house and since it’s time to finish up with what’s left of the holiday ham left overs, I place it here for your consideration. If you try it, come back and tell me what you think with oinks and squeals!

You will need:

3 1/2 cups peeled and diced potatoes
1/3 cup diced celery
1/3 cup finely chopped onion
3/4 cup diced cooked (versatile and practical) ham
3 1/4 cups water
2 tablespoons chicken bouillon granules
1/2 teaspoon salt, or to taste
1 teaspoon ground white or black pepper, or to taste
5 tablespoons butter
5 tablespoons all-purpose flour
2 cups milk

Combine the potatoes, celery, onion, ham and water in a stockpot. Bring to a boil, then cook over medium heat until potatoes are tender, about 10 to 15 minutes. Stir in the chicken bouillon, salt and pepper.

In a separate saucepan, melt butter over medium-low heat. Whisk in flour with a fork, and cook, stirring constantly until thick, about 1 minute. Slowly stir in milk as not to allow lumps to form until all of the milk has been added. Continue stirring over medium-low heat until thick, 4 to 5 minutes.

Stir the milk mixture into the stockpot, and cook soup until heated through. Serve immediately.

I’d love to lead you to believe that I came up with this delightful concoction all by myself but that would be wrong. The genius behind this recipe comes from “Ellie11” at Go Ellie11!

This isn’t exactly a “Merry Christmas” post. It’s really just Christmas story musing. Since virtually no one will be sitting around reading blog posts on Christmas, maybe it’s an okay follow-up to the holiday cheer.

Hardly a Christmas has gone by that I haven’t contemplated the plight of Mary, Jesus’ mom.

I don’t know how many Christmases I’ve spent weeping for that poor girl, while at the same time, relishing the story behind the story: That she was CHOSEN by god for a blessed miracle.

It was intriguing to think how stealthy the whole thing came down. Mary and Joseph, not yet married, not yet doin’ the nasty and yet, BLAM! There she is, preggers, having to hide from an entire community that would just-as-soon stone her as poot in her direction if word got out. Then there’s Joseph. Good guy, by all accounts. Goes so far as to consider ‘releasing’ Mary from their engagement without the finger-pointing and public humiliation that society would have obliged. Until …

An angel arrives on the scene to say, “Whoa! Dude! Hold up! God, like, TOTALLY has this thing under control. He’s been cheating on you with Mary but it’s cool! The groom in the womb will save you from your doom!” (That sounds just a little less stupid when you remember that Jesus is called the ‘bride groom’ and the church is called the ‘bride of Christ’. )

Naw. Nevermind. It’s still stupid. Anwyay

Joseph, who must have been pretty much freaked out of his mind at that point, rolls with the whole thing because, truthfully, what’s he GONNA do? Say to the creator of the universe who could crush him like a cockroach, “No thanks  … I’ll just peace-out and leave you two love birds alone…” ???? Me thinks not.

In any case, the person REALLY left in a predicament was Mary. She was what? 14 years old? And there she is, left with all that responsibility. She had a baby to birth, a funeral to plan and a resurrection to organize! All without benefit of prenatal vitamins or pain meds. And who was going to help her get all that stuff done? Nobody was going to believe her cockamame story in the first place:  “No! I did NOT have sex with that man!”

No cigar!!!! No one would believe her. It’s a total pickle and hardly fair.

Now, I know that for all the die-hards out there who simply cannot tolerate anyone messing with their Christmas story, (let alone their bible interpretations), this post is a total knicker-twister. Let me just say, I was once a die-hard myself with a Christian resume’ as long as your Christmas list so I know how this can wrankle with the winky. But I stand behind the notion that surely the god of the universe could have come up with a plan that didn’t hang a powerless little girl out to dry.

I dunno … it’s just my thought.

Many years ago, I was introduced to the poetry of musician, author and poet, Joy Harjo. Her words are brilliant and her insight, astounding.

The poem I’ve posted here springs directly from the stirrings I felt after reading Harjo’s She Had Some Horses. While my poetry finds itself a mere ‘wannabe’ by comparison, I love to play and some of the best toys are words, as my mother once told me. So in the style of Joy Harjo, I present this work in progress:

Her Belly Cried Hungry

Her belly cried hungry after eating crow
Her belly cried hungry at feasts of self-indulgence on
shiny, silver platters
Her belly cried hungry devouring self-help books and
the splintered shelves that house them
Her belly cried hungry consuming the bounty
of a creek bejeweled with pebbles
Her belly cried hungry purging rage on skin-soft pillows
Her belly cried hungry ingesting pills from palms of torn, pink flesh
—- Her belly cried hungry

Her belly cried hungry when she swallowed her tears
Her belly cried hungry chewing fat-marbled promises
Her belly cried hungry savoring promises that she kept
Her belly cried hungry as she licked the wounds
of the child inside her
Her belly cried hungry as she gorged at the table of sin
Her belly cried hungry at pristine banquets with bleach, white linen
Her belly cried hungry, full of swallowed pride
Her belly cried hungry relishing a strength she didn’t know she had
—- Her belly cried hungry

Her belly cried hungry sipping holy wine and fresh, blessed bread
Her belly cried hungry rolling idle prattle on her tongue
Her belly cried hungry stuffed full of anger
Her belly cried hungry as she bit the hand that feeds her
Her belly cried hungry while eating her words
Her belly cried hungry, growing fat while growing thin
—- Her belly cried hungry

Her belly always cried hungry though never truly empty …
And her belly always cried hungry, though never really full.