Suicide mission

One of the things I noticed on my last trip to Florida, y'all remember the one where I decided to brave the experience of getting on a boat and taking a "little trip around the bay", is that there is an abundance of new dance moves involving something similar to the line dances from the '70s. And lucky me, the boat I was on was loaded with a bunch of these thrill seeking dancing fools.

First of all, let me announce for everyone's concern, the crew had a designated couple who were responsible for minding the kiddies while their parents "unwound". So, there is no need to worry that any child was exposed to inappropriate behaviour by influential adults.

Next thing I noticed about this cruise was that since it was a sunset cruise, not only did they supply the regular beer and wine (along with the responsible adult drinks of coke, sprite, etc.), but there was also champagne. Now mind you I'm not a connoisseur of any beverage if it doesn't involve Barcardi and Diet Coke, so, the quality of provided alcohol was anyone's guess.

Being as how I am fully aware of my phobia of all things involving the ocean (eg. water, fish, sharks, etc.) I had already pre-loaded myself with a Xanax. But as soon as I stepped on the boat, the effect that single action had left me feeling as if I might as well have ate a bag of Pixie Sticks. I started shaking, panting, and generally feeling a little lightheaded. I started to re-think this adventure I had gotten myself into when a well meaning crew member noticed me clutching the railing of the ship for all it was worth.

Of course, I must confess that I had stupidly chosen the highest platform short of the crow's nest in hopes I could secure pictures. That was my plan to help take my mind off what was going on. Anyhoo, a crew member came up to the level where I was seated to check on everyone's beverage level. I had polished off my Diet Coke in no time flat so, naturally, I was left holding a glass which apparently sends out unseen signals to the dealers of liquor.

The lady, armed with her tray and a nice selection of beverages, none of which I noted didn't not contain any ethanol, approached me. After a short exchange of small talk, she had the nerve to mention the death grip I had on the railing. Embarrassed and not really wishing to expose my insecurities for the remaining members of my group, I whispered, "I don't do boats but lucky you, I decided that I'm going to try to overcome this". Why she smiled even bigger, "Well, honey, I've got just the thing for you", taking my glass and disappeared back to one of the lower decks.

As our voyage began the musical selection was the theme from Pirates of the Caribbean. I thoroughly enjoyed the little ditty all the while in the back of my mind one of the little voices which resides in my head was singing the theme from Gilligan's Island:

Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale, 

A tale of a fateful trip 

That started from this tropic port 

Aboard this tiny ship

Within a short time, the friendly pirate who had kidnapped my glass returned. "Here ya go honey, drink  this here blend. The captain highly recommends it and as a matter of fact he's enjoying one right now". With those words, my personal alarm began to go off. Unwillingly my eyes made their way to the captain's deck where I saw the scraggly fellow look at me, raise his glass, gave me a wink, and downed his drink. He completed the task with an exaggerated flourish of wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt.

Great, I think. Now not only have I taken a Xanax but now apparently I'm about to escalate my use of inappropriate substances to help me. Actually, it was really kinda of important I relax as one of my hands had the post where the anchor was secured, so, they really needed me to move it. So, I downed the drink. 

The nastiness of it leaves me without words to describe it. To say it was akin to a glass of diarrhea would be putting it mildly. But in, oh, I don't know, maybe five minutes I had the effects hit me. I began to relax. The racing of my heart slowed to a trot and I was able to begin to use my camera to snap some pictures. 

Everything was going along swimmingly until the sound track switched to Apache by the Sugarland Gang. At this point the remaining adults on my level decided to hop up and begin to dance wildly. Now mind you, this area we were seated in was approximately 5 feet in diameter and within the space there was one of the sail mast poles. As they gyrated, hopped, and flung their arms, I watched mentally taking bets among the dwellers of my mind as to which one was going to make the unfortunate step and end up tumbling down the steep stairs to the lower deck. But alas, somehow, these women were able to continue shimmying and shaking completely in time with the music without a single disaster.

The adventure continued. I was enjoying whatever kind of buzz the cap'n had kindly plied me with and became a picture snapping fool. At one moment I fancied myself to be the next Annie Leibovitz as I was able to capture several dolphins with a single shot. With each new song that came across the sound system I found myself progressing from foot tapping to a full dancing in my seat fool. Until....

I looked back behind us and saw how far away the shore was! I noticed several flashing lights of the red, blue, and white color which caused my preset program of panic to take back over. Well, the rest of my fellow passengers was having none of this nonsense of me gripping the rail again. It was at this time the sound track switched to a song called Wobble.

The other women shrieked and grabbed me by the arm and said, "Come on, dance". "I don't know what a wobble is!!". They laughed. I guess they didn't take me seriously as they began to do some sort of line dance. Having no clue and still under the influence of Xanax plus the captain's magic potion, I didn't trust myself to follow all the back and forth movement. So instead, I grabbed the mast pole and essentially pole danced in my own fashion for the song. Evidently I was really getting my groove on because everyone was laughing and pointing at me. 

Wobble baby, wobble baby, wobble baby, wobble (yeah) [x4]
Get in there, yeah, yeah [x4]
Ey big girl make em' back it up, make em' back it up [x4a

Yeah, I had the big girl thing down pat and I was going to town; just me and the mast pole. When the song ended we were almost back to port. I was sad because I had just started letting down my hair. The same female crew mate climbed back up to the level I was on in preparation of dropping anchor. I said, "I don't know what was in that drink, but it really helped. Thank you!" "No problem", she said giving me a wink. 

As I disembarked from the ship, I paused to take a few additional pictures of the ship. While doing so one of the young men who was also a crew member came walking down the plank carrying the "treasure chest" they had used for the kiddie games. I reached out, touched his arm, and said, "I've gotta know, the captain's favorite drink for sailing. That was the nastiest tasting thing I ever had. What on earth is in that thing?" 

The young fellow began to grin from ear to ear. He flipped up his eye patch and leaned in close to me as if to make sure no one else could know about the "precious secret". "Madam, there's nothing special about it. We just mix all of the sodas we have together. I think back in the 70s the drink was called a suicide". With that, he patted me on the shoulder and continued walking.

I had been had. I should demand a refund as they did not offer full disclosure as to what kind of "magical spell" they were to weave on me!! How dare they!! What do they think I am, some sort of lunatic? Don't they know I'm an educated woman?!!

About that time one of the little voices of reason which pops in and out of my mind from time to time said, "You fool. You're just mad cuz you've been had. Now you don't have an excuse." I sat down on the bench at the dock for a few minutes contemplating the ramifications of my recently acquired knowledge. After a few minutes I came to one conclusion.

Damnit. Now I have no excuse not to go on a family cruise. Time to find another phobia. What about the fear of enclosed spaces? That might work, right?

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All the kings' horses and all the queens' men...

Humpty Dumpty
B. 7/26/13-D. 7/28/13

Twas a sad day here in the kingdom of Cheshire as we had to lay to rest a long beloved friend, Humpty Dumpty's newly born son, Humpty Jr. #1. Humpty and his life mate, Chicken Little, had tried for years to conceive naturally but were unable. Yet with a little help from modern science and a KFC (a kindly foreign commoner) agreed to act as Humpty and Chicken's surrogate. Why Humpty and Chicken were beside themselves. The thought of having a wee one was almost too much, but they were in for the time of their lives. Who knew they were after all these days of trying, they were, finally, going to be blessed with 18 children!!!

As Chicken left her coop Friday she looked positively radiant. She even posed for a picture to be placed on the infant carrier Mistress Pippi had had exclusively designed for this day. The carrier was of the soft, yet slightly firm turquoise styrofoam variety. There were 18 separate compartments allowing each wee one to rest comfortably without feeling crowded, yet snug as if they were yet in utero. Mistress Pippi had with great care brought them home from the world renown birthing center, Wal-Mart, and placed them on the top shelf reserved for this great honor.

Things went well the first few hours at home as the wee ones settled in. Then, as all wee ones do, they grew up too fast. Rumors swirled around the kingdom Saturday night that several of the teenage offspring had been caught in forbidden places. There were even whispers that a few had been seen with the scandalous Texas Pete Original Hot Sauce and the risqué Ms. La Choy Sweet and Sour Sauce. Chicken, as many mothers do, refused to consider any of her precious little ones being involved in illegal or  questionable activities.

Then this afternoon, Mistress Pippi went into the nursery to select a couple of the offspring to take a place of honour as part of the sacred cooking ritual. When Mistress Pippi opened the carrier, she reached in for two of these precious ones. The first hatchling, who everyone said favoured that actress who portrayed Katniss Everdeen in the Hunger Games, proudly took her place along side the giant glass mixing dome. As Mistress Pippi reached for the second lucky contender, he rebelled. He refused to conform to the societal expectations and become a sacrifice. He rolled and slipped from Mistress Pippi's hand. Mistress Pippi swears she heard him scream a single word as he was falling: "freedom"!

Everyone from the kingdom gathered quickly upon hearing those fateful words, "uh oh". Almost immediately the whisperings began. Ranging from the typical conspiracy theories such as he was pushed by Mistress Pippi's thumb to the far fetched but not entirely impossible involvement of drugs, namely crack. A hasty memorial service was prepared as everyone gathered around the great brown burial bin. Humpty and Chicken clung to one another in hopes of finding some comfort. Mistress Pippi took a memorial photo for the grieving parents to have before carefully scooping up the remnants their son's body and encasing them in the soft great white towel known to all as Bounty. Everyone said a silent prayer as the shroud was thrown in the great bin.

And so it goes, we never know when the end may come. Each of us should be free to live, laugh, and love, never being afraid to stand up for what we believe is right. Today we bore witness to this great principle of the circle of life as one gave up his life for his beliefs.

As the inhabitants of the Cheshire kingdom muttered their condolences to the grieving couple, many noted Mistress Pippi had been detained by Oscar Mayer, the chief of security of the great storage place, for questioning. The results of Mr. Mayer's findings will be unavailable for a month due to the strict governmental protocol to not release any inquires into wrong doing on the behalf of any inhabitant of the kingdom until the office of the mayor has been vacated for at least a week.

So, with heavy hearts tonight, Humpty and Chicken along with their closest friends, the dish and the spoon, will be holding a candlelight service around the great wooden plain dining surface.

Please join us if you are available tonight at 8pm as we pay homage to a young life cut short.

** Due to heightened security measures, everyone will be screened for any knives or forks which could lead to a terrorist attack. Please bear with us through this procedure as we only wish for everyone to feel safe and protected in this tragic time.** 

ICK!!! I think I need a HAZ-MAT team!

Well, the post I intended to publish today has been delayed for a bit as I have something I must vent about...MEN!!!!

Ok, well, maybe not all men. Just certain ones. You know the ones I'm talking about ladies, the one that makes you thankful your Daddy taught you how to use a shot gun (or at the very least mace). Yuck!

Recently I returned from Wal-Mart where I planned to pick up three items, but ended up with half a buggy full. I don't know how that happens but that's a post for another day. Anyhoo, I first noticed this fellow over in the dairy aisle only because he was blocking my way from the Ritz crackers. He was mid 50s and medium length, thinning, greasy looking brown hair. In addition to those attractive features, I had opportunity to observe, when he gave me his best full facial grin, that he also had several missing teeth and the remaining ones appeared to resemble the moss growing on the north side of a tree.

Covering his ever expanding mid section (I'm pretty sure by the time I left the store it had doubled in size) was a blue plaid long sleeve shirt. He had left the first four buttons undone exposing not only that gravity had overcome his man boobs but that the chest hair he had not only was grey but also only in patches like a dog with a bad case of the mange. Adorning his thick neck were a couple of, I'm sure, 14 kt gold necklaces, of the genuine variety found in most flea markets.

The shirt had seen better days when its owner, at one point, could have possibly tucked it into his pants. I'm guessing those days were probably 40 years ago as the shirt now barely covers his protruding belly (which I'm sure is the size it is due to massive consumption of alcohol leaving him with advanced stage cirrhosis of the liver; the only other sign missing was the bright orange pumpkin glow all those people seem to have).

On his lower half, yes, goodness help me, I looked. Sorry it was like a train wreck, I couldn't tear my eyes away. His ragged jeans were riding below the mound of his belly and on his feet were flip-flops. And as luck would have it I completed my assessment in which I noted his feet probably hadn't touched water in days. As a matter of fact, they probably could have used some sand blasting.

Now that I have your attention, sorry about your lunch, let's move on. So, I continue making my way through the grocery section of Wal-Mart and wouldn't you know it, as luck would have it, every time I turned a corner, there he was! The first couple times I wrote it off as coincidence, the third time when he licked his lips while looking at me was when I freaked. So, away I went. I zigzagged my way through the can food and frozen food sections and he was following me.

Every time I saw him he had this glazed over look in his eyes and would give me one of his "special" smiles. You know the type, the one that says, hey, you know what I'd like to do to you? I believe I could grease you up with some butter, throw a little BBQ sauce on ya, shove a skewer up your bottom, and grill ya. And when you're done, I'm gonna stuff myself so full of you it will be like Thanksgiving dinner.

Well, since I wasn't able to lose him in the grocery section I flew across the store. Back and forth, up and down aisles, while carefully avoiding the lawn and garden department where those pesky gas grills are. But he finally found me and when he did I had made my way back to the sporting goods department where he was able to observe me buying a couple boxes of ammo.

This time when he came sauntering down the aisle I didn't see his smile. As he approached the clerk asked me if I needed a target for practice or anything else. I just smiled at him as he went by while replying loudly, "Nope, don't believe I have any use for one of those little paper targets as I believe I've discovered a much bigger game I need to practice hunting."

Funny, I never saw him again after that.

The Royal family may have welcomed a prince, but we now have a Ziggy!

When a mother learns her son is engaged many things float through her mind. I'd be amiss if I were to say I have never had such thoughts and never dream of doing so.

My oldest son, Zex, announced to me earlier this month he was engaged. After the world stopped spinning from the shock to my system I began the process of adjusting to the idea I was going to be a mother-in-law. Being a mother-in-law means maybe one day being a gran. The notion of becoming Gran Pippi is not quite as daunting as taking on the role of mother-in-law, especially when one has a soft spot for wee ones.

My concern, my ONLY concern, is how my future daughter-in-law (whom shall be called from this day forward, Ziggy) will fit in with this bunch of misfits.

On the surface, Ziggy appears to be the real deal. She has a quiet, polite demeanour. She has completed her degree (in English-thank goodness because we all know I need a great editor). She is a lover of all things Stephen King and knows a thing or two about Disney. So see, she has the potential there, but can she manage to pull it together to become "one" with our little group? Hmm.

Last night while Ziggy was visiting, Zex decided to show her his favorite toy to torment the felines of our family with: a green laser pointer. I think the play session lasted about 15 minutes before both human and beast had had enough. At this point Zex announced he and Ziggy were going to "make a run for the border" and would be back shortly. Fair enough, I thought, I can take this time to do a quick tidy up of the house.

As I was finishing up changing the sheets on my bed I heard the house door open. Pooper and Poopster further confirmed the young couple had returned by barking excitedly. I came out of my bedroom and started toward the kitchen when Zex grabbed me. "Hey Mom, come here. I wanna tell you a story." My son, Zex, who hates all of my stories I tell (probably doesn't help that he is relentlessly teased at work about his mother being "crazy") is going to relay a story of his own! Yay!!

I followed him to his room where he opened the door and motioned for Ziggy to come to him. "So Mum, I decided to show Ziggy how far the laser beam could shine. I took her out to the end of the driveway, faced her toward Route 23 and the mountains beyond the road. Then I stood behind her and pointed the light across over to the mountain at the mouth of the holler. Ziggy was impressed and wanted to play with the laser. So, I handed it over to her."

Zex, who was really into the story telling now because he couldn't stand still from the excitement that was building within him as grew closer to what was surely going to the be the highlight of his tale.

"So, I'm still standing behind her. Ziggy looks around and declares she is gonna 'spot-light' a specific tree in the same general area. Ziggy pointed the laser, turned it on, and began to wiggle her hand back and forth as if she was drawing squiggly lines." By this time, Ziggy's face has taken on a shade of slight pinkish-red but Zex was determined.

"The only problem with her playing with the laser was that the laser, somehow, had gotten turned around. So, instead of 'spot-lighting' the tree, she blinded me." Zex busted out in full fits of giggles while raving on and on about how long he couldn't see and poor Ziggy's inept ability to play responsibly with a laser pointer.

Me, I just smiled. Two of my prayers were answered. Zex is going to be a story teller after all and Ziggy is gonna fit in just fine.

Welcome Empress Ziggy!!

We could make Jeff Foxworthy proud

Sometimes I seriously doubt the intelligence of anyone in my little family. Speaking of the nuclear family, I guess I could probably introduce them to you.

First of all there is me, The Pippi, and I'm not sure there is any further explanation needed. Then there is Ford Man, who, heaven help me, makes 'Tim the Tool Man Taylor' from "Home Improvement" look like a genius. Next there is my oldest son, Zex. Please don't ask where that name came from because it is not his birth name. All I know is one day he came forth from his man cave and announced to everyone that from "this day forward, I shall be known as Emperor Zex". I refuse, however, to cater to his delusion of being an emperor. Lastly, my youngest boy, Scooter, who y'all have heard 'bout in my previous adventure. He's a Momma's boy, unfortunately. I truly believe if it was humanly possible he would be content to crawl back into my womb and stay.

Any hoo, the reason for this post. Of the four of us, two have a college education; being Zex and myself. Yet, somehow, there are days when I seriously question our level of intelligence.

For example. Zex was performing his male pre-courting ritual and I had gone to the kitchen to wash dishes. All of a sudden there was a loud thump and the whole floor shook. I thought what on earth has happened? My gosh, surely the washing machine didn't explode??? Then I heard the cackling laughter coming from the living room. So, I went to see what was going on.

There sat Zex in the floor clad in his boxers, t-shirt, and socks laughing hysterically. The ottoman had been moved about two feet from its normal placement. One of our dogs, Poopster, was crouched down in the floor licking his backside and Scooter stood in the doorway shaking his head. I said, "What in the world is going on here guys?" They both busted out laughing.

Zex, feeling frisky as many young 20 something year olds do, had decided to replicate the scene from Risky Business where Tom Cruise slides through the living room dressed much the same as Zex is. Unfortunately, Zex underestimated the effect a freshly clean wood floor and the grip of his socks, so instead of sliding neatly across the floor, Zex's feet gave way which resulted in him hitting the floor with all 180 pounds of himself. Sigh. Poor Poopster had gotten tangled up in Zex's flailing legs and was sent airborne for about 1.5 feet, crashing into the entertainment center thusly explaining Poopster's obsession with licking his backside.

All I can do is shake my head since evidently the only thing truly injured was Zex's pride. And it would be so wonderful to say that was the least of the stupid things which has occurred today, but, alas, as fate would have it, it's not.

I have an obsession with crushed ice and my refrigerator doesn't produce crushed ice. I decided to make a pot of decaf ice tea and opened the freezer door only to discover my bag of crushed ice was gone. Great, I thought, sighly loudly. In order to have more crushed ice I must drive to the only place in this land of nowhere which is about 10 miles from my house. So, I gathered up the few bills which can't be paid online (remember, I live in the middle of nowhere) and set out to kill two birds with one stone.

After dropping the bills in the mail I popped over to the gas station/country store for the ice. I paid my $1.30 to the cashier and headed back outside to the bin. Upon opening the door I found that there were only 5 bags left in the bin, all of them lying in a straight line on the bottom. Now Pippi comes from a genetic line where our females tend to be on the short and round side; short not just in height but in arm length as well.

Another heavy sigh escaped my lips as I pondered exactly how I was going to go about snatching one of those bags. The store was busy and there were several cars at the pumps but I didn't see anyone whom I could possibly con into getting one for me.

So, I snuck a quick look around to make sure no one was going to be witness to what was going to happen next. I flung open the door, hoisted myself through the door, leaning far into the bin. Even with this great effort my fingertips barely caught the edge of the bag. I adjusted my fingers and was able to secure a better grip, but the bag wouldn't budge. I thought you've gotta be kidding me. I tried again to pull on the bag end but I pulled a little too hard. The plastic end broke loose from the rest of the bag sending me flying back through the door of the bin only to fall back onto the hood of a parked car. The only thing that could have made this any worse would have been if the car alarm had went off.

I stood up and dusted my backside off. I stood there a few minutes looking at the ice bin. Finally the young guy who was behind the register in the store came out and asked me if I needed any help. I said, "Yes, I'm a little too short to safely get a bag when they're at the bottom". He kinda chuckled and said, "Yeah, we noticed you through the window".  With that he reached in, grabbed a bag of ice, and handed it to me. I looked at him and said, "Thanks. Now you do realize there is a penalty for laughing at a short, fat woman, right?"He shook his head in the negative and I told him, "Yeah, that punishment is known as hell". He roared with laughter as he walked away.

Now I'm back home, safely, with my bag of ice. I have poured myself a tall glass of tea and debated whether or not to share today's events. Yeah, it's embarrassing but ah what the heck. It'll make someone else feel good about himself.

Have a great day everyone!

The scent of desire

It's midnight and I smell onion rings!! The smell permeates the entire house.

I first caught a whiff of that delectable scent while lounging on the couch pondering what I should post next. Sniff, sniff. Mmmm. Strange I smell them especially since I fixed baked chicken for dinner.  Oh well, I think, I'm just probably imagining the smell.

A few minutes later Scooter wanders out of his man cave (aka his bedroom) and plops down on the ottoman. I glance up at him as he is lying there petting our lovely puppy, Ms. Pooper. "Scooter, do you smell onion rings?' I ask him nonchalantly. Turning his head, cocking it ever so slightly while displaying a confused look, "No Mom, I don't smell any onion rings. I only smell your feet." "Well, do my feet smell like onion rings?" "No, they smell like stinking sweat socks." Hmmm. But the scent still lingers, whirling around the living room like some unseen force determined to torment me.

I continued to try to focus but the thought of onion rings dipped in ranch dressing began to take up the priority spot in my brain. I know I do not have any onion rings anywhere in the house, so, where would they be? Ah, I know! My eldest son has his man cave set up as a mini apartment, he may be in there cooking onion rings.

Saving my place in my entry, I close the Macbook, and make the trek to the other end of the house. I knock on the door. But there is no answer. I knock again, slightly louder, still no answer. I begin to pound on the door and am greeted with, "My God Mom, what is your problem? You sound like you're trying to tear down my door." I know it is pointless to pursue this argument because he always plays his video games at max volume. "I was wondering if you are cooking onion rings in here?", I ask while simultaneously taking a big sniff of his room. "NO MOM!!! I'm not cooking onion rings in here, no go away!" and the door slams shut in my face.

With the slight breeze from the moving door I again caught the scent of onion rings. I next tried to follow my nose, sniffing my way through the dining room and my bedroom. All was for naught though.

Frustrated by this point because I have this overwhelming urge for onion rings. I must have onion rings at any cost. So, knowing full well to satisfy this craving I would have to drive 20 miles to the nearest Wal-Mart to pick up a bag and that thought really didn't appeal to me.

My next step was to try to clear my head of this nonsensical idea, so, I opted for a nice relaxing hot shower. Once the water temperature was just right I hopped in and allowed the pulsing jet spray take me away. After 10 minutes I felt sufficiently relaxed, mind cleared, and ready to do my sleep preparing ritual.

Once I was dried and dressed, I grabbed my towels, and took them with the laundry basket to the basement to put a load in to wash. As I passed through the kitchen I caught a whiff of onion rings again. Resolved to not get caught up in that obsession again, I continued onto to the basement.

Back upstairs, I cleared the dishes, arranging them to be washed. All the while the scent was overwhelming me, driving me nuts! I had to find out what on earth was causing this smell. I opened every cabinet, every drawer, the oven, the microwave, the refrigerator. It wasn't until I came near the electric can opener that the onion ring scent was overwhelming. So here I was, sniffing along the counter when I came upon my black crockpot that I had washed and sat on the counter earlier in the day.

I leaned in and took a whiff. Bingo! The onion ring smell origin!! Well, now I know I washed that thoroughly, I wonder why it would smell that way. I decided to lift the lid from the pot. Once the steam had cleared from my glasses I was able to see the hamburger covered with onion soup seasoning. I forgot that I had decided to try a crockpot recipe for beef stew and for the lack of having an onion for the stew I had thrown a packet of onion soup mix in the pot.

And so the mystery of the scent of onion rings was solved albeit disappointingly. I was really looking forward to biting into a ranch covered crisp ring, especially if it was a Vidalia onion ring. Sigh.

Casual dress optional

This past weekend I attended a party in honour of my aunt, Flossie Belle, & uncle's anniversary. Lovely setting: an old lodge deep in the hills of nowhere near a lake. This was to be a touching tribute to this wonderful couple who have been through 50+ years of marriage. But there were a few snafus.

First of all, the lovely former bride was not feeling in the party spirit at all. She had suspected her daughter was planning something for her and she had gave me strict orders to put a stop to any festivities. She left me with the direst warning, "you better not let her do anything stupid. My 50th anniversary was 2 years ago and there ain't no sense in pretending it's now. All my friends will know, every one knows. Now you do you hear me?"

Problem was Pippi wasn't clued in about anything until it was way too late.

Exactly 7 days before the scheduled event, my cousin notified me via Facebook she was planning a party for them. A date, time, and place was all I knew. Well, it had been a few weeks since my aunt had had her "spell" (spell=hissy fit, stubborn mule personality, etc.) and foolishly I thought she was probably over it by now.

Two days later my cousin called me. She explained what she was doing. I questioned her about her mother's health and she reassured me she was fine, that she had even took the girls home with her for the week.

My cousin gave me the instruction to pick out a cake for the party. She gave me specifics of which included, "and for God's sake, don't get any of those tacky plastic figurines". Ok. I made a note of the instructions and set about the rest of the day. Except my phone rang again, this time it was Flossie Belle.

"Pippisnickerdoodlesky, listen here missy. Mary Belle just asked me for your phone number and you better remember what I told you, there'll be none of this here party nonsense. I don't want it, ya hear me??"

Oh, I heard her loud and clear alright. Once again Pippi is caught in the middle of a good ole fashioned family feud.

Fast forward to 2 days before the party. One future party attendee requested more info about said shin dig including attire and price list. My dear cousin, Mary Belle, texted back with casual attire and no cost to attendees. Ok. I can handle this I think. No big deal. Something nice, relaxing, family gathering; Flossie Belle could muddle through this without too much fuss, I hoped.

Now, I should have known better. My dear misguided cousin, Mary Belle, she and I were nowhere near on the same wave length. Her estimate of 20 people was in actuality closer to a party of 50. The cake I had ordered was not large enough. But that was the least of the most embarrassing points of this gathering.

Mary Belle and I are both college educated (believe it or not); Mary Belle slightly more so than I considering she is a teacher. Yet her definition and my understanding of the term "casual" are complete opposite.

Since my oldest son was unavailable to accompany me, I coerced my youngest son, Scooter, to replace him. I told him it would be fun, there would be free food. So, Scooter decided to wear his best ragged jeans, his favorite t-shirt which asked the question, how long had he been out of his mind (the entire time), and flip flops. Me, I was wearing my favorite pair of capri jeans, a short sleeved empire waisted cotton shirt with a flowery pattern and my totally off the wall black/purple/orange Nike tennis shoes.

As Scooter, and I made our way to the entrance of the lodge we were greeted by Flossie Belle and Mary Belle. They were dressed for attendance at a black tie affair. Flossie Belle was wearing a lovely peach ensemble with nude pumps. She was wringing her hands while she complained to Mary Belle (who was wearing a lovely off white brides-maid type dress and her auburn hair done up in a low back combed style with loose ringlet curls). Once Flossie Belle spotted me, it was all over for Pippi.

"You, you young lady. I told you to put a stop to this nonsense. It is all your fault and look at you! What on earth are you wearing?"

Twisting my lips up in a warped pucker I glanced quickly over my shoulder at Scooter and rolled my eyes. As if she could sense what I was doing, Flossie Belle took her handbag and slapped my arm. "Answer me! You didn't stop this party. Why not? And for goodness sake what is that you've got on?"

"Well, Flossie Belle, it seems to me that your daughter is a fully grown adult who has a mind of her own. Not only did she not inform me of this party until a few days ago but she also said that we all should dress casually." "Casual is one thing but you look like something the cat drug in; don't you have any better clothes than those?" Flossie Belle sniffed, "Well, at least Scooter shaved but he should have had a hair cut."

In an effort to avoid what was surely going to turn into a scene, my uncle, John Bob, took Flossie Belle by the elbow and directed her to the door of the lodge. As I turned to follow them in my other cousin, the one with the question about attire, snuck up behind me and said, "Didn't she say it was casual?" I nodded my head affirmatively, "Yeah, but I guess Mary Belle's Webster's has a different answer than mine". "It will be ok; we will just be the redneck side of the family". She grabbed my arm and we went through the door.

For the next 2 hours, 15 of my family members, all seated at the same table, stuck out like sore thumbs in a room filled with well dressed people. Thank goodness this particular bunch of relatives are more along the line of practical jokers so they just laughed it off. But I wasn't so lucky. Not only was I dressed wrong but Mother Nature being how fickle she is took advantage of the overcrowded/overheated room to maximize the effects of her hot flash capabilities.

As I tried to snap pictures of the attendees, sweat poured down my back. At one point as I was leaning over speaking to a wonderful lady from my aunt's church, several large drops of sweat fell from my forehead and onto her lap. I tried to dab the wetness with one of the napkins but ended up just leaving little pieces of white paper all over her lavender pants.

But I must say, the crowning touch was the fact I had forgotten the parents of my first true love were also really good friends with my aunt and uncle. What I had never dreamed of was seeing them for the first time, in over 30 years, at a party for family. Yes, there I was, looking like a bag lady who had been caught in the middle of a spring thunderstorm. I was never more sure of anything than I am after that night they went home and thanked their lucky stars I never became their daughter-in-law!

And so, my legend lives on. Not only did I not stop a party, but I managed to order the wrong size of cake, wear the wrong kind of clothes, sweat worse than a monkey in the Sahara, all while attempting to be a well composed adult in front of the most intimidating couple I know.

Come along little black cloud; I have missed you. What's that? Oh, you have a family now! Great. Sure, why not bring them too.

Facebook games

Is it just me or are these things maddening? Maybe it's my age, my vision, heck, even my mentality but what gives?

I'm currently playing a game called Mystery Manor. Every thing is ok except the following:
 
The zoom. What the heck? You make it larger by 1/8 a millimeter? How on earth am I supposed to      find anything like this? Especially considering my lenses are replicas of retro coke bottle glass.
   
The night vision. Unlike the limited zoom, here one is confined to a circle of light the size of a dime. LOL. Not only is the rest of the room dark with only this tiny spotlight, but there is no zoom function when in night mode either.

Silhouette mode. P-L-E-A-S-E!! The image shown that is supposed to be a shell looks to me like a wig from a 1980s hair rock band. Not to mention the fire alarm, it looks like a 2 layer cake.

Lastly, scrambled words mode. Maybe it's just me. But when I see the words "binoculars, candlestick, kerosene lantern" scrambled, I don't end up looking for those things. For some reason my mind interprets this alternate approach as a means of introducing new pieces to search for in the rooms. In other words I usually end up looking for a "bush hog, woman's bra, or a old man's tooth".

And that's just one of those games.

I also play Words of Wonder which I find maddening as well. Not quite to the extent of Mystery Manor, but enough to make my list. First of all, that owl. Who is he? Is he my helper or just there to continually remind me of what a failure I am?  All I ever see him do is bow his head and shake it back and forth as if to say, "This moron is never gonna win". Then, if I do finish the game, his eyes get big, he spreads his wings widely, and flies up close to the screen as if he is in shock at my success. But probably the most stress inducing thing about this game is the timed boards. I hate those. I like to think about my moves. I want to plan to obtain the optimal score. However, when I am subjected to this area, my heart begins to race, my breathing becomes ragged and shallow, and I find my vision blurs ever so slightly. It's like I'm fighting for my life to beat that d*mn timer!!! Sigh. But I continue to play.

Candy Crush. I think we all can feel my pain here. I've been stuck on a level for 2 weeks. I get done to one last jelly and "GAME OVER". Those little characters really tick me off too. They're so dorky and silly; just wanna slap the smiles off of their faces. I think I'm going on a Candy Crush fast. I'm perturbed that you can receive extra lives but the most you are allotted is 5. I want the option of extra moves in the middle of a game.

I want, I want, I want.

I think I'll go stand in the corner; a little time out for Pippi. But I tell ya one thing, let me see that danggone owl just one more time with that condescending look of his and I bet ya can guess what Pippi will be having for Sunday dinner.

Stepping into cyberspace bassackwards

So, my big bright idea of goin live on the net has managed to land me in hot water with the powers to be at Twitter. Not sure how my account got suspended immediately after starting it but the message read something to the effect of: "aggressively following activity".

Pray tell, how in the h*ll does someone get tagged for this when she has just started the account and selected 10 peeps to follow, then signs off? But hey that is pretty much the norm for my life. If there is a way to get in trouble without meaning to, then I guarantee I will inadvertently find it.

All this means, right now, is that I can't use Twitter to talk to y'all or promote my blog, but that's their loss not mine.

Enough complaining, let's find something fun to talk about; after all, ain't that why you all are here?

Persnickety old woman

Hidey ho there and welcome all! This here is me blog. My web home of madness if you will. Since this is my blog, one will note much tongue in cheek humor, sarcasm, and down right silliness. If you be of the sensitive nature or one of those who must defend even the most annoying bug to ensure its rights are not violated, then ye best be moving right along. No need to stop here cuz ye not be welcome. I am a no party pooper allowed kind of persnickety old woman.

Me name is Pippi, short for Pippersnickernoodlesky, which was bestowed upon me by me deranged Mum, God Bless Her. The poor woman was mad from the start. Her idea of ensuring her daughter would be unique and not forgotten began with her consideration of naming me Marie Antoinette.

After much cajoling by family of the possible ill effects of saddling a wee one with the curse of "off with her head", she opted to lean towards a more kid friendly, wholesome name. I, personally, think she was off her rocker.

Madness is not uncommon from me kinsmen. Some of my family prefer to shun and hide out all those with slight personality quirks. Me, on the other hand, I say, bring them buggers out here and let all of us be entertained. There isn't anything more fun than listening to someone in a heated discussion with no other visible people in the room. Gives one a chance to hone their creativity, say in the form of ventriloquism.

I had the bestest fun with this when I was but a young lass. Me gran she be a friend to many, most of which were unseen. I snuck into the living room one night when she thought I was asleep. I could hear her from my bed, she was really giving my auntie a tongue lashing. Quietly as I could I crept over to the tv and hopped behind it.

For those younguns who ain't used to nothing but them there flat things hugging the wall, this here tv was one of them there floor models. The sucker was four feet long by two feet wide by three feet tall. Plenty big enough for a youngun of ten to hide behind.

So, I waited...and she started again.

Gran to her "friend": "Well, I tried to tell that girl but she went right ahead and ran off with that no count fella. Then she wanna come cryin to me but do I feel sorry for her?"

Me (using the deepest voice I could muster): "Yes, you should."

Gran (continuing on as if nothing had happened): "Why hell no I don't. Damn headstrong girl. She don't listen to nobody."

Me: "Who do you listen to?"

Gran: "I don't need to listen to nobody. I got my own mind; had my own mind now for years thank you."

Me: "So if you don't listen to nobody, then who you talkin to now?"

Gran: quiet...

Me: "I say, who you talkin to?"

About that time I felt a yank on the back of me nightgown as Gran pulled me out from my hidin spot. Now Gran, she wasn't but four feet tall but she was strong in the Irish temper. Let's just say what Gran laid on me gave a whole new meaning to dancing an Irish jig.

But it was fun. He he. Never tried that stunt again as my backside always started to sting thinking about it.

And so that was how it came to be, once I was of age, I became her escort for public outings. Her vivid and lively conversations gave me no pause to be seen with her.

Now that I have reached the age she was when I tried to out wit her, I fear the madness may be slipping through me veins. There are times when I be studyin on somethin or even in the shower I find myself answering, discussing, and arguing with those unseen friends of mine.

The way I see it the least they could do is bring chocolate when they come over.