A southern Ca-lee-fornia Thanksgiving

Number ONE- Get a Toe Job from the only sort of mani-pedi places available.
You wan get callus off? Only fie dolla moh. You want moh mass-age? Only sik dollah moh.
You want "sno frake" on da toe? Only sik dollah mo.
Is you dautta? Rook rike sistas.



The dogs played non-stop.




Men in the kitchen. Is anything better?
We had a personal chef in the form of Martie's father in law, Louie.


He made us a genuine Indonesian feast.
He made
Bamie,
Pangsit,
Krupuk,
and,
Atjar.



I will tell you right now that it was delicious.


Well, YES, I did go off my diet.


Totally worth it.




The drive home was rawther annoying, but we decided it was ALSO totally worth it.
Lexie was
de-sausted of all that playing!

I Was Right!

This is a Sunday Favorite. See my friend http://happytodesign.blogspot.com/ for more Sunday faves




This is an old post for Sunday favorites!
For more go visit Chari over at Happy to Design

By Lynn Guinn

I recall standing on my rollerblades, on a bridge, at end of Brookhurst, in Huntington Beach and watching the construction crew building a new jetty. I was especially interested in the backhoe operator. All he was doing was sitting there moving two “joysticks” back and forth. It was during the last few years when my career as a teacher was getting to me. I wanted to trade jobs with him, OH, so bad.
I imagined a job where one didn’t have to spend so much time solving unsolvable problems. A job where one could be blissfully unaware that there were children being born to parents who were less capable of caring for a child than two doorknobs would be.
Joysticks back and forth… Imagine a job where you weren’t responsible for the well-being, health, education, and sometimes, complete future of so many human beings.
Back and forth… No lives falling through the cracks before your very eyes.
At no time would a backhoe operator’s hair stand on end from reading the Department of Human Services report on the newest feature that had been added to his job.
A backhoe operator would never have to find shelter for someone who was being abused by her father.
A backhoe operator probably NEVER said the words, “I think I’ll get a less stressful job, like maybe an air traffic controller or a brain surgeon.”
I finally got old and retired.

Today I operated the backhoe that my husband bought when we moved up here to God’s country. I stayed on it for several hours.

I - WAS - RIGHT!

It is so much fun! It is more fun than a video game. I found out that the sticks get to move side to side as well as back and forth, and what fun! I can’t believe backhoe drivers get paid for doing that; and probably more than teachers get paid!
Nobody’s getting me off of this machine. I am going to landscape this place until it is unrecognizable. Now, why did I choose such a hard job when I could have been a backhoe operator?
I’m going to make little streams, and walls, and gardens and…

Old Friends Are BEST

One of my oldest friends is Moofie Goopie. That isn't her real name, of course, but I still call her that.

See, when you start hangin' with a person when you are nine, You almost STAY nine.

We have been through a lot since then. Housemates, pregnancies, husbands, hobbies, and now grandchildren. She made me the Thanksgiving items shown below and when I get them out every year, I think of her. I hope by the time you are reading this I am giving her a hug!
There is a story about us below the pics.




Ookie Mookie

When I was nine, my friends and I sat up in my tree house and spoke a language we invented, called Ookie Mookie. Actually, we didn’t MAKE it up in its entirety. It just sort of evolved. It started as sort of an “accent” with round vowels and eventually consonants became consonant blends and blends became single consonants. Nicknames for each other expanded into nicknames for familiar things. Soon we had a full-blown language to go along with our little society that existed on South Johnston and 21st and 22nd streets.

By the time I was in the sixth grade, we never spoke to one another in any other language.
I told my self I certainly wouldn’t speak Ookie Mookie when I got into Junior High, as it was childish. I did not want to be childish in junior high, heaven forbid.

However, by the time we were in junior high, we realized we needed Ookie Mookie in order to communicate. There is nothing more important than communicating when one is in junior high, unless it’s being able to communicate without parental involvement or participation.
We even found it necessary to come up with Ookie Mookie words for certain body parts that we were becoming increasingly interested in.

I told myself that when I got into high school, I certainly wouldn’t communicate in Ookie Mookie, as it was childish and I certainly didn’t want to be childish in high school.

By the time we progressed into high school, the language had left the boundaries of our neighborhood and extended to a much larger group of people. Even the guys wanted to learn. Although they tried, they never got past the noun stage. But they were cute! We went on to become more childish than ever. We made up cheers in order to entertain certain adults who found us amusing.
(Hongie-ningie nink!)
And with that we added hand signals to the language. We had signals that went along with words that indicated places.
For example:
“At the grocery store” was an open hand, palm up with the hand rising.
We never said “To” the grocery store-for some reason. We never said “To” anywhere. Always “At.”

By this time we had phrases that described activities and concepts. The evolution was complete.

I’m sure I must have thought somewhere in the recesses of my mind that I certainly wouldn’t speak Ookie Mookie as an adult, but the truth is that every time I talk with my old friends from the tree house days and beyond, we call each other our Ookie Mookie names and our conversations are peppered with phrases and words from our “childish days.” My husband of forty-four years will still answer to his Ookie Mookie name.
There is something magic about people you have loved for decades. They still look like they did when we were nine. Go figure.
Ahshafatoodies!
Which means…well…nothing, really.

From Paper Towel Holder to Napkin Ring

Number ONE, I cut the paper towel core into approximately one and a half inch sections.
Number TWO, (I feel like Rene Zelwiger's "Cold Mountain" character) I covered each one with a couple of layers of torn brown paper bags and Mod Podge.
Third, I let them dry overnight. (Now they are as hard as acrylic.)
Now I wrapped them in fall colored raffia and glued buttons on them. I found these leaf buttons at Michaels. NOW I had enough for everyone at the table.

When the Lid to the Septic Tank Went Into Orbit

I wrote this about my last colonoscopy. I got caught for another one tomorrow, so you know what I am doing right now.

About two and a half weeks ago I answered the phone and a pleasant receptionist voice said,
“Lynn?”
I said, “Yes it is.”
She continued in her pleasant receptionist voice, “This is Dr. M’s office calling to set up your appointment for your colonoscopy.”

Long pause.

Long pregnant pause.

My mind raced.
I thought Dr. C. gave me the name of a guy who does this sort of thing, just for my information only.

I thought I could call the guy up myself and make an appointment for this indignity when I was feeling strong and up for it.

I thought I could wait until I had some unusual colonic symptoms.

“Lynn? You already admitted it was you.” She said with a laugh in her voice, “You can’t get away now!”

Tee hee, indeed. Clearly, she had done this before.

“Are there any times that you would be unable to have the procedure done?” she continues

Yeah, like nev-er,

“Um, well I’ll be gone next month from the 8th until the, uh, 20th. So maybe some time after that.” I told her thinking of Southern California and how far in advance one must make appointments for this sort of thing.

“Oh I have earlier times than that! How about a week from today at 9:00AM?

“Uuuhhhhhh,” I eloquently replied.

“We’ll just get it over with!” She added helpfully.

(We, indeed!)
I spent the week in a state of dread. I told my family that I was going to get me some of those big cotton granny panties and cut an appropriately positioned hole and they could just work with that. Then my behind won’t have to be shining out there for everyone to see.

I told them I was going to write, “Does your mother know what you do for a living?” on my behind in case they made me take them off.

Rob suggested I should put an action figure in there so they’d have a surprise. He said, “But don’t get one that looks like this,” as he spread his arms in a fighting position and held an imaginary lance in one hand and bent his knees outward. Get one that doesn’t have any sharp weapons and is just standing there with his arms down. Or, I know! Get Superman flying! He continued to go through various action figures that would probably be painful. The thing about my son is, he always gets involved.

I was afraid to eat anything at all the day before. During cocktail hour, I had a delicious clear looking, but not clear tasting, concoction to drink. I begged everyone to have some of it, to help me drink it. Isn’t that what family is for? At one point during the diabolical event they glibly call, “prep” the force caused me to rise up off of the potty.
About the time the lid blew off of the septic tank, I realized there was no way I would ever do this again.

Every ten years? I don’t think so.

OK, the next morning I made it all the way to the hospital with Richard’s encouragement. (Dragging and pulling)
While lying in the side-rail-roll-y-bed, with plastic bracelets and a blood pressure cuff on one arm and a needle in the other, I commented that the last time I was in a bed like this they made me take a baby home. I was getting a little nervous about this.
Soon, they were rolling me away with Richard calling in the background, “Let me know if it’s a boy or a girl!”

Ultimately, the “Procedure” wasn’t bad at all.

I got to watch a television show about traveling through a little pink cave.
I gained some valuable information to impart to my daughter, who is an RN
(How to give anesthetic: Put some into the tube that is running into the patient’s arm. If patient says, “Ow, Ow, Ow,” put some more in.)
And due to some things called polyps, I got an invitation to return for another one in three years.
Yeah.
Try and catch me.

"I'm Not That Dog's Daddy!"

Lexie is getting warm on a cold, wet day.
She has her ""Bankie" in the bed with her. Daddy's shoes are drying beside her.

Country Music vs Normal Music

I am working on my review of the CMAs right now. A little late because of my trip to Folsom, but they will be in before the next edition of the EVT. I thought I'd put out my country music piece from earlier.
I hope you enjoy it



I watched the Country Music Award Show Sunday night. I always look forward to the CMA’s because I listen to country music and the show is always entertaining.

At one time, to my knowledge, there were only two categories of music that gave out awards during long glitzy award shows.
They were Country and Rock and Roll.

Rock and Roll meant the kind of music my daddy hated, (He called it African music. I drove him crazy one summer playing Be Bop-a-Lula over and over.)

Country meant twangy, yee-haw songs about making moonshine and having chickens in the yard. I never listened to it when I was young.

However, now it seems that Country has become rock and roll.
When did this happen?
They just put the word “ain’t,” in the song, place a cowboy hat on someone in the band, and call the violin a fiddle.

Abracadabra, we’ve gone country!

If you don’t believe me check out some of the hair-dos on the performers. There was a Mohawk on a guy in Miranda Lambert’s band!
Buck Owens must be spinning in his grave.
Also check out a band called “Big and Rich.”

I rest my case. (Didn’t they have a superfluous dancing midget in their band at one time?)

I’m not even sure the genre called rock and roll still exists. If it does, it is now divided into sub categories, such as head-banging heavy metal, pop, rap, and alternative.

It makes no difference what the words say because they are often indistinguishable.

On the other hand, country music’s words matter.
Oh, do they matter!

I think the songwriters come up with a clever phrase and then write a song around it.
I can just see it now. A bunch of good old boys are sitting around drinking beer and a pretty girl walks by and one of the boys says, “Woo-ee! I’d sure like to check her for ticks!” Then one of them whips out his Scholastic Rhyming Book and looks up all the words that rhyme with ticks and a song is born.

What I can’t really figure out is what sort of woman would fall for this particular type of sweet talk?

Never the less, I feel certain that there is not a country song that has ever been written without beer being involved.

Buckets of beer.

How else could someone think up lines such as;

“She’s got a drinking problem and it’s me.”

And

“I sobered up and I got to thinking, you ain’t much fun since I quit drinking.”

One award night a few years ago, I tuned in a bit late, but just in time to hear someone singing the last line of a song,
“I met God’s will on Saturday night. He was dressed as a bag of leaves.”

What?

I decided I had better listen for some more entertaining lines.
Here are some that I heard;

“He put the bottle to his head and pulled the trigger.”

“When I said ‘I Do,’ I did, but I don’t any more.”

“When she sees a deer she sees Bambi, and I see antlers on the wall.”

If I was Jesus, I’d walk on water just to mess with your head.
(The song is just full of things this guy would do if he were Jesus.)

“I broke your heart in our double wide paradise.”

“It ain’t cheatin’ if you don’t get caught.”

“I’m gonna hire a wino to decorate our home.”

“Call it what you want to. I call it quits.”

A country song will now and then make me laugh out loud.
Take that one about a guy who is an overweight nerd with asthma, who still lives with his mama, with a My Space page that says he’s a tall, handsome, studly lady-killer.

Or that one about all the wonderful things alcohol can do including helping white people dance better.

I like the song about the girl committing several felonies involving a knife and a baseball bat and a guy’s fancy truck.

Too bad there isn’t a final verse about what it’s like being a sweet young thing locked up in a jail cell with a big old gal named Bertha Faye Jones.
But just when you think country lyrics are classifiable along comes a song that says,

“I read you once in a Faulkner novel,
Met you once in a Williams play.”

Practically Shakespeare!

Deep Thought

No matter how hotsy totsy we think we are with all our technology and such, we need to stop and remember that we are still completely dependent on six inches of top soil and a little rain now and then.
Paraphrased from Ann or Abby
(Can't remember which sister.)

Pig Noses for the Swine Flu

One Good Grandson & Three Crazy
Daughters

The Maflingo Is In The Aminal Hostible

I have been on hospital duty. My sweet little mama (84) has pneumonia.
If anyone wondered where I got my ass-kickin' ways, there is no need to wonder now.
She is giving them fits. (Deserving fits, I must say.)

I have a great picture but I'm away from my blogging maching so I can't how to do it. I'll add it later.

My title comes from my grand daughter. We loved to say, "Rachie, say, 'The flamingo is in the animal hospital.'" just to hear her say the above.

Twenty Years Ago? I'd SO Wear This!

Is this cute or WHAT!??

Church+ Pee Pee+ the occasional bathroom

When I was in Junior high I was at the NEW First Presbyterian Church and I was in the bathroom with several friends. You know how much Junior high girls spend in the bathroom!For some reason I hopped up on the sink and the whole sink fell off the wall and water began gushing out of the wall like a broken fire hydrant. I wasn't over weight, but you know how junior high girls are...
I was sure I must be a big fat pig if I broke a whole plumbing item.
VERY embarassing.

If you want to hear more pee stories go see Speaking From the Crib
and Antsy Pants