You gave yourself a what?

Well, tonight I finally did it. I gave myself a PLASTECTOMY. Yep, I cut up my credit cards. The end of an era has arrived. Never again will I have one. My hands literally shook while I did it (in front of a class of about 20 people) and there was a strange sense of panic about me as the ginormous scissors approached the small piece of defenseless plastic.

I cut up the Discover card first. It was the one I've had the longest, the one I swore I was going to keep forever because Sam's Club takes Discover and nothing else and what if I want to buy 40 gallons of mustard or something and have no cash? No kidding, this was my thinking. But since that beyotch from Discover made me cry last week, I suddenly have developed this ease in making the separation. Go figure. Okay, so back to the cutting up of the cards...I snipped that Discover card right in two. There lying on the table, right on top of my sister's 14 cut-up credit cards, were the two halves of my oh so precious Discover card. Good-bye 40 gallons of mustard on credit. Even if I would've earned 1% cash back.

Then I cut up the Mastercard. I had no problem cutting that one up. Even though there is a hefty balance on it, that account hasn't been open for 2 years. The really nice folks at Sears closed that account for me. How considerate of them. I didn't even ask.

The last one to go was the Lane Bryant card. No more buying bras and cheeky panties on credit. From now on, if I need underclothes I pay cash. Thank God I bought up a bunch of 'em last time I was in there. I have enough cheeky panties to get me through till Jesus comes back. And then, I'll get my new heavenly body and my ass will be a lot smaller so I can shop at Victoria's Secret then.

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In lieu of my normal sarcastic Post-Ladies' Night check the box post, I'll just tell ya right here: I didn't win shit at the casino last night.

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Today I attended the third funeral I've been to in 6 weeks. How crummy is that? This one was for the father of a dear friend of mine from grade school. They moved to Tulsa when we were in 6th grade, but we've stayed in touch off and on since then. She came back to town when we had a (rather small) 5 year class reunion and even attended our 10 year reunion. She was shocked that I was there today, but truthfully, I couldn't imagine not being there.

Mom and I went to the funeral together and my gosh, how I love that woman. She is honestly my best friend. (Okay, so she ties with Heather, but I'm still lucky to have two best friends.) She asked me before we got out of the car to go into the chapel if I needed tissues. I said I didn't, because honestly it'd been probably 20 years or more since I'd seen Butch and I was there for Jamie, plain and simple. I didn't foresee tears. Oh but the tears came regardless. By funeral's end my mother and I sat there with tears streaming down our faces and nothing to dab them with.

In the parking lot, after the service, while we were waiting for the family to come out, I was telling Mom that I really wasn't enjoying the number of funerals I was attending these days. In six week's time 5 people I know have passed away. Mom said that Papa has always said that when the sap rises and falls, you'll attend more funerals. I asked her what that meant. She said that the old folks say that in the spring when the sap is rising, more people die. In the fall, when the sap starts to fall, again the same thing. Who knows why, it just happens. Papa even said this to a funeral director in town who wholeheartedly agreed with him. He said there is a period of time in the spring and fall both where they are inundated with business. How strange eh? Have any of y'all ever heard of such a thing? I'm kind of believing it, seeing as how things are going.

I called my best friend from grade school, DeLisa, last night to tell her about Jamie's dad. DeLisa and Jamie and I were all in Brownies together and I knew she'd want to know. Unfortunately she couldn't get a sub for her class that last minute and couldn't attend the funeral, but asked that I tell Jamie she wanted to be there. She made a comment that really struck me and pretty much said exactly how I was feeling. Something to the affect of how if this what being a "grown-up" is like --attending more funerals than weddings, facing your parents' mortality and possibly coming to grips with our own mortality, watching people you love grow old -- this is a part that pretty much sucks. Okay, so I'm the one that said "sucks" because DeLisa is much too pure to say that, God love 'er.

It's very difficult to sit in a funeral home and say good-bye to someone your parents' age and not be affected by it. I'm having a hard time dealing with it, to be honest. And I told Mom that very thing.

I love my Mom so much - while I sat there crying in the passenger's seat of her car, she said "Well, I'll just tell you girls something right now. When I die, don't you dare go out and buy me something new to wear in the casket. Go to my closet and pick out something old from in there. Maybe even something that was a little too tight while I was alive. 'Cuz you know they just slit it up the back anyway. Then I'd actually be able to fit back into it again. Oh! And make sure they tape my boobs up nice and perky and show a lot of cleavage. Because when all the men walk by to view my body, I want them to see what they missed out on." It's hard to cry when your mother is saying something like that. I was snorting and snotting all over the place by then.

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Last night at Ladies' Night, I commented to Mom and Angie that I sure hoped I won the $500 soon. I am wanting to take another "selfish vacation" to Branson in April to see Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. Angie, who is a whole lot of redneck, said, "What the hay-ell (translate: hell) is a techni-whatever you said?" I laughed and explained that the show is a Broadway-style musical about the story of Joseph and his coat of many colors from the book of Genesis. She was unimpressed. I said, "Well, in the Broadway run, Donnie Osmond played Joseph," with all the hoity-toityness I could muster. She remained unimpressed and even sniffed in disapproval. I said, "Dammit, Angie! My husband won't take me and I just WANT to go!" She said, "And the tickets are $500??" I said, "Good grief no. $500 would just allow for me to spend a few nights there, see the show and do some shopping." She said, "Sister, you give me a hundred bucks, I'll buy you a six-pack of beer and show you a better time than Donnie Osmond ever could." I said, "It's a musical, Angie." She said, "Gimme a hundred more and I'll even sing for ya." Man, I hope I win the $500 soon. Rest assured that I will not be giving Angie $200 to get me drunk and sing to me, though.