MckLinky Monday: Two Truths and a Lie

Oh, that Mrs. Priss over at The Real Housewives of Oklahoma....she's playing games again. Today's game is "Two Truths and One Lie" where apparently we all forget what our mommas taught us and well, we tell a lie.

Basically what I'm going to do is tell you three things, two of which are true and one of which isn't. You decide which is which and leave your answers in the comments. I guess I'll come back like, one of these days and tell you if you got them right. Or something.

Here we go:

1. I have been contacted by two separate production companies and was asked to apply/audition for two separate reality TV shows. I was "too normal" for one and "not redneck enough to eat possum" for the other.

2. When I was 19 I was arrested during a traffic stop due to a case of mistaken identity. America's Most Wanted had just aired and the license plate had been put on the air incorrectly - the incorrect number being mine. I was cuffed and put in the back of the Highway Patrolman's car and very nearly taken to jail before it was cleared up and I was let go with apologies.

3. My claim to fame is that, in college, my sister went on a date with Joe Don Rooney from the country group Rascal Flatts. They went to Jim Bob's Steak and Ribs for dinner and two-stepped in the parking lot after they ate.

So run along now and tell me which one you think is the big fat lie.

And don't tell my momma I've been fibbin'.

You can play along, too! Come on....you know you wanna....

Show Some Love, Wouldya?

Back when I was in 2nd grade I had this boyfriend named Brian. Now, don't dismiss it because we were eight. I mean, we were married like, 27 times at the school carnival that year. Brian had an older sister who I thought was the bomb diggity. Honestly, I think the light of heaven shone through the Farrah Faucett "feathers" in her hair. I felt so special when Edie paid attention to me and said I was "cute".

Time marched on....Brian left for a few years, Edie graduated high school, Brian came back (with muscles and long hair *swoon*), but the magic was lost. While Brian was off growing muscles, facial hair and a 'do that would make any 80's hair band member jealous, I was working hard to hone my mad nerd skillz. I had become a quintessential geek.

The 27 marriages fell apart.

Fast forward to adulthood, enter email and Facebook. A few years back I got an email from a woman named Beckie who said she was married to my first husband. That kind of took me aback at first because frankly, I had forgotten about those magical 27 moments at the alter with Brian in the corner of the gymnasium back in 2nd grade. She told me she harbored no ill will and was actually a reader of my blog and thought I was hilarious. I met her in a casino one evening and when I heard a little voice ask, "Are you Redneck Diva?" I was shocked, then delighted and I think I scared the poor woman to death when I hugged her neck probably a little too tightly. And then last year Brian's big sister, Edie, friended me on Facebook. Be still my geeky heart! She doesn't have Farrah Faucett feathered hair anymore, but she's still awesome. And she needs our help.

This is where you come in, Constant Reader.

Edie is a finalist in a contest with The Tulsa Dentist and needs your help! If she wins she will get a $50,000+ complete, head-to-toe makeover and folks, that beats out Farrah Faucett feathers any ol' day. She told me the last estimate on her dental work alone was over $10,000 alone. She also informed me she was a breastfeedin' momma for FORTY EIGHT MONTHS and had three C-sections. Girl needs a little lift, methinks. She's deserving, she's a great gal and anyone who said I was "cute" when I was in 2nd grade is going to get my support.

So here's what you can do: If  you're on Facebook already, search for The Tulsa Dentist (or just click that link), "like" the page and then click the Photos tab. Find EDIE and leave a simple comment with the word "vote" in her album. That's it! And if you're not on Facebook already.....WHY NOT? I'm there!

I appreciate you, Edie appreciates you and I'm pretty sure her boobs will appreciate you if they get a good hoisiting in the near future.

Thanks for your support. *snicker*

Viewer Discretion Advised

We have reached a very uncomforable place in our house.

We have satellite TV and the 250-channel package of mind-numbing entertainment on two, count 'em TWO TV's. We have three kids and I babysit my two-year-old cousin during the school year. I don't mind the kids' shows at all. I have an intense crush on Mover Scott from Imagination Movers and I sometimes watch iCarly when the kids aren't in the room. It's also no secret that I think Phineas and Ferb is one of the greatest cartoons of all time. Paul would rather attend a Mary Kay party than watch iCarly. Drake and Josh makes him nauseous. Those two twins that live in a hotel? He considers them boils on the butt of humanity.

Most of the time when Paul gets home from work the TV is off because if I didn't the children would sit there slack-jawed and drooling all day long in the summer. While I enjoy most of their shows I, too, have my limits. I like the sound of a quiet house. Sometimes the TV lends to intense sensory overload for me and I cannot stand having it on one second longer. It's off more than it's on during the day.

But my darling husband comes in from work, sits in his recliner and magically the remote is in his hand and the TV is on the Reality Channel, something I consider a boil on the butt of humanity. He also loves Animal Planet and CourtTV. Typically he's asleep within 10 minutes and the kids draw straws to see who gets to slip the remote from under his hand. Then it's flipped to Nick or Disney. I'd rather watch those annoying twins than anything on Reality. After dinner, though, Paul's after-work nap out of the way, the reality begins anew. I do not understand why watching cops arrest drunken prostitutes and wrestle a gang member to the ground while dodging a spray of bullets is entertainment to him. He gets a kick out of watching those "caught on tape" shows where, for an hour at a time, you can watch people repeatedly fall through the ice, trip over dogs, straddle a hand rail while skateboarding, do backflips off trampolines and break their arms in 47 different ways. I don't get it.

His latest love is Billy the Exterminator.

 

I am not a fan. I frankly just can't get past the dude's sunglasses. And his hair. And his gloves. And that thing on his chin. I think Billy is a okay guy, don't get me wrong. I think he genuinely likes helping people and tries to capture and release animals when he can rather than kill, but uhm....if Billy can get a reality show why can't I???? Seriously. We made it down to the final two families in the running for My Big Redneck Christmas two years ago, but we weren't trashy enough and the folks that ate possum won. I guess we need to kick up the trashy. And the leather and tattoos.

Forget cowbell, we need more possum.

Paul is constantly imparting wisdom from good ol' Billy to anyone who will listen. He told me the other night that if I will just look at a snake's eye I can tell whether it's poisonous or not and therefore whether I can risk a bite or not.

*blink blink*

Okay, here's the dealy-o, Mister Animal Pants. I will not be getting voluntarily close enough to a snake to see the shape of its pupil, THEREFORE I will not be in charge of judging whether or not a snake is dangerous or not. Snakes are dangerous. Always. And here's why: I will hurt myself getting away from one regardless of the color, shape of it's head, pattern, rattle, tongue, pupils or whether or not it buys its clothes from The Gap or Gap Outlet, thus rendering it dangerous. Snakes are dangerous. Period.

And now our son has jumped on the Billy Bandwagon. I am about to have a Billy Ban in this house.

As we were coming up the drive the other night there was a possum in the driveway. Paul swerved to hit it and succeeded. As we got into the yard we saw an armadillo digging a hole. Paul again swerved to hit it, but missed. Armadillos are far craftier and more agile than their non-armored counterpart, obviously. After we got in the house Sam was sitting in the couch all pouty. When I asked why he looked so angry he said it was because Daddy had killed the possum and had tried to kill the armadillo. I explained that they are nasty, disease-ridden creatures who serve no purpose on our property whatsoever. Unless you consider making my dog bark at 4am a purpose -- which I don't.

Then Sam went into this ridiculous diatribe about how horrible we were for killing them, they didn't deserve to die, why couldn't we just let them go about their merry little animal ways. He got all kinds of fired up. Fired up or a non-confrontational 11 year old, anyway. I told him we're rednecks, we kill the critters that invade and destroy our property and well, he'd better start cleaning his room better, 'sall I'm sayin'. He grinned and eventually gave up, figuring out he wasn't going to win an argument where he was trying to fight for the rights of marsupials and reptimammals everywhere.

Then after he had gone to bed there was a segment on Billy the Exterminator where Billy and his leather-clad brother had to remove armadillos from a prayer garden. Because of the diseases they carry. Even Billy admitted that armadillos are more than just nuisances, they are a health hazard.

And, in a moment of parental surreality, I found myself hollering down the hallway to my half-asleep child, "Hey, Sam! Guess what? BILLY THE EXTERMINATOR SAYS ARMADILLOS ARE NASTY. BILLY THE EXTERMINATOR JUST REMOVED ARMADILLOS FROM A PRAYER GARDEN. BILLY THE EXTERMINATOR SAYS ARMADILLOS CARRY DISEASE AND ARE HARMFUL TO CHILDREN."

Mmm hmmm. I told him.

Paul just sat there in his recliner staring at me, the TV paused, while I yelled insanely down the hall to where our son had more than likely been sleeping, but probably wasn't anymore. When I was done, I breathed in a heavy breath, feeling satisfied, feeling like I had justified all past and future armadillo issues by ..... *sigh* ...... imparting the wisdom of Billy the Exterminator to my child.

Paul then grinned, pushed play on the TV and said, "Way to go, Momma. Way. To. Go. Now, let's see what Billy says about alligators."

Chasing Lilacs

Hey, because you are all awesome and stuff you should mosey over to my review blog and check out my review of the book Chasing Lilacs and the giveaway I have going on right now.

Also? The author of Chasing Lilacs, Carla Stewart, is going to be doing a book signing at Chapters bookstore in Miami, OK, on Thursday, August 12th from 3:30 to 5:30 pm. You should go. All the cool kids will be there.

So get to moseying. Seriously. Tell your friends and neighbors, too. Everyone should mosey. It's fun.

Ever Elusive

This past Friday was my little sister Tater's 34th birthday. Mom, Pops, Tater, her beau and the Tots came out Saturday evening to ride 4-wheelers and whack around on a few golf balls. The original plan had been to play Redneck Croquet and smack around on the golf balls while on the 4-wheelers, but it was so dastardly hot and Abby had been sick and we just didn't put too much effort into the outdoor activities that night. Abby was still pretty weak and she'd have been disappointed if she hadn't been able to play.

(Anyone else think Sam looks more like he's trying out for a baseball team than hitting a golf ball?)

While we were watching Pops and Paul teach the boys how to hit those itty bitty orange balls with those long, skinny poles on the redneck driving range (one flag in the middle of the field, mowed weekly with the brush hog and the kids earn money finding balls by driving the 4-wheelers out in the field - who needs a country club?) one of the adults suggested we take the kids snipe hunting.

If you're from Oklahoma you are probably grinning right now because you yourself went snipe hunting when you were a kid, right? And snipe aren't indigenous to Oklahoma only - I hear Missourians hunt 'em, too.

Instantly the four youngest kids were interested and excited. BJ, Tater's beau, took them out to find sticks to tap together to call in the elusive, mysterious snipe. I grabbed the camera. (Stay hooked. The first part is hard to hear, but it gets louder.)

 

They didn't rustle up any snipe in that first pre-dark attempt, but they did scare up some chiggers as you can see by the way Sam was digging at his ankles.

Finally at dark BJ and I headed toward the hay bales with four kids and their sticks. He was totally making it exciting for the kids, saying he heard one, whispering, "Was that a snipe? Did you see that?" and I was just praying a possum, raccoon or snake didn't cross my path because it would've been so embarrassing to pee my pants in front of Tater's beau.

After a few minutes BJ grabbed a paper grocery sack out of one of the kids' hands and took off running. He threw himself on the ground and in a flurry of noise, grunting and wrestling, jumped up and declared, "I GOT ONE!" The kids cheered, Tater and I hid our giggles as the kids ran out to see what was in the sack. Pops came out and asked BJ if he could see inside the sack. He instantly withdrew his hand and said, "OW it bit me! Oh wow....I'm bleeding kids. You need to be really careful. It's an angry snipe."

That's when Kady started crying.

Mom came out to see to Pop's "bleeding" finger while Kady all but climbed up my body in an attempt to keep herself off the ground and away from any wandering snipe that might find her toes a tasty snack. After all the grownups looked in the sack it was decided it was a baby snipe and should be let go because the momma might get really mad we'd kidnapped its baby.

That's when Kady's crying turned into hysterical wailing and screaming.

That's also when Abby took Kady inside and assured her that Pops was okay. (Moments after they got inside Abby sent me a text that said, "Please can I tell Kady what's going on. She has a nosebleed she's so upset." Ahh...compassionate big sister.)

BJ "let" the snipe "go" and we were going to go in the house for drinks and air conditioning when Pops whispered to Tater and I that Paul had changed into a dark shirt and had snuck out back to scare the kids. We relayed that info on to BJ who then decided we needed to catch another one. He rallied the remaining troops and off they went again toward the hay bales in the field. We tried a snipe "call" thinking Paul would return the call, but we found out later that while we were calling, he was trying to untangle himself from a batch of blackberry briars out behind the barn and hadn't even made it to the hay bales yet.

Finally after some calling and stick tapping (and wondering on my part if my husband had been eaten by a cougar) the kids, in a tight walking huddle, rounded the side of a hay bale and all we heard over by the fence was RAWR! IIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!! and then the sound of six feet running toward us. We were all doubled over laughing and the snipe were forgotten.

Back inside we treated everyone who had chigger bites and Paul put alcohol on his briar scratches and the mystery of snipe hunting was revealed. Unlike all of us grownups who, too, had gone on our own childhood snipe hunts, our children, however, did not laugh when they realized they had just spent over an hour in a field hunting a bird that wasn't there, tapping on sticks, imitating their call and believing they were about to gain a new pet. They sulled up and pouted and one cried. They called us "mean". They said we were "horrible".

We adults were all able to recall our very own snipe hunting experience and told our stories. The children were not amused. They asked how we could lie to them like that.

I shrugged and said, "It was pretty easy, actually. And someday you'll see just how easy when you take your own kids snipe hunting."

They all agreed they would never do such a thing.

But something tells me ..... when my grandkids are about 11 or so we'll hold a new generation of snipe hunting and the legend will live on.

Here's hoping, anyway.

Wowie Wow Wow

*phhhooooooooo*

(That was me blowing the cobwebs off the ol' blog here.)

I've been kind of scarce lately.

"No, really, Diva? We hadn't noticed. Sitting here, waiting patiently for you to come along and entertain us. In fact, we may  have gone looking for greener pastures. Whaddaya think of that, oh absent one?"

Well, I think it's deplorable. Not you. You're not deplorable. Why would I call you deplorable? You're the ones who've been sitting here in this cobwebby mess, probably playing spider solitaire til you're nearly cross-eyed, perhaps a random game of rock/paper/scissors with another pitiful person waiting around....

And I apologize. Sincerely.

But can I give you a run-down of the last couple weeks? Then maybe you'll be more willing to maybe offer me your bosom on which I can lay my weary head and receive the comfort I so desperately need.

Woah. Wait. I just asked you to offer me your bosom. Scratch that. This ain't that kinda blog. No bosoms. Really.

Okay, so here goes. This is my desperate attempt at gaining your sympathy (but not your bosom -- I repeat NOT YOUR BOSOM). In the past three weeks:

* Here at the ranch we hosted 20-some people for the 4th of July, which was actually on the 3rd. I was told by one sister that I am "no fun" as the host and she wasn't going to let me anymore if I was going to be that crabby.

* We hosted a second, impromptu day of shenanigans and holiday overeating on the 4th when my mom and dad, Tater, her handsome beau and the Tots spent the day with us. There was food and fireworks, a rousing game of Spoons in which my tablecloth was ripped, Abby's (now ex-) boyfriend bled and now my spoons are ten kinds of wonky.

* I got to spend a whole week with my niece and nephew, the Tots. That was heavenly.

* My son was introduced to golf and now I have TWO rednecks who look forward to Tuesdays at the Country Club like a couple of little boys hoping for a Red Ryder BB gun from Santa. While Paul is slightly more sedate, Sam bounces around like a chihuahua from the time he gets up on Tuesdays until his daddy gets home from work. Also, there has been a documented event where both of them got up before 7am on a Saturday to go play.

* We have had a big ol' camping party in the living room for a week now. For those of you non-local folks, we here in Oklahoma are in the midst of yet another Oklahoma summer, also known as HELL. Our 1,922 square foot house is cooled by one very brave window unit and does a spectacular job - until the humidity gets as high as it's gotten lately. Last Sunday it got up to 87* in our house with the thermostat set on 67*. So it was either camp out in the living room or go stay with my parents until December. Now there is an air mattress in the middle of the floor, pillows, stuffed animals and sheets everywhere, the blinds stay pulled 24/7 and the TV goes off in the middle of the day because that gigantic thing could probably power a small third-world country with the heat it puts off. Can I just say this? Momma has a slight case of MY CHILDREN ARE DRIVING ME CRAZY.

* I made my very first 911 call.

* I argued with the police dispatcher during said 911 call because when I had made a non-emergency call prior to the 911 call she wrote the address down wrong and sent the police officers a block east. Then when I called and actually had an emergency she argued that I was wrong.

* I was visited by a process server for the very first time in my life.

* During that pleasant process-serving party I received my very first subpeona to appear before a judge. And can I just take a moment to appease my inner 12-year-old?  SUBPEONA SUBPEONA SUBPEONA SUBPEONA SUBPEONA *giggle* It's just fun to say because it sounds kinda dirty but it's not. SUBPEONA.

* I now have a much more sensitive BS detector.

* I have learned to rely on my God, my faith, my family and my church family in the past two weeks. God put that group of cowboys and cowgirls in my life for a reason and I am so thankful, blessed and awed.

* My youngest daughter called me "strong". I have really never thought of myself as strong, but if I can come across that way to an 8 year old who is looking to me in the midst of crisis and upside-down-edness I must be doing something right.

* And finally I have learned that sometimes while you are nervous and anxious and exhausted a late-night phone call from a friend who tells you a story about a flag-stealing midget in a pickup truck will make you laugh until your stomach hurts - and is probably the best medicine out there.



So see? I really do have valid reasons for being slighty....uh....removed from the blog the past few weeks.

Forgive me? Promise to come back if I use the word SUBPEONA more?











SUBPEONA!

Monday MckLinky: I'm a Kitchen!

What room are you most at home in?

You Are Most at Home in the Kitchen

You're the type of person who finds a lot of comfort in your home.

You love to take care of yourself and others.

Your home is welcoming and open to all.

You love entertaining guests and making them feel a part of the family.

There's nothing like spending an afternoon in the kitchen,

whipping up treats for you and your loved ones.

You believe that the simple things in life can be the most enjoyable.

You like give your time and love to people.

Work is Hard. Time for Blogthings!

Who knew? I'm a kitchen!

It makes sense, though - it's the room I am in CONSTANTLY.

Oh, my achin' feet.

And because it's Monday and it's summer and we're all, you know, busy housewives who are spending inordinate amounts of time in our kitchens, yeah....we did a meme thing.

So sue us.

But before you sue anyone, take the quiz yourself, go visit The Real Housewives and link up there. It's much more gratifying than suing any ol' day.

Sneezing vs. a Tornado

As you all know, we are a bit....  skittish when it comes to storms. We have a very healthy respect for them and tornados are simply a force not to be reckoned with. That being said, what's the first thing Paul and I do when the weather starts looking bad? We, and every other redneck, go stand in the yard and watch the clouds roll in and hope we see the twister.

Yesterday when Paul got home he said he and a bunch of friends from work were going to go play golf. It was totally fine by me since I had spent the whole day in my pajamas watching DVR'd episodes of "The OCD Project" on VH1 with a few Tosh.0's sprinkled in to make me laugh after having bawled through watching those folks with OCD battle their disorder. I figured if I let him go play golf without batting an eye he would be far less likely to notice the Barbies scattered around the living room, my ladybug pajama pants still on my body and the dishes in the sink.

I was totally right. He came in, changed clothes and left again with nary a harsh word. Score!

Before he left, with our son in tow, I told him there was some stormy weather rolling in and to keep an eye on the skies. He nodded and off they went. He called me about 20 minutes later to tell me that the Miami course was closed and they were headed to Baxter Springs, KS. I wasn't happy about that because the storms were coming in from the north, so again I reminded him to keep an eye on things and keep his cell phone within reach. He agreed and off they went again.

It's at this point in the story I should probably throw in this tidbit of information: A few weeks ago I sent Sam down to get our lawnchairs from the cellar so we could use them at a birthday party. When we unfurled them at the party I thought they smelled damp, like mold. Sam said, "Yeah, it was kind of wet down there..." and that was it. I mentioned it to Paul later that evening and he said that was strange, it had never gotten wet down there before. The next day he called me out into the yard. When I got out there he was standing at the cellar with the door open, a black-ish thing lying in the grass next to him. As I got closer I realized what it was: the mattress thing we had put down there the last time we'd gone under. It was late and the kids were tired so we laid it out in the floor for them to lie on. Paul said the entire floor of the cellar was wet, the mattress had soaked up a ton of water and was covered in mold. Apparently, someone who refuses to confess by the way, put the garden hose to the vent and .... irrigated the cellar. We have no idea who or even why, but I'm not above resorting to bamboo shoots under the fingernails to find out the culprit's identity and motive. Anyway, we left the cellar open for a few days and I kept meaning to bleach it out...."meaning to" being the operative words here.

Now on with the story....

I called Paul when we went under a severe thunderstorm warning and told him the county he was in was under one as well. He said they were on the 7th hole, the owner had already told them that at the first sign of lightning to get off the course as fast as they could and he reassured me they were paying attention to the weather. Sam called me about half hour later and said they were heading home and that daddy wanted me to know "they were right ahead of the storm."

As they pulled in it began to rain and he said he literally drove ahead of the storm. I guess he wanted me to acknowledge his storm-dodging prowess or something. I went out into the yard and immediately came back in and said, "You need to come out here with me. And kids? Find your shoes and pack a bag. We may be going underground." Paul and I went back outside and stood in various parts of the yard to see the storm from different viewpoints. As we were about 50 feet out into the field we heard a sound which caused us to look at each other, stare wide-eyed and then begin running - we heard the tornado sirens from Miami.

We live about 7 miles from the very south edge of town and only one other time have we been able to hear the tornado sirens when they've gone off. Usually the storms come in from the other way and we just don't hear them, but this time we heard them loud and clear. He ran to let the dog off the chain so he could go to the barn, I ran to the house to tell the kids to GO NOW. I grabbed my purse, cell phone and iPod (the essentials you know), decided I didn't have time for the laptop and we were out the door. I think we made it from sirens to cellar in under four minutes.

As we all stood there panting, cleaning the raindrops off our glasses and wringing out our hair, I realized I had forgotten the NOAA radio. I always bring it with us so we have some idea of what's going on in case we lose cell signal, which we sometimes do down there, but not always. I called Cousin Courtney who wasn't even in Miami, but I had forgotten that fact, and immediately felt awful for scaring the snot out of her since she's away on business and her son and husband were here, obviously under the life-threatening peril of an impending tornado. I asked the question on Facebook and Twitter, "Are the sirens going off in Miami?" and my niece and one other person responded that they had been, but they weren't any more. Then it was 9:00 and my mobile notifications go off then, so I was out of the loop from then on.

It was so hot and muggy down there that after we didn't hear from anyone that the sirens were back on, we decided to come out and go back to the house. Where there was air conditioning.

Turns out, Miami never went under a tornado warning. I'm not sure if a clumsy intern hit the switch accidentally or they were trying to be proactive or what, but it was unsettling to not know why they were going off and whether we needed to stay underground or what. Paul said he wondered if someone had called the Psychic Friends Network and were sounding the alarm because they had gotten a tip. Whatever. When it comes to the weather I would always, always rather be safe than sorry. I will take the stinky, damp, hot cellar any day over being whisked away to Oz. I mean, I think Munchkins are cute and all, but have no desire to cavort in a field of poppies with a scarecrow who would inevitably make me sneeze and a lion who would likely do the same.

Speaking of sneezing, while we saw no mold in the cellar last night, about 30 minutes after we got back into the house Abby broke out in hives. It took 50 mg of Benadryl to give her any relief. Sam and I woke up this morning with swollen eyes, a runny nose and both sneezing our heads off. Abby's still hive-a-licious and Kady had to use her inhaler. Methinks the mold was of the invisible variety.

So now....I'm taking volunteer applications from whoever wants to come help me bleach out the cellar so we don't all die from anaphylactic shock the next time we're dodging a tornado. I can't pay ya, but I'll give you some Amish bread and sweet tea. You know how to get hold of me.

Monday MckLinky: What Are Your Strange Remedies?

When Mrs. Sinclair announced she was using this for a topic I got all kinds of giddy. I love, love hearing other people's home remedies and unusual methods for doing something, more than likely because their momma did it that way and their momma's momma did it that way.

So it got me to thinkin'.....what are some of the things my mom, Nana, Memaw, Granny and other wise sages in my life have taught me...... Hmmm....

***************

When I was a kid I can remember my mom running a diaper pin through her hair before she'd pin a diaper. I thought it was absolutely crazy - until that day I needed to pin a diaper and it wouldn't go easily through the material. I kind of looked around to see if anyone was looking (like, who was going to be spying on me in my living room) and then ran that dang pin through my hair a few times. Voila! Easy peasy.

Of course, no one uses diapers with pins anymore. Even if they use cloth diapers they have those fancy schmancy diaper covers now. Whippersnappers.

***************

My Granny Glenn was a firm believer in the merits and values and absolute healing properties of tea tree oil. If you had a headache you got a fingertip dabbed in tea tree oil dotted in the middle of your forehead. Mosquito bites, rashes, dandruff, athlete's foot, any affliction or ailment also warranted a good dousing in the ol' TTO, as Rachael Ray would call it if she were all into plant oils for something other than cooking.

I always have a bottle of it in my cabinet.

Put a few drops in your shampoo and it will keep the lice away. Seriously. I learned that when I worked at DHS. *shudder* (Anyone else's head itching now?)

****************

Everyone knows about putting a past of baking soda on bee stings, but I think it's an Oklahoma thing to put chewing tobacco on them. Wintergreen Skoal works best. The first time I got stung - and I remember it as vividly as if it were yesterday - I screamed, threw myself on the ground and sat on my hand to keep my dad from putting chew on it. I really don't know why. Sitting on it hurt, the Skoal would've felt better. Also, the spanking I got wouldn't have been necessary either.

****************

Papa always blew cigarette smoke in your ear if you had an earache. I'm thinking that 4 out of 5 pediatricians would scream, "OH MY GOSH DON'T DO THAT!" but hey, it worked when I was a kid.

****************

Memaw always said if you stepped on a nail to soak your foot in kerosene. Better hope you don't have an earache while you're soaking that foot...

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And finally.....I saved the best for last......

My mother-in-law swears by coffee enemas. Not for constipation, but just for general health. She says they will just make you feel better from head to toe.

Uhm....I can think of one place that would not feel better if I did a coffee enema....

****************

So, because Mrs. Sinclair asked now I want to know, too -- what are your strange home remedies?

Answer in a post on your own blog, then post it in the MckLinky on The Real Housewives of Oklahoma and let us all partake of the wisdom you behold. I mean, I shared with you about a cuppa joe up your old kaboozie, surely you can think of something.

1. Answer the question on your blog (or in the comments sections if you don't have a blog).


2. If you answer the question on your blog, add your name to MckLinky so that we all can discover the brilliance that is your mind.

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4. Enjoy and have some fun!

Humor Me

I'm a funny gal. I'm not bragging that I have mad comic skillz or anything, but uhm....I won Best Humor Blog twice in the Okie Blog Awards. I don't think they just give those out to the morose and humdrum. As a general rule, anyway. I've always been a bit of a cutup, a goofus and up until a few years ago when the avoidant personality took over, outgoing and willing to do just about anything for a laugh. Now, I tend to pour my humor into writing and save the oral shenanigans for those I love most, those nearest to me, my peeps if you will.

Oh my gosh, I just used the word "peeps" on my blog and I wasn't talking about baby chickens. Heaven help me.

Now, my husband is a funny guy, too, but he is, more often than not, just accidentally funny. He does not share my love of slapstick, sarcastic, off-the-wall stuff, stuff that is so weird and ridiculous you can't help but laugh. Or I can't help but laugh, anyway. When I was rolling on the couch (literally) the first time I watched Napoleon Dynamite he was sitting in the recliner looking at the TV then looking at me and shaking his head. We've watched it so many times now he'll chuckle in a few places, but I really think he's laughing at the kids and me more than the stuff on the screen. We rarely laugh at the same things. Where I was laughing so hard I snorted during Date Night he dozed off and my snorting woke him up. He did like The Hangover, but only because it was raunchy and had lots of cuss words. He does not like Saturday Night Live. I can bust into a loud rendition of Dana Carvey's "Choppin' Broccoli" and giggle at my own self, while he'll look at me blankly and say, "Why are you singing about broccoli? And who is this lady you bought broccoli for? What's broc-o-lay? Is that a kind of broccoli?" And at that point, depending on my mood, I will either bust out laughing at him or just leave the room in frustration to go sing about broccoli somewhere else.

But then there are times he does something like this: (excerpt from this post)

Mom got Paul some flannel pants for Christmas and these are the softest flannel pants I've ever felt in my life. He realllllly likes those pants. The second night he owned them, I was in the kitchen fixing a glass of tea when I heard him holler for me to "comere". Tea glass in hand, I walked around the corner and saw him standing just outside our foyer, with his hands on the banister, his legs about shoulder-width apart. He looked at me over his shoulder and in a thick Mexican accent said, "These are my recreation pants. Do you like them?" Then, just like Jack Black did in the movie, squeezed his buttcheeks and shot me a sexy look and I spit tea across my dining room. Then he took one hand off of the banister, put it on his hip then turned around and sauntered towards me while I was still choking on sweet tea and then he said, "Sometimes you wear stretchy pants.........just for fun."

And those moments are gold, people, pure comedy gold. Because it's so unlike him.
 
So, knowing our children share the same parents, it was a 50/50 gamble as to whether our kids would have a sense of humor or not.
 
If I've heard it once I heard it 43, 273 times: "Your mom". And by "Your mom" I mean, the age-old slam. The ones I remember growing up were like, "Your mom is so fat when she sits around the house she sits around the house" and "Your mom is so ugly she makes a mud fence in a rain storm look pretty" and the likes. Well, my children have taken this once-insult to the ridiculous. I can holler from the utility room, "Kids come get your laundry!" and I guarantee I will hear the reply from at least one of them, "Your mom's laundry." Abby is the worst, by far. I asked her if she wanted a slush at Sonic the other day. She said, "Your mom's a slush." When I ignored her and then asked what flavor she wanted she replied, "Your mom's a flavor."
 
Sigh.
 
The other day, I kid you not I heard that my mom was:
 
--a corn dog
--a front porch
--a flappy pappy
--a rotten French fry
--a stray dog
--a pothole
--a Walmart
--a hay bale
--a sofa
--a Vienna sausage
--a spider web
--a dish soap
--a tree frog
--Rice Krispy Treat
--boob sweat
 
and many, many more.
 
Okay, to be honest, the last two were from my friend, Stacie, who got in on the fun via text message and nearly made me wreck while driving down Main I was laughing so hard.
 
Yesterday we were in the van talking about car accidents and how each of the kids are getting pickups for their first vehicles because they can only fit one other person in the cab and not a whole slew of kids, thus avoiding the need for me to get a prescription for Xanax and possibly therapy every time one of my kids leaves the house. The two oldest groaned at the thought of only being able to haul one friend (and of course, I heard, "Your mom's a truck" from the backseat, too) and I said, "Well, I'm only trying to save your lives," and crossed my arms to signal the discussion was over. Then Kady, who posesses amazing butt-kissing abilities, said, "Well, Mom's right. Teenagers acting stupid and horsing around is the main cause of traffic accidents in America today."
 
Of course, when she said that I chuckled and said, "Thank you, Kady, with that report from the eight-year-old traffic safety commission." Without missing a beat she said, "And now .... back to you, Kristin."
 
I thought Paul was going to have to pull over to the side of the road he was laughing so hard. She's the one that is funny accidentally, like her daddy.
 
Sam's my slapstick hero. He's The Three Stooges all wrapped up into an episode of SNL and any movie starring Steve Martin. He can make faces, fall down, run into things and act goofy better than any kid I know. He never fails to make everyone around him crack up.
 
These past few weeks have been particularly hilarious around here. It seems like daily one or all three of them have spouted off with something particularly hilarious, like so funny the whole family cracks up simultaneously. I'm not sure if it's just my stress level causes me to laugh at things I don't ordinarily find funny, or if it's because the kids have just figured out how to say things at just the right time so they know they'll get a snort out of me. Either way, they are quickly becoming masters at the art of tickling my funny bone. And besides....
 
 
 
 
 
Your mom's a funny bone.