Totally cosmic Lamar crows and ducks with pride (and moxie, see)

Now, without further ado, I give you pictures of the Lamar Days Parade. Imagine Amos waving a flag and a donut as the parade festivities went by. (He wasn't, but I'll let you devour that precious American moment with some Freedom Fries.)




"Children with Pride". Is that really all it takes to have float in a parade? Pride and a tiny mariachi outfit? As long as they were throwing out candy, I think it satisfied the needs of the Lamar parade watchers.

The biggest duck to ever have been stuffed at the local taxidermy office. Notice the bullet hole near the neck. Apparently, this duck was shot by Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox.

First, I heard music. Some sort of bluesy, classic rock situation. Then, I saw this guy: the creepiest, giant crow man I've ever seen playing a guitar. It's a little difficult to see his huge, creepy beak, but believe me, it's there. Rock on, The Crow.

This fire truck amused me. Just look at it. It has the daintiest steering wheel, and the cutest little basket for holding the fire hose. I can just imagine men in giant firemen hats from the 1920s driving through town like bats out of hell and talking like they are in a James Cagney movie.

"Say, there, see! There's a fire up ahead, don't ya know? Steer this vehicle to the moon and back, brother! Whaddaya know, whaddaya know, see?"

Last, but certainly not least... drum roll, please...

THE COSMIC NERDS OF THE 21ST CENTURY!!

I only caught a picture of the nerds holding the Pierre Auger Cosmic Ray Observatory banner. Believe you me, there was a whole army of astrophysicists behind these people.







To the moon and back, cosmo-juggernauts! Whaddaya whaddaya know, see?!

They came from the bed

Luckily, the Porter Three survived their trip to Lamar. This, despite the attempts of motel owners to enlist creatures to suck blood out of our unsuspecting bodies.

What the heck am I talking about?

Bed bugs.

BED BUGS!!!

Yeah, you heard me. BED BUGS. Creepy, nasty, crawling creatures who live to suck the life out of weary travelers at strange and stinky motel rooms. The words of the racist/patriotic American-owned motel owners came back to haunt us when we pulled back the sheets to discover a most horrifying sight that would make even the most hardened "Dateline" investigator with a black light faint to his knees. That was the moment when I told Phil, "We are not staying here. I think that is a very obvious understatement."

Here are the things we discovered in just one hour's time at The Motel de Creepies:

• bed bugs
• possible blood on the mattress
• suspicious yellow stains on the walls, remarkably urine-like in color
  
• air conditioner held onto the wall with duct tape
• large mold colonies on the ice cube tray in the refrigerator
• room smelled like a trucker drank PineSol, then peed it onto the walls
  
• bed bugs lived there long enough to have an entire life cycle then DIE
  
• window barely opened and seemed to have never been opened, preventing us from escaping
  
• pretty sure something died there (other than bed bugs). Dead hooker? Are there hookers in Lamar?
  
• possible peephole above the bed - spying hole to see trucker-on-trucker love?
  
• same wallhanging as American-owned motel, which aptly depicts some sorts of ruins
• part of the roof threatened to pull off at any moment in the crazy winds outside

Needless to say, we got the hell out of Dodge, er, that motel.

For the next few hours, we drank coffee and scratched our skin to the state of bleeding at the local McDonald's. Even though we were not personally infested, just the thought of bed bugs made us want to take a cheese grater to our outsides.

As the winds of Lamar whipped around us and sent paper, plastic, hopes and dreams scattered to the far corners, we marveled at how no matter where we went, we could not escape the astrophysicists in that town. Again, they were EVERYWHERE. The only place they didn't show up was to the Elks Lodge that night for Phil's comedy show. I guess if Phil and Bryan Kellen had added more cosmic ray jokes to their sets, we would have been flooded with nerds.

So, I stated previously that you should never bring kids to a comedy show. I wrote that just hours before I broke my own rule. Let's change that rule to say:


Do not bring kids to a comedy show UNLESS a motel room you are staying in is infested with bed bugs and forces you to either spend the evening chatting up McDonald's employees or attend the Elks Lodge comedy night.


How's that for a caveat? Amos had a great time watching his Daddy perform. Every time I asked Amos, "Where's Dada?" he would point to the ceiling. I finally figured out that Amos was pointing at the speaker in the ceiling directly above our heads. He could hear his Daddy's voice booming over him, but we were in the back of the big hall and too far away to see Phil clearly. Amos, therefore, is a genius. Take heed, nerds.

We drove as fast as we could to get out of Lamar that night. Alas, I did not wake up Sunday morning in Lamar, as sad as I'm sure you know that made me. Instead, I spent Mother's Day in the comforts of my bug-free home, smelling freshly picked lilacs from my backyard obtained by my dear spouse. Phil was also kind enough to put together a gorgeous photo album of our lives with Amos since he was born. Phil, therefore, is a genius and deserves a good romp in the sack.


Next up: The Lamar Days Parade with pics! I will not disappoint my new cosmic friends from Brazil.

Little Britches pancakes taste good with cosmic PineSol

Saturday: Little Britches pancakes taste good with cosmic PineSol.


As it turns out, Lamar is one happening place this weekend. We are in the midst of Lamar Days, a weekend full of events, a parade, pancake breakfasts, community college graduation, ham and bean dinners, carnival rides, and best of all: the Little Britches Rodeo.

We awoke with a hopeful gleam in our eyes, for today held promise of the Lamar Days Parade! Phil tried to negotiate another night of lodging from the American-owned motel proprietors, as they had screwed up our reservation and given up our second night's room to another rodeo/pancake breakfast/carnival enthusiast. The owners tried to set us up in more expensive rooms, but we aren't supposed to pay for our lodging. That was part of the booking deal for coming to Lamar in the first place. Part of their pitch is that, again, they are American-owned and "the cleanest motel in town, not like those foreigners." Phil and I were both left with a bad taste in our mouths at this awkward display of racism and patriotism.

Phil took a shower and packed up our American-owned belongings while I scooted Amos in the stroller toward the Lamar Days Parade. I took a bunch of pics, but alas, my card reader is not here. You'll just have to play along and wait for visuals in tomorrow's installment. I'll save my assessment of small town America for that blog. Lucky you!

After the parade, we dined at the fabulous Daylight Donuts. As we fed Amos and stuffed our pieholes full of fried dough, I stopped to whisper to Phil, "Look! The nerds are here!"

Luckily, the night before I had read up on an incredible event going on in Lamar, aside from the rodeos and parades. A giant parade of a different kind has invaded Lamar. The astrophysicists are here! A giant nerdfest has descended upon this small town. The Pierre Auger Observatory is being built in southeastern Colorado to study cosmic rays. Scientists from around the world are here to stand up for nerd rights and to build fluorescence telescopes in an array covering 35 by 35 miles. They even marched in the parade. In between floats full of boy scouts and the rodeo queen on horseback, those nerds took to the street with their banner and their cosmic knowledge. It brought a tear to this former scientist's eye.


The thing is, everywhere we went there were nerds. Amongst the donut eaters: nerds. Complaining about their taco salads at Taco John's: nerds. Filling up yellow school buses: nerds. Everywhere! Imagine a town of cowboy hat-wearing farmers suddenly invaded by emaciated geeks with glasses, and you've got your visual. It's sort of like what happened in Close Encounters of the Third Kind, but not.

Not to brag, but at Taco John's we were sitting next to a bona fide star of the Little Britches Rodeo. We know so because of his hat, his boots and spurs, and his jacket which proclaimed "National Little Britches." Indeed, his pants were quite small.

So, eventually we discovered that new lodgings had been provided for us at another motel. As we were warned previously, this motel is definitely foreign-owned. We chuckled that at least we wouldn't be forced to listen to racist rhetoric about how filthy "the foreigners" are.

Hmm. Well...

Let's just say that this room has seen better days and that despite their callous regard for folks from foreign shores, the American-owned motel definitely rates as being cleaner. In a scene from a bad sitcom, first I complained that we were told that the TV was broken. "No TV?!" I said to Phil. "You're not the one who must stay indoors tonight. What if the nerds attack?" So, Phil asked for another room. In a stunning move, the motel owner instead decided to give us her personal television.

So kind!, you say. Well... Installation of said television took half an hour, three people, and a great deal of restraint on my part not to laugh out loud at their bumbling. The owner mistook us for being a few of the cosmic nerds, so I guess we were getting the star treatment. Even the handyman said that he had never seen the owner give that much personal service to a room before. The room, however, smells like we are inside a bottle of PineSol. This might be because there is a distinct possibility that there is a dead hooker between the mattresses. But, it's a free room, we're near the Quizno's, and we have someone else's television. Not bad.

Now, I just need to make sure that the locks work. You can't be too careful with the possibility of a clash between astrophysicists and Little Britches. Is there a telescope for studying those kinds of particles?

Steers and basil. Start computin'.

I don't even know where to start. Let me wipe the laughter-filled tears from my eyes...


So, yes. We are in Lamar, Colorado. Home of the Savages and a gas-station-turned-used-car-dealership full of petrified wood. This has shaped up to be one of the most bizarre weekend adventures we've ever taken. Let's recap the last 24 hours.



Friday: Steers and basil. Start computin'.

We arrived last night at our home away from home, the Holiday Hotel, just before Phil's show. As Phil checked us in, I watched two cowboys practicing their roping skills on a metal "steer" in the parking lot. They saw me watching, then the emboldened buckaroos began to put on quite a show. It's not often you get the chance to see bumbling rodeo antics at a motel. A most excellent start to the trip so far.

Amos and I stayed at the motel while Phil and Bryan Kellen put on their best show for the lackluster crowd full of adults and kids. It may surprise you, but having kids at a comedy show is not really the best idea a parent has ever had. It completely throws off the show, and the comedians must clean up their acts even more than they thought they needed to do. And, there's nothing like a toddler wandering up on stage to make the night go better. So, heed this advice: don't ever bring kids to a comedy show.

Meanwhile, I attempted to find the Internet service as advertised on the motel's sign (alongside the phrase "American-owned"). I asked the front desk about the high-speed connection. Response: "Well, you turn yer computer thing on and start computin'. That's how it works."

Yes, indeed.

Dinner last night was at Thai Spicy Basil, the last bastion of hope for an alternative dining experience from fast food. Apparently, we arrived at closing time. The last patrons left, and we remained as a couple with a baby being stared at threateningly by the staff who wanted to leave. I have never eaten that fast in my life. The food was disappointing and not nearly full of spice or basil as promised. I guess I can't expect fine dishes in the middle of nowhere. We finished our meal when the music was turned off by one menacing staff member, as if we had walked into a saloon and the jukebox came to a screeching halt. Thank you for the welcome, Lamar.

We capped off our night just as anyone visiting a small town should. We toured the Super Wal-Mart. Later, as the intense winds of the plains whipped and tore at our bags full of bargains, we said goodnight under the harsh lights of our American-owned motel.


Next up, stay tuned for: Wave your flag. Little Britches pancakes taste good with cosmic PineSol.

Shave and a haircut, two bits

The lovely Eve of Adamswife's Weblog made the hamster in my head start turning the wheel. She was discussing why women shave their legs. So I pondered, why do we?

I remember the first time I shaved. I was in the 5th grade, and my parents were out of town. I didn't have permission to shave, but I wasn't sure that I needed permission. It was my body, after all. I remember seeing my mother or sister's razor and hoping with all my might that I could soon become hair-free. It seemed to mean that, girl, doo doo doo, you'll be a woman... soon.

So, I shaved. Badly. My legs were nicked and cut and scraped and mangled. I was horrified. How could this possibly be sexy? What I didn't realize at the time was how to finesse the razor in certain directions, or that old razors with rusty parts are not meant for a delicate girl of 11 years. Eventually, I learned how to tame the razor. My legs certainly suffered during the trial period. And, we lived in San Antonio, so of course that meant that I attended school in shorts and had to show off my shower time battle scars. I'm sure the boys loooooved that.

Many years later, I ordered the Epilady thing that yanks hairs out without mercy. I was in high school, and I watched my legs bleed and cry out from the unending buzz buzzz buzzzzzz of the torturous Epilady. My mother came in to watch. I looked up at her in agony and said, "Mom, I think I need to be drunk to do this." Sadly, she did not offer any booze for my misery.

Now that I consider the question of why I scrape a sharp object against my body every time I shower, I realize that there are deep-seated reasons and some that are not so deep in the britches.

I believe, and it pains me to say this as my inner feminist cries out, that I shave to please my man. There. I said it. It's true. I shave so that I do not scare Phil away at night with barbed wire and sticky burrs. Who wants to be intimate when they must mangle their parts with a cattle fence? On top of that, if I didn't shave, I have images of our collective long leg hairs entwining and becoming irreparably entangled.

What a story to tell the grandchildren: let me tell you about the time your Grandpappy and me had to cut our legs apart. It took a pair of scissors, whiskey, and a hacksaw!

Another reason I shave is because I absolutely cannot stand the feeling of hard, pointy leg hairs against jeans. Ugh! You could be telling me the most fascinating story of all mankind, and I'll still be sitting there, cursing at my leg hairs and scratching them through my pants. Alas, it is just as my mother told me after that first incident in the 5th grade: "Well, that's fine that you've done it, but be prepared to do it for the rest of your life now that you've started." Indeed, Mom. Indeed.

It's much like that episode of "Seinfeld" when Jerry debated about shaving his chest. Kramer warned him that you can never go back, and the hair comes in at an alarming depth and quantity. Jerry didn't believe him, so Kramer popped open his shirt to show Jerry the evidence.

THE HORROR! THE AGONY! CRUEL, CRUEL FATES!

Perhaps one day I will join my braver sisters such as Julia Roberts. I will let my armpits go free and curly, scaring off little children and causing the paparazzi to vomit. I will let the hairs of my appendages grow and risk being banished from my own bed. I will put on a brave face whenever Amos' friends ask him, "Which one is your mother? The hairy one on the left or the one with the beard?"

Or not.

Alas, the rest of my body is following the way of my shaven parts. I find stray whiskers on my chin and upper lip. Sometimes, I consider plucking them out once again with that torturous device of yesteryear. But, as I sit here, I can hear its electrified call from its basement lair. Buzz buzzz buzzzzz. Like the telltale heart beneath the floorboards, the Epilady frightens me and pushes me toward the wet bar, where I can soak my facial whiskers in the warmth of a soothing brandy.

Wait. Isn't that how that story ended?

Burn, baby, burn

So, yes. I am not of sound mind. There, I said it. Why have I come to this conclusion?

I have a sunburn.

Not just any sunburn. No. Possibly the worst sunburn of all time, of all mankind. No person could possibly be more red, more in pain, and feel more sorry for themselves than me. Except for the people who tend to blister when they burn. Maybe except for those people.

Remember that long walk I took around the lake with Amos after running into the pedophile? Yeah. I had slathered up Amos with sunblock. Then, creepy loud pedophile guy was becoming loud again. That is when I was supposed to slather myself up as well, but I wanted to truck on out of there instead to get away from the creepy clutches of a guy who dresses like it's 1982 and still thinks that puppies make great child-catching lures.

So I burned like a rotisserie chicken.

Those of you who have had sunburns - and yes, I'm pointing at you and staring - may not have had the super-deluxe barn burner edition of sunburns that one receives in Denver. You sea-level creatures have it easy, while we citizens of the Mile High are exactly that: a mile high. A mile closer to the sun than sea level civilizations. And for that, we pay dearly with singed, smoked, seared, and pan-fried skin.

Also? Phil must die because he just slapped my arm after "forgetting" that I am maimed.

I sleep with my arms outside of the covers at night. I cringe and whine whenever clothing rubs against my skin. I am officially a walking bottle of Tylenol after taking so much of it. Go ahead. Chip at my face and lick it, and then tell me it doesn't taste like acetaminophen. You will fail.

Even Amos has learned about Mama's woes. He climbs all over me, then I yell, "Ow! Ouch! EEEEEEEEE!!!" Suddenly, Mama isn't so fun anymore. He stares at me with his big, bewildered eyes and shakes his head. Poor Amos.

Poor Amos? HA! Poor me.

Boohoo. Wah wah wah. Sniff.

Get your sex toy away from my child

Today's e-mail collection was full of the usual, until I stumbled upon an offer from my local, fancy baby shop for their latest gadget. Ooh. Ahh. Behold, as we are asked to spend $599 on something that will improve our lives SO much and cause us to be the envy of every materialistic parent on the block.

I present to you: The Vibe



"The Vibe By Phil & Teds



Introducing a new stroller with a a whole new aesthetic: sleek urban style. The Vibe!

New elliptical shape aluminum frame features a smart handle with one touch brake, smart fold, 5 point safety harness. Phil&Ted's inline buggies actually grow with your family. The unique double kit (sold separately) attaches to both front and back allowing 2 kids (from lie-flat newborn to upright 4 years) to ride inline in a buggy barely larger than a single.

The NEW VIBE Features include a wider seat for almost an inch more space and 2 pounds lighter than the sport buggy. The wheels feature a lower, wider profile for a smoother ride. Fully adjustable seat angles from upright to totally lie-flat newborn.

Our Price: $ 599"


Now. Um. Can you think of a more inappropriate name for a stroller? How about "The Stripper Pole" Stroller, or perhaps "The Ultraglide Vibe"? Maybe "The Rabbit"?

I read the ad very carefully, just waiting for the moment when they discuss the adjustable rates of vibration you can choose from. Alas...

Perhaps Phil & Ted were hoping to introduce a new way to deflect the conversation when Mommy discusses vibes with her catty friends. "Have you seen my new Vibe? It's so sleek, and it keeps going and going. I can even use it when I'm out in public." Maybe Phil & Ted are in some kind of conspiracy to continue the oversexualization of our children. Maybe Phil & Ted are idiots.

Aside: This is not MY Phil, just some other Phil who came up with a bad marketing campaign.

Perhaps Phil & Ted should sell The Vibe at this horribly named convenience store that we stumbled upon in the mountains of Colorado:

What is more shocking: the name, or the price of the gas? Look at how LOW it is! Egad.

There, there. There, there.

Sorry to have alarmed you all. (Or y'all, if I was still in Texas, but I'm not, so there.) All is well in Porterland. Amos' toe is less swollen and much less red, and I am not a twin to Sinead O'Connor. Phew!

It seems that many folks thought I might be going off the deep end in my blog yesterday. Fear not, patriots. I am well. I was trying to relay a moment-by-moment momentary freak out that I had, using a bit of melodrama to play the tune. I guess with recent events, it seemed like I was going batty. Not so. I really do appreciate the thoughts and kind words, though. Really, I do.

While Amos' toe incident (or syndrome, if you believe the documents) was a bit scary for a short time, I find it to be on the cool side. Why? Because I'm a big fan of freaky biology. If there's anything I remember from my ol' biology days and science experiments, it's the freaky stuff. Amos' toe definitely falls into the category of "freak things that happen to kids". I should start a Freak Things That Happen to Amos museum, starting with his flat head pictures and rounding out to The Day We Almost Choked Off The Boy's Toe With Human Hair. Get your tickets right here, sir!

So, before we all start fretting that Sarah is not of sound mind, let me just say that I'm okay. I went through one hell of a month (and more) of family drama and tragedy, and I came out on the other side. It has taken this long for me to start believing the words of family and friends that I was incredibly strong and level-headed through the whole thing. And you know what? I really was. So was my sister, so she deserves a thousand merits of your consideration. Some people failed; some people prevailed. That's how tragedies work.

I'm pretty sure that if I can handle an angry, irresponsible, completely-in-denial yet incredibly intelligent dying father, followed by his death and the horrific way that funeral homes rape families over costs, finished with not one but TWO funeral services 400 miles apart, and topped with a cherry of incredibly naive and irresponsible relatives (who shall remain unnamed) and heart-wrenching letters from my father's friends and coworkers...

I think I can handle a hair around Amos' toe.

So, let's get back to thinking about me as the silly lil' lady who likes to talk smack, tell it like it is, laugh at you and with you, drink wine, and fret that while it is odd that cousins and friends of my father are now reading my blog, it's okay. Maybe it's good that people see the real me. Eh?

Yeah.

Reasons to go bald

I am a bad mother. A very, very bad mother.

Today, we took Amos to the doctor for his checkup. He was especially fussy last night, so I was worried that he was teething and would be grumpy for the appointment. In fact, it took everything possible to try to get him to sleep last night. He cried, he kicked, he screamed, and he yelled, "Mama! Mama!" Finally, sounds from the hairdryer helped him to fall asleep around 2am.

And then we went to the doctor today.

After undressing him to weigh him at the doctor's, I started inspecting him. I suspect that I inspected him so that there weren't any boogers or stray bits of food on him that would tell the doctor, "Hey, these people don't wash their kid." No one wants to have a dirty baby at the doctor's office, right?

And then I saw it.

His toe. The toe next to the big toe on his right foot.

OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD!!!!

It was swollen. Horribly swollen. Something was choking it. I looked closer, and found that a hair or string was tightly wound around his toe, so much so that the circulation was being cut off.

Folks, it was one of the hairs from my head. MY HAIR. And I couldn't pull it off. I tried, and Amos yelped in pain.

OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD!!!!

Phil and I fretted over the toe. How did my hair get there?! He's going to lose his toe!! ARGH!!

I found the nurse and asked for tweezers, giving a feeble reason. "Um. There's a hair wrapped around his toe, and we REALLY need to get it off. I think it's my hair."

"How do you know it's your hair?"

"I JUST DO."

She brought the tweezers, then immediately decided that the doctor should do it instead because the hair was cutting into the skin on the underside of his tootsie. ARGH!!! So, the doctor came in and tweezed the hair off of his toe. Amos was calm and collected as he watched in fascination. I felt like I was about to faint. I kept saying, "Ugh. I feel so bad. That's MY hair."

The hair was wrapped many times very tightly around his poor, little toe. We all looked at it in amazement. How the HECK did that happen?!

So, now he is home and seemingly okay. He fusses a little. The toe is not much improved in the way of being swollen, so now I think I may need to take him into the hospital or back to the doctor to have it lanced. UGH!!

Thankfully, this freak accident isn't just my problem. There are many mothers who have experienced this. I've never heard of it, but it happens a lot. Crazy! Here is the scientific view of this occurrence, known as hair/thread tourniquet syndrome.

So, I think this is a great reason to shave my head. The last thing I ever wanted to do was use my hair as a weapon against my child. Good grief. I need a break here, man. I'm really done with all of the family medical issues.

Like I said, I need a haircut. Should I take it all off? Heh.

Big wheels keep on turnin'

Just when I thought I wouldn't have anything to say today...

Last night, as I was watching the final moments of one episode of the incredible "John Adams" series on HBO, my doppleganger Laura Linney was about to read a dramatic letter from her dear husband when...

Psssshhhh! Bleah! Bleah! Pssssshhhh!

The lights went out and the TV made crazy noises as it sputtered to its death. Amos and I stared in wonder into the darkness. It was around 10:30pm, and our house was scary black. I wandered to the front door and realized, hmm, I can't open the door. The key is somewhere around here, but I can't find it in the dark. Just as I made it back to the couch by feel with baby in tow, the TV and lights came on full speed.

Psssshhhh! Bleah! Bleah! Pssssshhhh!

Amos was entranced, scared, or delighted. Whatever it was, he was just staring at the loud and frightening noises coming from the TV. I cursed and shook my fists when I realized that the credits were now rolling. What did Sarah-lookalike Laura Linney find in the letter?! What did creepy Paul "John Adams" Giamatti say to her that was so earth shattering?!

WHY DID MY POWER GO OFF?!!!

I put no other thoughts toward the disaster as the next episode began to air. Yippee! Ah, but wait... this episode does not explain what the letter was about. For cryin' out loud! TELL ME WHAT WAS IN THE LETTER!!!

Then Phil came home. We watched the final moments of the fourth installment of "John Adams" and giggled over how much Laura Linney looks like me (although much older, as Phil is loving enough to point out).

(I'm telling ya, if you ever wondered what I would look like as a spitfire New Englander who married Paul Giamatti and then exposed her kids to a questionable round of small pox "vaccinations", then look no further than the "John Adams" series. I'm in it, folks. I smile, I frown, I dig hoes in the garden, I frown some more, and then I stare at Boston as it burns. Oh, then I dress up like a French tart and flounce about Paris for awhile. Good times, I tells ya.)

Anyhoo...

We were starting to wind down the night when...


Psssshhhh! Bleah! Bleah! Pssssshhhh!


Good grief. Really? Again?

Phil and I waited. Nothing came back on. I stumbled through the dark to find flashlights and candles. We have a surprising number of candles, as it turns out. Our house was like a dark and romantic restaurant in the Village. But not.

I lured Phil outside to see what had happened. He said, "Oh, yeah. I forgot to mention. When I came home, there were flashing lights and a jacked up rig and trailer at the intersection."

Yeah, you forgot to tell me that.

We wandered to the intersection near our house. Our house is in a very old neighborhood with narrow streets, Victorian and bungalow homes, dog walkers, and for some reason, no room for a rig and trailer to maneuver. Call us crazy, but for some wacky reason, we folks in this residential 'hood don't see a need for tractor trailers to drive through and take out street lights, light poles, and old ladies.

And that's what happened.

A tractor trailer had driven through our neighborhood and turned onto a narrow street. The driver decided to continue on, despite the fact that his trailer had pulled down a light pole and the street lights. Hey, that makes sense, right? If you destroy the grid, just keep drivin'. You know what I'm sayin'? A haw haw haw!

Then, and get this...

He makes it to the intersection near our house. Just as other cars are driving through, the genius decides to pull his trailer around ANOTHER corner and take out MORE traffic lights, light poles, and electric boxes.

Oh, and some of it landed on a lady's car and smashed it to bits.

Bravo. No, really. That takes big, giant trucker balls to pull off a stunt that involves two intersections, three blocks from each other.

We stood near the intersection with mouths agape as various other neighbors gathered to admire the trucker's handiwork. We watched as the police and bystanders attempted to guide the trucker around the corner without further damage or carnage. I was having flashbacks to Cannonball Run, except this time, the trucker wasn't dressed like a nun.

In the end, the trucker managed to crush one car, snap three power line poles, sling traffic lights around like a yoyo in two intersections, smack down street lights, and knock out power to about 100 to 200 households (or 5,000, if you'd like this story to be more dramatic).

The good news?

The power is back on, and I won't miss tomorrow night's installment of "John Adams."

MUST. SEE.

You need a bun to bite Benny Lava

I. can't. breathe.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!

Whew. Okay.

I ganked this from The Gerli Life. It is possibly the funniest thing I've ever seen. Maybe. But pretty darn close. I'm pretty sure I wet myself when I watched it, so empty your bladder NOW.

I see the nuns are gay. Some day I sell DNA!

Ride the mechanical bull, get chafed

You will NOT believe what I considered doing this week. Go ahead. Guess. Nope, that's not it. Nope. Not that either. What? Uh uh. Not even close.


I thought about auditioning for "Nashville Star."


HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! Woo! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!


I know, I know. What the heck was I thinking?! Is this a midlife crisis?

Do you know what really clouded my judgment?

Tequila.

Tequila is a bad, bad man who lures me into the alley with lollipops and then opens his trenchcoat. He promises me country stardom when I don't even really like country music. And then he shows me the thing he really wanted to show me. Tequila should be hanged.

I was trying to justify the audition bug in me by thinking that I enjoy Americana, folk music, and such, and perhaps I could be the next Gillian Welch or Alison Krauss. Maybe a less twangy Lucinda Williams. I even went so far as to look at the list of approved songs, then download the ones I thought I could sing.

I stayed up until REALLY LATE learning a few songs. Then the tequila wore off, and I realized, "Wuh?! What the heck am I doing?!"

I'm not saying I'm a bad singer. I'm kinda okay but maybe good or not, if I could be so vague. I enjoy singing. I just haven't been workin' the ol' pipes much lately. Also, I'm a 34-year-old new mother with a lot of baggage. Is Nashville looking for Carrie Underwood with a lot of baby weight to lose? I don't think so. (Although Phil says, "Have you SEEN Wynona Judd?!")

It's a nice dream, but I don't think it's my time to croon sad songs about pickup trucks, honky tonks, and pig farms. I think I'd rather be Aretha Franklin's backup singer, just so that I could belt out, "Whoop! Whoop! Whoop! Sock it to me, sock it to me, sock it to me..."

Anyone have 'Retha's number?

Weekend at Bernie's Check Cashing Caper

Some days, the Internet gods smile upon me and offer up a gem of a story.



Weekend at Bernie's Check Cashing Caper



If Hollywood doesn't write the script (with the writers' strike and such), then I definitely will. Has anyone contacted the Darwin Awards?