(Okay, I know I told y’all last week that I was resuming guest bloggers every Wednesday LAST week, and I am…just not this week. My fault–got my schedule mixed up and whatnot. Anyhoo, this was originally published in 2008, so probably only a few of you will remember it anyway. To say my taste in books is eclectic would be a bit of an understatement. I recently finished reading Under the Dome by Stephen King and am currently reading Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy. Don’t be too impressed, I also read stuff like this):
When I say, “It’s Book Review Wednesday!”, what I mean to say is that I am reviewing a book, and it happens to be Wednesday. As a very profound person once said, “The creative spirit cannot be enslaved by the oppressive chains of reason and logical thinking.” (Who said that? Oh, yeah…it was me.) And by “review”, what I mean to say is that I highly recommend this book, because it’s flippin’ hilarious. (End of review.)
I will now share with you a brief passage which I hope that you will appreciate as much as I have. More so now than when I first read the book, considering that I have recently had some of the very same thoughts and conversations that Ms. Rivenbark writes about.
The princess had just graduated to a size 7 when everything went to sh*t. We headed for our favorite department store, ready to take that leap into the new world of 7-16. Bye-bye, 4-6X, I thought to myself with a tug of sadness. My baby was growing up.
And apparently into a prostitute.
“Where are the sevens?” I asked the sixty-something clerk who wore here glasses on a chain just like me.
“You’re standing in ’em,” she said.
Oh, no, I thought, looking around. Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no. “There must be some mistake,” I said. “These are, well, slutty-looking. I’m talking about clothes for a little girl in the first grade.”
“That’s all we got.”
“But these look like things a hooker would wear!”
She smiled sadly. “You have no idea how many times I hear that every day.”
Okay, breathe. This is just some weird marketing experiment. Right?
I went to my second-favorite department store and was invited to peruse the awfulness that is Tweenland! A better name would have been Lil Skanks!
Sequins, fringe, neon glitter tank tops with big red lips on them, fishnet sleeves, scary dragon faces lunging from off-the-shoulder T-shirts. Whither the adorable seersucker? The pastel floral short sets? The soft cotton dresses in little-girl colors like lavender, pale pink, periwinkle blue? This stuff practically screamed SYRINGE SOLD SEPARATELY!
I get it. Now that my kid is practically of childbearing age (is six the new seventeen?) I must choose from ripped-on-purpose jeans and T-shirts that scream things like BABY DOLL and JAIL BAIT, not to mention a rather angry GIRLS RULE AND BOYS DROOL! where an embroidered flower with buzzing bee should be.
When did this happen? Who decided that my six-year-old should dress like a Vegas show girl? And one with an abundance of anger issues at that?
And why are parents buying this junk fashioned from cheesy fabrics that surely leave your dryer’s lint filter full of glitter and fuzzy sequined balls?
I hope you won’t take this the wrong way–you, the mom on the cell phone flipping your check card to your kid so she can buy the jeans that say SPANK ME on them –buy you’re going down, b*tch.
No, really. I’m taking you out, putting you on notice, slapping some sense into your sorry ass.
The call came in early September. My sister has been involved with the Gulf Coast oil spill clean up for the past several months. One of the command centers happens to be in Gulf Shores, Alabama. The big, evil oil company she works for rented a condo on the beach through the end of the year, and as fate would have it, no one was using it over the Thanksgiving holiday. When she called and invited my family to spend an extended weekend at the beach, I gladly accepted. Me and the beach go way back. It’s my favorite place in the world.
In my excitement, there was one thing I failed to consider–whether the luxury high-rise condos allowed pets. They did not. All of our vacations since we got Buddy Love have been to visit family, so we’ve always taken him along. We were very leery about boarding him because he suffers from stress-induced seizures, and being in a strange place without his people would most certainly qualify as a stressful situation. With only a week before our scheduled departure, we were faced with 3 options:
Spend Thanksgiving at home and decline the invitation from my sister
Have my husband stay home with the dog and take the kids to Gulf Shores
Find a place in Gulf Shores which allowed pets
Boarding Buddy wasn’t ever a serious consideration, and options 1 and 2 were not exactly appealing either. God bless Google! I was able to find a cottage rental about 12 miles from where my mom and sisters were staying, and since the condo was already paid for, we weren’t sticking my sister with an extra bill for lodging.
It truly was the best of both worlds. I was able to spend Thanksgiving with my mom, sisters and my family at their kind of place: A beautiful, new high-rise condo right on the beautiful beaches of downtown Gulf Shores:
And a quiet, secluded little cottage on the bay. Away from the fancy stores, hotels and restuarants:
Both offered spectacular views:
Even though I rather preferred the view from our screened in porch to the 11th floor of the high-rise:
Although I’ve lived in the 4th largest city in the U.S. for most of my life (and maybe in some ways because of this), I prefer cozy to convenience, rustic to modern, and preserved to pristine. At the end of the day, I suppose what’s important is not where we stayed, but with whom we spent time with. Thanksgiving is a time to spend with family and friends. To fellowship with those we love and more importantly, the One who loves us.
And there’s not a place on this earth where I feel His presence more than when I sink my feet in where sand meets saltwater and gaze upon the vastness of the sea.
Is there a place you feel closer to God than anywhere else?
You could call Jimmy Henderson a lot of things—and many people have—but everyone agrees that above all, he is prepared. And in his mind we all should be, given the evil that lurks about.
Jimmy keeps an eye on all that malevolence. Drive by his house, and you’ll see no less than four newspaper boxes. His magazine interests range from the far left of the political arena to the far right, including such publications as Field and Stream and Backwoods Living. “Just in case,” he says. “Because you know they’re coming eventually. They’re coming for us all.”
In Jimmy’s case, They is the government (or some secret shadow puppet government, I can’t really remember which). He weathered the Carter administration well enough and barely got through eight years of Clinton, but Jimmy thinks he’s met his match with the current resident of the White House. He’s seen the documentaries and read the books, and he’s genuinely scared. So much so that Jimmy’s starting to worry that his Tea Party membership and flying one of those “Don’t Tread on Me” flags in front of his house just won’t be enough to stem the tide.
And he’s not alone. Lots of people are scared now. Bad times breed bad thoughts, and sometimes we see monsters where only shadows lie. For every person like Jimmy who’s convinced President Obama is about to bring down the country, there is another who thought the same about President Bush. There is an inherent distaste for government in most people. It isn’t easy for us to trust those in power, and I think there’s good cause for that. I also think the reason why our country has been so important for so long is because that inherent distrust was shared by the very men who created it.
But to be in power doesn’t necessarily mean to be in charge, and I think that’s where Jimmy’s confused. And I think his fear was born from a sense of powerlessness that can creep up on everyone when we begin to feel as though the world is crashing down. What frightens Jimmy more than black helicopters and government conspiracies is the simple fact that he thinks his voice doesn’t matter anymore. It’s being drowned in the deluge of spin and the shouting in the public square between parties.
It isn’t very often that I delve into the political in the things I write. It’s a subject that’s too touchy, and rarely is there anything of worth that can come of it. But I’ll make an exception in Jimmy’s case, if only because it’s something applicable to anyone, whether liberal or conservative or independent.
It is this:
In this country we have neither king nor queen, merely representatives of our own wills who must abide by the very laws we adhere to. Their jobs are just as dependent upon us as our jobs are upon their policies and committees.
If there is a tide that must be stemmed, it cannot be done through fear and anger or accusations and snipe. It is instead done in the privacy of the voting booth and in the sacredness of our homes. It is done in the raising of our children and the desire to end each day as better people than we were at the start of it.
Because what is true for Jimmy is true for me and for you—in the end, the future of our country doesn’t depend upon what goes on in the White House, but what goes on in our houses.
To read more from Billy Coffey, visit him at at his website and follow him on the twitter at @billycoffey.
Happy day after Thanksgiving everyone! I’m enjoying a very relaxing extended weekend at one of my favorite places in the world: the beach. It matters not which beach, as long as I can sink my feet in where earth meets water, I’m happy. On this particular occassion, I find myself in Gulf Shores, Alabama. It is beautiful and relaxing and wonderful. It’s also a 9 hour drive from my house.
Despite the DVD player, gameboys, iPods and books, nine hours is a long time for four people and a dog to spend in a car together without some interesting bits of conversations arising. The following are just a few snippets from said conversation on Wednesday:
“I have to go to the bathroom.” (Baytown, TX)
“I have to go to the bathroom.” (Beaumont, TX)
“I have to go to the bathroom.” (Orange, TX)
“You just went to the bathroom.”
“I couldn’t go last time.”
“I hope he’s not getting a bladder infection.”
“OH MY GOSH! I’m fine. How embarrassing…”
“Are we in Louisiana yet?”
“We’ll be in Louisiana in about 10 miles.”
“Are we in Louisiana yet?”
“In about 8 miles.”
“We’re in Louisiana.”
“How long until we get to Mississippi?”
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
“You’ll have to wait awhile. There’s no place to stop.”
“Were you able to pee the last time we stopped?”
“OH MY GOSH! Yes, Mom! How embarrassing.”
“Okay. Just checking. I wish you and your sister would coordinate your bathroom breaks a little better.”
“We’re in Mississippi.”
“Why is it called Mississippi?”
“I’m not sure. You should Google that on the computer.”
“What’s the state bird of Mississippi?”
“What’s the state tree of Mississippi?”
“Don’t know anything about Mississippi. Google it.”
“How long until we get to Alabama?”
“When we get there. And we’re playing the quiet game until we do.”
“What are we doing for dinner?”
“We’re going to Bea’s condo. She’s making dinner, but we’re going to drop off our stuff at the cottage we’re staying at first.”
Hey y’all! After a break from my regular Wednesday guest posts, I’m bringing them back starting today.
Today’s guest blogger is Kely Braswell, aka @kelybreez. Kely is a husband, father of 6, church planter, writer, reader, runner and sports enthusiast. He lives in Eastern Tennessee, but is originally from Texas. While his blog Dangerous Breeze is relatively new to the blogosphere, don’t let that fool you. He’s an experienced writer who knows how to tell a story. I suspect you’ll be hearing much more from him in the future.
In the following short story, there is mention of a ferret in a dishwasher. To read the rest of that story, be sure to visit Kely’s blog today.
image courtesy of photobucket.com
I was sitting in the living room chair, the one with flowers all over it in a hundred and twenty colors, except the whole thing had a distinct tan hue to it – from me sitting in it every day when I got home from running, no doubt, just like right now.
“Truman Able, I told you a thousand times not to sit in that chair after you run. You’re drippin’ sweat and you’re ruinin’ my chair!”
I got up and laid on the floor, which I hated to do, because the carpet left three inch green fuzzes all over me. Plus, it smelled like carpet that had been around for twenty-five years, which is exactly how long it had been around. Which is why it smelled that way.
The back door popped open, and there stood my brother Trainy. Two and a half years younger and six and a half inches taller than me, a baby possum on top of his head, and another standing up on his shoulder, getting a grip on the hair at the side of Trainy’s head, what was left of it. Trainy loved that about those possums. You could put them on your foot, and they would slowly scratch and claw the full reach of your body until they were resting contentedly on top of your head.
“How’re the possums, Tra?” He looked at me. He didn’t talk much, ever. But even less now.
“Trainy, don’t call your brother Stupid.” Mama said, that resigned sound in her voice, knowing another remark was coming, more than likely.
“Okay,” Trainy smirked. He looked back at me as he walked past. The possum on his shoulder got two fistfuls of hair and began ascending to join his sibling perched on top.
Mama rolled her eyes and sighed. It wasn’t fair that she had to raise two smart alecks and an accidental menagerie at the same time. Nothing was fair. “What am I gonna feed those stupid possums you found, Trainy? Why do you always bring home more animals?”
“Don’t call them stupid, Mama,” he said as he disappeared into his room.
Mama looked at me and sighed, yet again.
The next morning I went running again. I went running every morning.
It was cool, but I was still sweating buckets when I walked in the back door, shirtless, one embarrassingly short pair of vee-notched running shorts the only thing between me and indecent exposure. I was training for the State Track Meet.
But I wasn’t training in CPR for possums.
All I heard when I came in the back door was the saddest tone in my mama’s voice as she plaintively wailed out, “Oh, Tru!” The light was on in the hall bathroom; that’s where her voice came from.
I began to see the tragedy as I turned the corner. Mama’s back was to me. One baby possum was backed up in the corner between the wall and the bathroom, hissing at me.
“Truman, did you forget to put the lid down?”
“I don’t know, Mama, I was asleep when I left this mornin’. It’s dark this time of year.”
“Truman, you’ve drownded him, sure as thunder in April! Look at ‘im, so pitiful in there.” The sadness in Mama’s voice kind of rattled me.
In the commode was a small, gray body floating face down in the water, its little limbs splayed out flat on the surface of the water, its tail lying in a curve up the side of the bowl. His long snout was submerged.
I felt terrible. What was Trainy going to do when he found out I had killed one of his new possums? He’d only had them a few days.
“Move over, Mama, you’re standing there like a goldurn mule in front of the first row. I gotta get ‘im outta there.”
I reached in and put my hand around the little body. I was shocked at how firm his little belly felt. He must have swallowed a lot of water as he kicked and swam and fought to scramble up the slick sides of that bowl.
I knelt down there, and I laid him on his side in the bathroom floor, between my knees, and I said, “Mama, now you pray, just like you did the time you realized you’d washed the ferret in the dishwasher.”
“My prayers didn’t work that time, Tru. I don’t think they work for anything.” But we didn’t have time for theological oppressions right then.
“I know, Mama, but pray anyway. We got another animal casualty on our hands, and with Trainy slippin’ away a little more each day, I don’t want him to have to face this grief.”
Mama prayed and I turned the miniature marsupial on his side. I began to stroke, massaging from the bottom up, along his belly and chest, in a repeated, rhythmic motion designed (hopefully) to accomplish something. I picked him up by the tail and shook. I laid him back down and started chest compressions again.
We waited, and Mama looked heavenward.
And the little thing moved, almost imperceptibly. A whole bunch of water came flowing out his nostrils, and a little possum cough escaped his throat. I kept up the lifesaving massage for a few seconds more, while he regained the use of his legs. He turned his head and looked at me, I swear he did, and then he sluggishly walked over to my foot and began to climb, using the hair on my leg, until he reached the top of my head.
Mama laughed and laughed, and big tears streamed down her face, way more than were absolutely necessary for the salvation of a possum. “Oh, let’s don’t tell Trainy anything about this, okay? Ya hear me, Tru? Not a word. He don’t need this.”
Trainy sure loved his animals.
Those two possums entered the lore of our family. We still tell the story of the day I performed Possum CPR and saved Boaz’ life. They were with us, Boaz and Jachin – Trainy named them as a joke one night when we were reading in the Kings out loud together. We kept them for several months.
But we couldn’t keep Trainy. He quietly slipped away from us in the middle of the night. Like I said, he was always quiet. We didn’t know he was gone till I got back from running that morning and turned on the light in our room to wake him up for school. And there he was, just lying there in his bed, looking for all the world like he was asleep, a possum under each arm.
I finally just took those possums one late afternoon and set them on top of his headstone. I figured, with as much time as they had spent on top of his head when they were babies, it was an appropriate place.
I watched as they skittered around on top for a minute, sniffing. Finally each fell off onto the ground, and unceremoniously disappeared into the woods at the edge of the cemetery.
The following post contains a class project my daughter wrote 2 years ago. I’ve posted it here before, but since this is Thanksgiving week, I thought it might be a good time to revisit it, as it helps me remember how grateful I am for my kids. Even if they’re a little weird…
As a parent, I secretly delight when I see my children take interest in or excel at something that I’m into. Just as I cringe when I see a less desirable trait that I share rear its ugly head. But in all honesty, as long as they are true to who they are, I’m good with it. But sometimes my kids surprise me and make me wonder how much (whether through nurture or nature), I have influenced the way their minds work. Such was the case at my daughter’s 2rd grade class open house.
When I walked into my daughter’s classroom, her teacher greeted my husband and me, then immediately asked if we had seen her turkey. Typically, kids this age and younger make a paper turkey, and on each feather write something they are thankful for. On this particular turkey, their instructions were to imagine the turkey could talk and write some of the things that he or she would say. Many of the kids had things like, “Gobble, gobble” and “Happy Thanksgiving”, or even “My name is Tom”. Imagine my surprise when I read the following on my daughter’s turkey:
Please do not eat me because I am pregnant.
Please do not eat me because I am krazy!
Please do not eat me because I am too big for your oven.
Please do not eat me because I will explode in your oven and cover it with blood.
Please do not eat me because I have diarrhea.
Perhaps the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree after all…
As a teacher, my wife has corralled fourth-graders, mentored high schoolers, and endured the rants of countless bemused parents. As a mother, she has changed dirty diapers, cleaned vomit off the couch, and has no reservations about sticking her hands into the goop that collects in the sink strainer after the dishes are washed. She is a courageous soul, yes. There are none braver. I honestly believe this.
But she has not ventured near the mailbox for about a week now. She’s scared, she says. Because lurking there far in the back corner is a spider has taken shelter from the cold November air.
My wife does not like spiders. Not just the tarantulas or the black widows, either. She’s afraid of the teeny ones, the daddy longlegs, and those little furry black ones that like to hop, too. They are evil, she says, though she lacks the evidence to back that up. On those infrequent occasions when my wife has nightmares, spiders are often the primary antagonist. They’re in her hair or her food, and once they were even in our bed (it’s never a good thing to be awakened at three in the morning by a temporarily insane spouse exclaiming, “They’re going to eat us!!”).
Taking care of the spider was my job, which was done easily enough with the rolled up edge of the day’s Wal-Mart advertisement. It didn’t seem like a victory, not even a small one, but as I flicked spider guts onto the grass my imagination kicked in and I began to ponder.
What if I wouldn’t have been there?
Various scenarios were played out in my head. My wife would have never again checked the mailbox. Days upon days of junk mail and catalogs and bills would have piled up. Especially bills. Bills that would go unpaid, which would eventually lead to the electricity being turned off and then the gas, and then the water. Foreclosure would soon come. My wife and children would have lost everything, abandoned to a life of homelessness and destitution. All because I wasn’t around to kill the spider in the mailbox.
Okay, so maybe not. Maybe my wife would have ended up asking a neighbor to kill the spider or she would have just paid the bills online. But still, my responsibilities around the house to ensure domestic tranquility seemed at that moment pretty amazing.
I keep the yard and the vehicles up. I do the painting and hammering and sawing. I fix what is broken (and occasionally break what is fixed). I unstop the toilet. I kill the snakes and scare off the bears. I shovel the driveway and seed the grass and take the trash out.
When my kids go to bed at night, it’s me they wanted to make sure is in the next room. Not their mother, as important as she is. Their father. Because in the eyes of children, every father is a freaky combination of Old West gunslinger and Jedi knight—big and strong, wise and unflappable. At least, that’s the way it should be.
Men have a tough go at it nowadays. We’re not really allowed to be the people our father’s were, strong and stoic and tough. People in these modern times expect men to be in touch with their feelings, to be softer and not harder. Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe. I don’t know.
But I do know this: in the corner of the dining room, right by the backdoor, another spider has taken up residence. I saw it this evening. And I’m pretty sure it saw me, too. I doubt that spiders hold men in high regard. After all, we’re the only people keeping them from overtaking the world.
To read more from Billy Coffey, visit him at at his website and follow him on the twitter at @billycoffey.
If you’ve never read Philemon, you should. Go get your bible and read it. I’ll wait right here………………Pretty good stuff, huh? Wedged between bible heavyweights Titus and Hebrews, Philemon is a short letter from the Apostle Paul that packs a punch. Now, Philemon is a friend of Paul’s, a model Christian, an active worker for Christ, and a slave owner. While imprisoned, Paul meets Philemon’s runaway slave, Onesimus. Onesimus has apparently stolen something from his master and has fled to Rome. Under Roman law, Philemon had every right to put Onesimus to death.
Paul writes this letter to his friend to convince him not only to forgive this runaway slave, but to welcome him home as a brother in Christ. There are a whole lotta lessons in this short letter, but to keep me on task, I’m going to focus on one train of thought.
“Therefore, although in Christ I could be bold and order you to do what you ought to do, yet I appeal to you on the basis of love. I then, as Paul — an old man and now also a prisoner of Christ Jesus — I appeal to you for my son Onesimus, who became my son while I was in chains. Formerly he was useless to you, but now he has become useful both to you and me.” (2:8-11)
Because Paul was an elder and an apostle, he could have commanded that Philemon welcome Onesimus home with open arms. But instead, he chooses to appeal to his friend’s Christian commitment. He wanted him to want to take Onesimus back, not as a slave, but as an equal in the Body of Christ. I don’t know about you, but when someone tells me I have to do something, my mind goes into overdrive coming up with all the reasons why I don’t have to. When you counsel a friend about overcoming sinful behavior, do you blast them with bible verses, or do you appeal to what you see as their strengths? Do you give them some wiggle room and trust that the Holy Spirit will have a say in the matter? I hope we all do that.
“I am sending him — who is my very heart — back to you. I would have liked to keep him with me so that he could take your place in helping me while I am in chains for the gospel. But I did not want to do anything without your consent, so that any favor you do will be spontaneous and not forced. Perhaps the reason he was separated from you for a little while was that you might have him back for good — no longer a slave, but better than a slave, as a dear brother. He is very dear to me but even dearer to you, both as a man and as a brother in the Lord.” (2:12-16)
Paul is saying, “This is a great guy, I’d love for him to stay with me, but because I love you both, I’m sending him back so that you can be blessed by what he has become. You haven’t lost a slave, you’ve gained a loyal friend and a brother in Christ. But hey, the ball’s in your court.” Again — ample wiggle room.
“So, if you consider me a partner, welcome him as you would welcome me. If he has done you any wrong or owes you anything, charge it to me. I, Paul, am writing this with my own hand. I will pay it back — not to mention that you owe me your very self. I do wish, brother, that I may have some benefit from you in the Lord; refresh my heart in Christ. Confident of your obedience, I write to you, knowing that you will do even more than I ask.” (2:17-21)
When you know someone that’s new to the faith, do you personally invest in their lives? Do you “cover their bets”, so to speak? Or do you give them a big hug, welcome to the family and say, “Good luck with all of THAT!”? You wouldn’t teach your child to swim one day and then let them go to the pool by themselves the next. You hang out in the shallow end, cheer them on as they tread water, and make sure you’re there in case they get into trouble. Which, by the way, they usually do. Trust that people will do the right thing, but don’t be offended or surprised when they don’t. Forgive them as Christ forgives you, help them up and get them back on track.
There’s a whole bunch of good stuff in this little letter; many rabbit trails I could go down, but for now, It’s enough for me to reflect on just a few of them. We never learn how the homecoming turns out, but I imagine a really cool reunion, where we see Onesimus walking toward Philemon (whose hoping that Onesimus will find his way back, but doesn’t know for sure). Philemon looks up from what he’s doing, recognizes Onesimus from a distance, stands up, starts walking toward his old slave and new friend. The camera zooms out for a wide shot, then fades to black….think last scene in The Shawshank Redemption.
You know, I’ve said some pretty outrageous things on the twitter. Okay, I’ve said some pretty outrageous things period. I’ve had to eat some crow and make some humbling apologies because I said or wrote something without thinking. Believe it not, it is never my goal to intentionally insult or hurt anyone, so when I read a tweet earlier this week that made a flippant, derogatory statement about an entire denomination, it irked me. Big time. That’s what my tweet, “I love the twitter, but sometimes I read people’s tweets and think, “Why would you tweet something like that? You can’t take it back”, was all about. And no, I’m not going to tell you who tweeted it. Like I said, that’s not how I roll. But I guess I’m not the only one who feels the same way, because that statement was RTed quite a bit. (Stepping off my twitter soapbox.)
Looking back on the week, I guess I was a grumpy ho more times than not. But I’m feeling much better now…
The best of me (or not) on the twitter this week:
@kelybreez That’s the crappiest house they have here. You made the katdishionary, btw. (in reply to @kelybreez @katdish You’re getting warmer!)
@kelybreez You mean like this? http://yfrog.com/e4tlcjj
(in reply to kelybreez @katdish That’s cool! But in reality his house was older, smaller, and on the edge of delapidation!)
Hey, @kelybreez this makes me think of PawPaw’s house http://yfrog.com/jw55776533j
Our summer place http://yfrog.com/nffx5aj
Hey look! http://yfrog.com/eh7ckjj
Okay, lovely people. Off to the George Ranch. Have a great day!
@SarahBostAskins Or letting the it free from the valise (in reply to SarahBostAskins @katdish I love spam comments that are so poorly written or just plain funny sometimes but I guess I am letting the cat out of the bag here
I have no idea what that means, but I found it highly amusing.
“I would like to comprehensible you for some of my website that can let the cat free from the valise.” ~ spam comment
@TheMikeEllis Seriously…I crack me up.
@TheMikeEllis My tweets seem much more amusing when you tweet them. (in reply to TheMikeEllis My entire neighborhood is having a garage sale. I’m in second hand crap hell. @katdish)
@ExpeditionNovel I wonder if tweets might apply. I know that @badbanana’s tweets are often “recycled” by others.
I think that’s called “theft of intellectual property”. But I could be wrong.
If you tweet something someone else says (especially a well known quote) you really should credit its author.
I’m sort of grumpy this afternoon, so forgive me for complaining…BUT
Just when I thought no one character could annoy me more than Ryan, along comes Gabe #theoffice
#theoffice is the only show I’ve watched that has made me laugh & cringe simultaneously.
TSA Screener: If you’d like a private screening we can make that available to you.
Passenger: We can do that out here, but if you touch my junk I’m going to have you arrested.
Nice, Doug >RT @DougSpur: The best vitamin for making friends….. B1.
@MichaelDPerkins @JCWert Oh, it’s always my fault.
I’m a big fan of clever word play. This would not be one of those instances http://yfrog.com/jxdsjeaj
Love that >RT @jeffreypjacobs: All I can say is, “in a world that needs more dancing, she’s still a hula girl at heart”.
@weightwhat Of course not! With you, I know what to expect. (in reply to weightwhat @katdish Are you talking about my tweets again?)
@PeterPollock Now see? I love those kind of tweets. (in reply to PeterPollock @katdish I’m in love with my wife!!! (and I’m not taking that back!)
I love the twitter, but sometimes I read people’s tweets and think, “Why would you tweet something like that? You can’t take it back.”
“Carry something really unreasonable in ur pants, like raw biscuits. Assert ur rights to carry raw biscuits in your pants…loudly.”@MattTCoNP
@tonyjalicea Why thank you, Tony. I think. (in reply to tonyjalicea @katdish Kathy, you are one of the most worthful people I know.)
@weightwhat I got 450 spam comments yesterday. They were delicious.
“I am not a usual commenter, but I was not able to ignore something so worthful.” – spam comment
@jpwire I wore flip flops to the bus stop. It’s my way of giving winter the middle finger. But it’s in the 50s here, not that cold.
@curtharding Solidarity, brother. Me either. (in reply to curtharding I know it’s harmless, but it still feels good to say I have never watched a moment of Dancing with the Stars.)
@Brian_Russell @gyoung9751 That might be a first. A katdishionary term with 2 definitions.
@gyoung9751 @Brian_Russell – now see? That’s why you need to give me a definition. B/C Glynn’s interpretation is different.
@Brian_Russell I like that. Makes me sound smart. (in reply to Brian_Russell @katdish The most obvious would be a mash-up: “Hectelegance”)
@Brian_Russell Figure that one out and I’ll put it in the katdishionary. (in reply to Brian_Russell @katdish See? But it sounds bad. You need something a bit more elegant… Some form of hectic elegance.)
@Brian_Russell Hectic? Yeah, I can see that. (in reply to Brian_Russell @katdish You know, I don’t think they are… I thought hectic, but that has a negative connotation.)
@Brian_Russell Oh, okay. Zany, huh? Are the kids still using that word these days? Snort (in reply to Brian_Russell @katdish Like, zany)
@Brian_Russell And by “Russell” I mean “Brian”. Snort!
@Brian_Russell Thanks, Russell. What SHOULD I refer to my blog as? (in reply to Brian_Russell If you somehow aren’t following @katdish, please do. She’s awesome and still refers to her blog as her “wordpress blog”. #blogger)
@tonyjalicea Okay. You just won my “favorite person of the day” award for leaving a comment as “Joe”.
I’ve noticed that lots of folks whose name begins with “J” comment on my blog. So if your name starts w “J”, you’ll probably dig my blog.
@TheMikeEllis Ah, yes. If you consider tee shirt, levis and flip flops snappy, then you’re welcome. (in reply to TheMikeEllis @katdish for being a snappy dresser?)
@TheMikeEllis You’re welcome (not sure for what, but still)
@angiemizzell Ha! I mean…sorry about that. (in reply to angiemizzell @katdish They do fly, actually. People take out our trash can all the time.)
I restrained myself, of course. I’m disciplined like that.
It’s garbage day. Just drove down the street & had the overwhelming desire to take out some trash cans. Bet those plastic ones really fly!
@kelybreez Not from me, of course. But still…
@kelybreez Spam bots need love too, Kely.
The universal dog greeting http://yfrog.com/jtkq6dj
“Peanut butter fills the cracks in my heart” – Paul Blart, mall cop (via @fatcatdaddy)
@karenzach Dude…now you’re just trying to get me in trouble. (in reply to karenzach @katdish R u just going to sit by and let him bilk the masses?)
@karenzach Thought so. (in reply to karenzach @katdish Absolutely.)
RT @Helenatrandom Time to go to Costco. Not as much of a “fashion parade” as Wal Mart, but it’s something….
@karenzach You’re trying to bait me, aren’t you? (in reply to karenzach Oh, goody. Joel Osteen has a new book out just in time for Christmas. Let me run right out to WalMart and get a copy.)
Heard on the morning news: Man proposes to girlfriend. Girlfriend says no. Man tries to kill girlfriend. No means no, dude.
@dutchhillgirl Thanks. As to questions #12 & #13, he deserved to be called a jerk. He dropped the F-bomb on his grandmother.
Wow…Clearly this cat is related to Awesome Cat: http://youtu.be/5sAF8gMN9c0
@billycoffey Thanks. You did pretty well on the quiz about Billy Coffey. You only missed one.
Speaking of follow-backs, I don’t care how many followers u have, if u never talk to anyone don’t expect a refollow. Social media, people!
RT @EssOosh A Vending maching that uses facial recognition technology to recommend drinks. These Japanese are bored now.
And you know I wouldn’t recommend something if I didn’t believe in it. newbloghosting.com @peterpollock
This is who I use>RT @PeterPollock: Looking for a cost effective, friendly webhost with personal service? Then check out newbloghosting.com
My dog @buddylovethedog eagerly awaits company http://yfrog.com/ngjstohj
After hearing a great sermon today, it occurs to me that many who liken themselves to Job are much more like Jonah.
Dear GPS, Thanks for taking me down the road of 1000 red lights. Next time I’m using Mapquest.
Off to a mini Dishman family reunion. Should be fun. And loud.
Awesome! Is that cotton? >RT @okiewife: @katdish some additional fall colors from OK http://twitpic.com/36kicw
Thanks, y’all. Gotta finish up this post. TTFN.
Who needs google when I have the twitter?
And by “grammar nerds” I mean “dynamic wordsmiths”, of course…
Hey grammar nerds! Is it “profound effect” or “profound affect”. I always get those confused.
That’s right, people! This is the 11th installment of the never-ending series of blog fodder known as the katdishionary. As I mentioned in my last installment, all previous katdishionary words are compiled for your convenience on the tab marked “katdishionary”. Um, except this one.
But I’ll get around to it eventually…
And now, on with the katdishionary:
Definition: a condition stemming from my extreme reluctance to use any and all emoticons. Which is not to say I particularly mind anyone else use them (much). Use your words, people! There is one notable exception to this self-imposed rule however:
( I ) – Yes, that is a butt.
Origin: Oh, who knows? Blame it on my blatent non-conformity streak.
1) a form of hectic elegance.
2) elegance at the speed of light, or getting the family dressed for church on Sunday.
3) elegance for the heck of it.
Origin: A twitter conversation which began when I asked @Brian_Russell how he would describe my blog (instead of “a wordpress blog”). His initial response was “hectic”, but he thought that sounded negative. Hence, the word “hectelegance”. At this point @gyoung9751 joined the conversation and added definitions 2 and 3. A first for the katdishionary. Congratulations, gentlemen. That’s lawsome.
HHPC human hair pincushion (pronounced H-H-P-C)
Definition: A pincushion stuffed with HUMAN HAIR.
Origin: My childhood. My mother is an excellent seamstress. According to her, stuffing a pincushion with human hair helps keep the pins and needles sharp. (What did I know? I was a mere toddler.) This particular pincushion has been in her posession since she made it back in the early 70s. Yes, people…she still has it. (The pieces are starting to come together, aren’t they?)
lazy book whore (pronounced la-zee-book-hoar)
Billy Coffey: not a lazy book whore
Definition: an author who writes one or two best selling books followed by several nominally crafted books which sell well because of his initial success.
Definition: the state of being fantastically masculine.
Origin: Hmmm…I’m not sure when I started using that one. Probably around the time my friend Helen at Random Musings was lobbying for a pink honorary man card. (Incidentally, I’m pretty sure there’s no such thing as a pink man card. Honorary or otherwise.)
Definition: the practice of writing and then saving blog posts where I rant incessantly about one thing or another. (I’ve gotta a lot of issues, people!)
Origin: Yet another conversation on the twitter wherein @kelybreez warned me against the practice of rantpiling, which he claimed causes high blood pressure and might possibly be communicable in some cases.
So there you have it folks. Yet another ridiculous entry into the never-ending blog fodder known as the katdishionary.