Don't Cry for Me Argentina

Finally, infidelity done right.

I'll tell you what I like about this story; and believe me, there's not a lot to like. In fact, it's really not even news. Politician has adulterous affair. Yawn.

But, unlike Hillary Clinton, Elizabeth Edwards and Dina McGreevey, Jenny Sanford is NOT dutifully standing by her wayward man.

The South Carolina governor admitted to having an affair with another woman from Argentina. As he made the public announcement, his wife didn't hold his hand and look longingly into his tear-filled eyes as he told the world he was a dirtbag.

No, she agreed and told him to move out. Of the governors mansion.

Now, I'm not hoping that this marriage is over and Jenny ends up with a reality show where she and the Govennah take turns living in the mansion. In fact, I hope they are able to reconcile and work this out.

in fact, she has stated, she intends to give Mark "every opportunity to resurrect the marriage."

But I love love love that she refused to play the martyr and had the backbone to spare her dignity and show some good 'ol Southern grit. She was the one who orchestrated his political career. He sabotaged it.

Good for you, Jenny. Run for Governor.

Easter, please, without snow.

What do you do for Easter? My cousin Holland has probably hand stitched matching dresses from the individual petals of imported Costa Rican flora.

There's something about the celebration of Easter and the beginning of Spring; church services in vibrant purple; tulips and sunshine and family gatherings; Easter egg hunts and melting chocolate bunnies. I love Easter. If I lived in the South, I'd be wearing a wide brimmed hat ala Jackie O and elegant white gloves.

It's Good Friday. Ordinarily I would have the family Easter outfits color coordinated in various shades of Spring along with new Easter shoes which come with specific instructions NOT to be worn before Easter. Offenses are punishable by $500 fines and imprisonment. Hair ribbons, clean socks, shiny hair~it's a tradition.

But not this year. I can't even muster enough gumption to go to Target. We've just recovered from a blizzard a mere week ago. Guess what's in the forecast: SNOW.

Needless to say I've been highly unmotivated to get ready for Easter. No Easter baskets, no egg coloring, no jelly beans, no Peeps, no fuzzy bunnies...because THOSE are the Easter essentials...No, I'll be getting out the snow shovels and long underwear.

Instead of wearing these cute sandals:


I'll be wearing these:I wonder if Jesus would mind if I postponed our Easter until next week? Besides, EVERYONE knows if you can't wear your new shoes, it just can't be Easter.

Freebies!

Hey Y'all,

Wow, did that ever feel weird to say. My-recently-moved-to-Texas-sister has taken to saying y'all like it's her cultural obligation. It's folksy so I thought I would give it a try. When I said it just now in my head, it sounded like YAR. My lips and tongue were in complete disbelief. I'm going to work on it.

Melanie over at Mommy Doodles discovered a FREE photo editing website. I said FREE, right?

Y'arll ought to check it out.

No BCS Title, No Blog Title

I blame myself. It was the Lucky Charms. They're jinxed. I'm not bitter, it's just humiliating being de-pantsed in front of the entire nation for the third time in two years, twice by smarmy Florida (basketball)and now LSU. But when your mascot is a giant nut, somethings are bound to happen. Next year...

Anyway, in watching the game I became intrigued by a few regionalisms around LSU.

One, the southern roster is resplendent with Creole and southern names like Ryan Perrilloux, Stefoin Francois, Ricky Jean-Francois, Early Doucet and my personal favorite: T-Bob Hebert. T-Bob is a very big white boy.

Two, dancing along with the marching band were a group of Southern Belles dressed in flashy, leotardy, sequiny things with full length gloves and big hair. I thought to myself, what are they? What kind of dance numbers are those, because one looked like patty cake with an invisible friend.

Now, before you go saying I'm jealous and petty, let me just say, Of course I am! You try breastfeeding five babies. There's nothing left but a memory.


They are the LSU Golden Girls but not as in Estell Getty and Betty White.


One must audition for the Golden Girls. Their website audition info has these guidelines:

1. Must have a 2.0 grade point average in order to audition for the line.

2. All girls selected for the line are expected to maintain their audition appearance and or that which is prescribed after acceptance on the line.

3. Weigh-ins are held periodically during the fall semester and are under the direct
supervision of the Associate Director of Bands.

4. Make-up and hair style should be worn in a fashion which accents and flatters facial characteristics (i.e. “Pageant” style. Please avoid wearing your hair/make-up as if going to the gym to workout.).

How can someone volunteer for a job which requires you to hop on the scale every Monday morning??? Forget about the academics, keep that butt toned. OK, I take it back, I'm bitter.

In case you missed #4: Pageant style hair and make-up.
It's required. REQUIRED.


Tradition is one of those things that from the outside looks goofy, but to the insider is a thing of pride.


One LSU tradition is marching into the stadium with the Golden Girls. I found a picture.

They have capes. And a security detail and pageant hair. Yet, they have to carry their own gym bags?? What's in those bags? I bet it's a parasol. That's the only thing missing. They twirl parasols, I betcha.

Do You Bleed Scarlet and Grey?

Some people think football is a matter of life and death. I don't like that attitude. I can assure them it is much more serious than that.
Bill Shankly, In Sunday Times (UK) Oct. 4 1981


One more day. The 2008 BCS National Championship. Few thought we'd be here again. After last year's (wince with pain) championship game against smarmy Florida, who thought we'd be here again? But my beloved Buckeyes have fortitude and Vernon Gholston.
With stealth like zen and a little bit of weird football karma, they are in the national championship game, again.

I don't know much about LSU, except it's in Louisiana. Louisiana has Kate Chopin, one of my favorite authors. They also have things like Cajuns, gumbo, jambalaya, voodoo, zydeco, Mardi Gras, bayou, Creole and Britney Spears.


I won't sleep tonight. I might even pray and fast.


GO BUCKS!

Meet Virginia

Evangeline and I recently finished our “girls only” road trip to Virginia. Good music, good conversation (as much as an 8 year old can dialogue), overall good mom and daughter time. The green, sweet smelling mountain air and the gradual increase of southern twang and hospitality reminded me of why I’ve always wanted to live in the South. I don’t just mean in Virginia, but in the Deep South, where you can use words like Mason Dixon, parasol, y’all, plantation and talcum. Oh, to sip a mint julep on a porch swing would be divine.

I do have two observations about the Commonwealth of Virginia that left me a bit ruffled.

Upon our return trip, we saw several road signs indicating a place called Biscuit World. To a carb addict such as me, the sign might as well have been pointing directly to Heaven. What was this Biscuit World and what kind of blessings on a bun did they serve?

We decided to indulge our quixotic side, and try this enticing place. So, whenever we saw a highway sign for the gourmet eatery I’d get all excited and yell out in typical Wayne’s World fashion, “Biscuit World, Biscuit World Party on Excellent!” Evangeline, of course, being of the deprived generation, had no idea what I was doing, but as long as this behavior pattern led to a little slice of heaven, she was happy to oblige.

At three different exits we attempted to find the elusive, yet advertised, Biscuit World. Three different times we left disappointed and hungry with a lather of grouchiness foaming inside. Either the building was closed down or had been replaced with a Butt Hut, cigar and cigarette outlet. No Biscuit World. Anywhere. Oh, the disappointment! How I would’ve auctioned a limb to get the mouth-watering Southern goodies that waited.

I don’t know, maybe it’s too much to ask that if you advertise a place on the road sign, the corresponding establishment should be there!

Another draw back to Virginia is the humidity factor. Here in Ohio, my naturally curly hair is manageable, dare I say it, able to be straightened, if I have a few extra hours. Not so in Virginia. My hair kinked and curled and resorted to a general state of POOF. I walked around a good two inches taller than usual, thanks to the orbital explosion of my head. I looked like a fat, white woman with a ‘fro, kinda like that creepy, big-headed statue that stands outside those Big Boy Restaurants.

It’s probably a good thing I never found a Biscuit World.

Melinda Doolittle and The Necklace

I don't have loads of time to read as voraciously as I would like, but I enjoy reading short stories. When I re-read The Necklace by Guy de Maupassant, he used this intriguing line I hadn't caught before: "for women have no caste or class, their beauty, grace, and charm serving for them birth or family. Their natural delicacy, their instinctive elegance, nimbleness of wit, are their only mark or rank..."

Is that true today that women have no caste or class and it's the beauty and charm that categorizes and places us according to such?

I usually watch American Idol. This season has been pretty ho-hum so I haven't been as loyal as when say, Bo Bice was singing. I did listen to LaKeesha and Melinda belt out song after song with talents unrivaled.

Did these two women ever have a chance at winning such a contest when they're competing against a 17 year old beauty? If we're actually judging by lyrical talent, shouldn't the better singers be higher up in the caste system and therefore still be in the contest?

I'm just pondering...and, quite frankly, I can't sing at all. Not at all. (I have to lip sync in church). So maybe Jordin is just as good and I can't tell. Pffft. Who knows. Ain't none of them Bo Bice.



And yes, I know. I should read more and watch less reality TV. Got it.

Norman!

I looked death in the eye last week and lived to tell about it. Was it white water rafting? No...hiking in the Great Smokey Mountains under the watchful eyes of the black bears? No. It was at the hand of Norman!



Boarding a 47 passenger coach implicitly implies that the driver is both physically capable and mentally sane. Has the job market declined so much that these expectations have been waived? One hopes that the driver behind the 50 ton mass transit unit has a clue in his head.
There were certain signs along the 8 hour drive that normal mental capacities may have been diminished with Norman!
But I'm an optimist and hope that it's just my imagination and the scared driver act is just a bad comedy shtick.

To get to our cabin in the Great Smokey Mountains-notice mountain-in the title, the map required that we follow the road UP the mountain to get to the cabin. The problem is Norman! and his big bus. Norman!
and his big bus did not want to go up the big mountain.

I happened to be sitting in the very front seat, so I got to hear his every comment. I had a great view of the one lane road, the switchbacks and the valleys below where any minute I was going to plummet to my death.

At one point we were driving so closely to the edge, I swore the tree branches were going to come through the window and gouge out my eyes. In a preemptive measure, I contemplated doing the gouging myself so I wouldn't have to suffer the visual nightmare but all I could find was a dull pencil and a tube of lipstick. One mustn't waste lipstick.

Here's a list of things you don't want to hear from your bus driver as you begin the treacherous drive to the top of a mountain:

1. "You've got to be kidding!" as he slams on the brakes and throws his hands up in the air in a feeble protest.

2. "This bus is not going on that road." Um, it's the ONLY road.

3. "Nooo. No. No Way!" -Somebody let me of this bus and I'll walk!

4. "Oh, Lord." I said my prayers and prepared to meet my Maker.

With every hairpin turn he got more nervous and I got more green. My friend sitting next to me nearly passed out in fright. And she was in the Air Force!

And then I heard this:

5. "Are you sure I can make that turn or is a wheel going to drop off?" Oh, did I fail to mention that due to a previous busing accident, Norman!
has only eight working fingers? All ten digits should be required to maneuver an eighteen inch steering wheel. The same wheel that he was in no hurry to turn away from the gorge of eternal peril. I think he suffered from no depth perception. Perhaps that's why we got a discounted bus rate?

6. "There's no margin for error here." Stating the obvious in a crisis situation is a sign of weakness, according to recent studies.

Meanwhile, the teens squealed like their little immortal souls were on a roller coaster.

7. "I fretted all night about coming up this mountain. It's my first time to drive up a mountain." Someone revive me when it's over.

The 4 mile trail to the cabin took almost 20 minutes. 20 minutes of being in the ninth circle of HELL. The edge of the road and the wheels on the bus seemed to converge so that any minute I was sure we going to go rolling off the road into death valley below where Satan himself was beckoning.

Of course, teenagers are oblivious to such perils and watched in schadenfreude amusement as we turned green with horrifying-wet your pants-fear.

Next time I chaperon a class trip, definitely staying at sea level.

Remember Me?

I just spent the last four days chaperoning a senior class trip to the Smoky Mountains. I learned some refreshing life lessons:

1. I'm not 18 years old and therefore cannot begin my day fueling up on Pop-Tarts.

2. I can survive a white water rafting excursion with a raft guide half my size, half my age, dreadlocks, tattoos and a southern slur. And I'm not talking about an accent.

3. At this age, some couples actually STILL want to make out in the back of the bus.

4. Guitar hero, pool and a loaded arcade room is bliss, sheer bliss, especially until 3 a.m.


When I returned home from the trip, my six year old says, "Oh, so that's what you look like. I kinda forgot, but I did remember that you had curly hair."

Huh.