i heart bacon

The swine flu outbreak has sparked widespread fear — so much so that Egypt has ordered the slaughter of the country’s 300,000 pigs, even though no cases have been reported there.

OHNOTHEYDI’INT?!

Over a quarter of a million innocent pigs?  That’s some really scary stuff. 

Alright I know my outrage isn’t based on purely altruistic feelings about the ham beast.  Honestly?  I love bacon.

Love bacon

I love the smell of bacon … the sound of sizzling bacon … the crunchy, crispy bits of bacon and the chewy fatty pieces. 

And don’t y’all get me started on honey-baked ham.

I’m sorry.  I’m practically swooning here.

Anyway

My friend, C., is an Arab Muslim.  When we go out to dinner, she has to be very conscious of asking if something as simple as a stuffed mushroom is made with any pork.  She tells me, according to Islam if she knowingly eats, as she lovingly refers to our friend, ‘swine’, that it is an unforgivable sin.

Unforgivable.

My oh my, that’s pretty darn harsh.

I told her she needs to come to the dark side of Christianity.  We are instructed to eat fish during Lent.  Imagine a religion that actually encourages you to consume McDonald’s filet o’fish on Fridays?  I am 100% unequivocally buying into any religion that supports my bad habits.

I am.

But back to the poor pigs.  I wonder what destroying them is going to do to the price and availability of bacon? 

I’m just sayin’ …

this is my rock and roll loveletter

Message for all the Roller tribute bands around the world; Shang A Lang; Bay City Rollermania and all the rest … there’s gotta be one called Rollers Show somewhere – thanks for the compliment … long may your shang lang. If you want a little feature on the myspace send your stuff and we’ll see what we can do.

Message for the bogus Bay City Rollers across the pond in the good old U.S.of A.

Surely the un-coolest event to date. It might be a smart move to hang up your tartan scarves for a wee while … eh! Trying hard to keep this from the pinstripes who are chewing at the bit …

The problem we’ve got, it’s not just me, is when we fly the idea of some Roller shows in the States to buyers we’re told they already deal with the Bay City Rollers … How can this be?

Drop us a line to say you’re bored with the idea. If you wanna be famous I’ll put your pic here if you want maybe even a message board … that will be a hoot. You might have been told this is OK … It’s not.

The exit’s over there … that’s just before the legal department.

E.F. & S.W.

Fan watch; If you see this advertised in the USA let us know…all info dealt with in confidence … you’ve got to laugh …

This weekend, I stumbled across the above information posted on Eric Faulkner’s myspace page.  I no longer have a myspace account and haven’t been trolling around over there for quite some time.  Therefore, I can’t tell you exactly how long ago it actually surfaced.  The fact it’s still there as of this weekend, however, indicates to me it’s relatively current news.   Or conversely, as usual I’m on the little bike in the back, and this is news y’all have mulled over already in a galaxy far, far away.

That would be a shocker. 

Cough.

So.  I’ve read the statement multiple times to get my head around the gist of it, attempting to sift out how I feel about what Eric and Stuart are saying.  

And, lest you think I’m a wee bit cracked … please note I do realize that none of this matters in the big picture of my life.  I recognize I have eminently bigger fish to fry.  Such as pondering why my dadgum air conditioner refuses to make the house cooler than 75 degrees on a 73-degree day. 

Markedly ironic, doncha think?

But.

As to my thoughts on the Faulkner-Wood statement, I have to get ’em out, otherwise I won’t sleep tonight. 

Okay. I’m being dramatic.  I won’t lose any sleep over this.

Promise. 

But.  At the very least, the whole thing sticks in my craw.  I’m going to be honest.  The posting kinda rankles me.  A bit.

Alright.  A bit and then some. 

Firstly, I absolutely agree that faux Rollers shouldn’t be cashing in on the Bay City Roller name.  Y’all know that’s wrong on a myriad of levels.  No one who wasn’t part of the band at one point or another after they became a worldwide success should be flaunting about the name for a bit of coin.   And even then, there should be a sliding scale with which said member should be allowed to present and/or promote themselves based on their length of tenure and contributions to the band during the band’s heyday.

In my personal opinion, prior to the point of the Alan-Derek-Les-Eric-Woody line-up, no one other than a die-hard fan would even be able to tickle their brain to recall the members before the mid-70’s.  Therefore, for my point of reference, it was the five above that ignited the spark that became the phenomenon.

So. 

On the sentiment of ‘cease and desist’ regarding ripping off the Bay City Roller name for profit by posers, I wholeheartedly agree.  

A gatrillion and one percent.

Where I diverge is on the topic of the ‘help-a-fella-out request’.  Having been a fan since 1976 and re-discovering the Bay City Rollers online twenty years later in 1996, I’ll be the first to admit I’m carrying a bit o’ Ms. Bitter Pants baggage.  I come from a place of years and years (and years) of not hearing a peep from Eric. 

Nada.  Silence of the chirping-crickets variety.

Now, y’all know I do realize he has a right to his own private life.  He does. And I totally get that.   But his secrecy and avoidance-bordering-on-outright-aversion of anything fan-related seemed to go well beyond the need for personal privacy. 

For instance, Eric was cordially invited (read:  begged to come) to 95% of the fan fests over the past decade plus.  There was a very real, willing-to-pay-coin audience out there who wanted to see him perform again.  Eric responded in the positive to only one; the others? 

Nothing but a big, black void of silence.

He has never interacted online with the fans.  He has never responded to much of anything where the fans were involved.  He has chosen to make himself entirely unavailable over the past decade.

So.  Y’all have to pardon the fact my back is up over his combined statement with Stuart.  Now y’all wanna be friends?  Help a brotha out? 

Hmm.  Where’s all this new-found love o’de fans coming from?

Ricky.  You’ve got some ‘splaining to do.

And while I’m purging here, I have to say I’m feeling a bit very much cynical on the teasing talk of a Rollers reunion and gigs in the United States.  I wanna believe y’all.  A whole bunch.  But.

Sigh.

Life at 13 was so much simpler.  I believed everything I heard … and trusted implicitly.  At this point in my life, I’m inclined to take y’all with a very large grain of salt.

And that’s terribly sobering.

so glad you’re here

I don’t want to get overly excited because, in the Midwest, the weather can, and does, change on a dime.  It’s snowed as late as mid-May and can begin to dip into freezing temperatures as early as September. 

But.  I woke up this morning to the birds tweeting and a beautiful mild breeze.  And sun. 

Ohmygosh.  Sun.

My first task.  Open every window in the house.  Come in spring!  Please.  My oh my you smell awfully sweet.


Green-ness abounds.


Pushed open all the sliders in the sunroom. 
Turned off the heater.


The river birch in the side yard is showing signs of buds.


New life on the maple tree.
Wake up, wake up!


And, of course, there are now beds to clean out.

Next weekend.

This weekend, I think I’m just going to go outside and sniff.

Ahhhh.

bad piggy

I’ve never claimed to be the best mom ever, although I’m sure my sons would beg to differ.  Oh stop.  You’re making me blush.

Sorry. I was daydreaming again.

Anyway.

Y’all can file this under ‘Not One of My Prouder Moments’.   I swear, if that folder gets any bigger, I’m going to have to rent a storage unit.  So. Youngest son is a big one for ‘earning’ his keep.  Or at the very least, pocket change.  Even when he was very young, he wouldn’t ask for money.  He’d ask what he could do to earn money.  I admire that in a 9-year old.  I do.  So we gladly oblige him with household chores for which we pay him in varying degrees of coin.  Lately, he’s taken to selling things for cabbage.  Fortunately, they are his things and not ours. 

So far.

Last night he drew a picture.  Not one of his normal detailed masterpieces, but a pretty basic on-the-fly sketch.  He comes to me and says, ‘Mom, ya wanna buy this?’.  I smile.  Cause y’all know that’s cute, right?  I play along.  ‘Sure, son. How much?’.  He lays it on the desk, ‘Seventy-five dollars.’

Really?

I surpress the immediate impulse to be the Super Bad Mommy and bite back the  ‘Son, are you on crack?’ that’s ready to trip off my tongue.  Instead I say,  ‘Seventy-five dollars is pretty steep for a picture you just scratched out here in the last … mmm … five minutes?’  Which, y’all have to admit, isn’t nearly as mean. 

Y’all know it’s not.

So he cocks his head sideways which signals great annoyance.  I’ve seen it before.  I have.  Oh lots and lots of times.  He then goes on to explain some fantasy story that begins with ‘remember when …’ and ends with ‘you took all the coins in the big family penny jar up to the bank and it was about seventy-five dollars when they counted it, and you said I could have it, and that you’d put it into my account’.  Blah blah blah.  It was all … ummm … vague.

Very vague.

Sigh.

The boy forgets nothing.  Which is a problem.

So.  I explained to him that I did indeed take that seventy-five dollars and put it into his piggy bank, and would you believe it … that dadgum pig gobbled up his cabbage.  I assured him, however, that justice was served when Mr. Hammer caught up with Mr. Greedy Piggy and said pig met a rather tragic, but well-deserved end for his transgressions.

If youngest son was 3-years old, he would have believed me. My mommy intuition tells me so.  At 9-years old, however, he’s one smart cookie.  And coupled with the fact he’s broke, he wasn’t buying any of it.

ach aye

Jamie’s hand still lay on mine. It tightened a little, and I glanced at him, but his eyes were still fixed somewhere past the dooryard; past the mountains, and the distant clouds. His grip tightened further, and I felt the edges of my ring press into my flesh. “When the day shall come, that we do part,” he said softly, and turned to look at me, “if my last words are not ‘I love you’ ye’ll ken it was because I didna have time.”      

~Except from ‘The Fiery Cross’~

 James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser

Lovingly known simply as ‘Jamie’.

Sigh.

Alright. I know he’s not real. 

But.  If he were … first dibs! 

Since I haven’t done a book blog in forever, I thought I’d end the drought with the news that as of March 2009 the 7th book in the ‘Outlander’ series, ‘Echo in the Bone’ is due from the publisher on September 22, 2009.

And the heavens opened and the angels sang.

Or played their harps.

Or put new batteries in their book lights.

But they were rejoicing nonetheless.

I’m currently re-reading the entire series again in anticipation of the next book. Did I mention it’ll be released September 22nd?  

One-hundred, fifty-three days from today.

Exactly 5 months.

I’m one-third of the way through a second reading of the 6th book now.  As y’all know I’m a voracious reader. Of all the books I’ve ever read in my lifetime, the ‘Outlander’ series stands alone.  The series is a love story, woven into an incredible series of historical novels.  It’s rich, deep, exciting, enthralling, sexy … I’m running out of adjectives here. 

Suffice to say, treat yourself.  Really.

back away slowly

Back up or I shall unleash my cheetah on you. Dont let the fact it looks like a coat fool you.
“Back up or I shall unleash my cheetah on you.
Don’t let the fact it looks like a coat fool you.”

I have real issues with people I don’t know physically up in my grill.  Close talkers.  People who have to walk on the backs of my shoes.  Tailgaters.  Folks, this is a mighty big planet for a perfect stranger to be in my 18″ of personal space. 

Beware. 

Spewing to follow.

This weekend I cleaned out the foyer closet, during which time I unearthed a scrap booking album I bought in … okay, I’m ashamed to say it … October 2008.  Since it was resurrected completely intact in shrink wrap and … shades of mercy … with the receipt I figured I’d simply return it to Michael’s.  Cause y’all know that translates to $10.18 worth of coffee coin for yours truly. 

I do have priorities. 

And … let’s get real here … the likelihood of me nurturing a crafting project to fruition are relatively slim to none.  I’ll spare you the details of what other crafting accoutrements I discovered in my cleaning frenzy. Unfortunately, none of those were accompanied by receipts. 

Yes, there is a point here. I just haven’t gotten to it yet.

Patience, grasshopper.

Yesterday, I made the exchange at Michael’s.  It wasn’t a lengthy process. I handed over the unused merchandise, they gave me an in-store credit. By the way, what’s up with that?   I had a receipt.  Oh gosh, something to do with that silly 60-day return policy. 

Geesh.

Anyway, behind me is a woman who apparently wanted to crawl into my coat, she was just that close.  I’d inch a bit away.  She’d inch closer.  She was breathing my air. 

I so don’t like that.

This seems to happen to me alot lately at the checkout.  Or maybe since it’s gotten my back up, I just notice it more.  At the grocery store, I’ll push my cart down to the bagger, turn around to take the nano step back to pay, only to find my progress impeded by the clown behind me who has pushed her cart into my caboose.

Back off.  Shoo.

I don’t get it. Sometimes I really feel like the cashier oughta step in. 

Ma’am?  Can you please back up your carcass?  The lady in the black coat has not yet paid for her edibles and, as you know, that’s part of the overall shopping process.”

Often, it’s all I can do to stop myself from hoisting my arm perpendicular to my body, palm out, shouting, “My space!  God gave me an arm that’s this long which tells me that this is my little part of the planet.  And, oh my.  Look. You, too, have the same appendage hanging from your shoulder to verify what I’m telling you.”

Sometimes if I’m feeling really ornery … okay, more ornery than usual … I’ll write out my check really slowly.  Then I might just happen to make out the check for the grocery store to … oh, say perhaps the water company.

Scritch-scritch … “South County Water”  

Shucks.  Dopey me.  Guess we’ll have to try that again.  

Well.  They started it.  Hmmph.

Of course, in the event the person who’s become tethered to my person cannot sense my emanating annoyance, I might take the passive-aggressive approach and start balancing my checkbook at the counter.

“Oooh geepers, I’d better write this down or I’ll forget.  Let’s see … 6 minus 9 … gosh, looks like I have to borrow from the 10’s column.”

And since my math skills are right about third-grade level, oft times this can be a rather time-consuming task. 

Next time … maybe next time, they’ll think twice. 

If not, there’s always the taser.

horrible, rotten, no-good day

Today has been bad.   Frustratingly bad.  It all went south early and sadly, shows absolutely no signs of improvement.

Ran out of hairspray yesterday which, in and of itself, is cause for great alarm.  Well.  In my world.

Worse, against my better judgement … or conversely because I was too dadgum lazy to go to another store to get the right stuff … I ended up with hairspray I don’t normally buy.  I do this all the time.  I do.  And it’s stupid.  And one day, I’ll learn.  But that day wasn’t yesterday.

I normally use Sebastian Shaper because, while it’s rather costly, it’s the best stuff.  Oooh the best.  Not stiff, not flaky … what y’all might call a nice, ‘flexible’ hold.  All the good stuff hairspray is supposed to be.  Unfortunately, the store was out of Shaper.  Oh my. I began to sweat profusely. 

But.

While searching up and down the shelves for a substitute I came across Suave that claims … right on the front in big bold type …  to be ‘just like Sebastian’.  Really?  I’m so not kidding.  I took it as a sign.  I did.  And that’s the dumb part.  If it was ‘just like Sebastian’ it would cost more than $2.40 and wouldn’t be on ‘clearance’.  Cause, you know, Sebastian costs … ooohh … about five times that much.

Got the hair just right this morning, pulled out the ‘Just-Like-Sebastian’ Suave.

Hmm.

The only way in which Suave is ‘just like Sebastian’ is that it’s packaged in a cylindrical container with a spraying mechanism.  Beyond that, umm … not so much.  They’re not even kissing cousins.

After mucking up my hair, I then proceeded to add to my grief by stepping on the scale.  

I screamed.

It screamed. 

Folks, there really is a point when you should stop eating Easter candy.  The scale and I agreed to meet tomorrow and try it all over again.

Left the house wishfully thinking ‘it has to get better than this.’  Turned on my windshield wipers, because … gosh, y’all had to know it was raining too.  What’s a crappy day without the added pleasure of rain?  Cold rain.  42 degree, windy, side-blowin’ rain. 

Back to the windshield wipers.

They’re honking.  No joke.  As they’re dragging across the windshield rubbing against the glass they’re making a tremendously annoying sound like honking geese.  

Now.  They’ve been doing this for … oooh let me think … about a month or so.  Hubby noticed it when we were out several weekends ago.  He told me that the noise meant I needed new wiper blades.  Pause.  Sideways look to hubby.  Bigger pause.

Very pregnant pause.

Does this mean you’re going to change them for me?  Because y’all know I don’t even get my oil changed on a regular basis and replacing windshield wipers is way outta my league.

Today?  They’re still honking. 

And that’s all I gotta say ’bout that.

Get to the office and it’s now raining in torrents.  What’s worse than bad hair and rotten hairspray?  Bad hair, rotten hairspray, and no umbrella.

Lunch time rolls around … I’m skipping ahead to the bright spot of my day when I can actually exhale.  Sorry.  So.  I tell neighbor co-worker I’m going to run out for a bit.  Other standing-about co-worker asks, ‘Where are you going?’

I could see it coming.  And I could just feel the hair on the back of my neck standing up.  Well. Not as much as it normally does because of all that Suave hairspray holding it down.

But.

I’m wondering why, if we all get an hour for lunch and I never personally ask anyone … ANYONE … to pick me up lunch while they’re out, why people do this?  Personal pet peeve number four-thousand-two-hundred-and-seventy-one.  Check.

It’s not a big deal.  But.  Well, it is. 

Anyway.

The kicker is ‘we’ … and that’s the royal use of we, folks … decide on Subway.  Not a drive thru.  A park-and-walk-slash-swim-across-the-parking-lot place.

Recall … I have no umbrella.

I was thisclose to leaving his sub in a puddle in the parking lot.

I was.  Am I going to hell?  But more importantly, if I do will they have good hairspray there?