lori jackson

Does That Green Thing Look Like Ebola To You?

noreply@blogger.com (Lori) — Thu, 05 Mar 2009 03:08:00 +0000

There have been some great blog posts lately dealing with the economic downturn and learning to find contentment and gratitude for what we have, instead of perpetually yearning for what we want.

This isn’t one of those blog posts.

Today, I’d rather focus on something else to be grateful for, in the midst of this economic crisis.

And that is this:

I have finally found the motivation and the strength to resist impulse purchases like HATS FOR DOGS.

I really have no explanation for it. No excuses. Guilty as charged.

We were at the Stock Show in Denver and there, at one of the little booths in the Exhibit Hall, was a vendor selling these cute little hats for dogs and, surely as a result of inhaling too much hay and goat manure, I spotted them and went DOG HATS? WHY I BELIEVE I’LL TAKE ONE. NO, MAKE THAT TWO!

I’m not really sure where the connection lies between a stock show/rodeo and the sale of dog hats other than the dog hat vendors had to be trolling for good folks like myself wobbling around in too-tight-cuz-I-only-wear-them-once-a-year cowboy boots that apparently pinch off the blood flow to the brain.

Alexis and Bart? They aren’t with us anymore.

Alexis lived until the ripe old age of 15 but I don’t think she ever forgave me for this, this, this … atrocity. Especially since she and John were already firmly united as a couple before I entered the picture. I just didn’t have a chance to bank any goodwill during her puppy days over shared bowls of Quaker Oat Squares eaten off the same spoon.

And poor, poor Bart. He had a hard life.

We rescued him from the Denver Dumb Friends League when he was just 9 months old and immediately had him stripped of his manhood.

"Welcome to your new home and oh, by the way THOSE? THOSE HAVE TO GO." Strike One.

Then we figured out he could jump, like, really really high. And then we discovered he had a THING for carrots. More like a fetish. That’s it. A carrot fetish. His obvious talent for vertical leaping combined with the carrot addiction was a lethal combination of information in our hands as we then, naturally, mostly exploited him like a little flying circus monkey in need of his next carrot fix.

"Circus Monkey Need Carrot Real Real Bad." Strike Two.

And then the coup de grace … the wearing of the dorky Elmer Fudd hat. And the picture-taking in the dorky Elmer Fudd hat. And the parading around the neighborhood in the dorky Elmer Fudd hat. And the jumping, jumping, jumping to catch flying carrots in the dorky Elmer Fudd hat.

Dorky Elmer Fudd Hat? Strike Three.

At that point Bart must have simply decided it wasn’t worth it - this living thing. He checked out too early. Mercifully we didn’t bury him in his hat. I figured we’d let him rest in peace with his dignity intact. Even if his boy parts weren’t.

So Aunt Bea … well, Aunt Bea is just going to have to learn to do without because I am SO OFF the DOG HAT thing what with the plunging stock market and all.

Plus, I took a picture of THIS the other day.

And realized we’re about to make our orthodontist very, very happy as fixing THAT is going to take the kind of budget that would make NASA drool. Yep. Dog hats are definitely OUT.

P.S.

Green stuff between the teeth?

Check.

Spaghetti sauce under the fingernail?

Check.

Weirdly long dirty fingernail on the other hand?

Check.

Excellent. Let's put THAT picture out on the Internet for the world to see.

Just One More Excellent Idea

noreply@blogger.com (Lori) — Sun, 01 Mar 2009 04:16:00 +0000

As the mother of a twelve year old and a six year old you might be tempted to think I've got the whole HOSTING A KID’S BIRTHDAY PARTY thing figured out.

Let me assure you, you'd be thinkin' wrong.

After all, I am the one who invited 25 three year old girls over for a BARBIE BEACH BIRTHDAY PARTY in Colorado in June, where the general idea was to spend HOURS and HOURS slip-n-sliding, splashing around in a wading pool and running through the sprinklers.

Except here’s the problem: Colorado in June can still be quite cold. Especially when you’re wet. Which is generally the goal when one is slip-n-sliding, splashing around in wading pools and running through sprinklers.

So here's what happens when you stick 25 shivering three year olds in to a hot tub full of 102 degree water because if you don’t they will all die of hypothermia right there on your deck and you’re really thinking inside IF I "ACCIDENTALLY" KILL ALL THE KIDS, THAT WILL TEACH THOSE PARENTS TO DROP AND RUN AT MY RILEY’S BARBIE BEACH BIRTHDAY PARTY.

Anyway ...

As soon as their little feet hit the 102 degree water about half of them immediately scream I HAVE TO GO POTTY.

And the other half?

Well, as soon as THEIR feet hit the 102 degree water they would have screamed I HAVE TO GO POTTY except their eyes are all rolled back in to their heads because all of a sudden they are VERY RELAXED.

And don’t even pretend you don’t know what I’m talkin’ about.

Well, we wrestled a sum total of two toddlers out of their wet swimsuits before just sending them all back out to the backyard to RELAX IN THE HOT TUB, IN THE YARD, WE DON’T CARE ANYMORE.

And then there was the time when Riley turned ONE and I invited about 100 people over to celebrate and spent days and days boiling and peeling enough eggs so that every guest could eat their weight in deviled eggs. BECAUSE WHAT ONE YEAR OLD DOESN’T LOVE DEVILED EGGS?

And then I forgot to get them out of the garage refrigerator until after the party was over.

I was so distraught that night I actually let my neighbors talk me in to watching THE WIZARD OF OZ with the sound turned off and Pink Floyd’s THE WALL playing as the soundtrack instead. In exchange, my neighbors agreed to eat a lot of eggs.

Which really has nothing to do with anything except the synchronization of the "Wizard of Oz" and that album was kinda creepy and all those parents who DROPPED AND RAN at my Riley’s BARBIE BEACH BIRTHDAY PARTY should have been thankful I let their kids RELAX in my hot tub instead of turning THAT on and sending their kids home to have nightmares and wet their beds.

So when Wyatt told me he wanted to go bowling for his birthday party I, naturally, said SURE. A bunch of five and six year olds PLUS 10 pound bowling balls PLUS slick bowling lanes oiled up to a glassy sheen? SURE let's go for it.

EXCELLENT idea. BEST ONE I’ve heard today.

And then THIS. THIS here is what you get.

Good thing we're so important we travel with our own doctor at all times ... or maybe he was just one of our guest’s dad who also happens to be a pediatrician. Regardless, Wyatt was triaged right there on Lane 3 after 10 pounds of bowling ball slipped through his hands like a greased pig and fell on his foot and pinky toe.

And he wasn’t the only one either. In roughly two hours time over 50% of our party guests sustained either a crushing or pinching bowling ball injury and/or a blow to the back of the head courtesy of the copious amounts of oil applied to the bowling lanes extra special for our party.

Just so you know, for his birthday party next year we're planning on throwing a bunch of kids in to the back of a pickup truck and speeding across the Mexican border for an afternoon of lawn darts, trampolining, and homemade puffer fish sandwiches. And we probably won’t let them wear sunscreen either.

Jerry Garcia Called. He Wants His Shirt Back.

noreply@blogger.com (Lori) — Fri, 27 Feb 2009 17:19:00 +0000

This morning my kindergarten son left the house in camo shorts, camo underwear, camo pants and his favorite RAINBOW shirt (aka tie dye).

Apparently he’s planning on taking the summer off to travel with the Grateful Dead.

I blame myself.

It's quite possible, given all the old photo scanning I've been doing for my job at Facebook, that he ran across THIS on the floor of my office.

May God have mercy on his soul.

P.S. - I'm loving the 1970's era paneling that totally ~~hides~~ blends the door to the garage with the wall behind the TV. With all that sophisitcated decorating it's a wonder we ever found our way out of the house.

I Am Extremely Important

noreply@blogger.com (Lori) — Tue, 24 Feb 2009 21:26:00 +0000

And I have the email to prove it. But first, let me set the stage for you.

You see, I’m not really a child of technology. I typed my way through college on a Smith-Corona and the only people I knew with access to the campus computer lab were all studying foreign languages like COBAL and FORTRAN.

Those folks, however, spent very little time shopping at Harold’s or sunbathing on the roof of the Kappa Kappa Gamma house and used their time, instead, to invent the Internet so I didn’t really get to know them too well.

Anyway, I went to work for Fidelity Investments right out of college. Now, before you get all impressed it’s important to note a couple of things:

I was a journalism/political science major so it wasn’t like Fidelity recruited me for any top-notch investment position. I basically begged my way in by agreeing to do this for $14,000 a year: spend 6 months working the graveyard shift, on the phone, answering questions about mutual funds in the middle of the night.

Weird people call in the middle of the night to talk about mutual funds. Trust me on this.

But this Fidelity job was my very first exposure to a COMPUTER and having a COMPUTER comes in handy in the middle of the night when India, as in the whole country, wakes up and everyone with the last name of “Patel” decides to call in at EXACTLY the same time. Just for fun.

So, while you may be a TWITTER expert, I’ve just now hopped on to the TWITTER bandwagon. I have decided to formally blame my mother for this as she gave birth to me in 1964 instead of in 1987.

Now that I’m on TWITTER, though, you should know that I Am Extremely Important. Evidenced by this email I received about an hour ago:

Hi, Lori Jackson (LoriListJackson).

Barack Obama (BarackObama) is now following your updates on Twitter.

Check out Barack Obama's profile here:
http://twitter.com/BarackObama

Best,
Twitter

Yes. You read that right. President Obama is following MY UPDATES on TWITTER!

I’d love to say I plan on using this uniquely personal presidential access wisely to give him my two cents on the economy, healthcare and Guantanamo Bay. But, alas, no.

Rather, I choose to ping him throughout the State of the Union Address tonight with this series of TWITTERS, just to keep the mood light:

8:02 pm
CODE RED CODE RED: TOILET PAPER. ON SHOE. DON’T WORRY. NO ONE WILL NOTICE.

8:11pm
Oh, now Joe Biden’s putting up bunny ears behind your head with his fingers. He’s so funny.

8:23pm
Mr. President, three words for you: BARN DOOR OPEN. Stay behind the podium. Repeat. Stay BEHIND the podium.

8:32pm
Nancy Pelosi’s filing her nails while reading People magazine. The one with Rihanna on the cover. She just rolled her eyes but I don’t think it was at you.

8:39pm
That crazy Nancy just taped a sign on your back that says “KICK ME”. Joe wrote it.

8:42pm
Um. Hillary. Not. Clapping.

8:46pm
Now Joe and Nancy are playing ROCK, PAPER, SCISSORS. Joe’s wrist is full of welts. Nancy must be winning.

8:51pm
I just checked and FOXNEWS is showing “Gunsmoke” reruns. Question: who’s hotter Miss Kitty or Festus?

8:56pm
Uh oh. Ted Kennedy just took off Michelle's right shoe and he’s going all “Pulp Fiction” on her with the foot rub.

9:00pm
Are you wearing a clip-on? Act Natural.

9:03pm
Hillary. Still. Not. Clapping.

9:07pm
Shoot. Now Bill Clinton’s got Michelle’s left shoe off and he's humming THAT Barry White song. You know the one. There’s oil involved. Wrap it up.

9:09pm
I repeat. Wrap it up.

Like Getting Hit With A Tranquilizer Dart. Only Not As Funny.

noreply@blogger.com (Lori) — Mon, 23 Feb 2009 21:56:00 +0000

I’m not usually one to watch the Oscars but since we managed to catch “Slumdog Millionaire” before they show it for free on Turner Classic Movies I felt compelled to show up on my couch last night to root for them.

Plus I was really, really hoping to hear Anil Kapoor say “Who wants to be a MILL-luh-NARE?” just ONE MORE TIME.

Now, watching the entire Oscars telecast is a little bit like deciding to read “War and Peace” from cover to cover. In one sitting. It’s a serious commitment of time that may, or may not, involve the use of sequins.

So I settled in on the couch around 6:30 to watch all the pre-Oscars coverage, Red Carpet and all. My first clue the evening was not going to end well was when the bedsores kicked in around 9:30. By then I’d already squirmed through Jennifer Aniston’s painful presentation with Brangelina in the front row and used the foil lid from a blueberry yogurt to give myself a fake gold front tooth just like Mickey Rourke’s.

I don’t think the look really works on either one of us.

About the time the yogurt foil zinged me when it hit a filling in one of my upper bipolar-cuspid-molars I realized there was NO WAY I was going to get a decent night’s sleep, given the hours and hours of inactivity I’d already invested in all the Oscars watching. So I did something that I almost never do given that I’m highly sensitive to anesthesia and turkey - they both make me dangerously sleepy – I took a Tylenol PM.

Just one.

Oh, Tylenol PM what have you done to me? It’s now been 19 hours since I put that pill in to my body and STILL all I want to do is put my hair in a ponytail and go back to bed.

So, if you happened to miss Joaquin Phoenix’s appearance on The David Letterman Show last week (or Ben Stiller's dead-on impression of him last night) because you, oh, HAVE A LIFE, you should watch this video BEFORE YOU INVITE ME TO DINNER AT YOUR HOUSE TONIGHT because it’s entirely possible that THIS is who will show up.

Okay, it would be like having dinner with Joaquin Phoenix except without the facial hair. Although I am sporting a couple of whiskers on my chin with some serious potential of developing into a full-on beard that would make ZZ Top proud.

She Gave Birth To Me, She Has To Speak To Me. Right?

noreply@blogger.com (Lori) — Fri, 20 Feb 2009 18:33:00 +0000

Oh. My mom is SO not going to like this post.

I woke up this morning with a zillion blog ideas bouncing around inside my head. Yesterday Facebook hijacked my brain. Today, I think THE CAT IN THE HAT has seized control.

NONE of those original blog ideas, however, involved our SEPTIC SYSTEM until the guy we hired to pump out ALL THREE tanks showed up around 9 o’clock and I’m thinking BONUS! THAT’S NOT SOMETHING YOU SEE EVERYDAY and WHO DOESN’T WANT TO SEE FIRST HAND WHAT’S COMING OUT OF THE JACKSON’S SEWER SYSTEM?

But then my friend Jocelyn begged me not to blog about that. And in spite of the fact that she hardly gave me the time of day time back in high school when she was a rockin’ senior with the big blonde hair and I was just a lowly sophomore growing out a bad Dorothy Hamill haircut …

Come to think of it NEVER MIND JOCELYN.

I WILL blog about my septic system.

Just not today.

So, here’s what happened.

Mistake #1: I got up and logged on to Facebook.

Mistake #2: I never logged off of Facebook.

Mistake #3: I got in the shower thinking about Facebook.

Mistake #4: A terrible repressed memory from high school surfaced in the shower and I shared it with my friend Jeff who emailed back with this: THAT’S A GREAT THING TO POST ON YOUR BLOG.

Caveat: Jeff lives in Missouri. Not in my shower.

So, here’s a warning, my gentle readers. If the word FART offends you … GO AWAY NOW.

With that said, may I remind you that yesterday I admitted how a MEME forced me to admit publicly that I am ANOSMIC. That is, I have no sense of smell. Never have.

Once again WIKIPEDIA comes to the rescue … you can read all about my kind here. In fact, you may want to go check this out ASAP as Wikipedia, the user edited online encyclopedia, may actually have ME listed under NOTABLE ANOSMIC INDIVIDUALS and I have absolutely NO IDEA who might have added my name to this distinguished list. I swear.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anosmia

Generally the no smell thing has caused me very little interruption in living a largely fulfilling life but there have been some drawbacks. Like not knowing I was dragging my kids through the grocery store with hugely dirty diapers and enduring the glares and gags from my fellow shoppers. Rude.

Oh, and fully grasping the reality that FARTS STINK way too late in high school to prevent a humiliating dating experience that has scarred me for life. Or least scarred me for the last 4 hours since I remembered it in the shower.

Because a lot of my friends from high school read this blog, I’m going to call my date involved in this humiliating dating experience “Stuart” in order to protect his anonymity. Plus, maybe he’s forgotten.

I have this vague remembrance of “Stuart” being a pretty nice and pretty respectful guy. He was also a decent kisser who lived in this other worldly house up on the hill outside of town with a grand piano facing a wall of glass looking out over the skyline. Kinda like one of those smooth serial killer homes. But without the serial killing.

Because of the no smelling thing I have to admit for a long time I really believed the "gross-ness" of farts was largely due to the noise they make. Not the smell. I think I always knew, on some level, they had a distinctive smell but not necessarily a bad one. They were only gross in the sense that air had just exited your fanny and everyone knew it. Like little air craps.

So for years I was a big fan and master executioner of what I have come to understand as the SILENT BUT DEADLY fart. If I farted in a crowd and nobody heard it, then it didn't really exist and certainly no one could blame it on me.

EXISTENTIAL QUESTION FOR EVERYONE WHO IS WAY SMARTER THAN ME: If you fart in the woods and no one smells it will the trees still tip over?

Anyway, in smaller groups I always went to the ever reliable THOU WHO SMELT IT DEALT IT defense. Sometimes, just to throw people off, I even “smelled” it first.

But ... and here you will realize that I wasn't always rubbing two brain cells together ... it NEVER EVER occurred to me that if there were only two people in close proximity to each other and one of those people happened to be me and I farted silently BY DEFAULT THE OTHER PERSON WOULD KNOW THAT I HAD CUT THE CHEESE.

Until “Stuart” pointed this out to me one night when we were kissing in his white pickup truck and I cut one loose worthy of a long haul trucker eating pickled eggs.

No offense to pickled egg eating long haul truckers intended.

Sure, I denied it. But it was futile.

He knew.

I knew he knew.

And he knew I knew he knew.

I DEALT IT.

“Stuart” and I were certainly "serious" enough at that point to warrant a formal breakup but, honestly, I have no recollection of it and can't remember if all this took place BEFORE or AFTER he and another date had their pictures taken in my living room. Which was the photograph posted on Facebook that dredged up this horrible memory.

Either way, my guess is one of the reasons “Stuart” is smiling in that picture taken in my living room with another date is because he knows that other girl isn't going to gas him out of his own truck that night.

So, to everyone I went to grade school, junior high and high school with … IT WAS ME.

PROBABLY EVERY SINGLE TIME.

P.S. To my friend JEFF, you can expect a call from my mother any minute now.

A Little Smarter Than This Time Yesterday

noreply@blogger.com (Lori) — Thu, 19 Feb 2009 19:03:00 +0000

Confession.

Up until yesterday I didn’t know what a “Meme” was and all I have to say is THANK GOODNESS FOR WIKIPEDIA.

Apparently Memes have taken over my life in the form of FACEBOOK and ALL THE STINKING HOMEWORK AND PROJECTS being a member there entails.

According to Wikipedia "meme" is a noun and it rhymes with “theme”. But apparently it’s more of a conceptual thing than a physical thing. Which means I have no idea how to use Meme properly in a sentence.

Like I said earlier, journalistic standards and strict adherence to grammar are not priorities for me. I’ve got way too much on my plate right now what with all the scanning and posting of old photographs going on so that Facebook can, someday, put my 1982 prom picture on a box of Wheaties and reap HUGE financial rewards for themselves.

For example, I have no idea if these statements reflect the correct usage of MEME or not:

"John, could you please pick me up a couple of MEMES on your way home tonight?"

or

"Riley, please get your feet off the MEME. You know how I hate dirty MEMES that smell like feet."

or

"Wyatt, please stop picking your MEME. Do you want it to get stuck that way?"

See? I am nothing if not a polite wife, mother and law-abiding citizen.

My latest venture into MEME-ing came in the form of Facebook’s demand for a LIST OF 25 RANDOM THINGS ABOUT ME. As I’m a pleaser and all I immediately complied and there, on Facebook, I confessed highly fascinating yet never before revealed things about myself such as the fact that I have no sense of smell (never have) and I have a tendency to wet my pants at inopportune moments.

Like when my pants are still on my body.

There were 23 other equally fascinating revelations I divulged on my MEME but really, today, I’m just wondering what state of mind I must have been in to think that information would be remotely interesting to anybody else who has not been relegated to the status of CAPTIVE AUDIENCE.

HI EVERYONE. MY NAME IS LORI AND I’M AN INCONTINENT ANOSMIAC.

EVERYONE: HIIIIII LORRRRRRIII

I think Facebook has hijacked my brain and the plane is now parked on a tarmac in some Third World Country awaiting its ransom of pertinent information such as my weight, bra size and HOW COME YOU DON’T LIKE HAM?

Because I don’t really understand how a well-read, college-educated individual like myself could live 44 years without even knowing MEMEs exist.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go check out my MEME. It's starting to smell funky.

And This Is Why Wednesday Is My Favorite Day

noreply@blogger.com (Lori) — Wed, 18 Feb 2009 17:03:00 +0000

SMALL TOWN POLICE BLOTTER
VOLUME II

January 21

A woman called deputies after her son found a cross bow.

Oh you silly, silly woman. Because I’m thinking FINDERS KEEPERS and the possibility of buying as few kindergarten birthday party presents as possible. Is it just me or does this sound like an excellent opportunity for REGIFTING?

January 28

A woman reported seeing a man trying to break into her car, but the man, who had just purchased a new pair of sunglasses, told officers he was just looking in the car window to see his own reflection and how he looked in his new sunglasses.

I say ARREST HIM ANYWAY! Just so he has to explain this one OVER and OVER:

“Well, see I just got me some new shades and a moon pie down at the Circle K and I was walking along minding my own dadgum business when I’m all OOOOOOOH, HEY THERE GOOD LOOKIN’ and then I’m all OH DANG THAT’S ME IN THE CAR WINDOW and THEN BAM! I done got myself arrested. I’m so good lookin’ it’s a crime.”

February 10

5:16 pm, Main Street: A woman complained that someone siphoned gas out of her car while she was shopping.

Also known as I’M TOO EMBARRASSED TO ADMIT I RAN OUT OF GAS.

‘Cause really, at 5 o’clock in the afternoon on the busiest street in town some guy’s gonna sidle up to your car with a garden hose in his mouth and suck the gas right out of your car and NOBODY’S GONNA NOTICE?

The only way I’d be buying your story, lady, was if the next police report went something like this:

Caller reported a man with a garden hose in his mouth sucking the gas right out of a car on Main Street down in front of “Antiques and Pickles”. You know that store that sells antiques and pickles? I just love them pickles. Then he lit up a cigarette and blew himself to kingdom come.

Oh Goody, It's Almost Summer

noreply@blogger.com (Lori) — Tue, 17 Feb 2009 18:37:00 +0000

99.9% of the year I could care less when SPORTS ILLUSTRATED arrives in our mailbox. But there’s ONE issue every year that is like SOLID GOLD to this cutting edge fashion goddess:

“THE SWIMSUIT EDITION”

Because, really, without “THE SWIMSUIT EDITION” I would be at a complete and total loss as to the latest styles I should be wearing around the water this summer. And now that we’ve moved to South Texas where summer lasts like 9 months, my swimsuit needs are, indeed, many.

THE POOL

For these days I chose PAGE 44, the bikini bottom paired with nothing but strands and strands of turquoise beads on top.

Kids, after all, love to strap on a mask and dive down after the wads of hair and band aids collecting around the pool drain. This year I’ll be able to keep the party going long after they get bored playing with someone else's hair and band aids by pegging them in the head with giant turquoise beads while they’re playing MARCO POLO with their eyes closed.

THE RIVER

As you know, days on the Guadalupe can be long and hot. Especially when, in the middle of a record-setting drought, you find yourself dragging your inner tube along a gravel road that used to be full of water. Apparently that’s where our summer river fun is headed so for these adventures I’ve selected the white bikini bottom paired with the sheer long sleeved white blouse on PAGE 36.

For extra sun protection on my arms and back, you know.

If the sun becomes unbearable I’ll always have a sensible sun shield for my face by wetting down my blouse with bottled water and tying it around my head like a turban. Plus, there are usually lots of families with young children on the river and I think modesty is in order with the long sleeves and all.

SCHLITTERBAHN, SEAWORLD & SIX FLAGS

Finding the perfect swimsuit for this hat trick of water parks was tough. Living in close proximity to all three parks means we’ll be spending plenty of time in highly concentrated urine water and, as you know, uric acid will fade colors and dissolve the fanny parts on a swimsuit in no time. So the key for this selection was DURABILITY.

That’s why I selected PAGE 56. This beaded and jeweled bikini bottom looks like it could withstand a nuclear attack … or least a couple of 12 pound swim diapers floating loose in the Lone Star Lagoon.

But don’t underestimate the power of the red coral necklace for a top. I have two words for you: CROWD CONTROL.

Remember in the movie CASTAWAY when Tom Hanks gashed his leg open on the coral reef and then he had to knock out his own tooth with an ice skate?

Well, you can see from the central theme of this movie (“CORAL HURTS”) where a swimsuit top of such material might come in handy when you are, ohhhhhh, standing in a very, very long line waiting to ride the Dragon Blaster Uphill Water Coaster.

All I’m sayin’ is that I’m not above cutting my way to the front of the line THE HARD WAY.

THE BEACH

You know, many are feeling the economic pinch these days so when a swimsuit can pull double duty … well, I just feel good about doing my part with fiscal responsibility. That’s why PAGE 42’s loosely woven macramé top seemed like such a logical choice for me, the sunbathing sports fisherwoman.

Modest coverage PLUS a handy fish net to ensure my catch of the day makes it safely in to the boat and on to our dinner table.

LAS VEGAS

While we have no immediate plans to visit Vegas this summer I do believe in planning ahead, just in case. Thankfully we’ve already got a deck of unopened SOUTHWEST AIRLINES playing cards ready to throw in to a suitcase with only a moment’s notice and according to PAGE 144, that’s ALL I WILL NEED to hit the Vegas pools in high fashion. A deck of cards.

BRANSON FAMILY REUNION

While this one piece gold number with the boy legs and giant chest-sized keyhole cutout on PAGE 128 is WAY TOO OLD LADY for my taste, I suspect it’s just the right speed for the Jackson Family Reunion in Branson this summer. After all, I wouldn’t want to risk getting kicked out of Silver Dollar City what with all the banjos, funnel cakes and Hillbilly comedy.

In closing, I do have a big shout out to LITTLE MISS "PAGE 96-97"…

Listen here, where I come from we just call that UNATTRACTIVE PLUMBER’S CRACK and if you showed up around here wearing THAT we would probably laugh behind your back and then take a picture of you to share with the internet at a later date. Like the guy who fixed our sprinkler system back in 1994 while we were building our deck.

And that stuff’s just ridiculous.

Did the Pilgrims Celebrate Valentine's Day?

noreply@blogger.com (Lori) — Mon, 16 Feb 2009 15:27:00 +0000

Dear John,

Saturday was Valentine’s Day and I’m thinking about our new neighbors, the polygamist evacuees from El Dorado who have settled in on the ranch next door. You know the ones who just put up the new high tech security gate right next to Deanna’s house?

Actually, if it weren’t for Deanna and her house painters – who started asking what was up next door with all the KIDS RUNNING AROUND IN PILGRIM SUITS – it might have been months before we realized they were even living over there.

The polygamists got me thinking about what my life might look today had I not married you and married, instead, someone else amongst the throngs who threw themselves down on their knees over the years asking for my hand.

Like “Bob” from Ohio.

I met “Bob” right after I moved to Cincinnati. That was a good move for me because now I am really, really good at spelling Cincinnati and because of Graeter’s Ice Cream and OH ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

Sorry, I just googled “Graeter’s Ice Cream” only to discover they sell Black Raspberry Chip in TWO states now. Ohio AND Colorado. Up until now I’ve never regretted our move to Texas.

Anyway, “Bob” transferred to Cincinnati from Salt Lake City about the same time I transferred from Dallas. We worked together and struck up a friendship that then kind of morphed in to a burgeoning romantic thing. It never got much past the burgeoning romantic thing phase, though, after “Bob’s” dad came to visit.

I showered. I made a lasagna. I thought it went well.

At least I did until two weeks later when “Bob Sr.” left the comfy confines of Utah once again and returned to Cincinnati. This time with an 18 year old girl in tow.

BOB, MEET YOUR FUTURE WIFE, GEORGIA DAWN.

Yep, I got ARRANGED MARRIAGED right out of that relationship. Which is probably a good thing otherwise I might have wound up looking like this and living on that ranch over there with my 8 other sister wives.

So, in spite of our rocky start back in grade school, John ... AND DON’T EVEN TRY DENYING THAT TRAUMATIC BEGINNING TO OUR RELATIONSHIP WHEN YOU AND YOUR FRIENDS THREW ROCKS AT JANICE AND NANCY AND ME IN THE WOODS WHEN WE WERE JUST THIRD GRADERS.

See? Your 5th grade picture just screams out I LOVE THROWING ROCKS AT LITTLE GIRLS. ESPECIALLY ONES I WILL GROW UP AND MARRY.

In spite of that, you grew up into a pretty great guy who never, ever expects me to wear PILGRIM DRESSES.* And for that, and many, many other things too numerous to mention here, THANK YOU.

*Well, never except on Thanksgiving. But, then, who doesn’t dress up for Thanksgiving?

I Love You.

www.ForAllTheWaysYouCare.com

WARNING: FOR MATURE AUDIENCES ONLY

noreply@blogger.com (Lori) — Fri, 13 Feb 2009 21:19:00 +0000

Tomorrow is Valentine's Day and love is in the air. If I had a sense of smell I'm sure I'd be able to smell it, but I don't.

So I'll just sit here and imagine that love smells like a box of twinkies.

OR DEAD COWS.

I learned that recently from a local furniture store.

See? The sign says so:

Now, I'm 44 years old and I've NEVER been wooed with a cowhide.

I think I feel jipped.

Sure John's brought me flowers (preferably tulips) and cards and jewelry and champagne but not once has he unfurled and snapped open a nice black and white holstein rug as a token of his undying love and affection. Not even on our honeymoon.

How is it possible that before now I never knew COWHIDES SPELL ROMANCE?

So, if this little tidbit in any way enhances your Valentine's Day experience, please remember to thank me later.

With a COWHIDE of course.

What Oscars?

noreply@blogger.com (Lori) — Thu, 12 Feb 2009 17:18:00 +0000

My friend Margaret asked me the other day if I’d seen the movie “Slumdog Millionaires” yet. I almost lied and said yes so I could feel smart and all culturally relevant. But I haven’t seen “Slumdog Millionaires”, I haven’t seen “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button” and I haven’t even seen “Frost/Nixon”, in spite of the fact that I minored in political science in college and it's like a rule and all to see films about politics.

In fact, I haven’t seen any of the movies nominated for an Oscar this year.

The last movie I saw in a theater was “Twilight” with Riley. Like a good mother I had informally banned the “Twilight” books from our household on the vague unfounded suspicion that they contained a lot of teenage vampire sex.

Being a 7th grader and all, Riley read the first book anyway and then begged ME to take her to see the movie because all of her friends whose mothers aren’t Puritans straight out of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s “Scarlet Letter” had already seen the movie like 163 times.

As I’m pretty much all about any excuse to eat movie popcorn I figured WHAT THE HECK and off we drove to the Palladium, a tacky Greek-themed movie theater fronted with huge architectural columns. If you squint from the Bass Pro Shops parking lot it’s almost like you’re standing in front of the Parthenon. Which is good as it effectively eliminates the need for an expensive trip to Athens to see the real thing in person.

Riley and I settle in to the Palladium’s luxurious seats with our $37 snack bar haul of popcorn, Coke and baklava and while I had completely intended to spend my quiet time in the movie texting and downloading free applications on to my new iPhone, I found myself reluctantly caught up in the movie.

AND SURPRISE! No sex. No gore. Good story. So much for vague unfounded suspicions. Which is too bad as vague unfounded suspicions have served me quite well throughout my life.

NOT.

Upon returning home I immediately became obsessed with the “Twilight” series, read all four books within a two week span of time from the comfort of the big brown chair on our porch and completely ignored certain things like changing my underwear and saying hello to my kids.

John says I actually hissed if anyone got close to me and my chair during those two long dark weeks but I have absolutely no recollection of that and am pretty sure he’s making it up to punish me for all the time I spend Googling “Robert Pattison” and writing LORI LIST JACKSON PATTINSON over and over in my notebook.

In summary, “Twilight” darn near ruined my life.

If you have no idea what I’m talking about here, you are obviously in dire need of a teenage girl in your household.

They’re good for you.

First, of course, they are like your own personal portal in to the REAL world. After all, the whole “Twilight” hysteria might have passed right underneath my radar had it not been for Riley subliminally injecting “Twilight” into every conversation.

As in MOM I’M HUNGRY CAN I HAVE A HEALTHY twilight APPLE?

Or MOM YOU LOOK ESPECIALLY THIN twilight AND YOUR HAIR IS NOT AS BIG AS USUAL TODAY twilight.

Or MOM WOULD IT BE OKAY IF YOU AND DADDY twilight WENT ON A DATE WHILE I BABYSIT WYATT FOR FREE twilight?

They also build character in you. The Bible says so:

“… but we also rejoice in our sufferings; because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.”

I was one of those parents who remained convinced my superior parenting skills would allow me to effectively squash any form of rebellion in my child.

Then she turned two.

The other day she gave me the “slow-blink-while-turning-head-the-other-way-before-opening-eyes-again” move which is way more difficult than your basic eye roll and I must admit, I was impressed.

So this, this is what I confessed to Margaret when she asked me if I’d seen “Slumdog Millionaires” yet and she probably got way more information than she bargained for but that’s just the way I like to roll.

Police Report Volume 1

noreply@blogger.com (Lori) — Wed, 11 Feb 2009 19:00:00 +0000

One of the things I love most about living in a small town, other than the fact that our 8 lane bowling alley is a private member’s only club and we’re so counting on getting in someday, is our little twice weekly newspaper.

They do something that very few newspapers do these days ... THEY PUBLISH THE POLICE BLOTTER. And THAT’s just the motivation I need to skip to the mailbox every Tuesday and Friday to read up on what kind of mischief has taken place recently.

In college I worked for awhile at The Oklahoma Daily, OU’s campus newspaper. Of course you probably already figured out I had some kind of professional experience given the high quality of content, grammar and punctuation you know I’m capable of.

I wouldn’t exactly say that relationship – me and The Oklahoma Daily – was a match made in heaven. Adhering to strict journalistic style rules isn’t exactly my strongpoint. Also, I was in a sorority and this was the early ‘80s and the liberal student editor pretty much wanted to yank my preppy turtleneck up over my head, tie it in a knot, and then force me in to a pair of Birkenstock sandals and forest green socks.

See what I mean? This. This is what I wore to class in college.

No wonder they hated me. That and I like to end sentences with prepositions. Liberal student editors hate it when you do that. You know what else they hate? When you wear wedding socks to work at a college newspaper.

When they realized I wasn’t going away – in spite of their near daily mocking of me with taunts like “Ralph Lauren Sucks” and “Nice Whale Sweater”, they stuck me on the police beat. And there I got to be good friends with both the OU Campus Police and the Norman Police. It was a pretty sweet gig and could have come in handy if I’d ever needed an IN at the police department to get me out of hot water. This thought, however, didn’t occur to me until much, much later so I never had the pleasure of being thrown in to the slammer and getting sprung immediately by the Chief while the arresting officer stood there in humiliated disbelief.

Too bad ‘cause I probably would have stuck my tongue out at him as the other inmates cheered me on. But we’ll never know because the worst thing I did until I was like 30 or so was lie about how long I’d practiced the piano so I could sneak in the Sunday comics before my parents got home from church. I’d gone to the early service, after all.

And no, that statement is NOT an invitation to publicly remind me of anything I did contrary to this image I’ve created of my younger self - Saint Lori of Oklahoma.

Have I mentioned that the liberal student editor didn’t like me? Well, as it turns out, I wasn’t very good at my police beat job. Seems I didn’t have a very good sense as to what might be considered TOO MUCH INFORMATION. I even got an angry phone call once from an ALLEGED victim after her name appeared in MY column. I hate it when I feel censored like that BARBARA COLLINS.

We eventually had to break it off, The Oklahoma Daily and me. So imagine my delight over 20 years later to find my little small town newspaper actually publishes the police blotter of my DREAMS.

I love the police blotter in my little newspaper so much I clip them out and save them in a file labeled “Police Blotter”. I like to be organized. I don’t scrapbook them or anything – I’m not a total psycho – but I put them here on MY blog BECAUSE I CAN PUT ANYTHING ON HERE I WANT. ARE YOU LISTENING BARBARA COLLINS?

Here’s one from May 9 …

A caller worried that sounds of a distressed cow had been coming from the creek. The caller was advised that three heifers were being weaned and although animal had food and water, they were “just not happy.”

I love it when the cops are called to provide comfort to baby* cows being weaned.

* My friend Dr. Jeff, who is a veterinarian and also has a PhD in like, advanced veterinarianism, would correct me about the term “baby” cow. He would call them a neonate. But when I typed out “I love it when the cops are called to provide comfort to neonate cows” it just didn’t pack quite the same comedic punch. And I’m all about throwing comedic punches. Jeff has to type s l o w l y and in B I G letters for me to understand him.

Okay, here’s another one from May 9:

A resident wanted advice regarding a porcupine that was in a tree.

Um, here’s some advice for you …

STAY AWAY FROM THE FRICKING PORCUPINE IN THE TREE

There. That wasn't so hard.

And, last but not least, May 12 involved yet another animal-related 911 call. Apparently it’s the animals causing all the problems around here …

A caller with a rat in a shoe box wanted it picked up.

"Howdy, ma’am. So let me get this straight. You want ME to pick up YOUR rat and do exactly WHAT with it? Oh, well then maybe you shouldn’t have gotten a rat if you weren’t going to be able to care for it properly. Don’t you know we’ve got rats languishing in shelters all over the country?"

I just hate irresponsible rat owners. She probably wanted her box back too.

Breaking News Alert: Photobucket Shamed Into Submission

noreply@blogger.com (Lori) — Tue, 10 Feb 2009 15:57:00 +0000

Well, my little tirade last night must have worked because, today, Photobucket has retreated from my blog. They did, however, leave behind a little GO button near the top that I've yet to figure out. So feel free to treat it like your own little genie with commands such as:

Fit back in to my prom dress GO

Erradicate the mice that chewed a hole in my patio furniture GO

Turn the clock back to August 2001 and cash out all my investments GO

Or better yet, turn back the clock to 1941 and invent velcro GO

You get the picture. But if you wind up in some parallel universe don't come crying to me.

Tormenting My Neighborhood ... Again

noreply@blogger.com (Lori) — Tue, 10 Feb 2009 15:15:00 +0000

This is the email I just sent out to my neighborhood. I like sending emails out to my neighborhood. They don’t know what to think of me.

***

WORDPRESS HELP WANTED

I am looking for someone to come to my house, sit by my side, and coach me through setting up a Wordpress.com blog. I’ve got a Wordpress.com account and a hosting account at Midphase but what I don’t have is the patience or time to figure out WHY IT’S NOT WORKING. Specifically I require assistance in picking out an appropriate template, loading that template, migrating over content from a blogger account, and seeing the whole thing go - ta da! - LIVE.

I will pay you for your time, let you sit in the “good” chair and even, perhaps, make you a casserole. ‘Cause that’s the neighborly thing to do and I really, really don’t want to put this out there on Craigslist and have the Unabomber show up at my front door with his “Wordpress for Dummies” book tucked in to his camouflage jacket. I already have that book.

There are three qualifications for this plum assignment:

1. If you’re under the age of 18 and I hire you, you must agree not to make me feel old or stupid.

2. You must really know your way around Wordpress.com ‘cause I will smell it if you cram the night before and try to fake your way through it. If you do that I might still make you a casserole, but you should eat it with great caution.

3. You must be familiar with FTP and hosting, preferably Midphase or something comparable. Apparently they stopped picking up the phone the day they ran my credit card through as they’re way too busy playing with their Star Wars action figures to talk to me.

If you’re reading this and thinking OH, MY LIFE IS NOW COMPLETE call me or email me at:

Lori Jackson
(blah) blah-blahblahblahblah
LoriJackson@blahblah.com

And remember, an opportunity like this only comes around once in a lifetime.

***

I sent this one out right after I moved in to the neighborhood in 2007.

Today I filed a report with the Sheriff’s office regarding a suspicious vehicle in the neighborhood and wanted to alert the community.

A while back I noticed a silver/gray Honda (possibly Civic or Accord) driving slowly up and down the Parkway and around the pool area in the afternoon (around bus drop-off time). I stayed outside and watched him sit in front of the Upchurch’s house, slowly cruise the Parkway, disappear in to a cul-de-sac for a while and then park in the pool area. The driver looked to be a middle-aged white man. It looks like he stayed in the neighborhood at least 45 minutes that afternoon.

I mentioned this to my 6th grade daughter and she immediately knew which vehicle I was referring to as she had also seen him around the neighborhood on different occasions.

I hadn’t seen him in a while but last night another neighbor mentioned that she had encountered the same vehicle early one morning (6:15am) in January and she wrote down the vehicle’s tag number.

I gave all this information to the Sheriff’s office this morning and they will increase the patrols while the gates are open and keep an eye out, specifically, for this vehicle.

If this gray/blue Honda Civic happens to belong to your harmless Uncle Elmer and I’ve now called down the wrath of the Sheriff’s office on him while he’s out admiring the weeds in my yard, my apologies.

This email resulted in a flurry of prank phone calls to my house from “Uncle Elmer”, who, apparently, was phoning from jail after having been picked up by the sheriff and was a little concerned about his impending nuptials to a fellow inmate named Bubba.

***

And this one I sent last summer, after a 1,000 pound “decorative” concrete deer (aka “Buck”) disappeared from our curb and wound up in a neighbor’s yard wearing Mardi Gras beads and a bonnet. That neighbor wasn’t amused and demanded, via email, to know who was responsible. I, of course, responded because I, like, couldn't pass it up.

As far as “Buck” goes … THANK YOU TO WHOEVER MOVED HIM TO LEE’S YARD. I owe you a pack of Doan’s Back Pills.

You see, he was left behind by the previous owners – in the backyard next to the abandoned bathtub and the lovely display of broken pots. When we first moved in Aunt Bea would occasionally snuggle with him. But she quickly tired of him – too quiet, no sense of humor, broken antlers, rebar sticking out, faded coat. One day I couldn’t take his pitiful stare another minute so I tried to kick him out. But that boy has a bit of a weight problem and all I could manage was to drag him in to a pile of fire ants behind the palm tree.

Out of sight, out of mind. At least for a while.

As some of you may know, I was recently stripped of my “Mother of the Year” award for not only allowing, but encouraging, Wyatt to pee in the backyard. You do the math: wet kids + tile floor = indoor “Slip ‘n Slide” and trips to the emergency room. I am not ashamed. Well, I wasn’t until one day, as I was sipping a margarita and reading the Wall Street Journal by the pool, Wyatt poked his head around the palm tree and let me know he’s been peeing on Buck every day.

And that was the day I knew that deer was not only ugly, but he was a bad influence on my kid. Plus now he smelled really bad, thanks to the lack of any cleansing rains. So I loaded him up in a wagon and drug him to the curb where he sat, day after day, waiting expectantly for his new owners from Waste Management to take him to his new home. “A big sprawling farm”, I told him. “You’ll love it.”

Saturday morning came and Waste Management, well, they copped a big ole attitude. Evidently a thousand pound concrete deer with broken antlers, rebar sticking out and a faded coat was going to cramp their style. Sheesh.

So there he sat, shunned and neglected, until some angel of mercy swooped in and airlifted him to Lee’s house on gossamer wings where he now sits behind the bushes – the sassiest urine-soaked, faded out thousand pound deer with broken antlers and rebar sticking out you’ve ever seen.

The Moral of the Story? Whoever moved Buck to Lee’s yard … GO WASH YOUR HANDS.

~Lori

Honoring The Fallen

noreply@blogger.com (Lori) — Tue, 10 Feb 2009 04:40:00 +0000

Today I’m thinking about dead deer. Mostly because some deer hunter keeps flinging them out of his pickup truck on to the road leading to my house.

I hate it when deer hunters fling dead deer out of the bed of their pickup trucks on to my road. Seriously, I usually have kids in the car and they’re all SLOW DOWN or RUN IT OVER or CAN WE TAKE IT HOME?

So, in honor of the three dead deer I’m currently enjoying on my road home, I’ve named them. I got this fabulous idea my freshman year in college when Lisa and I enjoyed the rotting corpse of a giant pigeon named Spunky who met his untimely demise on the ledge right outside our unopenable dorm room window.

It’s now a little hobby of mine. Naming dead stuff.

First, we’ve got “The Godfather”.

“The Godfather” is missing his head. Only his head. The rest of his body is sitting on my road while somebody else is enjoying his head. I’m not enjoying his body. If I ever find out who left “The Godfather” to me and my road I will most certainly go all BRANDO on him and sneak what’s left of his body into a certain deer hunters bed.

Next we’ve got “Haggis”.

Hmmmmm. How to describe this fella. Well, let’s start with Scotland.

Haggis is probably the only reason I’ve never visited Scotland. Haggis is like the pizza of Scotland, except it’s made of organ meat and all other kinds of nastiness. And I, personally, find it necessary to say NO NO NO to Haggis. While, at the same time, saying YES YES YES to pizza.

I’m pretty sure the deer hunter who left dead deer on my road isn’t Scottish, OR ELSE HE WOULDN’T BE LEAVING ALL THAT YUMMY ORGAN MEAT TO BLOAT AND DECOMPOSE IN THE SUN ON MY ROAD.

You see what I’m sayin’ here.

BUT WAIT, you ask. WHAT ABOUT THE BUZZARDS? DON’T THEY EAT HAGGIS?

Well, NO. They’re over in front of Elmer’s Place at “#1 Chinese Buffet” completely ignoring THAT.

“#1 Chinese Buffet” or, as we affectionately call him: “Nummawonchineebuffay”.

Mercifully, this guy is covered in buzzards. Big buzzards. I love buzzards. They’re like the little Waste Management crew of the country. And I really love the way they actually stand on top of “Nummawonchineebuffay” while they’re pecking away at him. They’re all jostling elbows and giant beaks. Fighting over the good stuff. Except for Haggis. They don’t like Haggis.

But, big wings and big bodies mean I can let my imagination soar without seeing much more than a hoof and a tuft of fur being tossed in to the air.

In all fairness, “#1 Chinese Buffett” may not have been the victim of my nemesis, the dead deer dumping deer hunter. But given his proximity to “The Godfather” and “Haggis” I’m pretty certain I’m right.

Surprise surprise.

So, here's an open letter to the dead deer dumping deer hunter of Old Fred Road.

STOP IT. There's a good chance I'm driving with my left knee with a serious case of hyper sensitive gag reflex and the last thing I need is to throw up a Filet O' Fish sandwich in my car.

photobucket

noreply@blogger.com (Lori) — Tue, 10 Feb 2009 03:05:00 +0000

please, someone clear this up for me:

who is PHOTOBUCKET and why have they taken over my blog?

i've changed the template.

i've checked all the layout settings.

i've unloaded and reloaded my lovely pictures.

and yet PHOTOBUCKET remains ... demanding that i "Upgrade To Pro Today".

um, no. not until you remove your stupid, stupid pictures from MY highly sophisticated home on the internet.

i'm obviously not smart enough to have a blog.

Please Pass The Parmesan

noreply@blogger.com (Lori) — Sat, 03 Jan 2009 21:53:00 +0000

Around October every year I refrain from making any last minute impulse purchases for myself and starting feeding them as Christmas gift tips to JJ. This eliminates the guesswork on his part and ensures I get what I want. Which is, of course, the whole point of Christmas.

One evening back in October I found myself ALL ALONE in Walgreens while waiting for them to fill a scrip. And by ALL ALONE I’m not talking WALGREENS ONLY CUSTOMER … I’m talking about the only 30 minute window of time during 2008 I didn’t have a child, spouse or dog attached to my hip. In celebration of my aloneness and the absence of questions like WHERE’S THE MILK or HOW DOES GRAVITY WORK , I decided to treat myself to something nice.

After surveying my options … shower cap? new socks? nose hair clipper? purple fingernail polish? … I narrowed my selection down to either the Scooby Doo Chia Pet or the Ped Egg. Now, I have to tell ya, Scooby Doo almost won out because (a) being a child of the ‘70’s I spent every Saturday morning glued to either Scooby Doo or Land of the Lost cartoons and what could be cooler than Scooby Doo growing out of some mysterious organic material? (b) and, I’ve been hyper-skeptical of the Ped Egg since it first stormed the shores of women’s feet everywhere and all the praise started … blah, blah, blah.

I think, deep down, all that Ped Egg praise wore down my self-esteem as I was pretty much convinced my heels would snap that dinky little cheese grater in two and I’d be the first woman in history to take them up on their “money back guarantee”.

And just as I was about to throw caution to the wind and toss the Ped Egg in to my basket (keep in mind, this story might have had a completely different ending if Walgreens had just carried the Land of the Lost Sleestack Chia Pet) I realized THIS would make a perfect addition to JJ’s “Christmas Tip List”.

So Christmas rolls around and OH! SURPRISE! MOMMY GOT A PED EGG!

After days spent digesting pie and picking Christmas wrap and tape off the tile floors I finally broke open my new pink Ped Egg the other day and commenced to shaving enough skin off my heels to pretty much guarantee I’m back down to a size 9 shoe.

And that handy little storage compartment of shavings? Well, I managed to get a RETCH AND A GAG out of JJ when I showed him the fruits of my labor and reminded him that even though it looked like PARMESAN CHEESE don’t go sprinklin’ it on his spaghetti and meatballs. Bonus.

Only problem is all that shaving revealed two Grand Canyon sized cracks in my heels that had been buried under inches of a dried, calcified skin-like substance. And those cracks have been killing me. Or maybe it’s that I accidentally shaved all the way down to the bone. Regardless, once the bleeding stops and they get the skin grafts to take my heels are gonna look awesome.

But this is what I noticed this morning as I was caressing this wonder of the modern world … I’ve got the PROFESSIONAL model.

Says so right on the egg.

This, my friends, is not for amateurs. Sure, I’ve been benched after my initial test run but after my mandatory healing time I’m ready to take on the big boys.

That’s right. I’m going pro.

I’ve got the talent. I’ve got the tool. I’ve got the heels.

And I’m thinking it’s about time to start looking for sponsors. You know, lucrative endorsement deals. I’m willing to make room on my PROFESSIONAL PED EGG for paid logos and advertisements. Heck, I’d even let “Wonder Bread” sew a couple of patches on to my bathrobe - just like the NASCAR jumpsuit Will Ferrell wears in “Talladega Nights”.

And while white bread sponsors would be okay … I do, after all, let my kids wad up slices of white bread and stuff them en masse in to their mouths while we’re dining out at Rudy’s BBQ just down the road … I’d rather hear from the folks at Jack Link’s Beef Jerky, just so they’d let me be in one of their ”Messin’ With Sasquatch” commercials, which have completely changed my life.

So, if you’re reading this Jack Link (and I’m sure you are), have your people get in touch with my people. Let’s talk. I am, after all, a PROFESSIONAL and thinkin’ the only heels nastier than my pre PED EGG heels could only be found on a creature like Big Foot. It’s a match made in heaven.

"the clarification you require to get through your day"

noreply@blogger.com (Lori) — Thu, 20 Mar 2008 17:42:00 +0000

a thought occurred to me in the car yesterday.

on our little road trip to explore the miles and miles of country roads we've so nicely transplanted ourself in to.

on our way out to visit our friends bill & tammi and their kids mckenna and grace.

on our way out to surely overstay our welcome by not leaving until 8 o'clock last night.

on our way out to sponge pizza and cheesey bread off of them.

on our way out to hug their necks and tell them how much we've missed them.

on our way out to laugh manically at everyone who chooses to remain in frozen colorado while those of us with two brain cells to rub together have moved ourselves to the land of warmth and fire ants.

on our way out to sit on a swing underneath the oak trees, to feed deer, watch our kids play in the sand, and to plan gardens.

this is the very thought that occurred to me and the very one that i must now convey to you.

urgently.

riley is NOT the boss of wyatt's belly button.

how do i know this?

because wyatt informed us of this exactly 3,963 times in the car yesterday on our 160 mile roundtrip roadtrip.

so allow me sum it up for you again - in the event you're still operating with the confused notion that riley is, in fact, the boss of wyatt's belly button.

RILEY IS NOT THE BOSS OF WYATT'S BELLY BUTTON.

now you may get on with your day.

sweet sweet revenge

noreply@blogger.com (Lori) — Wed, 19 Mar 2008 18:16:00 +0000

this is what happens to naughty dogs in the Jackson household:

superhero costumes.

plastic-y vinyl vests.

masks with your ears pulled through the eye holes.

belts.

and you’re all like “WHAT? that patio furniture deal was like MONTHS ago.”

and i'm all like “yeah, and I’m STILL ticked off about the cushions. i am so leaving you to the mercy of the kids.”

i'd suggest gettin' your POWER RANGER ON there aunt bea. and be happy about it.

those indians are sure nice folks

noreply@blogger.com (Lori) — Thu, 07 Feb 2008 22:20:00 +0000

so let me frame this for you ...

1. bought a macbook laptop.

2. loaded quicken on the mac

3. re-created our entire financial "sichiashun" on the mac ... both personal and business.

4. couldn't do something really simple in quicken on the mac.

5. spent 2 days attempting to communicate with quicken.

6. quicken hates mac, they told me they intentionally left that part out of quicken for mac just to irritate me.

7. quicken has no plans to play with future macs.

(BIG SIGH)

8. bought a new desktop PC, along with quicken 2008 for PEEEEEEEEEECEEEEEEEEEEEEES.

9. quicken 2008 loads nicely, finances are happy again and my bank loves me.

10, now, on to the fun stuff for my new PC, such as screen savers, email and whatnot.

11. the "good" folks at best buy told me i could load my existing office 2003 on Vista as i'd rather spend the $300 gazillion dollars they're charging for office 2007 on things such as ringtones for my cellphone and candy.

12. office 2003 installation gives me RUNTIME ERRORS ON LINES 60, 253, 56 and 79.

(i know what you're thinking ... NOT LINE 79!!!!!!)

13. office 2003 pouts like a big giant crybaby and won't load.

14. i ring up bill gates and let him know the folks at best buy are lying butt-heads and office 2003 won't load.

15. good ole bill rings up sayed shafaquat in india to personally assist me with the office 2003 temper tantrum.

16. sayed whispers sweet nothings in my ear ... things like "msconfig" and "disable boot".

17. sayed saves the day, office 2003 loads and my new Vista computer sings happily before i resort to sticking my cold wet finger in its ear.

18. like i said before, those indians are sure nice folks.

i'll take the chapstick for two thousand pat

noreply@blogger.com (Lori) — Wed, 06 Feb 2008 04:56:00 +0000

this better be dang good chapstick.

you see, we recently purchased a CAR, which is pretty cool given that we'd spent 20 years taking things like snowdrifts taller than our house in to consideration when buying vehicles. this fact pretty much kept us in the SUV/4WD category for a lot of years.

after we bought our new CAR the nice car dealership people sent us packing with the grownup version of a birthday party treat bag ... a bottle of wine ... a couple of nifty coffee cups ... john got a baseball cap and i got a $25 gift card to Saks Fifth Avenue.

cool.

now, as you know, we live pretty close to the Bass Pro Shops but not too close to a Saks.

Bass Pro Shops tossed me out on my hiney when i tried to cash in my $25 Saks gift card on a camouflage teddy. you know, to give john a little valentine's thrill. so, this evening, i resorted to shopping at http://www.saks.com/ with the clearly defined mission of spending no more than the $25 on the gift card. including tax and shipping and the oh so mysterious "handling" charges.

HA

HAHAHHAHAHA

i looked. i mean i really, really looked. then i looked some more.

then it became an obsessive mission ... find the ONE THING on http://www.saks.com/ that costs less than $25.

chapstick.

yep, chapstick.

"sugar" chapstick to be specific.

i was so excited ... evidently sugar chapstick will only run ya $22.50.

tax on sugar chapstick is gonna cost ya $1.41.

shipping and "handling" clocks in at a low low price of $4.00.

"but wait", sayeth you math wizards. "that adds up to $27.91"

well, yes, i did have to put $2.91 on my credit card in order to have my sugar chapstick delivered right to my homebound lips.

i was feeling pretty good, and all, licking my chops in anticipation of my new sugar chapstick jetting its way to my poor chapped lips.

sugar chapstick. i bet brad pitt wears sugar chapstick.

and then i reached for my trusty tin of carmex in order to soothe my newly chapped lips and realized i just spent $27.91 on CHAPSTICK.

$27.91 on CHAPSTICK. oh yeah, i got a smokin' deal.

all i've got to say is it better taste better than the grape Bonnie Bell lipsmackers i used to wear on a cord around my neck in grade school. well, i wore it looped around my neck until the day i left it hanging on my mirror and my little brother dustin broke in to my bedroom and ate the entire tube of grape Bonnie Bell lipsmackers and got sick.

i'll let ya know how my newly sugared $27.91 lips turn out.

impress your friends and neighbors with this trick

noreply@blogger.com (Lori) — Wed, 16 Jan 2008 22:19:00 +0000

oh, the joy of being a parent. our kids teach us so much.

for example, yesterday my 11 year old daughter came home looking like she'd been making out with a spider monkey in the back row of a movie theater.

yep, she was sporting a couple of hickeys. remember them? those little (or sometimes not so little) bruises acquired when another human being sucks on your neck?

if you don't know what i'm talking about, just pay close attention the next time you're standing in line to ride a roller coaster or you're picking up a 12 pack of crunchwrap supremes from the teenager at the taco bell drive-thru. chances are you'll get an eye full.

except hers weren't on her neck. imagine bruises around her mouth ... kinda like alice cooper makeup.

"whadja do to your lips?" i asked innocently when she got home from school.

"whadda mean?" she replied. innocently.

"go check 'em out." i sweetly demanded.

okay, so it appears you don't have to actually involve another human being in the hickey-giving or hickey-receiving process. turns out a little bitty eraser, as in the kind you pop on to the top of a pencil, will do. spider monkeys probably work too but the for the purpose of this demonstration we'll just stick with the pencil eraser method of self-hickey application:

step 1: squeeze the open end of the eraser in to a slit.

step 2: stick the now-slitted end of the eraser on to the skin all around your delicate lip area where it will open up and create suction, thereby sticking all by itself to the skin all around your delicate lip area.

step 3: repeat steps 1 and 2

step 4: repeat steps 1 and 2 again until you are out of erasers

step 5: lipsynch "slow ride" by foghat (which you have mastered thanks to hours and hours of practice on the guitar hero) for your friends with erasers hanging off your face causing them to fall on the floor in hysterical laughter and shoot milk out of their nose at the lunch table.

step 6: check out your brand new "eraser hickeys". ah, the sweet smell of victory.

they're still pretty vivid today, over 24 hours later, so chances are if you've got a big social event coming up like a wedding or a deposition or something you could get 'em going a couple of days early, time permitting, and still impress everyone with some manufactured evidence of your wild monkey-suckin' passionate love life.

well, i gotta run, tomorrow night's bunco night here in the neighborhood and i'm thinking a couple of hickeys is just the thing i need to get the ladies buzzing with jealousy over a rousing game of dice.

question of the day

noreply@blogger.com (Lori) — Wed, 09 Jan 2008 00:10:00 +0000

people often ask me "Lori, how do you keep your house so clean?"

okay, not really, but sometimes i wake up at 4am dreaming that people ask me that question. then i get up and go to the bathroom and wipe the dog hair off my feet before i get back in to bed.

but here's the catch. it's CLEAN dog hair.

so, grab a cup of coffee ... i'm about to share with you an underappreciated method to keep your house neat and tidy even when you live with dogs.

because this part is formal and all, i'm going to break down and use the CAPS key. here ya go ...

Step 1: Get Yourself a Labrador Retriever. Actually, I find an AKC registered Labrador Retriever that looks, acts and bays like a Bloodhound works best. You can name her "Aunt Bea" if you're so inclined.

Step 2: Move your frozen behind to the subtropical regions of Texas and be sure you buy yourself a house with a pool. This is a must.

Step 3: Get yourself the niftiest ball-throwing device since the invention of the slingshot ... it's called a "Chuckit". The "Chuckit" makes Tony Romo's throwing arm look like a girly-man. I can easily get close to 100 yards on that thing with a tennis ball. Okay, so I haven't actually measured that but I can get the ball over the neighbor's driveway without throwing my back out.

Step 4: Have a little agreement with your dog ... I will chuck the ball (get it? get it? "Chuckit" ... CHUCK IT ... those crazy ball throwing inventors sure knew how give it a name) ... and you, my beloved dog ... will go get it.

Step 5: CAUTION: This is a "multi-step" step ...

Me: Bend Over, Chuck the ball.

DOG: Run Run Run Get The Ball Run Run Run Bring It Back.

Me: Bend Over, Chuck the ball.

DOG: Run Run Run Get The Ball Run Run Run Bring It Back.

Me: Bend Over, Chuck the ball.

DOG: Run Run Run Get The Ball Run Run Run Bring It Back.

Step 6: Repeat Step 5 until your dog's legs begin to shake and they're too exhausted to even open their jaws wide enough to let go of the ball. THIS is when you strike.

Step 7: Turn the quivering mass of overheated dog out in to the backyard and soon they will be paddling around the pool, even when the temperature dips below freezing. They will exit the pool and attempt to shake their water all over you before returning to the pool for another go 'round. This is a good time to hide behind the grill.

Step 8: Repeat Steps 5 and 6 and 7 several times a day.

We find that the laps around the pool not only serve to clean off the dog's hair, but to also loosen it up nicely so that when the dog is allowed back in the house to roll around on the brand new carpeting in order to dry off, the nice, clean hair sheds off nicely.

plus, nothing says "Clean House" like the smell of a wet dog.

least that's how we do it it 'round here.

olympic church and the tooth fairy

noreply@blogger.com (Lori) — Tue, 25 Dec 2007 05:12:00 +0000

toddler wrestlin' through christmas eve church should be an olympic sport.

really.

just ask the nice folks behind us this evening.

if wyatt weren't so darn cute and snuggly i might have pulled his hair and made him cry.

i think i broke a bra strap. and broke a sweat. in church.

it wasn't that he was naughty. he's just 4 and it's christmas and he loves the caroles and singing loud and he's pretty darn sure that because he stopped sticking out his tongue at riley around november 29 he's a shoo-in for the big santa spiderman haul.

you think i 'm kidding about the sweating thing.

not.

on the lap. on the floor. head in lap with feet draped over my ears.

hands in pants. hands caught in pants. frantic ripping and tearing to remove hands from pants causes major snuggy during "silent night".

fake napping complete with snoring.

"did baby Jesus poop?" questions.

yep, he's 4. and guess what else 4 year olds do?

they also lose teeth. on christmas eve.

so, tonight, we're breathlessly awaiting the SANTA CLAUS VERSUS THE TOOTH FAIRY WWF SMACKDOWN

'cause, really, i don't know what kind of mayhem will ensue when/if santa and the tooth fairy bump in to each other in my kitchen tonight.

i hear towels popping and tutus ripping.

santa, of course, has the reindeers to tag in in case the fighting gets dirty. i hear rudolph packs a mean left hoof. to the best of my knowledge the tooth fairy is a bit of a loner.

so, i'd love to sit here and chat all evening but i've got other stuff to do ... like fix my bra.

merry Christmas.