Turkey Poppins and other Thanksgiving Shenanigans

Holiday gatherings are like Lego’s. They look all festive and neat and wonderful when you’re in the planning stages, but once you open that bad boy up, it falls apart quicker than a potato chip model of the great pyramids.  People and pieces are going missing, the instructions are in the wrong language, and somebody inevitably gets crippled by stepping on something. Oh, they’re still fun, but things always seem take an unexpected turn.

Thanksgiving is probably the most dangerous holiday. In the space of a couple of days, your life is in thrown in the blender like your mother-in-laws lumpy gravy. At my house alone, I’ve seen things stabbed, sat on fire, hosed down, burnt to a crisp, and yes, thrown out in the yard. This year, we’re gonna make sure whoever cuts open the bird has at least a six-figure life insurance policy.

The whole Thanksgiving tradition is a little weird to me. Let’s all gather in the dining room as we dig stuffing from where the sun don’t shine in this poor, unfortunate Turducken that ran a little too slow this year. May we count our blessings as we gut this sucker like a hog and use his guts for garters. May the six pounds of butter used to prepare this meal be nourishment to our bodies, and may the tryptophan be our drug of choice this blessed holiday. Amen and hurry up:  the game comes on in thirty.

We like fire at Thanksgiving, too. A couple of years ago, we sat fire to the table before the food ever left the stove. That’s what happens when you ask a man to set the table; he doesn’t move the candles, he puts the Brawny on top of them. Well, guess what? There’s a reason Mr. Lumberjack ain’t fightin’ fires on their commercials. He may look all sophisticated in his mountain man chic ensemble, but he ain’t fire-retardant.

If you want your family to enjoy the holidays like a bunch of true rednecks, go get you a turkey fryer. We’ve used one for several years now, so I’m gonna give you a few pointers.

1.       Use them outside. Spilled grease and mop water makes for a grumpy Black Friday.

2.       Keep the children away. Your best bet is to send the kids snipe huntin’ as long as the grease is bubblin’.

3.        Keep the frying zone free of animosity, grudges, and hatred in general. I ain’t gonna name names, but I’ve seen a person that I love deep fry a 275-lb. annoyance with an ill-timed “slip of the turkey.” That feller’s #34 Herschel Walker jersey is now attached to his beer gut like a screen-printed billboard.

But the turkey fun doesn’t stop at the foot of the table.

This past summer, momma and I took the kids up to the Chestatee Wildlife Preserve to see the animals. If you haven’t been there, it’s a really nice day trip for the family. There’s lots of poop, so the kids will love it.

In one of the open range areas, they had a bunch of turkeys running around. By the way, if you’ve ever smelled a live turkey, you’d never eat them again.

You know, after chewing on that for a minute:  well played, Tom Turkey, well played.

But Rae-Rae was fascinated by this one particularly turkey, maybe because it kept trying to eat his butt. In typical Rae-Rae fashion, he turns around and says, “If I ever make a movie with turkeys instead of people, this one is definitely gonna be Mary Poppins.”  Holy crap, he read my mind!

Yesterday, on the way to school, the turkey strikes again. I’m rockin’ my hoodie and some most righteous bed-head; my baby girl is in the back meowing at 140 decibels, spanking herself, and working on her impersonation of The Rock;  and the boys are arguing because…well, because they’re breathing.

We come to a stop in the drop-off line when Rae-Rae makes a stunning declaration. “I’m not gonna eat turkey at Nanny’s because it’s not healthy.”So that’s why you’ve been refusing to eat for going on nine years now!  

From somewhere in the back seat, Bubby chimes in with “Reagan! You can eat it; Momma just don’t want the turkeys that cuss!”  Pardon my French, but where in the hell did that come from? 

Apparently I need to start listening to the questions they ask me instead of casually dispersing jewels of randomness.

So this year, as you’re stuffing your face with creamy casseroles, fried vegetables and cornbread dressing, take a moment to thank Tom for his sacrifice. For all we know, he could’ve been one umbrella ride away from having his name in lights. Bless his heart.

Hump Day Hindsight

Believe it or not, I’m not as far off the bell curve of normalcy as you might think. I’ve been slightly off-kilter as long as I can remember. I used to think it was a bad thing, but then I realized that I held in my hands an endangered species:  an imagination. 

When we were kids, we spent a lot of time at my granny’s house, and my cousins and I were always together. We weren't running to soccer games and lacrosse practice; we were seeing how far we could skip rocks. 

It never crossed our minds to ask to go to an expensive haunted house; we made our own in the lean-to behind her garage. If we wanted to see a movie, we piled up in the living room and messed with the rabbit ears until we could pick one up...if we were lucky.

Little Granny had a creek that flowed under the end of her long driveway, and it was our swimming hole. Now my aunt had a pool, but there's just something about squishing your toes in the mud that makes water play more fun. I swear, when we crossed that little arched bridge in her driveway, it was like crossing into a fairy tale world. 

My cousins would bring their go-carts, bikes, pogo balls of death, and anything else they had over there. The adults didn't have to ask us to go play; they had to beg us to come in and eat dinner. We had fun  in ways that I’m afraid my own kids won’t ever know. We made our own fun.

My granny had this awesome puke-green Plymouth station wagon, and it was our magic school bus. At that time, there were four of us grandkids, and we would pile up like cord wood in the back and go wherever she’d take us. I don’t know what we did that was so fun, but I remember laughing until I peed on myself more than once. What I wouldn't give for one more day of that... before life got to us. 

We had a Slip-n-Slide one summer that we got the bright idea to set up in her driveway...her bumpy, pea-gravel driveway. We’d hop on, shoot off the end of it, and get up looking like we’d exfoliated with a cheese grater. We couldn’t get back in line fast enough! 

One thing that’s different nowadays is that we could strip down to our underoos, and run outside without thinking twice. Even if you could’ve seen us from the road, it wouldn’t have mattered cause Herbert the Pervert wasn’t lurking around every corner back then.  The worst crime I’d ever heard of was my daddy putting sardines on the engine of his buddy’s car during his wedding.

We knew how to have clean, nondestructive fun back then. We climbed trees, and not cause the cops were chasing us.  We threw rocks at each other’s faces in the most loving way possible, not at people’s windshields. The only thing we ever thought about stealing was M&M’s out of granny’s covered candy dish. If you punched somebody in the liver, you got punched back. You didn't go to therapy to help you deal with your feelings from the incident; you learned not to punch anybody. 

If the weather was bad, we’d either play games rolling the balls back and forth on her pool table, trying to smash each other’s fingers, or if all else failed, play Mortal Kombat on the Nintendo. Not the Super

Nintendo or Nintendo 64, but the old school Nintendo that would have a grand mal seizure if you pushed the A and B buttons too fast.

I’ll be the first to admit that my kids love video games, but they know how to have fun outside, too. Nothing makes them happier than doing target practice with the neighbor’s cat with Co-Cola on the woodpile, or going back to the creek behind their nanny and papa’s house. We love going fishing together, and we’ve been known to spend hours just sitting outside, talking and watching squirrels. 

Y’all, that’s the stuff that matters. When they get older, they’re not gonna remember what level of Kung-Fu Cumquat they got to; they’re gonna remember those days where you got out the umbrella and took them puddle stomping in the middle of a downpour. Trust me on that one….we talked my granny into climbing this huge hill across from her house during a monsoon , and to this day, that’s one of my favorite memories of her. I don't remember if dinner was late gettin' to the table that night, or if she got mud on her britches. What I remember is that she chose us over her household duties. 

If you feel like your kids are slipping away and losing their people skills, take them outside. Skip rocks. Whittle sticks.  Watch them climb a tree. Build a blanket fort in the yard. For God’s sake, let them run through a sprinkler instead of mortgaging your house to take them to a water park. Take ‘em back to their roots, and they’ll remember where they came from. Bless their hearts like your granny blessed yours.

What were some of your favorite childhood activities that we can pass on to our children's generation? Share your favorites with us so that we can  instill some imagination in our young'uns before it's too late. Y'all be blessed today. Love y'all!

Steve Spurrier, the Divine Comedian

I hope I’ve adequately described how passionate my family is about football (please refer to The Pig-skin Apocalypse). We’re die-hard Bulldog fans, we watch college football like it’s gonna get us into heaven, and we love all things SEC….except the other coaches. And when I say ‘the other coaches’, I mean Steve Spurrier (among others). Nothing gives us greater pleasure than seeing that old man’s visor dismount and go flying into the sunset.

He’s one of those guys that no matter how much you hate him as the opposing coach, he will never fail to make you laugh, often at his own team’s expense. He’s not one to go all Michael Meyers on the English language like other notables across the miles, but he is one of the quickest wits of anybody on TV, and for that, I can’t help but like the guy.

Here are a few of my favorite Spurrier quotes.

• "You know what FSU stands for, don’t you? Free Shoes University."

• "We were fortunate…their safety, Lynn Hughes, fell down.”

•    “After being here, I can really appreciate how the Carolina people love football and love their team,…they’ve paid their dues. I’m hoping they get a return real soon.” (I’m pretty sure that's his way of blessin' y'alls hearts, Carolina fans!)

•  “The Pope is 77 years old, and he’s in charge of a billion people. All I have to do is put 11 on the field.”  (Heh heh….I guess he ain’t Catholic either!)

• When an interviewer asked him if his Gators were gonna beat Georgia, he shot back with “Is Ray Goff still the head coach?”  

• “I sort of always like playing them that second game because you could always count on them having two or three key players suspended.”~Spurrier on playing Georgia (Sorry dawgs, that’s funny!)

• "I know why Peyton (Manning) came back for his senior year:  he wanted to be a three-time Citrus Bowl MVP."

• "Obviously, my last two years in the NFL were not much fun at all."
• 
  

      But on a more serious note, it’s time to look into the man behind the myth. Parents, guard your children, this is gonna get ugly. Today, I am going to prove how this man has been wreaking havoc on our world since his momma spit him out.

1.  Stephen Orr Spurrier was born on April 20, 1945. Know who else has a birthday on April 20? Adolf Hitler, Luther Vandross, and Shemar Moore. Ten days after Spurrier was born, Hitler killed himself. In 2005, as the good coach was unloading his moving truck in Columbia, Luther Vandross suddenly died. 
2.  If you rearrange the letters of STEVE SPURRIER, you come up with VIRUS PESTERER. Tell me that’s a coincidence…those words fit him like a sweaty visor on game day.
3. In December 1966, Spurrier was awarded the Heisman for his accomplishments in the Swamp. That same month, Walt Disney died while producing “The Jungle Book.”  Steve, that's just evil., and I don't see how you sleep at night.
4. Within two weeks of his Heisman acceptance, “How The Spurrier Grinch Stole Christmas” first aired on television. Hmmm….green Grinch, green Gators…you do the math.
5. Spurrier accepted the job of Head Coach at the University of Florida on December 31, 1989. Exactly 666 days later, the perfect storm that gave George Clooney his cinematic sea legs began wreaking havoc along the eastern seaboard of the United States. Thanks a boat load, Steve. 

      I’m sure you skeptics will chalk those off to silly coincidences, but math is the language of logic and fact, and the numbers don’t lie, y’all.

      His Passing Yards as the Gator's Quarterback:  
      4,848 passing yards:  4+8+4+8=24 and 2+4=6      

      His Coaching Record at Florida:  122-27-1 

      1+2+2+2+7+1=15 and 1+5=6

     

      Spurrier is the first Heisman trophy winner to coach another Heisman winner. When you match the letters to their corresponding position in the alphabet:

      Heisman:  8+5+9+19+13+1+14=69;  6+9=15 and 1+5= 6 

      

      Hitler, who shared a birthday with Stevie Boy, turned 56 years old the day Spurrier was born. 

      56= 5+6= 11, which was (drum roll please....) Spurrier’s jersey number at Florida

  

      So this funny, sarcastic coach that we all love to hate has now taken over as the Adolf Hitler of college football; tried to steal Christmas from Whoville; potentially had Walt Disney, Batman, Luther Vandross, Marky Mark, and his boat-dwelling Funky Bunch thrown out of the game of life; and he is marked with the statistical number of the beast, 666.

      

      Don’t get me wrong…if he was on our sideline, it’d be a whole different jug of nuts. I’d be wearing a visor to church every Sunday because, like it or not, the guy is one heck of a coach! But Spurrier, I swear on all that is holy, if you lay a hand on Shemar Moore, I will hunt you down.

DISCLAIMER:  I am quite sure that Steve Spurrier is not, in fact, the devil. However, given his reign of darkness over Georgia in the 1990's, it became hard to think otherwise. The associations here are my own, but the facts are true.


Take a look,
It's In a Book,
(They Hired Ron Zook?
His goose got cooked!)
Reading Rainbow.

There's A Dead Body in the Trunk or Treat

“Hey, Momma, I’ve been practicin’ my manners for trick-or-treating! Wanna hear it?” 

Why, of course I do! The best manners I’ve heard in our house lately is when the boys apologized to their little sister for falling on her head while farting on her, instead of hovering over her nose as planned. I almost teared up…and they say chivalry’s dead!

“Trick-or-treat, smell my feet, gimme something good to eat. If you won’t, that’s okay, I’ll say thank you anyway.” 

“Well….um….Rae-rae, you’re doing real good using your purty words, but trick-or-treating is kind-of a no-no these days." It used to be okay, but now people think you don’t love God if you get a hankerin’ for some Tootsie Roll Pops.

Y’all, when your kid’s bottom lip starts quivering, you’ll do anything to make it stop. Yes, honey, you can sleep in your daddy’s tree stand with a monkey tonight if you’ll just quit the lip thing…you know I can’t take that.  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he couldn’t do anything to participate in Halloween, so I made him a deal.

“Baby boy, we’ll get you some candy, I promise. How about if we go to the Trunk-or-Treat at the church up the road? I think they give out candy there, and it’s probably a lot safer than going to stranger’s houses. It’s Friday, so y’all can have a movie night and eat some of your candy when we get home, 'kay?“ And, while he wasn’t thrilled, he put the whimper in his wallet, tucked tail and ran off to get dressed.  Phew, crisis avoided.

Later that evening, me and the kids pull up to this huge, non-denominational church that’s just up the road from our house. Hmmm…this is the “good” Halloween celebration, right? Just making sure ‘cuz the mixed signals are so thick I’m gonna have to flip on Bessie’s hazards.

By the time we get to a parking place, I’ve barely missed runnin’ over James, Peter, John, doubting Thomas, the Four My-Little-Ponies of the Apocalypse, and some angry little Missionary McNugget wearing a hounds tooth fedora, screaming “there’s 18 inches between heaven and hell:  your head and your heart, your heart and your head,” and this is before we ever hit the back lot.

On the left side of the lot, you’ve got the Dunkin’ Booth, where you and a good knuckle ball can wash away Brother Ralph’s sins, one dip at a time. Nope, not for the kiddos. That whole incident last Memorial Day with Paw-Paw’s Hoveround, the inflatable cooler, and the rather uncouth 911 operator greatly diminished our dunking spirit.

“Momma, momma! Can we go buy a cake? OH! Cupcakes!”  Honey, have you ever known Momma to say no to cupcakes? I didn’t think so.

My little buddy pulls a dollar out of his ninja britches, and hands it to Priscilla Persimmon, who is apparently hiding Fort Knox’s bounty in that little metal box.

“Can we get a chocolate cupcake with sprinkles, please?” 

“No, you have to win one. We can’t sell them.”

“Well, ma’am, could we donate five or ten bucks and take a dozen home?”

“No, I’m sorry, we can’t do that. This is a fundraiser.”

Rae-rae is completely and utterly confused by now. I know, son, I know. They’re trying to raise money, so they won’t take yours. You’ll understand one day. Or if my day of revelation comes first, I’ll explain it to you.

“Momma, can I please get a chocolate one? They look really good!” I may be a visitor at this festival, but I’m about to get red up in here. Trying to keep my cool, I go at her one more time. 

“Ma’am, we would really like to take home a cake…some cupcakes….a pie…..cookies….anything that you would be willing to sell us.”

“Well, ma’am, the Bible says that it angered Jesus when sinners conducted business in the temple. We surely couldn’t do such a thing.”

Houston, we have a  problem, and she’s driving a big ‘ole truck. 

TO BE CONTINUED...

A Day of Reflection...

Last night, my son laid in the bed crying because his stomach hurt. We were there to comfort him until he drifted off to sleep. This morning, my other son woke up throwing up, and I was here to take care of him. Needless to say, we are all sharing a pajama day at home today...and we are able to make that choice. For that, we thank you. 

My granddaddy, Pa Fred, was a veteran of the United States Air Force, and his career was his badge of honor until the day he died. The picture above is from his funeral. Because his funeral was two days before Christmas, they didn't know if they would be able to locate a full honor guard....but they did. For that, we thank you.

These young men and women changed their own holiday plans to accommodate the grief of our family. As the three-volley salute pierced the air, I couldn't help but think of how terrifying those sounds must be when your life is hanging in the valance. As they handed the folded flag to his wife, their tears fell along with our family's. For that, we thank you. 

I see people wishing one another a Happy Veteran's Day today, and I can't help but think that happy is such an ill-fitting word for the occasion.

There's nothing happy about two little girls crying themselves to sleep because their daddy is deployed...again.

There's nothing happy about the spouse back home that refuses to watch the news because she doesn't need any commercialized headlines to fuel the fire of her fears.

There's nothing happy about a young man with his whole life ahead of him being extinguished in the line of duty.

There's nothing happy about a veteran that can't close his eyes without reliving the agony of combat.

There's nothing happy about a parent being forced to bury their child, no matter how noble the cause.

So today, I hope that we all share a reflective Veteran's Day.

Today, I hope that we all share an appreciative Veteran's Day.

Today, I hope that we all share a prayerful Veteran's Day.

And for the right to do so, we thank you.

Momma's Curse: We've Only Just Begun (Part 2)

(If you missed Part 1, you can read it here.)

There is a ligament that connects the cochlea, located in the inner ear, to the male reproductive organ. From the earliest stages of development, the male species is unable to process multiple female signals simultaneously. 

Picture it...you go into little Jimmy Jam's room in the morning to find him staring at his crotch and screaming like a banshee. It's the moment every little boy experiences, where he thinks his 'little friend' has rigor mortise. They scream. They cry. They want to know who killed their best friend. If you listen closely, you’ll notice that when they are focusing on their appendages, they will not hear a word you say.

 “Momma, what’s wrong with it?! Is it gonna fall off? I want my daddy!” During this time, you could be promising them a PlayStation 4, reading the Declaration of Independence, or reciting the third act of Macbeth in Hebrew:  it will not matter. When the male species is focused on one, the other is moot.

Once young men reach puberty and eventually begin dating, the condition becomes more significant. 

However, to all the single ladies out there, you have a very small window of opportunity that you'd better grab like the last $5 Christmas tree on Black Friday. When the male attempts to woo the female, he learns that he must occasionally choose auditory processing over their, um, primal instinct. 

On the first date with a beautiful young lady, for example, your average male will become interested in some things like never before:

·         Cats and their accessories

·         Chauvinistic Tendencies in 21^st century males

·         The Prevalence of Prehistoric Parenting in Pigskin Parrish

·         Hormonal Typhoons in Greeklandia

At this phase of the relationship, the male will listen like his life depends on it. If she asks him a question, his chances of answering coherently grow exponentially... to approximately 43%.

Ladies, let me give you a piece of advice. 

When you give the goods away, the deafness comes to stay. 

Now, I’m not trying to get all up in your business here, but scientifically, I am obligated to provide evidence of my theory. It doesn't matter if you are a 35-year-old newlywed that's never held hands before, or the promiscuous campus hostess known as Round-Heeled Rebecca:  when you give the goods away, the deafness comes to stay. Once the male’s focus has relocated to Ecuador, anatomically speaking, the frontier land between their ears may as well have a "For Sale By Owner" sign. Until she learns how to grunt, pour, fetch, fry, and woo in his language, her words will never again be properly synthesized.

What does this have to do with Momma’s curse? At this stage of development, when momma’s start dispersing the curse like a Splash Mountain of holy water, this young man will choose to stop visiting the northern frontier land altogether, and move to Ecuador to be in the Piece Peace Corps. He has abdicated his role as Chief S.O.S., or Somewhat Observant Son, and taken on the role of CEO of Dude-She-Wants-Me-I-Gotta-Pop-My-Pecks-Beer-Me-Brah, Inc. 

Whether you’re in Luxembourg or Baton Rouge, men cannot hear you once their circuit board heads south of the border. No matter how many times you chant the curse, they will not hear you. Ladies, when you marry these young South American Romeo’s, there won’t be a stamp on their forehead that says “Cursed:  Return to Sender”. You will be oblivious to the curse until it’s too late.

My mother-in-law passed away before I met my husband, but I like to think that if I did get to meet her on this side of the tracks, I would throw myself at her feet, and cry “Dear, sweet woman, why hast thou afflicted thy offspring with such a curse? Surely, no man raiseth the monsters of his own accord; he doth require the hand of a housemaid. Why hast thou bound thee with such evils?”

When you see your children submit videos to YouTube, and they respond by sending a uniformed officer to your door, thank the curse.

When your child gives himself a black eye while sitting on the couch watching Sponge Bob, thank the curse.

When your precious baby girl drops a word that would make Andrew Dice Clay shrink in embarrassment, thank the curse.

When your child packs their own lunch and finishes off their meal by chugging their flask full of Hi-C, thank the curse.

When you haven’t made it through a dinner without threatening to inflict bodily harm in more than 5 years, thank the curse.

If one of your children has ever corrected another child on the proper grammatical usage of a word on the soap list, thank the curse. 

By the way, y'all, I never understood the whole ‘wash their mouth out with soap’ thing, but dad gum it, it really works! We like to use Dove because it’s pure, and will leave the inside of their cheeks well hydrated without leaving film or residue. Since they're gonna lie about brushing their teeth later, I can at least do my part to take care of their chompers. 

With the Dove treatment, it took exactly twice to knock the message home. It won’t make them sick and it won’t poison them, but it will make them seriously reconsider their choice of words next time. The funny, I mean ironic, part is that when they get to spit the soap out, the first thing they want to do is rinse their mouth out with water…which rather expeditiously turns them into a Maytag...and what woman can't use an extra pair of hands in the laundry department?

TO BE CONTINUED...(It was a long weekend!)

Momma's Curse: Part 1

Enjoy a bonus installment for the weekend! Part 1 of a 3-part series...depending on how the kids behave this weekend. It could end up being much, much longer.

“Boy, when you grow up and get married and have kids, I hope they’re just like you.”When you hear a momma say this, she’s not talking about hugs and kisses, and helping little old ladies across the street. Once these words have been uttered, your days are numbered...'cuz Momma knows.

We often forget about the curse doing our young adult years. We go off to college, party a little, study a little, and drain our parents’ bank accounts until ‘it’ happens. We meet that special someone that rocks our world six ways to Sunday. Chances are, they are the most beautiful/handsome person ever born, they have a 4.0 without ever cracking a book, and they teach Indonesian children how to raise bamboo and milk sheep in their spare time.

 Before long, the two of you are taking naps on Sunday afternoons, going to visit his granny in the nursing home, and he knows which weekend of the month to show up with a fun–sized candy bar and a truck load of tampons. Did I say a fun-sized candy bar? I meant, a bag of fun-sized candy bars. If you show up with one of those bite-size Snickers, the only sugar you're gonna get is still on the shelf at the Dollar General. Gentlemen, by the time you’re out of the doghouse, your Everlasting Gobstoppers will have withered to Runts.

But it’s at this point in the relationship that certain things need to be discussed.

1. When are you going to put a ring on it? 

2. Where are we going to live?
3. Do we want to have children?

4. Did your momma put the curse on you? 

Ladies, there are a couple of important lessons to be learned here. The male species, known in the scientific community as Bullcrapacoccus Procreatoris, lies. Second, but equally as important, male children are born with a certain condition that affects them from the moment they leave the womb, but don’t hold your breath waiting on it to be discussed in the New England Journal of Medicine.

There is a ligament that connects the cochlea, located in the inner ear, to the male reproductive organ. From the earliest stages of development, the male species is unable to process multiple female signals simultaneously.

TO BE CONTINUED...