Early Clues

As a little boy I loved to play with barbies. I didn't actually own any, but I had seven girl cousins that lived just across town (yes, seven girls and no boys all in one estrogen overloaded family), and they had barbies with all of the accessories in abundance. I would play with my cousins and their barbies until they couldn't stand it any more. They would wander off to play something else, leaving me happily in charge of a whole barbie world until my mom would drag me away, home to my boring toys for boys. Don't get me wrong, I liked my cars and trucks and legos and lincoln logs, but they just didn't fascinate me. Tiring of these things, I would make up fantasy worlds of my own, often starring me as Jamie Summers (the Bionic Woman), Diana Prince (Wonder Woman) or Isis.

At school, my friends were all girls, and I had plenty of them; even then I was attracting friends that were girls. I just always had so much in common with them and hardly anything in common with the boys. Other boys told me I acted like a girl, walked like a girl, and talked like a girl. They called me words like faggot, homo, and fem. I didn't even know what those words meant, although they made me feel terrible. Those boys sure had me figured out way before I did.

Then there was the summer that I spent in my mom's basement sewing room sewing barbie clothes for Katrine's barbies. Or the many times I begged her to let me style her hair (although the results were always disastrous and I ended up laughing at her and she ended up crying and running to her room). Of course there was the phase that I went through wearing a towel on my head pretending it was my long beautiful hair, or the months I spent convincing my mom I needed glasses because I wanted to have the same ones as Diana Prince (again, Wonder Woman). Imagine my disappointment when the optometrist said my eyes were fine.

I hated sports of any kind. Hated. Well, except tetherball and 4-square, of course. (Are those even sports?) Football and basketball games on tv would make me really mad, in fact I would seethe every time my dad would stand in front of a BYU football game on the 13 inch black and white tv, loudly grumbling and shouting profanities such as, "Awwww, hellll!" or "Damn! Come on!" or our favorite, "Judas Priest!"

At about the age of eleven, the prepubescent hormones started kicking in.

That's when things started getting complicated.

Another Visit From an Old Friend

Look who stopped in for a visit! What a nice surprise. . . coming home at the end of a long day and finding this in my bathtub.

The Worst Food in America

This just in: Men's Health magazine reports that the Outback Steakhouse Aussie Cheese Fries with Ranch Dressing appetizer is the Worst Food in America. With 2,900 calories, 182 grams of fat and 240 grams of carbs, this favorite starter is more than enough to satisfy your calorie requirements for an entire day.
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Huh? This is my favorite thing about going to Outback Steakhouse! (Although this photo does it no justice.) In general I think I'm a pretty healthy eater, so imagine my surprise when I ran across this bit of information. Good thing I only go there once in a while. And Giancarlo and I do share them.
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Other items on this list of the Top 20 Worst Foods in America?
#20: McDonald's Chicken Selects Premium Breast Strips. 830 calories
#16: Chipotle Mexican Grill Chicken Burrito: 1, 170 calories
#13: Taco Bell's On the Border Grande Taco Salad with Taco Beef: 1,450 calories
#2: Chili's Awesome Blossom. 2,710 calories
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Thank God it didn't say anything about double cheese burgers with large fries from Carl's Jr., or Panda's Orange Chicken, or Olive Garden's Steak and Gorgonzola Fettucine, or Mimi's Cafe's Black and Bleu Chicken Quesadilla, or Baja Fresh's Baja Steak Burrito, or BJ's Pizookies, or Pizza Hut Supreme Pizza, or an extra large movie popcorn with unlimited refills or the Sourdough Jack!

Tia Ely, La Fabulosa

I look a little wicked. But I'm fabulous.

I am Tia Ely.

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You may recognize me from the previous episode of The Jason Show, entitled My Bit Fat Mexican Thanksgiving. Blogging about me made Jason realize that he's been overlooking a very entertaining topic: me!

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*I speak my mind. I make people laugh, especially Jason, most of the time. However, sometimes my frankness makes at least one family member or another furious!

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*I think it's hysterical to teach Diego dirty words in Spanish. Every time I visit I test him to see if he remembers his previous swear lesson. This makes me so proud. This makes Jason clench his teeth.

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*I am not a modest woman. I have been known to peel off layers of clothing in front of the entire family, or hike up my skirt really high, or expose myself in a way that would surely earn me beads at Mardi Gras. For some reason, nobody appreciates this much. Except for Jason. He knows how to appreciate a woman.

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*I like tequila, but my outrageous behavior doesn't hinge soley on drink. I am outrageous with or without libations.

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*When I get together with Giancarlo's mother we act like we're sixteen again. We laugh until we cry, we reminisce, we play, we enjoy one another's company, and we fight like cats.

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*I mortify my daughters. At family gatherings it isn't uncommon to see them rolling their eyes at me or begging, "Moooommmmmm, stop! Oh, no, no Mama, no!" But again, Jason thinks it is gut-wrenchingly funny.

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*Once Jason was sitting next to me on the couch and as he leaned forward to grab some chips and salsa, I stuck my hand down the back of his pants. Down the back of his underwear. Down his man crack. But he wasn't the only one that day, I like to spread the wealth; Rossana was sitting next to me later on and I did the same thing to her. Why? Well, when opportunity knocks. . . . . but I got the feeling this made Jason feel just a bit uncomfortable.

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*I am a sensational cook. Everything I make is delicious. Everything. And Jason invariably leaves my house feeling fat and stupid, having eaten himself into oblivion.

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Jason has been part of this family for ten years now. He has become quite fond of us all, especially me. Even when--make that especially when-- I misbehave.

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Jason loves me!

My Big Fat Mexican Thanksgiving

This year we hosted Thanksgiving to over thirty people, mostly my Mexican in-laws, whom I love. They are so full of life....it's never a dull moment!

This picture shows only a part of the people that celebrated with us. I am the one standing on a chair in the back, like I own the place. Oh wait, I do own the place. Well, some of it. Okay, a quarter of it. I am the one standing on the chair in the back, like I own a quarter of the place.


The infamous in-laws from the handkerchief generation. God love 'em.



These are two of the cousins from Maztalan that I haven't really gotten to know very well yet. Jeni (short for Irene in Spanish--who knew?) and Jorge. Ah, Jorge. Doesn't he looks like a young Carlos Solis from Desperate Housewives?



Of course, we had turkey (two of them, actually)


and my favorite this year---the Honey Baked Ham! Talk about a party in your mouth!

Claudia brought the sweet potatoes.
And I made the mashed potatoes


The next generation is growing. This is Evan, Diego's cousin.


Speaking of the next generation, here's a photo of my grandson, Elijah.
And here's a photo of Amelia's skinny six-pack tummy. Nothing to do with the upcoming generation.
I told Amelia to kiss her sister and act like they loved each other. So they did. Act like they love each other.
Isabella and Diego enjoyed the Thanksgiving cupcake turkey with ten inches of frosting on top more than anyone.


The two and three year old cousins had a wild, rambunctious time! Diego was having so much fun his head was soaking wet with perspiration.

And, to end the evening's festivities, some of us gathered in the living room to enjoy Jorge's musical stylings, joined by Ely, singing Mexican songs at the top of her lungs. This was before the tequila shots began.
This was a couple shots into the songs.
At this point, many of us, including her daughters, expected clothes to come flying off, destruction of property to begin, and other types of disorderly conduct. Not bad for a 70 year old, right? Unfortunately, this didn't happen here.
And this is Ely, exhausted and sloshed, but not too much so to pose with a branch of the artificial tree and a scowl.

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This Thanksgiving fully lived up to my expectations.

I DO Like Thanksgiving

My friend J-Lo and I made a pact long ago, that if either one of us started to get crotchety we would kindly let the other one know. Well, she let me know today. I'll admit that my blog lately has been a bit whiney and complainy. You'll recall such post titles as I Don't Love Disneyland and The Holidays Loom Large. I just want to clear up the misconception that may be floating around in blogland that I am a hater of holidays. I am not a hater of holidays. In fact, I love Thanksgiving. What's not to love? Yummy food, getting together with family, friends, loved ones. And a designated time to think about the things for which you are grateful.

Today Kira posted a nice long list of things she's thankful for, and a lot of them are those little things in life that make such a difference. As usual, she inspired me, so much that I am going to be a very thankful copycat.

Things I am thankful for:

My bedroom, the safe haven

Flannel, loose fitting pajama pants

The feeling of peeling off those briefs at the end of the day. (Oh, wait. I'll bet that's TMI, isn't it?! Well sorry.)

My king sized bed

The water filter in my fridge that provides unlimited cool, clean water

The feeling of sitting in a cozy chair watching all of the Thanksgiving auto and air traffic, and knowing I'm not in the middle of it

Colgate Tartar Control Whitening Gel

My car that starts every morning and provides a smooth, quiet, unoffensive ride to my desination

Funny things

Funny people

Quiet, clean, private bathrooms

The first big swig of an ice cold fountain drink on a hot day

Checking my email at the end of the day and seeing lots of blog comments from my blogger friends

Cheese

Living free from sub zero temperatures, driving in the snow, and scraping my windshield every morning

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Long walks

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and last, but no least

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My DVR!!!

The Handkerchief Generation vs. The Kleenex Generation

Living with a generation originating in the 1930's very clearly pronounces the differences between them and us.

1-Them: handkerchiefs

Us: tissues

2-Them: Bar soap next to the bathroom sink

Us: Antibacterial pump soap next to the bathroom sink

3-Them: Being owned by the telephone

Us: Realizing that the phone was created for us, we were not created for the phone

4-Them: Five servings of bread per meal.

Us: Five servings of bread per day. Maybe.

5-Them: Loud, loud t.v. It doesn't matter what you watch, as long as it's loud.

Us: Quiet t.v. And we only watch what we want to watch.

6-Them: White bread and whole milk.

Us: Whole grain bread and fat free milk.

7-Them: Cold temperatures make you sick

Us: Germs make you sick

8-Them: Bare feet make you sick

Us: Germs make you sick

Now, just a comment on the first one, which is also the title of this post, handkerchiefs vs. tissues. This is really what provoked me into thinking about these kinds of differences. My father, also born in the 1930s, always used a handkerchief. I'm sure he still does. I have many memories of him pulling out a wadded up handkerchief and turning it around and around, over and over, searching for a clean spot in which to blow. I also had the unpleasant task of helping my mother sort laundry and finding seven identical white handkerchiefs, wadded up in a green-spotted ball of nastiness. And I remember being handed his handkerchief when I was little to wipe my own nose. YUCK!

Can somebody please enlighten me as to why this generation has yet to move past the whole handkerchief thing? Have they not realized that tissues are so much more sanitary, not to mention less revolting? Why would someone want to carry around a nasty handkerchief all day, and then have to touch them again when it coms time to wash them?

Here's a simple analogy and then I'll stop my rant for today: Using handkerchiefs is like continuing to use an outhouse, even though you have a perfectly functioning bathroom inside your home.

License Plate Frames

There is a license plate frame out there that, to me, screams ignorance. It declares,

"My kids think I'm an ATM machine."

Now, please correct me if I'm wrong, but as I recall, the acronym ATM stands for Automated Teller Machine. So, saying "ATM Machine" is like saying "Automated Teller Machine machine." Right? Is there just one ignorant creature out there that is mass producing these? Or has the idea caught on and individuals just decide to have them made for their cars? Is the fact that their kids always ask for money so important that people actually go out of their way to go to the license plate frame kiosk at the mall and pay money to have this engraved on a license plate frame? And then they have to actually go find a screw driver and install the thing? Don't they have more important things to do?

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Speaking of annoying license plate frames, there is one in my area that says, "I love my life as mommy and wife." I completely respect a woman who is happy as a mother and a wife. In fact, I admire it. But something about having to advertise it on a license plate frame just rubs me the wrong way. Is it because it seems they're trying to defend themselves against those who don't think women should enjoy being mommies and wives?

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I know we're all bored with the ones about honor students, or those bitter, jealous parents who need to defend their less than stellar students by stating that their kid can beat up my honor student. And of course the ones about the world's greatest grandma or grandpa are very nice, and then there's the proud but mean-spirited grandparents whose plate frames tell everybody that their grandkids are cuter than everyone else's. . . but why? Why does that need to go on a license plate frame? I'm even tired of the ones that say, "Get in, sit down, shut up, and hold on!" and the one about zero to bitch in two point seven seconds or something like that makes me yawn.

What about the ones that say "Princess" or "Rich Brat" or "Spoiled Rotten"? Or the one that mimics Justin by proclaiming "Bringin' Sexy Back." Are these people conceited or is it meant to be tongue-in-cheek? My brother Paul and I used to joke about putting one on his old, well-used Explorer that says, "I'm not spoiled! I'm not, I'm not, I'm not!"

The worst one of all, though, is this one, hands down:

Warning: In case of rapture, this car will be unmanned.

Awww, come on! How self-righteous can you be? Not only do you have to tell everyone that you're better than everyone else, but if rapture really does happen, the poor soul behind them will be following a car that is suddenly driverless and careening out of control! Is that what they deserve for being a non-believer?

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I do, however, enjoy the ones that are purposely funny, just trying to brighten someone's drive with a good chuckle.

My favorite license plate frame asks,

Where am I going and why am I in this handbasket?

I also enjoy the one that admonishes

The safest sex is in the palm of your hand.

And

As a matter of fact, I do own the road

And

I got this body from junk food

I like the ones that tend to poke fun and other frames, such as the one that, instead of labeling an expensive sports car as the product of a mid-life crisis, states

MY MIDLIFE CHRYSLER

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But the best license plate frame and saying, ever, must be

Don't mess with Texas

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I simply can't finish this post without including this Utah Mormon classic:

Happiness is Family Home Evening

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Which I think should be modified to read

Family Home Evening: The only time you start a fight with a prayer

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And in case you need to read even more about license plate frames, click here.

By the way, my license plate frame is plain chrome, and it says nothing.

JCPenny in 1977

I wish I could take credit for this post. This is an email forward, and as I said with the post about whale ejaculate, some things just demand to be shared.

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Last weekend I put an exhaust fan in the ceiling for my wife's grandfather. While my wife's brother and I were fitting the fan in between the joists, we found something under the insulation. What we found was this:

A JC Penney catalog from 1977. It's not often blog fodder just falls in my lap, but holy hell this was two solid inches of it, right there for the taking. I thumbed through it quickly and found my next dining room set, which is apparently made by adding upholstery to old barrels:
Also, I am totally getting this for my bathroom:
There's plenty more home furnishings where those came from, however I'm not going to bore you with that. Instead, I'm going to bore you with something else. The clothes.The clothes are fantastic.Here's how to get your butt kicked in elementary school:
Just look at that belt. It's like a boob-job for your pants. He probably needed help just to lift it into place. The belt loops have to be three inches long. And way to pull them up to your armpits, grandpa.

Here's how to get your butt kicked at the beach:
He looks like he's reaching for a gun, but you know it's probably just a bottle of suntan lotion in a holster.

Here's how to get your butt kicked in high school:

This kid looks like he's pretending to be David Soul, who is pretending to be a cop who is pretending to be a pimp that everyone knows is really an undercover cop. Who is pretending to be 15.

And this -- Seriously. No words.

Oh wait, it turns out that there are words after all. Those words are What. The. F***? I'm guessing the snap front gives you quick access to the chest hair. The little tie must be the pull tab.

Also, judging by the sheer amount of matching his/hers outfits, I'm guessing that in 1977 it was considered pretty stylish for couples to dress alike. These couples look happy, don't they?

I am especially fond of this one, which I have entitled "Cowboy Chachi Loves You Best."

Here's how to get your butt kicked pretty much anywhere:
If you look at that picture quickly, it looks like Mr. Bob "No-pants" Saget has his hand in the other guy's pocket. In this case, he doesn't, although you can tell just by looking at them that it's happened - or if it hasn't happened it will. Oh yes. It will. As soon as he puts down his matching coffee cup.

Here's how to get your butt kicked on the golf course:

This "all purpose jumpsuit" is, according to the description, equally appropriate for playing golf or simply relaxing around the house. Personally, I can't see wearing this unless you happen to be relaxing around your cell in D-block. Even then, the only reason you should put this thing on is because the warden made you, and as a one-piece, it's slightly more effective as a deterrent against ass-rapery.

How to get your butt kicked in a meeting:

If you wear this suit and don't sell used cars for a living, I believe you can be fined and face serious repercussions, up to and including termination. Or imprisonment, in which case you'd be forced to wear that orange jumpsuit.

How to get your butt kicked on every day up to and including St. Patrick's Day:

Dear god in heaven, I don't believe that color exists in nature. There is NO excuse for wearing either of these ensembles unless you're working as a body guard for the Lucky Charms leprechaun.


In this next one, Your Search For VALUE ends at Penneys.

As does your search for chest hair.

And nothing showcases your everlasting love more than the commitment of matching bathing suits. That, and a blonde girl with a look on her face that says "I love the way your junk fights against that fabric."

Then, after the lovin', you can relax in your one-piece matching terry cloth jumpsuits:

I could go on, but I'm tired, and my eyes hurt from this trip back in time. I think it's the colors. That said, I will leave you with these tasteful little numbers:

Fifteen

Fifteen years ago today, this amazing being came into our lives and changed them forever.
Talent, wit, charm, and good looks----the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, now does it?
In all modesty, I've always said that Amelia is the perfect combination of her mother and me.

It's a Boy!

Hilary had that all-telling ultrasound the other day. . .and we're going to be proud granddaddies to a little baby boy! He'll be here some time in March; the doctors keep vacillating about the due date.

Voices in My Head

Have I ever mentioned that my house gets very loud? What with one rambunctious three year old boy, eleven different telelphones ringing (yes, eleven), two barking dogs, three teenagers, and one noisy, hard of hearing mother-in-law who loves loud TV game shows, Mexican novelas, and shouting, the cacophony can be overwhelming.

This weekend if an exception to that rule. The teens have driven to Pahrump to visit their mom, the three year old and his Papi have flown to Sacramento to visit friends, and that leaves me along in the house with the dogs (who are so much quieter when everything else is quiet) and my in-laws. But the icing on the cake is that my mother-in-law has lost her voice!

So now that everything is so quiet, I keep hearing voices in my head. It took me a while to figure it out, but I think those voices are. . . my thoughts.

What does a thirty something grandfather-to-be think about when it is peaceful and his responsibilities have been reduced to two little dogs? Here are some the thoughts that I've been hearing inside my head ever since the silence began:

Wow. I can sit in my comfy chaise with my laptop as long as I want!

Hey. I can listen to my music as loud and long as I want! Although I haven't done that yet because the sound of silence is music enough to my ears.

Nifty. I can watch my DVR tv without having to raise the volume, get up to take care of somebody, or worry that someone might not like what I'm watching.

Goodness, me. I've watched six back to back episodes of Californication, and it's not even 9:30 yet!

Hello. That was a weird dream that I had about having an affair with the older Korean man next door. I'm so glad I didn't really do that--I'd hate to carry around the guilt! Don't you love it when you have a bad dream and then realize part way through it that is isn't actually happening? Such a feeling of relief.

Yesssss. I love sprawling out spread-eagle in the middle of a king-size bed without bumping into anybody or getting kicked in the back by a three year old.

Uh, huh, oh yeah. I slept in until 9:40!

The Holidays Loom Large

or

Skipping Christmas

The holidays are just around the corner and looming large. My close friends know that I have holiday issues. I haven't always had holiday issues. As a child I enjoyed Thanksgiving and Christmas just as much as the next guy...somehow it was all magical, new, and fun, even though we never really did anything special and my parents didn't have much money for fancy gifts. When my daughters were little, I enjoyed the holidays vicariously through them, and then when Amelia was four, my mother died on Christmas morning. I suppose it was a downhill spiral from there, until by about the age of 30 the holidays somehow had degenerated into a big wad of extra work, extra stress, extra mess, extra family problems, extra spouse problems, and extra money spending on extra unnecessary things.

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John Grisham's book, Skipping Christmas, has been sliding around in the trunk of my car for several years. Even when I got a new car four years ago, I transferred it along with other miscellaneous items into the new car, and it continues to slide. I have always intended to read it. The title is so titillating! But I never have because I'm certain the characters in the story will meet some sort of resolution to their lack of Christmas spirit, and once again they will experience Christmases full of wonder and joy, forever more. A large part of me would be perfectly content with not pulling out one single red and green Christmas crate from the garage, nor hanging up one little light. . . that is until the guilt set in.

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Perhaps I should become Jewish? I might like Hanukkah a lot more, who knows? Better yet, Jehovah's Witness? Then I wouldn't have to worry about any holidays, or blood transfusions for that matter.

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How did I become such a Bitter Betty? First I don't like Disneyland, and now this? CHRISTMAS? Who hates CHRISTMAS, for Pete's sake? Both of my readers are likely to remove me from their list of blogs they frequent, and find one of those happy, cheery mommy blogs that seem so abundant.

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Come on, America! Am I alone? Or is it only the hardened and jaded who feel this way, the ones who would just like to turn their faces to the wall for the season? Is it okay to have these feelings or should I just suck it up and get over it? I've already spent several sessions in therapy on this subject, all to no avail other than getting me through yet another holiday season without melting down.

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Maybe I'll go out to the trunk of my car and pull out that book.

My Christmas List

Some people are soooo ahead of me when it comes to Christmas shopping. They start thinking about Christmas in February, or summer, or October. It's all so early. I'm just today starting to think about next week!

My dear sweet loving thoughtful sister-in-law, Laura, emailed me a few weeks ago asking me what we wanted for Christmas. It was still October. I didn't even know what Diego was going to be for Halloween. I put her off a couple of times (Hi, Laura) and then started to think just a bit about what I want for Christmas. Of course, anything I would like is completely unreasonable, like a Tahitian cruise or the new Volvo S40, so I thought about how well Google let me know what I need, I thought I'd let Google tell me what I want, as well.

So I performed a "Jason wants" search, and, this, apparently, is what I want!

Jason wants a bull rope, with a bright and shiny bell.

(I don't really know what a bull rope is, but anything with a bright and shiny bell must be nice.)

Jason wants a velvet rope on his blog.

(Yes! That's exactly what I need.)

Jason wants revenge!

(The question is: on whom?)

Jason wants his latest album Beautiful People to be a facilitator for people to know about the Father God.

(Yes, amen.)

Jason wants to have a boy next.

(Next?!)

Jason wants to do something high-minded and classy.

(That so sounds like me. High minded, and classy.)

Jason wants to write novels for a living.

(Oh, the stories I could tell....)

Jason wants children and adults to become "disability aware."

(Of course I do.)

Jason wants to fight The Man (or in this case just punch The Man very lightly on the arm).

(Can anyone tell me who The Man is?)

Jason wants to be a head coach somewhere and there will be some openings. ...

(Hah!)

Jason wants to totally give up.

(Sometimes. I do.)

Jason wants to straighten some issues out with his Dad.

(Don't get me started. . .)

Jason wants to be more than just “clinic friends” with Catherine.

("What is a clinic friend"?)

Jason wants some link-love.

(Hmm. Sounds taudry.)

Jason wants to miss out on the girl of his life for “That Thing.”

(Careful. That one hits too close to home.)

Jason wants to play army, too.

(Don't ask, don't tell.....)

Jason wants to be a bird when he grows up.

(Okay. . .)

Jason wants to call the whole thing off.

(You mean Christmas?)

Jason wants to know how they collect those 500 liters of human saliva.

(Ew.)

Jason wants to kiss Tim very hard until he stops frowning and starts explaining.

(Maybe that's how they collect the saliva?)

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What's on your Christmas list?

The Green Bitch

This rerun of The Jason Show is brought to you by the Hollywood writer's strike!

The Green Bitch

In 1973 my parents purchased a brand-new green Dodge Club Cab. It was the only vehicle they ever purchased brand new, and through my four year old eyes it seemed like something special. Little did I know that this particular vehicle would provide the setting for countless events and serve as a symbol of my growing-up trauma.

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My first memory involving the green truck was packing it with possessions and moving the Navajo Indian Reservation in Kayenta, Arizona. Our cat, Mitzi, rode in the back of the cab with me and gave birth to four little kittens as I sat and watched. Mitzi eventually took to pooping on my pillow every day, so my next truck memory was taking her to the middle of Monument Valley and dumping her off. (I know this is illegal now. I don’t think it was back then.)Not long after that, my mom gave birth to my baby sister, Katrine, and the first time I ever saw her, she was all bundled up, lying on the floor of the truck. (!)

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A few months later, my dad had used the truck to haul some grain for somebody from church and during the night before he could deliver it, a giant white horse somehow got into the grain and ate and ate and ate until it couldn’t eat any more. Then it, for some reason, wandered over to our front porch, lay down, and died. Imagine my surprise when I opened the front door to go to kindergarten the next morning!

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Tired of living on the Indian Reservation, we moved back to Orem. On our way back, the truck developed a “growling” sound whenever the fuel tank was less than ¼ full. Dad and Mom joked about it for the next twenty years, saying it was getting hungry every time it happened.My Dad was a firm believer in “warming up the truck.” Utah winters are very cold, so every winter morning, Dad would get ready for work, and then leave himself a good extra ten or fifteen minutes to warm it up. This involved not just turning it on and letting it run, but a long series of engine gunning, “VROOOOM, VROOOOM, VROOOOOOOOOOM!” The neighbors must have thought the Indianapolis 500 had come to town.

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The truck got older. By the time it was ten years old there were five more children that it needed to accommodate. Being a Club Cab, it had a long bench seat in front, and two little fold down seats in the back….no seat belts, of course. As this was usually our primary source of transportation, we had to make due. I loathed going anywhere with the entire family because Dad, Mom, Paul, and I would sit in the front (Paul on Mom’s lap) and the other four would line up nicely in a row behind the bench seat, standing with their hands on the back of the seat. I would stare longingly out the window at the station wagons and Econoline vans that passed by.

Eventually, I took to ducking down whenever we went into town.

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Guess what I got to drive when I turned sixteen? You’re right! By that time it was looking pretty bad having never been washed in eleven years. It had quite a few rusty spots and the green had faded to a hazy gray. The best part of getting my driver’s license wasn’t freedom or independence, it was getting to drive the newer, more conventional cars on the driving range.

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Eventually, I grew up and moved away from home. But the green truck stayed on like a child that refuses to leave the nest or an invalid on life support that refuses to die. It did, however, spent many, many months sitting in the carport refusing to start. My parents finally gave up on it and just let it be. By that time, Ray was old enough to drive, and the truck was old enough to be his father. Ray, unlike me, was mechanically inclined and with the help of some friends got the truck working again. He souped it up and added some funky accessories and instantly turned the bane of my existence into something fun, something to laugh with instead of being afraid of being laughed at. He even gave it a name: The Green Bitch.I don’t recall what finally caused the demise of The Green Bitch. It is sad how I let it slip away from me like that.

A Few More of My Favorite Things

The new Volvo S40. Someone at work just bought one and I was smitten as soon as I saw it. I will make it my next car. Just watch.

This amazing vocalist snuck her way into my life and I am hooked. This album is mellow, but with very catchy yet melancholy tunes. Think Sarah McLachhlan. Think Sia. Think Annie Lennox.

I know. This is highly redneck of me. But it tastes great, less filling, and it gets the job done!

Every single item on the Baja Fresh menu is scrumptious. Every single one.

And of course, cruise ships. I love them. They fascinate me, and I would go on a cruise every month if I could. Some day. . .