The Women Who Saved This Blog Post

I'm pleased to announce that Halloween was a success! It was touch and go there for awhile, but Carson eventually cooperated and actually *gasp* enjoyed himself. When his incessant whining and wacky outta control behavior began during dinnertime (hot dogs and baked beans-the epitome of a healthy meal!), I was sure we were destined to eat the nasty candy I bought to give out to trick-or-treaters. Really I didn't care if Carson and Ella got to experience the joys of trick-or-treating, I just wanted to be sure we'd get some good candy. I'm a good mom, see.

The highlight of our evening, though, was two trick-or-treaters, girls, women who came to our house begging for candy. Both Tate and I were dumbfounded after these women left and we kept replaying the exchange with each other and asking if that just really happened. When I opened the door, I was surprised to see a girl who looked to be possibly 15, maybe 17 standing there holding a bucket full of candy. Standing next to her was a women who appeared to be in her late 30's, maybe early 40's, but certainly someone far too old for trick-or-treating. Both were wearing sweatshirts and jean shorts, and just stood there obviously expecting me to drop candy in their buckets. Tate asked them what they were supposed to be and the older woman pointed to the younger girl and said, "she's havin' a baby."

Huh?

How does "she's havin a baby" answer the question of what they were supposed to be dressed up as?

And why the hell were they out trick-or-treating?

Most importantly, what the f*ck?

I quickly proclaimed to Tate soon after they left, "I'm so blogging that." I certainly appreciate the most excellent blog fodder since I was expecting to write, "Carson was so horrible and threw himself screaming on the doorsteps of all of my neighbors, making them hate us even more!" Instead he surprised us with his excellent behavior and manners, saying, "sank you" to all who bestowed candy upon him.

Here are a few pictures of my "baseball player," "pumpkin," "man," and me as an "incredibly sex-ay farmer."


[pictures removed]


Why yes, I am wearing my frumpy overalls and pigtails. So, so hawt.

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Thank you, Dawn for awarding me a Perfect Post Award for Time!!!!! Thank you!!!



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This Chicken Bocker Wears Excessive Jewelry and T-Shirts

Thank you, thank you, thank you for all the great discussion on yesterday's post about the dress code at The Wine Loft. I very much appreciated that you didn't all agree and that you seemed to say what you really felt.

Veggie Mama summed up my opinion nicely with this comment,

It just seems really excessive, like they're going out of their way to be snobby. I like the idea of a nice place you can go and not feel out of place by being a little dressed up. If the sign simply said, "Business Casual dress code strictly enforced," I wouldn't think twice. But listing all of the specifics (like we're too stupid to figure out business attire) just makes you feel like a child. NOT the kind of place I'd want to frequent.

Precisely.

I fully appreciate that a business wishes to cater to a specific clientele. McDonald's caters to kids, certain restaurants require gentlemen to wear a jacket, biker bars are typically filled with bikers. Having a dress code is not in an of itself a problem, it's how The Wine Loft has chosen to be very specific in it's exclusions that I have a issues with.

Having stated at the bottom of their list of rules that "business casual or business attire is suggested" seems sufficient enough of a guideline. Why do they feel the need to include such specific exclusions? This is a chain restaurant with more than one location. Mobile's location has only been open for several months and this sign was on the door before it ever even opened. Therefore, it appears that this was a proactive list of rules rather than a reactive list of rules.

Their rules are incredibly subjective and most likely very difficult to enforce. What exactly defines "excessive jewelry" or "baggy clothing?" If a woman with excessive jewelry and her boyfriend wearing a hat and baggy shorts enters the restaurant to be seated, does the maitre'd ask them to wait just a moment, only to return with a manager who has the job of asking these people to leave? Do they allow them to be seated, only to have the other patrons stare at these hooligans who are clearly not following the posted dress code?

Several comments were made in regards to whether these rules were targeting African Americans. Anonymous asked this question,

I'm troubled, is it the "no excessive jewelry" rule that is making some of you view the sign as "racist" or excluding blacks?

My reason for asking is because it seems racist to me to automatically jump to the conclusion that only black people wear excessive jewelry and baggy clothing so the sign was therefore aimed at black people.

Every race is guilty of breaking those restrictions and not EVERYTHING is about race. My other question is that if you saw this same sign in lets say New York (being more culturally diverse than the deep South) would you still think they were trying to restrict blacks?

It doesn't seem too unreasonable to me although I'm not into upscale places. My third question is that they typically expect the same dress code at church so does that mean churches are trying to exclude black people as well?

When you work at a business with a similar dress code does that mean the business is trying to avoid hiring black people? I could go on all day here but I just thought some of those comments accusing the sign of "racism" were actually very subtle form of racism in itself. Think about it.

This was a good point, yet just because this dress code is the same for church or work, there's just something that feels very exclusionary about their rules. Being that this is a culturally diverse city, perhaps I do feel this way because this is the Deep South. I see, hear, and feel racism more here than I have anywhere else I've ever lived, so this may be why I wondered if this sign was directed at African Americans. The question of whether this thought is a "very subtle form of racism in itself" is a valid one. Maybe it is, but I really don't think that those who pointed it out meant their statements to appear racist.

I feel very strongly that they are losing potential customers with a sign such as this. Although I could easily put together an outfit that would pass their very critical standards, I would not consider visiting this establishment simply because of their rules. If they had a sign that merely stated their business casual suggestion, I would actually be interested in checking this place out on a rare evening out with Tate.

So there you have it! My opinion! Your life is now complete, you can sleep better knowing this vital information.

*******

If I had the guts, and I do not, I would call them myself and ask them the reason behind this specific dress code. If anybody out there would like to do so, feel free and let me know what you find out. I'm way to chicken to do it myself.

Channeling My Inner Linda Richman

Welcome to Wine Tawk. I'm your host, Jennifer. On this episode, we'll talk about wine, doors, and dress codes, you know, no big whoop, just wine tawk.



This is a picture taken of the door of The Wine Loft in Mobile. Listed are very specific exclusions of allowable clothing items and accessories.

In case you are unable to read the guidelines clearly on the picture, here is what it says:

No Athletic Pants, Shirts or Shoes
No Hats
No Bluetooth Devices
No Excessive Jewelry
No Baggy Clothing
No T-shirt
No Muscle Shirt
No Ripped, Torn, or Frayed Clothing
Business Casual or Business Attire is Suggested

I have some thoughts and opinions about their rules. Please discuss your thoughts in the comments section and I'll tell you my opinion tomorrow.

Tawk amongst yourselves....

Stars Fell On: Things I've Heard in Alabama

Another damn disclaimer: Anything I say in this post is not, I repeat IS NOT, a criticism of Alabama or the South in general. It is different to me because this was not how I was brought up.

Part 1 of the story is here. Part 2 of the story is here. Part 3 of the story is here.

As a native Midwesterner, moving to Alabama has been a bit of a culture shock. Having lived in Knoxville, TN for several years, I'd had a taste of Southern culture. However, this is the Deep South and it's different from anywhere I've ever been.

When you first meet most people here in the South, the first question they ask you is, "Where do you go to church?" I've come to realize that this isn't meant to be a rude question, since this is NOT something you'd ask someone back home. People are generally just trying to be friendly and if you say you don't have a church home, they invite you to attend their church. This has become less and less awkward as time has passed and I've learned to tell people that we attend church at St. Notgoingtosaytherealname Church (which isn't a lie exactly, we do occasionally attend).

As for church, it is a way of life here. People speak openly of being "blessed." Many stores and even some restaurants aren't open on Sundays. Not to insinuate that we Midwesterners are heathens by any stretch of the imagination, it's just that our entire lives do not revolve around church. I definitely think that this has been a factor in our difficulty making friends here in Alabama.

Another thing that I've learned is the way to properly address adults. Titles such as Sir, Ma'am, and Miss are expected, most especially when it's a child addressing the adult. I often forget to say these things myself, so I worry that my kids will be outcasts if I don't teach them the proper Southern way to address adults. I grew up calling acquaintances of my parents either Mr/Mrs. Lastname or by their first names. It's custom here for children to call their parent's friends Miss Firstname. Since it isn't something I expect, it always seems odd when I'm addressed as Miss Jennifer.

One of my favorite Southern sayings is "bless her/his/your heart." It's the Southern way of getting away with talking about someone behind their back. If you want to talk about your neighbor who is cuh-razy and going through a nasty divorce with her beer swigging husband, you are absolved of any wrongdoing if when you're gossiping about her you end your sentence with, "bless her heart."

I've learned that the cart in the grocery store is called a buggy. Lunch is called dinner and dinner is called supper. Instead of saying "alright then" people say "aight den." I know there are many, many more but I'm having trouble thinking of anymore.

To end this post, I'd like to leave you with several sayings Tate has heard at work that make me laugh my ass off. These certainly aren't things most Alabamans say, but I'm including them here since I've never heard them outside of Alabama. Hope you enjoy.

Doesn't that make you so mad that it makes you want to spit chicken shit out your teeth?

Looks like you brushed your hair with a firecracker this morning.

I need your help like a dead man needs a coffin.

How you feeling today? Like I've been ironing in high heels all day.

When referring to a tall woman...Looks like she could stand flat-footed and shit in a dump truck.

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Thanks for your well wishes yesterday. "Installation" of the Mirena went well. If you would like more details, just email me, mkay?

Stars Fell On: Rabid Fans, Laughing Cops, and an Idiot in Alabama

Disclaimer (again): Please don't judge the entire state of Alabama on my bad experiences. Things have been very difficult these past two years, but they may or may not have been as difficult if we were living in Idaho or North Carolina or Iran. I promise to tell stories later of good things about Alabama. Oh yes, the idiot I refer to in this post is ME.

Part 1 of the story is here. Part 2 of the story is here.

Within days of moving to Alabama, we were highly encouraged by Tate's co-workers and some acquaintances that we needed to get new license plates as soon as possible. In fact, we were told by more than one person that our Illinois license plates were likely to get us run off the road. Why the reason for the hostility?

Prior to moving to Alabama we had license plates that said "Go Vols" because we are huge fans of the Tennessee Volunteers. For those of you unfamiliar with college football, specifically SEC football, please understand that being a Vols fans in Alabama is likened to worshipping the devil or being a whacked out coke fiend.

So much for southern hospitality.

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About a week after moving into our house, Tate had to go on a business trip. Our house has an alarm system and based on our less than welcoming experiences thus far in Alabama, we experimented with it, ensuring that it worked. We discovered that monitoring on a few of the windows had somehow been turned off. Unfortunately Tate wasn't able to figure out how to get the monitoring turned back on for those windows before leaving on his business trip.

In my pregnancy-induced mania and continued shell shock from being robbed by our movers, I decided that it was absolutely necessary to get those windows monitored. I was convinced that some rabid Alabama fan or the thieving movers were going to break into our house. This was a dire emergency! I was in danger! *ahem*

I decided that I could fix this this problem. I began pushing buttons on the alarm box. I pushed lots of buttons. I pushed so many buttons on the box that I somehow set the alarm.

But guess what?

I had no code to deactivate the alarm.

And then guess what happened?

That's right. The alarm started sounding. Verrrrrrry loudly. I panicked. I was certain that the police would be on their way, I mean all alarms sound directly to the police station, right!?! *ahem*

When the police didn't show up after a few minutes and I was starting to lose my mind even more (pregnancy mania + ear piercing alarm + being home alone = disaster), I decided to call the police. They're the police! They're experienced in dire emergencies such as these right?!? *ahem*

So I went up the street to get away from the blaring alarm and get a cell phone signal and called the police. I tried to calmly explain my situation. It probably was sounded like, "[SOB, SOB] I set off [SOB] my house [SOB] alarm. I don't [SOB] know [SOB] what [SOB] to [SOB] do [SOB, SOB]."

The woman "helping" me, asked me to explain my situation again. So I told her again, with even more sobbing that I'd set off the house alarm and didn't know what to do. I could hear her snickering, which of course, made me cry even harder. She put me on hold, and a different person came on the line and asked me to explain, yet again, what my situation was. I told him my story with lots and lots of sobbing. He openly started laughing and said he had no idea what they were supposed to do about this. So I hung up on them. Jerks.

By this time, I'd created quite a scene and several neighbors had come to see what all the commotion was. My next door neighbor knew the previous owners of our home, called them, and they directed me to a phone number located on the alarm box in the master bedroom (they didn't have the code, either). I was able to speak with someone from an alarm company who advised me to simply unplug the alarm and removed the battery from the main unit. In my craziness, this ridiculously simple solution never occurred to me.

And to recap...
1. Alabama fans really, really don't like Tennessee fans.
2. The cops will laugh at you when you call them sounding like a raving lunatic.
3. My neighbors' second impression of me was as a crying fool who'd set off her own house alarm. Remember their first impression was of me as a screaming banshee running up the street.
4. I'm an idiot.

I have no idea what's in store for my next installment...Hmmm, maybe the vernacular of the Deep South?

Stars Fell On: Robbed in Alabama

Disclaimer: Before I go any further in my story, I feel I need to clarify some things. Please don't judge the entire state of Alabama on my bad experiences. Things have been very difficult these past two years, but they may or may not have been as difficult if we were living in Idaho or North Carolina or Iran. I promise to tell stories later of good things about Alabama.

Part 1 of the story is here.

Tate's company arranged a house-hunting trip to Alabama. Upon visiting, we were very excited about the move. Tate was eager to start his new position, I was excited to be so close to the beach. We bought a house that was not our dream home, but it was nice. The only problem we found with moving at this point was the distance from home.

One nice thing about the move, was that Tate's company arranged to have a moving company take care of packing and transporting all of our stuff. This was our second move with the company and we'd had a good experience the previous time. Unfortunately, this moving experience could not be classified as "good."

Since there was a lapse of several weeks between the closing of our home in Illinois and the closing on our new home in Alabama, our stuff had to be put into storage. The morning the movers were to arrive, I had gone out to buy the movers drinks and snacks for the long day ahead. The movers were to arrive at 8 AM according to a representative of Allied Van Lines, but did not arrive until noon. In fact, the person we kept speaking with at the storage facility (Coleman Moving and Storage) tried to explain that the movers may or may not in fact arrive at all on the scheduled day. Also, the truck carrying our items had supposedly broken down on the highway en route, so they didn't know when they would actually arrive. We were told that we should feel lucky that the movers arrived at all.

Whatever.

To say that our movers were incompetent is the understatement of the year. I spent a good deal of the afternoon in tears, seeing so many of my favorite items broken and not in boxes. Remember I was about 24 weeks pregnant and very weepy. Seeing a treasured birdbath broken in half and watching the movers drop boxes made me cry even more.

Sometime that afternoon, I suddenly felt this overwhelming urge to check my wallet. It was sitting in my purse, which was sitting on a barstool in the kitchen. Not sure why I felt this strong urge, but my intuition told me that something was amiss. When I looked in my purse, my wallet was missing. I immediately panicked, thinking back to when I'd shopped for snacks that morning, wondering if I'd accidentally left it at the grocery store. I knew it wasn't possible, as I had stopped and gotten gas on the way home and remembered having my wallet then.

This is where the pregnant girl (me, duh) went cuh-razy. I knew one of these jackass, sumbitch movers had stolen my wallet. I immediately ran outside, screaming that they'd robbed me. Tears were streaming down my face as I called the movers every name in the book. Tate, attempting to keep the peace and sort out what was wrong, tried to calm me down. We double-checked my car, but I knew they had robbed us. My cursing continued as I told them I was calling the police. The movers, of course, denied knowing anything about my wallet and acted offended that I'd accuse them of such a thing.

Since our phone wasn't turned on yet and our cell phones didn't work this far in the sticks, I ran up the street like a crazy woman knocking on doors, still hysterically crying, trying to find a phone to use. I finally found someone home and they allowed me call the Shitty Town Police Department. I also used this time to call the bank, the credit card company, credit reporting agencies, and social security office to report the theft.

Two officers from the Shitty Town Police Department arrived and took my report. The officers never even spoke to the movers. In fact, they insinuated that I was just a crazy pregnant lady who'd lost her wallet. Nothing (besides being robbed) makes me angrier than being dismissed as an idiot.

Meanwhile, the movers had finished unloading the truck and were waiting on their boss to arrive. Just prior to the boss's arrival, Tate used the bathroom and flushed the toilet. When the toilet bowl filled with brown liquid, Tate realized he'd found the wallet. He lifted the lid off the tank of the toilet and there was my wallet. I felt somehow validated, as this proved I didn't misplace my wallet. I may have been an emotionally unstable pregnant person, but I certainly didn't accidentally leave my wallet in the tank of the toilet. The $4 in cash (heh), credit card and debit card were missing. We called the police who told us to let their boss handle it.

When the boss arrived, he practically strip searched his men, looking for my missing cards. He searched around the house, under our deck, shone a flashlight down the storm sewer. It wasn't until several days later when I was unpacking boxes in the baby's nursery that I found my cards behind the boxes.

Allied Moving Company apologized profusely, buying me a brand new wallet, paying to have it shipped overnight, and pledging to revoke their affiliation with Coleman's Moving and Storage. The latter never happened.

So to review:
1. Coleman Moving & Storage robbed me.
2. The Shitty Town, AL Police Department didn't take my robbery report seriously.
3. My neighbors' first impression of me was as a screaming banshee running up the street.
4. Moving to Alabama so far sucked donkey balls.


Coming up next: The Shitty Town, AL Police Department is makes yet another appearance in the story.

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Check out Blog Talk Radio Wednesday night at 8:00 CST, when The B.O.O.B.s discuss Bill Maher's recent anti-breastfeeding comments, and discuss the controversy over nursing in public.

Stars Fell On: How We Ended Up in Alabama

I remember the day Tate told me he'd been offered a position in the Backwoods, AL plant. We were sitting at Subway on Eldorado in Decatur, IL. He had emailed me at work to see if I wanted to meet for lunch. Since he didn't ask me to lunch often, I was thrilled, thinking what a romantic gesture this was.

This day also marked my 12th week of pregnancy. I'd been keeping my secret from all of our friends and coworkers, and had planned to share our big news with everyone that week.

Looking back now, life seemed perfect, idealistic. Everything was truly right with the world. We were living only two hours from family and friends. Our house was our dream home in a dream neighborhood with dream neighbors. Everyone was friendly with one another, stopping to chat on evening walks, discussing the Cardinals or the Cubs, our green (or brown) yards, the weather. We knew everyone's kids names. I also had a job that I truly loved, finally working in a school where I'd made friends and felt respected.

And best of all, we were expecting a baby.

So that day, when Tate told me that my perfect world was going to change has stuck with me. I remember the details of my surroundings as I heard him say the words, "they've offered me an opportunity in Backwoods." As I sat eating my sandwich in the booth by the door in back by the soda machine and bathroom, I cried. Even as I type this, I can feel that lump in my throat, the burning of tears. Choking back the shock, I didn't want to immediately start crying, but my words were forced. "Alabama?," I managed to say, as tears began to fall. I remember barely being able to swallow the mouthful of food. At some point in our conversation, I said, "but we're having a baby. What about our baby? What about me?"

We told our families that night. They were as devastated as I was. I tried to be enthusiastic, tried to see this as yet another adventure, tried to see the positives. It's hard to be excited when your perfect world is crumbling around you.

If I had it to do all over again, I wouldn't have been as supportive of the move. Had I realized just how difficult it would be to raise children so far from any family, I wouldn't have agreed to move hundreds of miles away. It all still feels incredibly unfair.

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Stay tuned for the next installment where I'll discuss our first impressions of Alabama and share our horrific moving story. I know, you're at the edge of your seat.

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Just one more day to ask me a question. I've only received 3 questions so far and my ego is irreparably bruised. So if you'd like to play along, pu-uhleeeeeeze email me at playgroupie at gmail dot com.

Technorati Tags: Alabama, relocation, Decatur, IL

I'm So Mad I Could Spit is the Best Title I Can Come Up With Right Now

Since I'm a big, giant weenie and hate confrontation, when a business makes me angry, I do the only thing I know to do. I write a letter. Yes, I know that when they receive this letter, the manager and employees sit around laughing at me and calling me every name in the book. Truly, I wish I could confront these offenders in person, but when I'm mad I lose the ability to speak in complete, coherent sentences. And I cry, well, blubber really. It's embarrassing. So, the letter has always been my only recourse.

I've written my fair share of letters to businesses in the past who've pissed me off. Target, Olive Garden, and Sears Portrait Studio have all been on the receiving end of a scathing letter, damning the injustice bestowed upon me.

So in lieu of a traditional face to face smackdown, here's the letter I'd like to send to Walgreens after yet another irritating experience with their pharmacy drive-thru.

Dear Manager of Shitty-Ass Walgreens Pharmacy,
F*ck you and all your bitch-ass employees. You've f*cked with me one time too many. Next time you piss me off and refuse my discount prescription card with your lame-ass excuses and then f*ck up my receipt, I'm going to come straight through that plate glass window and whoop your ass. You hear me? I'm not f*cking around.

F*ck you very much,
Jennifer Playgroupie
Your Worst Nightmare

Too much?

Yes, I suspect it is. It doesn't make me seem intelligent, but rather like a Jerry Springer wanna be. Here's what I think I'll send instead. Feel free to offer suggestions to make it sound just "go f*ck yourself" enough without making me sound like I'm T-RASH.

Dear Walgreens Pharmacy Manager,
RE: transaction on Tuesday Morning, August 21, 2007

I am writing this letter to convey my displeasure over this morning's transaction. Every time I come to the drive-through, I'm inconvenienced and treated rudely by your staff. This morning was no different, as your clerk informed me that the Prevacid Discount Card required a new prescription before it could be used. I read the fine print on the card and the paperwork I received from Prevacid and I'm sure that your need for a new prescription is false. However, since I'm not one to argue, I didn't question with the clerk.

I also didn't complain when your clerk then made an error and was not able to print a regular receipt. Instead I got a receipt printed on typing paper that looked like something I could have typed myself at home. Since I pay for prescriptions with my Flexible Spending Account card, I am often asked to provide proof with a receipt that the purchases made were indeed allowable. The receipt you provided will not be sufficient for proof and I'll be forced to reimburse my own FSA, as I'm sure they will deny the charge.

These are just two examples from one experience with your pharmacy. I could list all the times you've inconvenienced me or were rude like when I waited for 45 minutes at the drive-thru window with a screaming newborn or the time your pharmacy failed to fill my mastitis medication eventhough you'd had the prescription for eight hours, but I think these examples are sufficient in conveying my utter and complete dismay. In all of these experiences, not once has anyone ever said "I'm sorry for your inconvenience" or "Thank you so much for your patience."

Since you are the only drive-thru pharmacy in {Shitty Town}, AL, I feel that I'm forced to keep my prescriptions with you. However, I'm through being friendly and not complaining. The next time I'm inconvenienced (and of course there will be a next time, you've already exhibited a pattern), I'm going to complain loudly. I will keep complaining until you've have met my needs.


Please consider training your employees in basic manners that include using words such as "thank you" and "I'm sorry." These simple changes could do a lot for disgruntled customers such as myself.

Thank you,

Jennifer Playgroupie

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The letter is....lacking. It needs more "oomph." Help!!


Please? See, I know how to use MY manners.

Par-TAY at the House of Stank

Remember awhile back when Tate was all gung-ho for us to host a party? Well, he finally wore me down enough and we had a lil' shindig here Saturday. It was actually a lot of fun. Usually I get so stressed from planning and cleaning and organizing and worrying about details that I end up not enjoying myself.

Parties for me are dangerous, though. There's something about party food that makes my brain go into some sort of "starvation mode." I prepared and ate entirely too much food. Part of the problem is that I don't know how much food to prepare. I'm the type of person that would rather make too much food rather than not enough. There's something to be said for making enough food to feed a third world country, it would be seriously embarrassing to run out of food. But there is also something to be said for having too many leftovers. I made dozens of deviled eggs, a vat of coleslaw, a gazillion bar-ba-cued pork chops, and a full-to-the-brim crock pot full of baked beans. In fact, we may be eating baked beans for every meal until Labor Day. Combined with the amount of beer we have left over, I hereby deem my home the House of Stank. Not a fun place to be right now, especially if you have a nose.

I'm still recovering from the unbelievable amount of food that I ate. I have no self control when it comes to tortilla chips, salsa, and 7-layer dip (the food of Gods, I say). I cannot control my love of chips and yummy accompanying condiment choices. It's deliciousness sits in the chip and dip platter, beckoning me to eat as much as humanely possible because what if I never had the chance to eat it again?! My even more giant gut and muffin top are the visual reminders of Saturday's foundering.

It appears that when I've been drinking, I become extremely passionate about many subjects. Somehow we got on the topic of the value of teachers. When one of the guests made a snide comment about how she could do a better job than most teachers, I passionately voiced my disagreement, all sassified, with an "oh, no she dint", and some z-snapping thrown in for good measure. I don't allow teacher bashing in my house, yo.

Sadly, this party affirmed the fact that I'm old. Too old to stay up late and drink more than two beers. I paid for my partying all day Sunday with a pounding headache and screaming toddler who went to bed late, also. I know better than to let this kid stay up late! Big mistake. Huge. (Can anyone name the movie reference in italics here???!!!)

I wish I could pawn off some of this food on all of you guys so that you, too can have your very own House of Stank. Beer and baked beans with an Advil chaser, anyone?

I Swear I'm Not Even Exaggerating

I've had Wild Kingdom-esque weekend. From water moccasins to alligators, I'm lucky to be alive. For reals.

Apparently, we have a water moccasin living in the pond in our backyard. It's about TWENTY! FEET! LONG!** with GIANT fangs**. The f*cker even hisses** at you when you come near it. Pete (that's his name)**, tried to attack** me yesterday, but somehow I managed to escape. Tate attempted to exterminate Pete with a rake, but was unable to get him. I fear for my family's life when we venture outside,you know, with a twenty foot** water moccasin on the loose.

Last night at dinner, there was an alligator off the dock right where we were sitting. He was ten feet long** if he was foot. It reared it's dinosaur-like head, sneering at us onlookers**. Suddenly it lunged, gnashing it's fangs**. I was convinced that I was about to become an item on the news, "Local Woman Eaten Alive During Vicious Alligator Attack at Popular Restaurant."

This morning, while out on the boat in the swamps, we encountered crickets the size of basketballs**. They were black with yellow stripes and FANGS**. I'm sure I saw FANGS**. These crickets are notorious for being poisonous, so when I saw them in a tree just centimeters** from my head, you can be sure I completely freaked out. Death by poisonous cricket is not the way I wanted to leave this world.

My idea of a good wildlife experience involves the Mutual of Omaha and a television set. I don't care much for personal encounters with wildlife. The rest of the weekend is going to be spent inside, where it's safe.

**A few of the details in this post may or may not have been exaggerated. I'm just sayin'.

Doing Paula Deen Proud

Since moving to the DEEP SOUTH, I've learned a whole new world of acceptable cuisine. Those of you who watch Paula Deen on Food Network get a small glimpse of the Southern palate, however, there's so much she doesn't divulge.

Sure butter, sour cream, and bacon are staples. So is SWEET tea. Or in my opinion, syrup with a little tea juice mixed in. When I first moved South, I was confused when the server at a restaurant would ask "sweetened or unsweetened"? This is one Southern staple that I haven't been able to adopt.

Did you know that it's acceptable and encouraged to put mayonnaise on fruit? Apparently, banana and mayo sandwiches are scrumptious delicacies. Okay. And mayo on pears with a sprinkling of cheddar cheese is considered edible. In all fairness, I haven't tried either, so I'm not saying these fruit and mayo combinations are a bad thing.

Another thing that I haven't tried, but is truly Southern, is tomato gravy. If I knew more about it, I'd describe it for you. All I know is that it is some sort of "tomato" and "gravy" concoction. I guess you put it on grits or biscuits. Everyone says it's delicious and that I MUST try it before saying it's gross. Anyone want to invite me over for breakfast?!

Even before moving South, I loved chicken salad. However, Southern cooks are very particular about how one goes about preparing chicken salad. It MUST be made with ONLY white meat. Many people are mayo snobs and will only use Hellman's or they'll only use Duke's. Each person's recipe is sacred and seldom shared.

I have fallen in love with several true Southern dishes. Collards, or any greens for that matter, are so delicious! I have no clue as to how to prepare these, so I usually just order this as my side item when we go out to eat.

Grits. Oh how I love me some grits. They're delicious at breakfast with butter. They're even better with lunch or dinner, smothered in cheese.

Po-Boys. The greatest sandwich ever invented. I like both shrimp and soft-shell crab po-boys with lots of cocktail sauce and a little bit of tarter sauce.

Crawfish/Mudbugs/Crayfish. Suck the heads!!! If you'd have told me that I'd ever eat these odd, red, hard, smelly crustaceans, I'd have told you that you were NUTS. Then I tried one. And another, and another, and another. Sure I was left with a terrible stomach ache due to all the spice, but it was well worth it!

I love eating. And not just because I'm pregnant, although I do especially love eating right now. So what are the regional specialties where you live? Please share. You can even send me recipes if you want. And to my Southern friends, what did I forget?

I Hope This Isn't Anti-Climatic....

You asked for it...Children Riding the Alligator. Courtesy of the my neighbor with a raging case of the CRAZIES. I was able to capture the picture this afternoon on a stealth mission. Thank goodness I survived. Enjoy. Happy Easter/Passover/Spring...

I Came to Revel and All I Got Was Cold

Today's parading was not as fun as last week, durn it. Here's a quick run-down that is likely to be as dull as the parades themselves.

I saw Jackie O. She was warm. She was on the other side of the street at the Rich People Club.

The three parading groups were small and stingy. They threw like armless baboons.

I saw Elvis. He IS alive and was picking up the junk left on the edge of road from the parades.

It was cold. And windy. Double yuck.

Heather got a rad boa. Her husband bought it for her...awwww!

Peanut gave his Daddy kisses. I'm jealous.

I drank an O'Doul's, I am cool.

The very first float was filled with the Juvenile Court members. One of the pubescent girls threw an entire bag of loot to her pal in the crowd. It must have been picked up by someone else because she was waving her finger and screaming like an idiot that the bag was for her friend. Classy. Very Classy. Her Mom would have been proud.

Dontcha wish you came, too??? Hmmm, I guess you can't win 'em all.

I Came, I Saw, I Revelled

Having grown up in the Midwest, Mardi Gras was not a time of year that was celebrated. Sure we had a pub crawl the weekend before Fat Tuesday, but that was about the extent of the celebration. You paid your flat fee to get into all the bars downtown, someone passed out some beads, and a few bands played some "Louisiana style" music. I suppose there may have been a parade before the pub crawl began, but it was nowhere near on the scale as what you'd see here in Mobile.

I was surprised to learn when we moved here what a big deal Mardi Gras was to everyone. Natives are quick to tell you that Mardi Gras started here in Mobile, not in New Orleans. There are weeks and weeks of parades, Mardi Gras societies, Kings, Queens, Juvenile Courts, balls, kids get out of school, and Moon Pies. Moon Pies? I thought you got beads at parades! But no! You get moon pies, stuffed animals, plastic toys, candy, cups, and of course, beads.

A few weeks ago, Tate, Peanut, myself, and the in laws attended a parade down on Dauphin Island. It was very family friendly, low key, and short. It was fun, but unfortunately was cold and raining. I guess it was a little disappointing, I expected more.

We were not disappointed today. It was SO MUCH FUN!!!! I get it now! I see why Mardi Gras is SUCH a huge deal around here! Luckily the weather was great, maybe a little chilly, but sunny with very little breeze. There were two parades back to back, taking about an hour to see the whole show. We all had a blast watching the people, the horses, the floats, and the marching bands. It was hilarious to realize you coveted the cheap junk they were throwing, but you WANTED those BEADS!!! Brendan was even putting his arms up as the floats passed trying to catch all the throws. We made out like bandits and now that we have all this stuff, I have no idea what we'll ever do with it all.


There are more day parades next Saturday (yay!!!!!). I can't wait to do it all over again. Mardi Gras is definitely one of the benefits to living here.