News from The County Weekender

During the peak afternoon humidity, a Local Lawnmower failed in his valiant attempt to win the weekly contest between himself and his neighbor for the best manicured lawn. In an unprecedented maneuver of untested effectiveness, he veered his lawn tractor towards a steep ditch, attempting a 90° angle strip of mowed grass with precise corners and criss-crossing patterns. Although he had never attempted such a challenging and uncommon technique before, Mr. Local Lawnmower felt confident in his abilities and blamed the mishap on outside forces over which he had no control. Had it also not been for his oversight in wearing unsuitable footwear, Mr. Local Lawnmower tells reporters “There’s no doubt my foot would’ve hit the brake instead of the gas.” Mr. Local Lawnmower deeply regrets his choice of sandals but insists “They are the comfiest shoes I’ve ever owned and were well worth the money spent.”

He also blames the accident on wet conditions, but justifies mowing despite inclement weather on his desire to get a “head start on the competition” while his neighbor remained helplessly trapped at work today. He told reporters that he “enjoys setting the bar by being the first one on the field.”

Although he does feel humbled by this unfortunate setback, he felt he was able to redeem himself by what he referred to as an “Indiana Jones-like pivot and leap” off the tractor and a “one armed hang” leaving him dangling from the stalks of the goldenrod flowers that have just come into bloom. Mr. Local Lawnmower also mentioned that the flowers look very healthy this year and he hopes for a beautiful blooming season.

Mr. Local Lawnmower’s wife refused to comment other than “I’m sick and tired of him almost killing himself. What the hell am I going to do with three kids and no husband if he up and dies on me? You know what? Go ahead and leave me with that life insurance policy.” Mrs. Local Lawnmower shrieked towards her husband with raised fists. “Know what I’ll do? I’ll sell that damned John Deere and hire a lawn service!”

Reporters left the scene as Mr. Local Lawnmower could be seen on his knees, pleading with his furious wife as she threatened to cancel his Tractor Home Magazine subscription and buy one for the neighbor instead.

Candy for Obama

15 bags of Jolly Ranchers, Now-and-Laters, Tootsie Rolls, and Dum-Dums: $30.00

3 Metal buckets to haul said loot: $18.00

The sugar rush of being politically active in Big local parade? Priceless.

Not admitting anything

my darling friend may or may not have left this box of jiggly thighs delightfully fudgy ice cream in my freezer:



It was a creamy symphony of fudge chunks (Does pairing the words “fudge” and “chunk” produce a Pavlov’s salivating reflex for you too? Not really you say? What’s that? Frothy drool in the left corner of my mouth? Sorry.) and the most adorable miniature chocolate-y sox swimming in a peanut butter and chocolate ice cream. I may or may not have just polished off the remaining half bit in the box.

I refuse to let the Catholic guilt get to me.

I’m good enough. I’m smart enough. And doggone it, people like me.

I can only hope she reads this blog very soon and returns to my freezer to remove the other box of mint chocolate chip ice cream she also left here and replace it with carrots and cucumbers instead. I can not be held responsible whilst it sings my name like a seductive siren...beckoning me towards the rocky beaches of my kitchen, only to lull me into a sugar-induced coma and leave me lying bewildered and bloated on the cold tile with only a chocolate mustache as evidence of my sins.

Dont cha, Dont cha

Dont cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me

Dont cha wish your girlfriend was a freak like me

Dont cha, dont cha

Dont cha wish your girlfriend was raw like me

Dont cha wish your girlfriend was fun like me

Dont cha, dont cha

I realize the sheer exquisiteness of my vogue-ness might be too much for the internets to handle, but do try.

I also apologize for referring to the Pussycat Dolls. I’ll never do it again.

Although my Husband no longer cringes when I wander into the living room decorated as the Demented Twilight Pantomime, I still have heaps of fun trying to frighten small children. Mine in particular. Imagine being snuggled in your bed, warm fleece blanket tucked beneath your dimpled chin, while patiently waiting for the good night kiss from your Mama. Now imagine, instead of the warm familiar face of your mother appearing in the doorway, the pale face of a mysterious person slowly enters the doorway wringing its hands and cackling.

If you were a nine or eleven year old child, wouldn’t you shrink beneath your covers and snivel at the sight of such a terrible monster? I know I would’ve.

Not my coldblooded brave little children. Not even a flinch. I may have caught a slight roll of an eye or heard a sniff of acknowledgement (or it could’ve just been allergies) but as far as scaring the pants off them? Nope. Nuthin’. Nada.

“Mama, what’s all over your face?”
“Why do you look so ugly?”
“Don’t kiss me like that.”
“Don’t touch me.”

Tough crowd.

I glimpsed my face as I passed the hallway mirror and twitched.

At least my pores were clean.

You want fireworks?

I got yer freakin’ fireworks right heya baby. They’re the 2008 limited edition 36DDD ball-busters and they just were just released last night.

Here’s the thing. I know I squish my girls into way-too-small bras, but since having and nursing babies, they’ve sort of become out of control and I’ll do just about anything to subdue their presence. Getting the post-partum bits and bobs into my delicate under-things has become what some might call an Olympic Event. A Chicken Dance with an Elaine thrown in for leverage. A hop-on-one-foot and squat until all parts are sufficiently stifled into the lacy, cotton shackles otherwise known as bras and undies. An exercise in complete and utter futility.

Because sooner or later: KABOOM.

The Husband all but ripped my shirt off last night and forced me to stand straight with my arms at my side. He’d successfully googled “how to measure a bust” and had pilfered the measuring tape from my sewing basket, slinking towards me with an evil glint in his big browns. He’s been on my case for years a while now to get measured. I normally flat-out refuse him or pretend like I don’t hear and mention something about tacos and cheesecake. Honestly, I know they’re colossal but do I really have to face the stuttering DDD’s that would like to take up residence on the tag? No, I wouldn’t.

I like to pretend that all my current under-drawers fit just fine…and the bulging muffin tops you see under my armpits are just gas bubbles. Too much broccoli for lunch. And never-you-mind the red welts on my shoulders and back, I forgot my sun block today.

I had no other choice but to face facts as the smirk started in the left corner of his mouth and spread to his entire face as my eyeballs rolled out of my head.

So now Mama’s got a brand new bag bra that actually fits. Happy Independence Day girls – hope you enjoy your newly found freedom.

Me? Freak out?

Over a 14 inch, harmless, curiously endearing, tongue-flicking grass snake? Never. I was completely cool, calm and composed the moment my precious darlings yanked it out from the flower garden. I was 200x its size for god’s sake. I was not crouching behind a bush, failing to flinch from behind my camera lens just in case the beast might catch sight of me and slither up my pant leg and devour my brains in one gulp of an unhinged jaw. Not me. I was unruffled by the mere sight of the slinking, scaly reptile and not at all petrified that my mischievous lively children might decide to play tricksies on their lily-livered Mama that could possibly involve snakes in her hair. Not a chance.



I was only standing 400 feet away so that I could practice using the zoom function. You can never be too good at zooming I always say. I was perfectly at ease as it slunk its way around the necks, hair and arms of my children. And I would’ve totally touched it but you know me – always thinking of others. I didn’t want to take any of the experience away from their curious little hands. I’m good like that.

And I didn’t even need those two shots of tequila just to upload and post these pictures either. I just threw ‘em back because it’s Wednesday afternoon and my toddler wants to play his most favorite game for the 37th time: Scream In Mama's Ear Until Her Ears Bleed And Then Knaw On Her Shins Until She Caves And Gives Him Anything He Wants.