Boundaries for the Heavy Laden
Pardon me while I vent….
What is it with men and sharing?! Not once but twice today I have encountered a man that had to stop and tell me all about his stomach issues.
My boss called in this morning and announced he has been “stopped up” for 3 days and of course I assumed he had a cold. I said, “Well, you sound like you may be feeling better.”
Big mistake!
He replied, “I am constipated. I have taken several laxatives and they are not working. Next step is an enema. That’s what happens to you when you get old.”
I just told him I hoped he felt better and “Uh, Bye!”
Not long after that a client comes in and decides to explain that he went to college with my boss and has know him since then. He then proceeded to share that “he had lost 100 pounds since college and that he had Irritable Bowel Syndrome. The reason he had to reschedule his previous appointment was because he could not go too far from the bathroom?”
Okay men, this is too much information! Women talk a lot but not about that kind of stuff. No stranger really wants to know how you are constipated, plans for an enema, have diarrhea, gas or any other sort of anything that has to do with your lower body parts. That is between you, your doctor and maybe your wife or mother but most certainly not any other female on earth!
Is this a college thing or just a man thing? If anyone knows the answer to that; please let me know!
Now don’t get me wrong, I am very aware of the passage of scripture from Matthew 11:28,30 Come unto me, all that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. ... For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.
But I also know the Father said that and even though I am made in His image I am not there yet! There are boundaries for the heavy laden. Ya know what I mean?
Loving you with the Love of Christ,
Nelle
September 29, 2009
EDITOR'S NOTE: Tell your mother, guys, or the greeter at Wal-Mart; your wife doesn't want to know either. Nor will this wife administer an enema.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Friday, July 31, 2009
Wish Me Luck
EC and Diva are monitoring the NYSE via some stock market guru on Twitter. They want to incorporate, and form an LLC called "Escargot.com." Did I mention that both children are still in grammar school? They are "feeling out" the market in order to formulate their IPO (initial public offering).
I'm all, Huh?
Even though we have a combined net worth of 0, the hub understands the lingo and suspects they are "day trading" from our home office, while I'm downstairs drinking my first cup of coffee.
He could be right. As I'm drifting downstairs about 6 a.m., the two velociraptors are in the computer room--each on her own laptop--Googling exchange rates, and saying things like,
"The Euro is still an unstable currency."
"Also, avoid the Yen."
"Shut up, I know."
"Jussayin. Pound Sterling, way to go."
"Agreed."
It's kinda scary. I asked Diva (third grade) last week how much she had saved up in her piggy bank, and she deadpanned, "I'm diversified."
I periodically remind them that I am more valuable to them alive, and active in the workforce. Otherwise, they'd have to liquidate their assets and purchase a mahoghany casket, funeral flowers, and nice shady plot.
L'il Viv says the topic has already come up, and the two devil children have researched on the net, and connected--via Facebook--with a discount crematorium in Texas.
I said, "Are you serious?"
She nodded. "They Yahoo-mapped it. Shortest route. No left turns to save on fuel costs. Those little vermin are smart."
Wish me luck.
I'm all, Huh?
Even though we have a combined net worth of 0, the hub understands the lingo and suspects they are "day trading" from our home office, while I'm downstairs drinking my first cup of coffee.
He could be right. As I'm drifting downstairs about 6 a.m., the two velociraptors are in the computer room--each on her own laptop--Googling exchange rates, and saying things like,
"The Euro is still an unstable currency."
"Also, avoid the Yen."
"Shut up, I know."
"Jussayin. Pound Sterling, way to go."
"Agreed."
It's kinda scary. I asked Diva (third grade) last week how much she had saved up in her piggy bank, and she deadpanned, "I'm diversified."
I periodically remind them that I am more valuable to them alive, and active in the workforce. Otherwise, they'd have to liquidate their assets and purchase a mahoghany casket, funeral flowers, and nice shady plot.
L'il Viv says the topic has already come up, and the two devil children have researched on the net, and connected--via Facebook--with a discount crematorium in Texas.
I said, "Are you serious?"
She nodded. "They Yahoo-mapped it. Shortest route. No left turns to save on fuel costs. Those little vermin are smart."
Wish me luck.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
My Days are Numbered
Thank you to Li'l Viv for taking over the blogging so I could go do grown-up, responsible stuff, like scrounge up a paycheck. Entrepreneurship forces a person to
educate herself on subjects such as "market inefficiences" and "weasel clauses."
Fortunately, we have mentors for that.
My children, in fact, have inherited he who must be obeyed's work ethic and logistical genius. Said children are, in fact, "in negotiations" to develop the natural area behind our home into an additional single-family housing development.
They recently brought me their surveyor's map and blueprints. Each building lot had been plotted, assessed, and categorized according to "land will or will not perk."
I warily browsed through the map and blueprints, trying to decide if I should encourage their aspirations, or let them know that particular acreage is designated as a natural gas pipeline easement. In the end he who said, "Don't crush a child's dreams. Let them carry on."
The children removed map and schematics from my hands, however, when I admitted ignorance over the whole "land perking" thing. They sighed and took the paperwork into their father's study for review and further strategizing.
This morning, on my way downstairs for coffee, I heard the two velociraptors conspiring in the bonus room. This snippet of their conversation was overheard:
"Mom doesn't understand septic vs city water."
"I know, but don't harsh on Mom. The land that doesn't perk, we can sell to her."
"I guess, but we'll still get stuck with it when she kicks."
"Only if she is predeceased by dad."
Have I mentioned that both children are under the age of 13? Moreover, I have no Balenciagas, no cable tv, and no plasma flatscreen, because I pay through the nose to give these kids a Paideia education at a devoutly Christian school. (Yes, some jokes write themselves.)
It's time for another cup of coffee. Anybody out there volunteer to taste it first?
educate herself on subjects such as "market inefficiences" and "weasel clauses."
Fortunately, we have mentors for that.
My children, in fact, have inherited he who must be obeyed's work ethic and logistical genius. Said children are, in fact, "in negotiations" to develop the natural area behind our home into an additional single-family housing development.
They recently brought me their surveyor's map and blueprints. Each building lot had been plotted, assessed, and categorized according to "land will or will not perk."
I warily browsed through the map and blueprints, trying to decide if I should encourage their aspirations, or let them know that particular acreage is designated as a natural gas pipeline easement. In the end he who said, "Don't crush a child's dreams. Let them carry on."
The children removed map and schematics from my hands, however, when I admitted ignorance over the whole "land perking" thing. They sighed and took the paperwork into their father's study for review and further strategizing.
This morning, on my way downstairs for coffee, I heard the two velociraptors conspiring in the bonus room. This snippet of their conversation was overheard:
"Mom doesn't understand septic vs city water."
"I know, but don't harsh on Mom. The land that doesn't perk, we can sell to her."
"I guess, but we'll still get stuck with it when she kicks."
"Only if she is predeceased by dad."
Have I mentioned that both children are under the age of 13? Moreover, I have no Balenciagas, no cable tv, and no plasma flatscreen, because I pay through the nose to give these kids a Paideia education at a devoutly Christian school. (Yes, some jokes write themselves.)
It's time for another cup of coffee. Anybody out there volunteer to taste it first?
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Triple Threat
The following excerpt is one of the most enjoyable reads this writer has found. And this writer is educated, ya'll.
Extracted from Forbes.com, the following few paragraphs yield the following bounty:
1. Consumer rip-off alert
2. Excellent recipe
3. Soul-satisfying snark.
All of the above from Forbes. Who knew? We heartily endorse the fine writers at The Entrepreneurs Staff. Well-done.
From "Ways You're Getting Ripped Off"
High-end Guacamole
The Rip-off: This savory starter is all the rage, and it mints money. Consider a serving size for two-to-four people, for which Rosa Mexicano, a ritzy Mexican outpost in Manhattan, charges a stiff $14. While ingredients typically gobble 30% to 40% of the menu price for food items at most restaurants, we estimate Rosa's guacamole clocks in at 19%--and probably a lot less than that.
Our formula yields the same batch for $2.65, based on retail grocery prices (wholesale distributors wouldn't talk) and, given reasonable volume purchases at the local A&P, there would be plenty of ingredients leftover to make another batch or two. The recipe:
--Three avocados, at $4.99 for a bag of eight to 10 ($1.65)
--Two tablespoons of onions, at $1.79 a pound (11.2 cents)
--Three tablespoons of cilantro, at $1.99 per bunch (24.9 cents)
--Two teaspoons of jalapeño peppers, at $3.99 per pound (8.3 cents)
--Three tablespoons of tomatoes, at $1.99 a pound (18.7 cents)
--One squeezed lime, at $3.99 for a 2-pound bag (36.3 cents)
--One teaspoon of salt (less than a penny)
Total: $2.65, or 19% of $14.
How To Avoid It: Make your own green stuff. Or have another $11 margarita to ease the pain.
Extracted from Forbes.com, the following few paragraphs yield the following bounty:
1. Consumer rip-off alert
2. Excellent recipe
3. Soul-satisfying snark.
All of the above from Forbes. Who knew? We heartily endorse the fine writers at The Entrepreneurs Staff. Well-done.
From "Ways You're Getting Ripped Off"
High-end Guacamole
The Rip-off: This savory starter is all the rage, and it mints money. Consider a serving size for two-to-four people, for which Rosa Mexicano, a ritzy Mexican outpost in Manhattan, charges a stiff $14. While ingredients typically gobble 30% to 40% of the menu price for food items at most restaurants, we estimate Rosa's guacamole clocks in at 19%--and probably a lot less than that.
Our formula yields the same batch for $2.65, based on retail grocery prices (wholesale distributors wouldn't talk) and, given reasonable volume purchases at the local A&P, there would be plenty of ingredients leftover to make another batch or two. The recipe:
--Three avocados, at $4.99 for a bag of eight to 10 ($1.65)
--Two tablespoons of onions, at $1.79 a pound (11.2 cents)
--Three tablespoons of cilantro, at $1.99 per bunch (24.9 cents)
--Two teaspoons of jalapeño peppers, at $3.99 per pound (8.3 cents)
--Three tablespoons of tomatoes, at $1.99 a pound (18.7 cents)
--One squeezed lime, at $3.99 for a 2-pound bag (36.3 cents)
--One teaspoon of salt (less than a penny)
Total: $2.65, or 19% of $14.
How To Avoid It: Make your own green stuff. Or have another $11 margarita to ease the pain.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Crying on Cue
Are any of you readers aspiring performance artists? I have news you can use.
She Who Oversees this site took my BFF Vivian Beauchamp off to a meeting about some new web venture. This leaves me with a blog post deadline to meet, on my own, with no help from you know who, and so--in lieu of something pithy and profound--I'll share some newfound wisdom with all aspiring actors out there.
Everyone around me seems to work harder at keeping me sober than I do. That's odd, isn't it? Our Creative Director (She Who Oversees) suggested I acquire a new skill set in order to focus on something other than etoh. And so, Vivi and I have embarked upon a career in theatre.
Legitimate theatre, mind you, not some creepy burlesque hidden in a concrete building.
Open auditions for legitimate and highly regarded venues were held last Saturday.
La Viv and I had prepared our two monologues, one funny and one depressing. This is to prove we have "range."
Friday morning, I began to feel a rising tide of panic. When in such dire emotional straits, I immediately turn to two sources of support:
1. The Bible
2. my sponsor Blade.
Having gotten John 3:16 out of the way, I hit speed dial, and connected with Blade. I explained about the auditions, my outfit, and the unrelenting paralysis of fright.
"What ya scared of?" Blade says.
"The dramatic recitation," I replied. "I'm going to choke."
"What do you need in this moment?" He sounded distracted. I heard beauty shop clientele yapping away in the background.
"I need to be able to cry on demand," I explained, in a very bleating sheep kind of tone. "Blade, I can't do it. I've got the comedic routine down pat [he grunted], but I cannot seem to summon up a tear for the heart-rending dramatic piece."
There was a pause. One could visualize Blade putting down his shears, giving his client the just one tiny second hand signal, and stepping to the shampoo room to focus.
"Let me see if I understand," he said. "You are saying that you cannot produce tears."
"That's right," I said.
"You need to be able to channel some kind of traumatic memory that will make you cry? On Saturday?" Then he went quiet, and this means he is busy assessing.
Wanting to be helpful, I threw in, "I even took a class, Blade. A crying on cue workshop and it didn't work. I must be dead inside."
"Just think about your childhood," he offered. "That certainly makes me cry."
"You know I've suppressed all that. I need a fresh memory, but nothing truly horrifying has happened lately. Thank God."
Just then Blade snapped his fingers. "Come to the salon right this very minute," he commanded. "If you can be here by 3:15, Sonia can fit you in!"
"For what?"
I could literally feel his eyes roll through the phone. In his most imperious voice, Blade intoned, "Baby Child, you don't need no acting class to cry on cue. You need a Brazilian Bikini Wax. Sonia is doing them half-price this week, and I'll knock off another 30 percent for your angst alone."
Long, long, pause. I had heard of this thing before, and did not feel good about it.
Blade snapped, "Well, come on."
"Uh, Blade, will it be terribly painful?"
"Of course," he hissed. "Isn't that what you want? To cry? And have a fresh bad memory?"
"Cry, yes," I said, "but not shriek like vermin caught in a bear trap."
"We'll stuff a rag in your mouth and you'll be fine." Then he hung up.
I received a most respectable callback the day after Open Auditions. Any future success in the performance media I owe to Blade, one of the great loves of my life, and 12 Step sponsor extraordinaire. (Oh, and Sonia.)
Respectfully submitted,
L'il Viv
She Who Oversees this site took my BFF Vivian Beauchamp off to a meeting about some new web venture. This leaves me with a blog post deadline to meet, on my own, with no help from you know who, and so--in lieu of something pithy and profound--I'll share some newfound wisdom with all aspiring actors out there.
Everyone around me seems to work harder at keeping me sober than I do. That's odd, isn't it? Our Creative Director (She Who Oversees) suggested I acquire a new skill set in order to focus on something other than etoh. And so, Vivi and I have embarked upon a career in theatre.
Legitimate theatre, mind you, not some creepy burlesque hidden in a concrete building.
Open auditions for legitimate and highly regarded venues were held last Saturday.
La Viv and I had prepared our two monologues, one funny and one depressing. This is to prove we have "range."
Friday morning, I began to feel a rising tide of panic. When in such dire emotional straits, I immediately turn to two sources of support:
1. The Bible
2. my sponsor Blade.
Having gotten John 3:16 out of the way, I hit speed dial, and connected with Blade. I explained about the auditions, my outfit, and the unrelenting paralysis of fright.
"What ya scared of?" Blade says.
"The dramatic recitation," I replied. "I'm going to choke."
"What do you need in this moment?" He sounded distracted. I heard beauty shop clientele yapping away in the background.
"I need to be able to cry on demand," I explained, in a very bleating sheep kind of tone. "Blade, I can't do it. I've got the comedic routine down pat [he grunted], but I cannot seem to summon up a tear for the heart-rending dramatic piece."
There was a pause. One could visualize Blade putting down his shears, giving his client the just one tiny second hand signal, and stepping to the shampoo room to focus.
"Let me see if I understand," he said. "You are saying that you cannot produce tears."
"That's right," I said.
"You need to be able to channel some kind of traumatic memory that will make you cry? On Saturday?" Then he went quiet, and this means he is busy assessing.
Wanting to be helpful, I threw in, "I even took a class, Blade. A crying on cue workshop and it didn't work. I must be dead inside."
"Just think about your childhood," he offered. "That certainly makes me cry."
"You know I've suppressed all that. I need a fresh memory, but nothing truly horrifying has happened lately. Thank God."
Just then Blade snapped his fingers. "Come to the salon right this very minute," he commanded. "If you can be here by 3:15, Sonia can fit you in!"
"For what?"
I could literally feel his eyes roll through the phone. In his most imperious voice, Blade intoned, "Baby Child, you don't need no acting class to cry on cue. You need a Brazilian Bikini Wax. Sonia is doing them half-price this week, and I'll knock off another 30 percent for your angst alone."
Long, long, pause. I had heard of this thing before, and did not feel good about it.
Blade snapped, "Well, come on."
"Uh, Blade, will it be terribly painful?"
"Of course," he hissed. "Isn't that what you want? To cry? And have a fresh bad memory?"
"Cry, yes," I said, "but not shriek like vermin caught in a bear trap."
"We'll stuff a rag in your mouth and you'll be fine." Then he hung up.
I received a most respectable callback the day after Open Auditions. Any future success in the performance media I owe to Blade, one of the great loves of my life, and 12 Step sponsor extraordinaire. (Oh, and Sonia.)
Respectfully submitted,
L'il Viv
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Get Over Your Gosselin Hair
There was an incident this morning which reminded me that I am not the only one feeling undone by life and other people's reactions to it.
For example, the other Vivian had just posted a note to her Facebook condemning posers with Gosselin hair who have no real credentials to back up their snobbishness. Or snobbery, whatever. She and I have embarked upon a "fitness program" involving break-of-dawn cardio walks around her semi-upscale development.
Having harshly criticized "posers" on her Facebook page, we left the house this morning for our cardio walk. Whereupon we discovered that, in anticipation of an overnight rainstorm, he who must be obeyed had covered his convertible with the tarp from their Seadoo. And he had fastened this tarp to the car in a very redneck way, with some sort of bungee cords, which greatly embarrassed La Vivian. (I am the humble one. Jussayin.)
It looked odd, but was no skin off my nose, so we stretched and I told her to get over it. Vivi said, "I cannot simply get over it. It looks janky." She was grouchy at me all two miles of speed walking, due to my failure to empathize with he who's jankiness.
My point was that she had condemned--in a very public way--superficial people who do not, in actual fact, belong to the Junior League, nor are they actual card-carrying members of DAR (Daughters of the American Revolution). And yet she felt the right to be all lofty about a car wrapped securely in a boat tarp. What's the big deal?
We cardio-trudged for four blocks in silence, hostility radiating from her body, until at last she said, "The tarp says Seadoo on it."
I gave her a shrug and palms up. (Words were not an option at that point; this was serious exercise.)
Vivian's eyes filled with tears as she reminded me, and the solitary neighbor woman pruning some butterfly bushes, that her family's Seadoo is an actual "multi-passenger-bearing watercraft, and not a motorcycle thing on floats."
Bottom line: we each have showdog hair, in some area of our lives. Either own it and represent in a genuine way, or shave your head. (Your own personal Yoda.)
Respectfully submitted,
Vivian Carter
For example, the other Vivian had just posted a note to her Facebook condemning posers with Gosselin hair who have no real credentials to back up their snobbishness. Or snobbery, whatever. She and I have embarked upon a "fitness program" involving break-of-dawn cardio walks around her semi-upscale development.
Having harshly criticized "posers" on her Facebook page, we left the house this morning for our cardio walk. Whereupon we discovered that, in anticipation of an overnight rainstorm, he who must be obeyed had covered his convertible with the tarp from their Seadoo. And he had fastened this tarp to the car in a very redneck way, with some sort of bungee cords, which greatly embarrassed La Vivian. (I am the humble one. Jussayin.)
It looked odd, but was no skin off my nose, so we stretched and I told her to get over it. Vivi said, "I cannot simply get over it. It looks janky." She was grouchy at me all two miles of speed walking, due to my failure to empathize with he who's jankiness.
My point was that she had condemned--in a very public way--superficial people who do not, in actual fact, belong to the Junior League, nor are they actual card-carrying members of DAR (Daughters of the American Revolution). And yet she felt the right to be all lofty about a car wrapped securely in a boat tarp. What's the big deal?
We cardio-trudged for four blocks in silence, hostility radiating from her body, until at last she said, "The tarp says Seadoo on it."
I gave her a shrug and palms up. (Words were not an option at that point; this was serious exercise.)
Vivian's eyes filled with tears as she reminded me, and the solitary neighbor woman pruning some butterfly bushes, that her family's Seadoo is an actual "multi-passenger-bearing watercraft, and not a motorcycle thing on floats."
Bottom line: we each have showdog hair, in some area of our lives. Either own it and represent in a genuine way, or shave your head. (Your own personal Yoda.)
Respectfully submitted,
Vivian Carter
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Vivian Carter's Blog
My fingers hurt.
This is Aaron the Sadistic (yet highly motivational) Trainer's fault. Well, fault carries a negative connotation. Let's say that my aches and pains are his "doing."
Vivian Beauchamp and I have a very important function to attend in the near future, and we told Aaron tonight that we must be hotties by September 9. Aaron Who Does Not Smile said, "Ladies, you are halfway there."
This pleased us. I asked, "So we're warmies now?"
Aaron skipped a beat and quipped, "Maybe room temp."
You know what, I'll take it. Progress has already been made. I am currently shopping in the Juniors Department at Macy's. Jussayin.
So due to Aaron's schedule, and our own commitment to fitness, we walked from Big Vivi's home up to the gym, and thus had to walk back to her home in the dark.
Limping along, we passed under a streetlamp, and as we passed by a FROG jumped out at Big Vivi, causing her to levitate in shock and horror. (Give us spiders and snakes any day, we're cool. But frogs frighten us. Badly.)
So the frog launched itself in her direction, BV was startled into the air, whereupon she unleashed a torrent of verbal abuse upon the thing.
As Aaron had complimented my form in the weight room, this room temperature cougariffic soul was moved with compassion for the frog. Feeling it did not deserve to be called out hatefully by BV, I rebuked her.
I said, "Poor little toad. He ain't never done you no wrong. Why you gotta throw him shade like that?"
BV for some reason experienced this as unbearably hilarious, and so what happened next is "in the vault."
The point is, frog or no frog, we are on our way. In the vernacular: we is fixing to be HOT. Look out world.
This is Aaron the Sadistic (yet highly motivational) Trainer's fault. Well, fault carries a negative connotation. Let's say that my aches and pains are his "doing."
Vivian Beauchamp and I have a very important function to attend in the near future, and we told Aaron tonight that we must be hotties by September 9. Aaron Who Does Not Smile said, "Ladies, you are halfway there."
This pleased us. I asked, "So we're warmies now?"
Aaron skipped a beat and quipped, "Maybe room temp."
You know what, I'll take it. Progress has already been made. I am currently shopping in the Juniors Department at Macy's. Jussayin.
So due to Aaron's schedule, and our own commitment to fitness, we walked from Big Vivi's home up to the gym, and thus had to walk back to her home in the dark.
Limping along, we passed under a streetlamp, and as we passed by a FROG jumped out at Big Vivi, causing her to levitate in shock and horror. (Give us spiders and snakes any day, we're cool. But frogs frighten us. Badly.)
So the frog launched itself in her direction, BV was startled into the air, whereupon she unleashed a torrent of verbal abuse upon the thing.
As Aaron had complimented my form in the weight room, this room temperature cougariffic soul was moved with compassion for the frog. Feeling it did not deserve to be called out hatefully by BV, I rebuked her.
I said, "Poor little toad. He ain't never done you no wrong. Why you gotta throw him shade like that?"
BV for some reason experienced this as unbearably hilarious, and so what happened next is "in the vault."
The point is, frog or no frog, we are on our way. In the vernacular: we is fixing to be HOT. Look out world.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Vivian Carter's Blog
Our Creative Director keeps blasting emails about our needing to post anecdotes that encourage Christian women. I dunno. We may need to switch genres to "things that frighten Christian women." That's more of our niche.
Many disturbing things happened today. It's a lot to process. Ponder this:
1. Early this morning Big Viv and I embarked upon a fitness regime with our new personal trainer, Aaron Who Does Not Smile. I can no longer navigate stairs, and will have to sleep on the downstairs sofa. During this odd little number called "the pec fly" we discovered that Aaron--while he does not smile much--is nonetheless capable of barking out a laugh.
2. At lunch, well-deserved after this morning's trauma, Viv's cousin David announced that he is planning a video blog, which he will film while sitting on the toilet. The camera will face David, straight on, as he sits and ponders life aloud.
Can you even believe it? (Not a Christian project BTW.)
3. Vivian's husband, driving his work van, happened to see us in my Honda on Clement and chased us down the street honking his horn and waving a fistful of cash. Evidently it was pay day. Although Big Viv yowled about needing the money for her hair appointment, I was not about to pull over for any man waving a fistful of greenbacks while honking the horn at us. (We dusted him. BV not currently speaking to me, since her roots are still showing.)
So as far as posting something spiritual, I don't know? "Hangeth thou in there" works well for me.
Many disturbing things happened today. It's a lot to process. Ponder this:
1. Early this morning Big Viv and I embarked upon a fitness regime with our new personal trainer, Aaron Who Does Not Smile. I can no longer navigate stairs, and will have to sleep on the downstairs sofa. During this odd little number called "the pec fly" we discovered that Aaron--while he does not smile much--is nonetheless capable of barking out a laugh.
2. At lunch, well-deserved after this morning's trauma, Viv's cousin David announced that he is planning a video blog, which he will film while sitting on the toilet. The camera will face David, straight on, as he sits and ponders life aloud.
Can you even believe it? (Not a Christian project BTW.)
3. Vivian's husband, driving his work van, happened to see us in my Honda on Clement and chased us down the street honking his horn and waving a fistful of cash. Evidently it was pay day. Although Big Viv yowled about needing the money for her hair appointment, I was not about to pull over for any man waving a fistful of greenbacks while honking the horn at us. (We dusted him. BV not currently speaking to me, since her roots are still showing.)
So as far as posting something spiritual, I don't know? "Hangeth thou in there" works well for me.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Danger at Discount Dan's
God opposes my pride by allowing humiliations into my life almost daily. Many I do not even bring upon myself. Some just fall upon me, or roll right up behind and blow an air horn.
For example: Hot French Bread.
If you have known me long, you know that I periodically blitz through my favorite blue collar discount retailer, an iconic store containing acres of bargains and a few blown gaskets.
Last week I decided to peruse the aisles of said store in peace, as the man had our children at a Chinese buffet. As I was quietly attempting to choose new pajamas, an older man rolled up behind me on a little girl's purple bicycle, beeped a loud clown horn, and hollered--I kid you not--"Hot French bread!"
You may be assured that I jumped out of my skin. Haven given birth to two chubby babies, I even peed on myself a little bit.
This guy proceeded to roll all around Discount Dan's beeping his horn at folks and shouting about "hot french bread!" By the time I got to check-out, I had a massive headache.
You know that I do not seek out crazies. They find me.
So as Bouncer Lady was checking my purchase receipt against bagged items in the cart, I mentioned that the horn, bike, and pepaw had to go; unless Pepaw were unhinged, in which case grace could be extended to a store willing to hire the challenged.
Bouncer Lady blinked at me and said, "That's the assistant store manager. He just like to have some fun."
I suggested that he lock himself in his office and have fun alone, because the air horn, bike, and bread-shouting were obnoxious.
Bouncer Lady primly recited a toll-free number, which I could use to report my lack of appreciation for "the bike experience."
Does anyone have the toll-free number for the Nut Magnet Help Line? Because that's what I really need.
Happy mall shopping, and stay away from Discount Dan's.
God opposes my pride by allowing humiliations into my life almost daily. Many I do not even bring upon myself. Some just fall upon me, or roll right up behind and blow an air horn.
For example: Hot French Bread.
If you have known me long, you know that I periodically blitz through my favorite blue collar discount retailer, an iconic store containing acres of bargains and a few blown gaskets.
Last week I decided to peruse the aisles of said store in peace, as the man had our children at a Chinese buffet. As I was quietly attempting to choose new pajamas, an older man rolled up behind me on a little girl's purple bicycle, beeped a loud clown horn, and hollered--I kid you not--"Hot French bread!"
You may be assured that I jumped out of my skin. Haven given birth to two chubby babies, I even peed on myself a little bit.
This guy proceeded to roll all around Discount Dan's beeping his horn at folks and shouting about "hot french bread!" By the time I got to check-out, I had a massive headache.
You know that I do not seek out crazies. They find me.
So as Bouncer Lady was checking my purchase receipt against bagged items in the cart, I mentioned that the horn, bike, and pepaw had to go; unless Pepaw were unhinged, in which case grace could be extended to a store willing to hire the challenged.
Bouncer Lady blinked at me and said, "That's the assistant store manager. He just like to have some fun."
I suggested that he lock himself in his office and have fun alone, because the air horn, bike, and bread-shouting were obnoxious.
Bouncer Lady primly recited a toll-free number, which I could use to report my lack of appreciation for "the bike experience."
Does anyone have the toll-free number for the Nut Magnet Help Line? Because that's what I really need.
Happy mall shopping, and stay away from Discount Dan's.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Vivian Carter's Blog
Shortly before being sent away for my “vacation,” I met with Greg the Graphics Man (and his wife Sue, a stenographer) to discuss branding my assorted entrepreneurial ventures.
On this particular day my focus was creating a Christian woman’s encouragement blog. I say this so you will know that I mean well. Sometimes, however, meaning well simply does not cut it. Example: the latest confab with Graphics Greg.
Graphics Greg has a brilliant mind, an efficient wife, and he navigates social media the way a teen navigates texting. I, on the other hand, tend to bumble. As I did this particular day, in a free Wifi coffee house near Greg’s home.
After reviewing my brand’s focus group results, Greg says to me (in an urgent tone), “To get where you want to go in media, you must immediately jump on top of bing, blip, and jason. Do you Digg?”
Sue took notes in her steno pad. I watched her write, “Have Viv do bing, blip, and jason.”
I go, “Yeah, Greg, I dig, but um, I don’t play that anymore.”
Greg gave palms up and a frowny face. His brain moves quickly, and he likes to make progress.
A quick glance around the coffee house revealed no eavesdroppers, so I leaned forward (which made Sue retract, interestingly).
I said, “Greg, something happened recently and I became this thing called an Evangelical. I don’t actually do people anymore. Let alone jump on top of them. God is not really down with that.”
Silence from the Graphics People.
Knowing I had done it again, but unsure of how, I stammered on. “Plus, Greg, I don’t actually know Bing, Blip, or Jason, and "Blip" sounds like he could potentially be a midget, and there’s an issue there.” I paused, then said, “For later.”
Greg’s face took on what can only be described as a hostile tone. No words, just a very severe look in his eyes and a flat-lined, mashed together mouth. You know the vibe.
He and Sue exchanged looks. She shrugged. Greg bowed his head and prayed.
The prayer went something like this: “Lord Jesus, I know you brought Vivian into our lives to shepherd as she finds her way, but today is particularly difficult for me. God help me. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”
My eyes welled with tears. Sue began to pack up their laptop, matrices, and steno pad. Greg removed a 3 x 5 lined index card from his shirt pocket and wrote firmly upon it in black Sharpie.
He left the index card on the table, and commanded, “After your vacation, call me.”
Through a fine haze of tears I read the index card. It said simply:
Jason.tv
On this particular day my focus was creating a Christian woman’s encouragement blog. I say this so you will know that I mean well. Sometimes, however, meaning well simply does not cut it. Example: the latest confab with Graphics Greg.
Graphics Greg has a brilliant mind, an efficient wife, and he navigates social media the way a teen navigates texting. I, on the other hand, tend to bumble. As I did this particular day, in a free Wifi coffee house near Greg’s home.
After reviewing my brand’s focus group results, Greg says to me (in an urgent tone), “To get where you want to go in media, you must immediately jump on top of bing, blip, and jason. Do you Digg?”
Sue took notes in her steno pad. I watched her write, “Have Viv do bing, blip, and jason.”
I go, “Yeah, Greg, I dig, but um, I don’t play that anymore.”
Greg gave palms up and a frowny face. His brain moves quickly, and he likes to make progress.
A quick glance around the coffee house revealed no eavesdroppers, so I leaned forward (which made Sue retract, interestingly).
I said, “Greg, something happened recently and I became this thing called an Evangelical. I don’t actually do people anymore. Let alone jump on top of them. God is not really down with that.”
Silence from the Graphics People.
Knowing I had done it again, but unsure of how, I stammered on. “Plus, Greg, I don’t actually know Bing, Blip, or Jason, and "Blip" sounds like he could potentially be a midget, and there’s an issue there.” I paused, then said, “For later.”
Greg’s face took on what can only be described as a hostile tone. No words, just a very severe look in his eyes and a flat-lined, mashed together mouth. You know the vibe.
He and Sue exchanged looks. She shrugged. Greg bowed his head and prayed.
The prayer went something like this: “Lord Jesus, I know you brought Vivian into our lives to shepherd as she finds her way, but today is particularly difficult for me. God help me. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”
My eyes welled with tears. Sue began to pack up their laptop, matrices, and steno pad. Greg removed a 3 x 5 lined index card from his shirt pocket and wrote firmly upon it in black Sharpie.
He left the index card on the table, and commanded, “After your vacation, call me.”
Through a fine haze of tears I read the index card. It said simply:
Jason.tv
Friday, May 15, 2009
A Word from the Incredulous
Dear Cafe Clientele,
He who must be obeyed will not be home for dinner, as he has arranged with his mischief buddy (not my brother, this time), to take an extended tour of the local wildlife preserve's hiking trails--on a Segway!
On a Segway, people. Have you seen the movie "Mall Cop"? I'm saying.
He who must be obeyed has committed this crime against sanity before, with me in tow. Explaining that he had come up with a great Love Dare date, he surprised me with a hiking trail Segway tour, which lasted four and one half hours, and which resulted in my turning prematurely gray.
Nonetheless, I stayed upright and intact the whole tour, much to the chagrin of our park ranger guide. The park ranger, whose name rhymes with Kevin, took pictures of me clutching the handle bar white-faced, and who admitted, after the tour was concluded, that he and his fellows at the ranger station had bet money I would bust it on "Middle-Aged Housewife Pass"--which is their nickname for a curved, steep, rocky gully through which one is forced to maneuver at full throttle.
That said, he who is toting his equally logic challenged buddy out to the nature preserve for a second attempt at self-mutilation and gross facial disfigurement.
I'll keep you posted.
Have a fun, safe day wherever you are, and on the off chance you are on the same tour with he who, tell Kevin to send me some pictures.
Much love,
Vivian Beauchamp
He who must be obeyed will not be home for dinner, as he has arranged with his mischief buddy (not my brother, this time), to take an extended tour of the local wildlife preserve's hiking trails--on a Segway!
On a Segway, people. Have you seen the movie "Mall Cop"? I'm saying.
He who must be obeyed has committed this crime against sanity before, with me in tow. Explaining that he had come up with a great Love Dare date, he surprised me with a hiking trail Segway tour, which lasted four and one half hours, and which resulted in my turning prematurely gray.
Nonetheless, I stayed upright and intact the whole tour, much to the chagrin of our park ranger guide. The park ranger, whose name rhymes with Kevin, took pictures of me clutching the handle bar white-faced, and who admitted, after the tour was concluded, that he and his fellows at the ranger station had bet money I would bust it on "Middle-Aged Housewife Pass"--which is their nickname for a curved, steep, rocky gully through which one is forced to maneuver at full throttle.
That said, he who is toting his equally logic challenged buddy out to the nature preserve for a second attempt at self-mutilation and gross facial disfigurement.
I'll keep you posted.
Have a fun, safe day wherever you are, and on the off chance you are on the same tour with he who, tell Kevin to send me some pictures.
Much love,
Vivian Beauchamp
Monday, May 4, 2009
I think I’m in love with Rep. Alcee Hastings from Florida, based upon the following two minute clip of his speech about the hate crimes bill.
I would LOVE to have brunch with this dude. If you need to laugh till you cry, watch the first 2 minutes. God bless America is all I can say.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VN1yl7OQHyY
EDIT to add this disclaimer:
Due to an outraged email from a family member, I wanted to make clear that Alcee Hastings is a Democrat. To the offended liberal contingent, Alcee is one of yours, people!
Plus, I know nothing about the man—being amazingly and intentionally uninformed—and am basing my awestruck reverence for him strictly upon the rhetorical flourish with which he reeled off a list of sexual fetishes.
Imagine what he could do with Shakespeare.
To all critics of both Alcee and myself I simply say: Toucherism!
Respectfully submitted,
Vivian Carter
I would LOVE to have brunch with this dude. If you need to laugh till you cry, watch the first 2 minutes. God bless America is all I can say.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VN1yl7OQHyY
EDIT to add this disclaimer:
Due to an outraged email from a family member, I wanted to make clear that Alcee Hastings is a Democrat. To the offended liberal contingent, Alcee is one of yours, people!
Plus, I know nothing about the man—being amazingly and intentionally uninformed—and am basing my awestruck reverence for him strictly upon the rhetorical flourish with which he reeled off a list of sexual fetishes.
Imagine what he could do with Shakespeare.
To all critics of both Alcee and myself I simply say: Toucherism!
Respectfully submitted,
Vivian Carter
Sunday, April 26, 2009
The Giving Spirit
Visited a beyond the box new church yesterday. Pastor Real Deal gave a call to action at the end of worship to come exchange our shoes for a pair of spa sandals, the kind you wear while getting a pedicure. Our good shoes are to be given to the homeless.
High Maintenance Child at once went up and swapped out the shoes she was wearing for spa thongs. Problem was: HMC was wearing her sister’s shoes, and Diva Child wasn’t feeling the call from God to relinquish them.
It was awkward because Real Deal had already praised HMC for being the first one up to make the exchange, and HMC declared God had led her to do it.
I told Diva Child to get over it, because she has 14 pairs of shoes in her closet, but he who must be obeyed exchanged a volley of emails with Mrs. Real Deal, and a footwear swap-out is imminent. He who must be obeyed donated his shoes as well, and those monsters cost me $150 a pop.
Pastor Real Deal did stir my heart to action: I am donating a box of stuff to charity this morning. After much deep contemplation, here are the items this gal can live without:
Box of Crunch & Munch (birthday gift)
Coffee mug emblazoned with I Love LuLu (got no explanation)
Size 4 tank top (who am I kidding, right?)
Box of chocolate pasties (gift from hub in 1999, unopened)
Assorted thong underwear (thrift shoppers can have fetishes)
purple Crocs
gently used Yankee Candles
Please feel free to send any ideas to boost my karma. It's looking a little raggedy these days.
Love,
Viv
High Maintenance Child at once went up and swapped out the shoes she was wearing for spa thongs. Problem was: HMC was wearing her sister’s shoes, and Diva Child wasn’t feeling the call from God to relinquish them.
It was awkward because Real Deal had already praised HMC for being the first one up to make the exchange, and HMC declared God had led her to do it.
I told Diva Child to get over it, because she has 14 pairs of shoes in her closet, but he who must be obeyed exchanged a volley of emails with Mrs. Real Deal, and a footwear swap-out is imminent. He who must be obeyed donated his shoes as well, and those monsters cost me $150 a pop.
Pastor Real Deal did stir my heart to action: I am donating a box of stuff to charity this morning. After much deep contemplation, here are the items this gal can live without:
Box of Crunch & Munch (birthday gift)
Coffee mug emblazoned with I Love LuLu (got no explanation)
Size 4 tank top (who am I kidding, right?)
Box of chocolate pasties (gift from hub in 1999, unopened)
Assorted thong underwear (thrift shoppers can have fetishes)
purple Crocs
gently used Yankee Candles
Please feel free to send any ideas to boost my karma. It's looking a little raggedy these days.
Love,
Viv
Vacation: Survivor Edition
In hopes of supporting Vivian Carter's new sober lifestyle, we invited her along on our family's spring break trip to Mammoth Cave National Park near Bowling Green, Kentucky. Although L'il Viv prefers to experience nature through her car's windshield and laptop screensavers, she gamely agreed to accompany us to this dry county for a week's worth of exercise and fresh air.
Shout Out to the National Park Service: Mammoth Cave National Park includes nearly 58,000 acres of wilderness and hiking trails. The property's lodge includes a restaurant and cafe, and seems to be very green and eco-friendly. Very affordable also, since it's underwritten by tax dollars. This park is a testament to tax money well spent. If we voters could specify where our tax dollars go I would support the National Park Service.
And now back to relishing the misery of close friends.
We five bold souls took lovely cave tours, including the four and one half hour Grand Avenue Tour, which had us all hiking four miles, hundreds of feet underground. (That's a postive thing.)
The real karma-buster was our family's reaction to poor L'il Viv losing her hiking mojo after two hours, subsequently tottering and sputtering like a short-circuited Roomba throughout the last part of the tour. If the ranger guides had offered to bear her out on a stretcher, she would have sold her Beanie Baby collection to fund their tip.
In addition to being very steep and slippery with dripping water, some of the cave passages were extremely narrow. Warnings were given to the morbidly obese and chronically infirm to avoid this particular expedition.
That said, picture a weary and struggling (non-obese) Viv tripping backwards into a pair of nine-year-old twins and collapsing the back of our tour line like a strand of dominoes. I am hooting like a hyena remembering. This makes me a bad person, and I deserve to live the rest of my natural life without Velveeta cheese grits.
Not only did we hike underground, we also explored many miles of outdoor trails. Sadly the birdsong was drowned out by L'il Viv's huffing and puffing that the fresh air and brisk hikes were killing her.
Vivian Carter twittered that she is still searching online for a commemorative t-shirt that reads: I went to Kentucky and all I got was this lousy body bag.
Well, I'm off to jog around the neighborhood. Some of us want to maintain the good health habits we enjoyed on our vacation.
Have a great day!
Big Vivi
Shout Out to the National Park Service: Mammoth Cave National Park includes nearly 58,000 acres of wilderness and hiking trails. The property's lodge includes a restaurant and cafe, and seems to be very green and eco-friendly. Very affordable also, since it's underwritten by tax dollars. This park is a testament to tax money well spent. If we voters could specify where our tax dollars go I would support the National Park Service.
And now back to relishing the misery of close friends.
We five bold souls took lovely cave tours, including the four and one half hour Grand Avenue Tour, which had us all hiking four miles, hundreds of feet underground. (That's a postive thing.)
The real karma-buster was our family's reaction to poor L'il Viv losing her hiking mojo after two hours, subsequently tottering and sputtering like a short-circuited Roomba throughout the last part of the tour. If the ranger guides had offered to bear her out on a stretcher, she would have sold her Beanie Baby collection to fund their tip.
In addition to being very steep and slippery with dripping water, some of the cave passages were extremely narrow. Warnings were given to the morbidly obese and chronically infirm to avoid this particular expedition.
That said, picture a weary and struggling (non-obese) Viv tripping backwards into a pair of nine-year-old twins and collapsing the back of our tour line like a strand of dominoes. I am hooting like a hyena remembering. This makes me a bad person, and I deserve to live the rest of my natural life without Velveeta cheese grits.
Not only did we hike underground, we also explored many miles of outdoor trails. Sadly the birdsong was drowned out by L'il Viv's huffing and puffing that the fresh air and brisk hikes were killing her.
Vivian Carter twittered that she is still searching online for a commemorative t-shirt that reads: I went to Kentucky and all I got was this lousy body bag.
Well, I'm off to jog around the neighborhood. Some of us want to maintain the good health habits we enjoyed on our vacation.
Have a great day!
Big Vivi
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