'Cause I'm a red-neck wo-man...

I'm a closet redneck.

I live in a perfectly average house in a perfectly average subdivision.  My taste in home decor runs more toward contemporary.  I dress perfectly nondescriptly and drive (most days I can't take the Mustang out because of, ya know, weather and stuff) a middle of the road SUV - black of course.  Although gravy and biscuits, beans and cornbread, and mashed potatoes and meatloaf are in my top five favorite food groups, I almost never cook or eat them, because they make me fat.

People who don't really know me would never, ever, ever guess that there is a raging redneck lurking just below the surface.

There is no place this is quite as apparent as it is when it comes to my taste in music.  Yo can take the girl out of the country...

Recently during one of our marathon texting conversations, I was telling my friend Natalie about a concert I went to several years ago.  Her reply?  "Sometimes I forget just how redneck you are until you say things like 'Ted Nugent in concert' to me."

See?  Mostly, I hide it well.

 Mostly.

I like to crank up Pandora when I'm cleaning house and folding laundry and such, and last week I realized  that cj, while still somewhat unclear on the ABC song, can belt out both verse and chorus to Coal Miner's Daughter, every single time.

I'm so proud.

Rj's taste in music is not, ummm, terribly compatible with mine.  He prefers alternative, pop, rock, and music sung cheerfully about terribly depressing topics.  Also, until he met me, he believed that John Denver was a country singer.

But he's very accommodating of my musical tastes.  Over the years, he's endured concerts like Kris Kristofferson and Waylon Jennings, The Oak Ridge Boys, Toby Keith and Ted Nugent, Alison Krauss, Willie Nelson at least a half a dozen times, and last year he paid an exorbitant amount of money so I could see Loretta Lynn in concert at The Louisville Palace.

He's a good egg, that one.

Most people who know me causally would never guess my dirty little secret, unless they catch me humming a George Jones song under my breath, and even then I'm usually safe, because no one can identify it.  "What's that song?" they ask, cocking their heads sideways in an attempt to remember.  "Oh, something by Adele, I think.  I heard it on the radio last week," I blatantly lie.

It's not that I'm ASHAMED of my musical tastes, exactly...

I prefer to think of it as one of the 50 million things I'm somewhat PRIVATE about.

Anyway, when I started this post, it had a point of some sort, but since I can't seem to remember what that point is, I'll just leave you with this, the best thing my man Willie has done in a while:




Some of you may recognize this as a Coldplay song.  Um, not any more.

My liquor store.

I live in a wet county that is surrounded by several dry counties.

This has absolutely nothing to do with the weather.

For you people who actually live in the world and haven't heard of this concept, this is what it means.

The county I live in sells liquor.  There are liquor stores.  You can buy a case of beer at the gas station.  You know, it's like... civilization.

In the dry counties around me, this is not the case.

There are no liquor stores.

You can't buy beer.  Or wine.  Or vodka.  Or gin.  Or tequila.

Bootlegging still exists.

When a wet county exists in the middle of several dry counties, there are usually a plethora of liquor stores.  This is certainly true in my situation.  Directions to my house include the phrase "Go over the bridge and past all the liquor stores," and everybody knows exactly where I'm talking about.

It's high class out here in the boonies, y'all.

Anyhoo, I picked MY liquor store early on, based on a couple things.  1) It was on the side of the road that prevented me from crossing the street and/or making a left turn - because I HATE to make left turns - and 2) It has a drive-thru.  As the Mama of two very active little boys who could do a shitload of damage in a place full of glass bottles, I appreciated the option of pulling up to a window and placing my order.  Also, they always had suckers there for the kiddos, because who would go through a liquor store drive-thru unless you had a carload of kids, right?

What I didn't count on was was the fact that the lady who is ALWAYS on drive-thru duty, 24 hours a day, six days a week (liquor stores are still closed on Sundays out here in the wild, ya know, because of God) would stay drunk at work and would be largely unable to fill any order that was more complicated than "a case of Bud Light, please."

I occasionally get a wild hair and try different tactics to see if she will be able to do something crazy like, I don't know, sell me a bottle of wine.  Last week, I thought that if maybe, just maybe, I went early enough in the morning, right at opening time, that she perhaps wouldn't be too drunk to help me buy wine without getting out of the car and dragging my kids inside the place.

Lazy and entitled.  That's me.

I pulled up to the drive-thru and waited patiently for her to come to the window.  Minutes pass, and she finally woke up and opened the window.  Uh-oh.  She had recently moved into Hangover City, from the looks of her.

"Good Morning," I said cheerfully.  "I'd like a 12 pack of Bud Light Lime in the bottle and two bottles of Oliver Soft Red wine."

Blank stare.

"A 12 Pack of Bud Light Lime in bottles and two Oliver Soft Reds, please."

Blank stare.

"A 12 PACK OF BUD LIGHT LIME IN BOTTLES AND TWO BOTTLES OF OLIVER SOFT RED WINE!" I screamed.

"PLEASE!"

Something switched on in her alcohol-soaked brain, and she started moving around.  First up, she pulled out a handful of suckers, which she thrust at me, then she turned and wandered off in the direction of the beer.

She came back toward me with a case of beer, clearly cans, and no wine.  She then put it on the counter, grabbed a second handful of suckers which she passed out the window to me, and started to ring my sale.

"Um, excuse me?  I'm sorry (I really wasn't.  I don't know why I always feel compelled to apologize to  other people when I tell them they're wrong.) but that looks like cans.  I asked for bottles.  And also, my wine?  The Oliver Soft Red?"

She reached down under the counter and I saw my life flash before my eyes as I envisioned a gun coming up and pointing at my face and OH MY GOD I'M TOO YOUNG TO DIE!  I DON'T EVEN HAVE A TATTOO YET!  handed me a bunch of doggie treats.  Um, ok?  Thanks?  My kid will love these?  I guess pet owners use the drive-thru, too.  Then, once again without saying a word, she turned and wandered off toward the beer.

She was back relatively quickly with what appeared to be the correct beer.  And still no wine.  As she started ringing it up, I prompted gently, "Um, my wine?'  Her response once again was to wander away without looking up.  She came back with two bottles of wine that she immediately put into a paper bag.   We finished our transaction smoothly, I declined more suckers, and I was on my way.

When I got home, I put my beer in the fridge and took the wine out of the bags.  It was Oliver Soft White.  Whatever.  Close enough.  Also, and somewhat inexplicably in my bag I found several Slim Jims which I had not paid for.

So here I sit, drinking my white wine, eating a free Slim Jim and tossing doggie treats up in the air for the boys to catch in their mouths and bring back to me.

Tomorrow, I'm planning to go back through the drive-thru to get some rum.

I can't wait to see what I come home with this time.

The Me Box

So, I may have mentioned a time or a dozen that zj started kindergarten last week.

This has rocked my world in all the usual ways - what's up with this 7:30 bus pick-up, by the way?  This is totally eating into my running time.

One of the most surprising things, though, has been the workload he brings home and I have to complete most nights.

A recent assignment was for him to create and bring to school a "Me Box" which would contain things that were representative of his likes, interests, family, etc.  He would then stand in front of the class - with the microphone - and give a presentation about all the things in his box.

What. The. Hell?

He's five.

I'm pretty sure my first "in front of the class with the microphone presentation" came some time in high school, plus I stayed home sick that day so I wouldn't have to do it.  Then I faked laryngitis the rest of the year to get out of it.

But that's just me.

When zj brought home the paper explaining it, my super-competetive spirit kicked in.  We could do a Powerpoint!  And give out prizes!  And have a backdrop!  And require class participation!  Maybe make up a rhyme!  We were going to win the Me Box!

When I shared all my somewhat insane ideas with zj, he said "Mama, that's not what the other kids are doing."

Fine, be mediocre then.

Zj and I finally came to an agreement, and the Me Box was created.

When I asked him what kinds of things he wanted to put in it, immediately gathered up 4,796 of his favorite toys.

We pared it down a little, and this is what he ended up taking:

• His race bib from this 5k he ran over the summer.
• Some small dinosaur figures that he described in excruciating detail, using words like "predator" and "carnivorous" and using descriptions like "teeth as big as bananas."  Whatever.  He could be a girl and they could be Polly Pockets.  That sounds about a million times worse to me.
• A shark-tooth necklace to commemorate our family beach vacation.  He told everybody that his Daddy found it in a real live shark.  Actually we got it  in an overpriced tourist shop for $1.  The kid can sure can tell a good tale, though.  Wonder where he gets that?
• A superhero figure to commemorate each of the movies we saw this summer: Thor, X-Men, Green Lantern and Captain America. 

When he got off the bus the day of his presentation, I immediately began to bombard him with rapid questions asked how his presentation went.

Zj:   "It went fine.  Hey, we had PIZZA for lunch.  AGAIN!"
Mj:  "Hey, let's talk about your Me Box.  What did the kids say?"
Zj:  "Nothing really.  Hey, some kid knows how to blow a BUBBLE INSIDE ANOTHER BUBBLE!  Well, he said he did, but I haven't seen him do it, because we can't have gum at school, you know."
Mj:  "What did your teacher say about your Me Box?"
Zj:  "I don't really remember.  Hey, we got to have recess outside ON THE GRASS today!  But not on the swings.  Swings are tomorrow.  We have to take turns with the other classes, you know."
Mj:  "OH FOR GOODNESS SAKE TELL ME HOW YOUR ME BOX PRESENTATION WENT!!!!  DID WE WIN?????"
Zj:  "Huh?"
Mj:  "Never mind."

So apparently living vicariously through zj in all his brilliance isn't going to be an option.

Maybe I'll just make my own Me Box.

It will be red.  It will have a bottle of Oliver Soft Red Wine, a 6-pack of Blue Moon, my Nook, and my iPhone in it.

Hmmmmm.

Actually, I just described my purse.

Damn, that was easy.

See, I AM good at this.

The postman only rings once. Then he runs.

Zj is obsessed with two things. 

Superheroes and playing pretend superheroes.

"Mama, wanna play pretend with me?"

I hear it a thousand times a day and oh dear God I'd rather stab my eye out with a rusty spoon that to have to be pretend to be a superhero sidekick or a villain one more freakin' second I usually figure out a way to incorporate in into our daily life.

While I'm making breakfast, I'm Catwoman to zj's Batman.

Folding laundry?  I'll be Jean Grey to zj's Wolverine.

Lunchtime?  I'll be Pepper Potts to his Ironman.

Recently, since I took zj to see the movie and have purchased no less than 14 Burger King kid's meals in order to secure all 6 toys, it's been Thor and Sif.  

And on and on the day goes.  And on, and on, and on, and on, and on...

Being the well-rounded superhero-loving family that we are, there are also many, many costume changes involved.  

Mostly on zj's part.  Sadly, many of his costumes are on the smallish side for me.  But the headgear fits.  Oh joy.

One day last week, we did our usual "Thor&Sif" routine in the morning, then I got a brief reprieve while cj napped and zj watched random Youtube videos on the iPad about how to assemble, disassemble and reassemble Marvel Crossover Transformer Action Figures.

Hmmm... geek much?

Anyway, at one point the doorbell rang, and I did my usual mental inventory to ensure I was appropriately dressed to answer the door.  Pants?  Check.  Shirt? Check.  (My standards are pretty low.) Ok, hi Mailman.  Thanks for the package.

When I opened the door, the mailman, our usual friendly guy, looked a bit startled.  I did a quick, stealthy glance down.  Yep, I had all my lady bits covered.   Mailman stuttered and stammered a minute as I tried to make friendly chitchat, but he seemed a little... off, I guess.  Is he having a stroke?  On my front porch?  Oh dear God who am I going to call if my mailman has a stroke on my front porch?  Do I have to call 911 or can I just print a label out and ship him back somewhere?  Parcel post, of course.  It's my face.  He's staring at my face.  I must have chocolate on my face.  Or maybe I need to get my eyelids and mustache waxed again. Yep.  He's definitely staring at my mustache.  Damn judge-y old Mailman.  Well screw him.  He has HAIR GROWING OUT OF HIS EARS.  Who is he to judge a few stray chin hairs on an otherwise perfectly lovely lady like myself?  That's it.  I'm not standing for it.  I'm taking my business to UPS.

After a perfectly frosty "ThankYouAndGoodbye" and a bit of a door slam on my part, I put down my package and went to see exactly what my Mailman was staring at.

And I saw this:

Oh.

Well.

I guess my Sif Headband might merit a second look.

It's ok, Mailman.

I forgive you for staring.

I'm generous like that.

Vacation: It's not for the weak.

The J family just returned from a week-long beach vacation.

I absolutely cannot remember the last time I was this hung-over exhausted.

Clearly, vacation is no place for children.  Or adults.  Either/or.  You pick.

On our particular vacation, sandwiched between two 12+ hour car rides, RJ and I did everything we could to make our vacation fun, enjoyable and memorable.

For the kids, of course.

We went to the beach.  I drank wine.  We went to the pool.  I drank beer.  We went to the Aquarium.  I drank margaritas.  We went to the Boardwalk and rode rides and played games.  ZJ won at darts and picked two smaller prizes instead of one big prize so he could share with cj.  Cj immediately threw his prize (a duck) into the ocean, because Hello!  Ducks swim!   I drank more beer.  We played miniature golf.  I drank more wine.  We went back to the beach and the pool and we stopped at every single swingset, slide and playground in the greater South Carolina area.  Every. Single. One.  We even went to Build-A-Bear, have mercy on my soul. I was so drunk by then I only remember it because we have a stuffed Tasmanian Wolf named Superwolf and a prehistoric sabertoothed cat named Kitty, and an $80 credit card bill to prove it.   Zj, who is quite a prolific pooper, clogged up toilets all along the coast, including one in the all you can eat seafood buffet place that charges $30 per person. Serves 'em right.  $30 is highway robbery.   I drank beer and wine and margaritas with abandon.  We discussed sharks and dinosaurs and superheroes and vampires and watched Batman cartoons and listened to Kidz Bop until my eardrums bled and I couldn't form coherent sentences.  That may have had something to do with all the wine, though.  We ate ice cream every day.

Every night as soon as the kids were in bed, RJ and I fell into bed ourselves, often before 9 pm, too exhausted to do anything except stare at the ceiling and mumble incoherently about what time we would "get going" in the morning.

The boys were up by 6am the next day, without fail, to see what exciting new adventures awaited them.

To be honest, I'm not sure either one of them will remember this vacation in 20 years, or 10 years, or next week.

But I will remember it.

And I'll remember that my boys had the time of their lives.

Same beach, different priorities.

So, I have these boys.

I love them to the moon and back.

But to say I love them the same would be like saying I love beer and tomatoes the same.

They're just so different.

But that's good.  Variety is good, right?

The differences in their personalities come out the most when I take them to somewhere new and different then offer up the same options.

Like, say...  the beach.

Cj is pretty content to sit and dig in the sand.

Forever.

His other beach pastimes include sitting in my lap while licking the salt off me and pulling my bathing suit top down.

It was like we were on our first date or something.

Zj, of course, has entirely different priorities.

Like surfing the waves.

Over.

And over.

And over.

It's ok though.

In this family, we set our priorities early, and we stick with them.

Always and forever.

They're just like their Mama that way.

Priorities.

We all have 'em.

All the news that's fit to talk about.

Occasionally, ok, ONCE when I couldn't think of anything interesting to blog about, I Googled "blog post ideas" and decided I would write about the least worst one.

I chose "write a blog post about current news happenings."

Since no one actively criticized and/or stopped following me after that, I decided to do it again.

Hey, there's only so much original content left in the world, people.

Last time, I got my news stories from CNN.

This time, my news sources were a bit more... diverse.

Here we go.

Maine to legalize switchblades for one armed people.  Well, it's about time, Maine.

Norwegian boy saves sister from Moose attack using World of Warcraft skills.  There is nothing I could say about that to make it any better.

Sony CEO says Nintendo devices are "babysitting tools."  Two words:  Hell.  Yeah.

5 reasons to see Thor this weekend.  Really, I'm only interested in number one.  And I don't even really like blondes that much.  Mmmmmm... Vikings.....

Man lives off beer only for Lent.  Best. Sacrifice. Ever.  I'm totally going to a) become Catholic and b) do this next year for Lent.  Or maybe just for the hell of it.

Is bacon cologne proof that America's love affair with with the breakfast favorite has gone too far?  Well, yeah.  Personally, I love bacon flavored... er, scented men.  Nom, nom, nom, nom, nom, nom...

How to get drunk in the healthiest way possible.  With illustrations!  In case you're too drunk to read.

And there you have it, folks.

News, mj style.

You can thank me later.

Yard work as a performance art.

I really enjoy yard work.

I know, insanity.

I  also really enjoy country music.

Again, insanity.

When I can combine the two, it's a little slice of Heaven.

Also, for some reason, every single time I head outside to mow, my neighbor - not the bitchy one, another one - a guy I don't really know, 'cause he's pretty new to the street, decides to mow his grass, too.  Immediately after I start.  Every single time.

The importance of all of these seemingly unrelated things will become clear in a minute.

Last week when I went out to mow, iPod in hand, I was joined quickly by my neighbor guy, who just decided, right then, to mow his yard, too.

Whatever.  I'm a trendsetter.

We did our usual nod/smile/kinda-wave-with-half-your-hand thing, then I hopped on the mower, cranked up the iPod, threw in the earbuds, and started to mow.

I did my usual 'round the house pattern, which was matched in a mirror image by my neighbor guy.  His yard isn't quite as big as mine, but I was going faster, so pretty much every time I was at the front of my house, so was neighbor guy, but going in the opposite direction.  At this point, I...  HEY!  I LOVE THIS SONG!

*Singing at top of lungs*


I said the night you left me,
Nothin' worse could ever happen,
But seeing you with someone else proved that I was wrong.
And when your eyes met mine,
I knew that you were gone forever,
Along with all the reasons , I had for hanging on. 


Waving at neighbor guy.  Wonder why he's going so slow?

I always thought that someday,
We might get back together.
I just thought you needed time to spread your wings and fly.
But when I saw the lovin' way,
You held onto each other,
It was all that I could do, not to break right down and cry.


 Hmmm... He's totally stopped now.  Hope he's not having trouble with his mower...


I'd be better off in a pine box,
On a slow train back to Georgia,
Or in the grey walls of a prison doing time.
I think I'd rather die,
And go to hell and face the devil,
Than to lie here with you and him together on my mind.


It must not be trouble with his mower, because he's laughing.  Hey!  I think he's laughing at me.  OH SHIT!  He can hear me.

Um.. what to do?  Do I play it off as cool, and keep going, or do I stop and address this and be done with it?  What would Chuck Norris do?

 So I stopped.

At this point, he's at a full-blown, rolling on the ground belly laugh, the likes of which I haven't seen since watching Talladega Nights while consuming two bottles of wine and a six pack of Miller Light.  "oh we, we go together like cocaine and waffles." "... absolutely ma-am, I would love to sign your baby ..."  

Anyway, back to the story here.  Focus, people.

Me: "Uh, hi.  I guess you heard me singing, huh?"  I'm super cool when I've been caught acting like a crazy person.

Neighbor Guy: "Yep.  It's ok, though.  I like country music." *wipes tears of laughter from eyes with hem of t-shirt, exposing large round flabby white belly* "That's Johnny Cash, right?"

Me: *Uncomfortable laughter* "Actually, it's Doug Stone."  And clearly you don't know ANYTHING about country music, so stop pretending you do.  Poser.  You are now dead to me.  Ptuah.  "Well, I guess I'd better finish this up.  Have a good one."   Loser. 


So I hopped back up on my mower, cranked it up, and popped my earbuds back in my ears.  Next up, Deana Carter.

*Singing at top of lungs*

He was working through college on my grandpa's farm 
I was thirsting for for knowledge and he had a car 
I was caught somewhere between a woman and a child 
When one restless summer we found love growing wild 
On the banks of the river on a well beaten path 
Funny how those memories they last 

I still remember when thirty was old 
My biggest fear was September when he had to go 
A few cards and letters and one long distance call 
We drifted away like the leaves in the fall 
But year after year I come back to this place 
Just to remember the taste 

The fields have grown over now 
Years since they've seen a plow 
There's nothing time hasn't touched 
Is it really him or the loss of my innocence 
I've been missing so much 

Like strawberry wine and seventeen 
The hot July moon saw everything 
My first taste of love oh bittersweet 
Green on the vine 
Like strawberry wine 



Take THAT neighbor guy.

The asshole probably thinks it's Dolly Parton anyway.

Good in your mouth Stuffed Eggplant.

A few months ago, I set out on a path to eat better, exercise more and lose weight.

So far, so good.

The exercise has been surprisingly easy, because I have discovered that I love running, and I just finished up running my fifth race - a half marathon.  Oy.

The challenge, I have found, is cooking for my entire family at the same time.  Right after I started my healthier eating plan, RJ lost 20 pounds, which he didn't necessarily need to do.  The bastard.  

Totally not fair.

Anyway, there has to be a middle ground.  Surely there is food that a) doesn't taste like dirt b) won't make my ass huge and c) won't make my hubby &/or children look emaciated.

I'm slowly figuring it out.  It's a diet that includes lots and lots of fruits and vegetables, a little bit of meat, a few carbs, and cheese.  Plenty of cheese.  And chocolate.  And beer.  Oh wait.  That may be how I got here in the first place...  

So, I though I'd try to incorporate vegetables that weren't on our usual corn and green beans radar.  Enter ... Stuffed Eggplant.

WHAT YOU NEED:

1 Eggplant

4 oz. turkey smoked sausage, cubed into 1/2 inch pieces

1 small white onion, chopped

3 cloves garlic, give or take, depending on how much you like garlic.  I like it.

1 stalk celery, chopped

either 3/4 cup fresh mushrooms, sliced, or one small can chopped mushrooms  

1 tsp. dried italian seasoning

1/2 tablespoon olive oil

2/3 cup of your favorite tomato-based pasta sauce.  I used Ragu Garden Vegetable, because it tastes good.

1/4 cup grated parmesan cheese

1/2 cup shredded mozzarella cheese

WHAT YOU DO:

Preheat your oven to 350ish.  Slice the eggplant in half lengthwise and scoop the guts out.  Discard.  They're like medical waste and you do not want to eat them.  Make sure you have scooped out enough so that a small hollow forms.  Pop the two eggplant halves in the oven for a few minutes to start softening them up.  Ten minutes or so ought to do.  Meanwhile... Put the olive oil in a skillet, then add the onion, celery, garlic and mushrooms.  Saute that mess up until the onions start to become translucent, then add in the smoked sausage and Italian seasoning and cook until the smoked sausage starts to brown a bit a and look delicious.

By this point, your eggplant should be out of the oven.  Scoop half the sausage mixture into one half and the rest into the other half.  Top these with the pasta sauce, then both kinds of cheese.  

Put them back into the oven until the cheese melts and is bubbly and good - about 10 more minutes.

Good news:  One eggplant yields two servings.

Better news: Each serving is about 500 calories.

Bad news: There will be no leftovers.

Does this burrito make my butt look big?

I love Mexican food.  

RJ and I even have our own Mexican restaurant.  You know, the kind where the waiter brings out the margaritas and cheese dip the minute he sees us walk in,  before we even order it.  The kind where the waiters probably take bets in the kitchen about how many margaritas I can consume on $1.99 day - seven is my record, thank you very much.  The kind of restaurant where your drinks become less green and more tequila-colored as the night wears on.  You know what I'm talking about, right?

Anyway, I love Mexican food.  But... if you eat it at least once a week, then you Google it and try to find out nutritional information, you will understand why your a$$ is the size of a house and why you have to wear yoga pants out on a date.

So...  in the spirit of eating healthier foods, I gave Mexican food an update, and the results were surprisingly good.  Granted, there were no waiters waiting in the wings to keep my margarita glass refilled, but my skinny jeans are thankful.

WHAT YOU NEED:

1 small spaghetti squash, stabbed all over with a knife and baked at 400 degrees for about an hour

1 can of black beans, drained and rinsed 

1 small white onion, chopped and sauteed in some Pam
1 can of Rotel, divided
1 tsp garlic powder
1 tablespoon chili powder
2 tsps cumin
1 tsp dried cilantro (Or use fresh if you have it.  I did not.  It is winter in Kentucky and that stuff costs more per ounce than marijuana right now.)
1 can Campbells Nacho Fiesta Cheese Soup
6 whole wheat low calorie tortillas


WHAT YOU DO:
Preheat your oven to 400 degrees.

After the spaghetti squash is mostly cooled, cut it in half lengthwise and discard the seeds.  Scoop the rest of the flesh out and put it into a bowl.  Add the onion, black beans, spices and half the Rotel.  Use a fork or a potato masher to squish the heck out of it.  I like black beans just fine, but they are way better if they're all mashed up.

Divide the mixture evenly onto the 6 tortillas, and roll 'em up.  Ya know, like burritos.  Place them seam side down in a shallow baking dish and pop 'em in the oven for 10 minutes.

Meanwhile, mix the cheese soup and the rest of the Rotel together.  What you will get is a runny queso-looking concoction.  Take the burritos out of the oven, pour the soup mixture over top, and put in back in the oven for another ten minutes, or until the cheese looks bubbly and gooey.  I ended up only using about 2/3 of soup mixture, because it looked like a lot of juice to be pouring over my burrito.  In retrospect, I should have used it all.

I served them with a bag of frozen Mexican vegetables that I jazzed up with a few dashes of chili powder and cumin, then roasted in the oven right along with the burritos.

And...  here's the best part.  If you add up all the calories in one serving, which is one burrito and 1/2 cup of vegetables, it's around the 280 calorie mark.

And it tastes good.

You're welcome.

And although you probably want to avoid the margaritas if you're trying to lose weight like I am, you can have a Bud Light Lime with it for only 116 more calories.

You're welcome again.

Beer Snob.

I love beer.

It is my spirit of choice.

I don't mind an occasional fruity drink, but beer is my stand-by.

My go-to.

And over the years, I have become something of a beer snob.

In my humble opinion, there are exactly three reasons to drink a domestic light beer.  1) You are at a bowling alley and that is the only selection. 2) You are at some beer-uninformed person's home and that is the only selection.  3) You are already drunk.

Really, it just doesn't taste good, so why drink it?

But recently, for reasons I will not go into here, a case of Bud Light Lime came into my life.  And since it is a deadly sin to waste beer (Seriously.  Look it up if you don't believe me.), I cracked open a bottle and steeled myself for the worst.

But... It was... good?

Like, really good?

Like, I'm gonna keep drinking this stuff because it tastes really good in my mouth and it only has 116 calories in a bottle.

Who knew  such miracles were even possible?


This is not a paid endorsement of any kind.  The nice folks at Anheuser-Busch took out a restraining order have not had time to return my numerous, lengthy calls or e-mails.  But I forgive them.  They are clearly doing important work and can't be bothered with me.

Dude. I'm guessing she gave you a fake name, too.

The other day, I remember it well, it was a Sunday morning,  my cell phone rang, and the number that popped up on the caller ID was not one I recognized.

So I ignored it.

Because that's how I roll.

A few minutes later, it rang again.

I ignored it, again.

This went on throughout the morning, with increasing intensity.

After a while, I got a text message.  It read, "Its mitch i guess my keys slipped out in ur house call me back and let me no."

Oh, poor Mitch.

The scenario, at least part of it, became clear to me pretty quickly.

I saw a random hookup on a Saturday night.

I saw a  girl give the guy the wrong number as she pushed him out the door, promising all the while they could get together again really soon, like maybe next weekend.

I saw a drunk-ish guy walking somewhere, maybe a buddy's house, maybe somewhere to catch a ride.

I saw the guy get pissed off when he realized he left his keys there.

I actually did see all the phone calls he made to the number the girl gave him when he realized his keys were in her house, probably across town.

I felt bad for Mitch.

So I texted him back.

"Hi Mitch.  You have the wrong number.  Sorry."

And I never heard from him again.

But I didn't delete the text from my phone, and I've wondered about poor Mitch from time to time.  Did he ever get his keys back?  Did the girl reconsider and look him up later?

Maybe someday I'll text him just to check in and see how things are going.

And then again, maybe I won't.

And they rolled, and rolled, and rolled...

So last week, RJ and I dropped the kids at the sitter's and took off to New Orleans for a week.

For real.

We have never actually done anything like that before, and it felt more than strange.

At first, when we were dropping off our vomiting children into the care of someone else, it felt wrong.

By the second day and the fourth drink we were making plans to do it monthly.  Or maybe weekly.

In any event, we had a good time.

We ate.

We drank.

And drank.

And drank.

And drank.

And drank.

We saw some local sights.

We stayed here.

And skinnydipped swam in our own private-ish pool here.

We met some of the local talent here.

And here.

We walked and walked and walked and napped every day, and ran across a parade and caught some beads, and ran into a surprise Dave Matthews concert, and nearly died in a cab.  Twice.  

All in all, a very satisfying trip.

Oh Willie. How could you?

It is the end times, people.

Life as we know it - gone in an instant.

Changed forever.

Just... gone.

Because Willie Nelson has Cut. His. Hair.

Off.

Gone.

Kaput.

Shorn.

Oh, Willie, how could you betray me this way?

Me?

You know, your biggest fan? Hello???

You know, the one that came to your concert last year while nine and a half months pregnant in the 120 degree heat outside at night and I couldn't even drink a beer?  Because hello?  Pregnant.  You know, the one who owns all your albums, legitimately purchased, not downloaded, even the ones in musical genres I do not like and you cannot sing?  Now that's dedication.

I'm crushed.

Devastated.

Because you have gone from being a semi-hot-for-an-old-guy-fabulous-guitar-player-best-songwriter-to-ever-walk-the-planet to a creepy old guy whose hat doesn't fit right.

I can only hope that your hair is going toward a good cause.

Like, maybe you donated it to Locks of Love for old people.

Or possibly it's being used in the development of a new biodiesel.

Or maybe it's being used to mop up that big oil spill.

Or, quite possibly, you are selling it on ebay to pay your growing back taxes and legal fees.

You were the last true rebel.

And now you've conformed.

Gotta go.  I think I need another beer.

It ain't about you no more. Trust me, whoever you are. I heard all about it.

A week or so ago, RJ and I dropped the kids at the sitter and had an afternoon date.  It was RJ's birthday, and we wanted to go eat somewhere that did not serve food out of a clown's a$$.  Selfish, I know.  We are admittedly terrible parents.

Anyway, after we has a delightful lunch at P.F. Chang's, we decided to do some shopping.  We were in a CITY, for goodness sake, and there were no children anywhere to be seen.  So, logically, we decided to go to Toys R Us.

It's ever so much more fun without the kids.

So, we're shopping along, minding our own business, looking for an awesome Iron Man helmet for zj, when we hear a woman's voice becoming increasingly louder and more agitated.

She walked to the end of the aisle we were in, stopped, and  proceeded to have the following conversation.

I have re-created it to the best of my ability.  Unfortunately, she did not have the phone on speaker, so I couldn't hear the responses.  Also, I was kind of drunk (Kirin on tap...  mmmmmm), so I might not remember everything exactly.

But this is pretty close.

Woman: Well, that's because it all used to be about you.  But it ain't about you anymore.  You left, and left me with all the kids and now it's about me.
Pause for response from ex.
But it ain't like you come around anymore.

Pause for response from ex.

Well, you left, and you left me with the kids, and you ain't in our lives every day no more.  You just call when you feel like it and come by when you feel like it, and what I'm trying to tell you is that IT AIN'T ABOUT YOU NO MORE, IT'S ABOUT ME.

Pause for response from ex.

I'm doing just fine, and you just call up whenever you feel like it and you get me all upset.  When I call you, you don't answer.  So what I'm trying to tell you is it ain't about you no more.

Pause for response from ex.

Like last week when you were supposed to have the kids and you didn't call and you didn't show up.  They were upset all day and so I just told them, it ain't about you no more.  It's about us - the kids and me. Not you.

Pause for response from ex.

That's because it ain't about you.  

Pause for response from ex.

Now you call me and get me all upset, and I ain't gonna let you keep doing that.  Because IT AIN'T ABOUT YOU NO MORE!

Phone slams shut, gets tossed into purse, and woman stalks off in the direction of Bratz dolls.  Go figure.

I really don't like Wal-Mart very much.

Don't get me wrong.  I go there.

Pretty much every couple of weeks or so.

Because I can save $.47 on a pack of underwear.  And since I'm quite possibly the cheapest person I know, that's pretty important to me.

But I hate it with a passion that I cannot explain in words that are appropriate to the internet audience.

Sometimes, I get up at 4am, shower, get dressed and go to Wal-Mart before the crowds hit.  RJ doesn't mind.  What that means for him is that he kids are still in bed when I leave, and they are still in bed when I get home.  It's a win-win situation for him.

I'm pretty sure I developed my intense feelings for Wal-Mart the the one time that I got trapped in an aisle and I had to leave my full cart of stuff in order to save myself an get out.

True story.

I was in Wal-Mart at around midnight.  It was a weekend, and I had just worked a closing shift.  I needed some deodorant, and maybe some olives.  I don't really remember.  It was years ago.

Anyway, I had a pretty full cart of stuff, and I remember that I needed some paper towels, so I went down the paper towel lane.

Obviously, that was a bad idea.

As I was strolling down the aisle, trying to decide - Select-A-Size or regular?  a very conscientious Wal-Mart employee parked a pallet of stuff at the end of the aisle.  No problem.  I was going in the other direction, anyway.

I spent a few minutes trying to decide on the square boxes of Kleenex vs. the rectangular boxes of Kleenex, and then headed toward he checkout.

But...

By the time I got to the other end of the aisle, yet another Wal-Mart employee had parked yet another pallet of stuff at that end.  Hmmm.  What to do?  I peeked my head around the massive pallet of stuff to look for someone to save me.  No dice.  Must have been break time.

I decided the only possible way out was sort of OVER and AROUND the big pallet, and of course, my cart wouldn't fit.

So I did the only logical thing.

I abandoned my cart and got he hell out of Wal-Mart.