The party has moved, and your invitation is right HERE!

If you are still coming here, you aren't going THERE, which is such a shame. You've missed out on all of the big Tish news, like new patient stories, Drunkette's new remodeling of our home, and other fabulous posts that can only make your life better. Update your blogroll now.

You've reached a blog that has moved, please make a note of it....

I see you are still clicking the old Tish blog for the latest news, gossip, and general nonsense.

If you haven't been contacted by email, then forgive me. We've had quite a bit going on here, the least of which is a car driven INTO my bedroom. Want more details??

WWW.TISHASHARP.COM

The car fiasco is in the August archives, complete with pictures and commentary.
Please update your blogrolls, light a candle, say a prayer, and then come visit daily. You never know what you might read at my place!!!

Grab a box, would ya?

As it is in real life, my blog has taken a different path.

I will continue to check in here, but for the record, The World According to Tish has officially relocated to:

www.tishasharp.com

I will try to visit everyone on my blogroll and give personal invitations, but if you are reading this, as they say down in these parts: You've done been invited, just don't forget the tater salad.

Please update your blogrolls if I am fortunate to be on them. If I'm not, then why not? Do I smell? Did I offend you? Better take a number then, 'cause that line's awful long and we don't have a free concession stand 'round these parts.

Okay, let's see. I've got my blogroll, my new email: tish@tishasharp.com, my pics, and my typewriter, so I guess this is it. Don't you hate to close the door on a great house, apartment, or experience? (sniffle) I'll miss this place, but the new digs are bigger, better, and has more options. What's a girl to do??

THERE'S NO CRYING IN BLOGGING.

Say goodnight, Tish.

Goodnight Tish.

Hello www.tishasharp.com

Hope ya'll come over and visit.

Who ya gonna call?

Don't get caught alone oh no Ghostbusters
When he comes through your door, unless you've just got some more I think you better call Ghostbusters.
Ooh... who you gonna call (Ghostbusters)
Who you gonna call (Ghostbusters)
Ah, I think you better call (Ghostbusters)

From the moment a child can understand, we teach them their parents will protect them. Sometimes it is in the form of a swat on the backside, or a long timeout, but the message is the same: it's for your own good.

Then in the blink of an eye, they enter grade school where they are bombarded with programs about police (DARE), crime fighters such as McGruff the crime fighting dog and Smokey the Bear. Officers visit the school to build respect and garner trust from the youth so that in case they ever need help, they know where to go and who to call. The message grows beyond what is for your own good, but also the good of the family, city, state, and country.

And now these same children who are taught to believe in their country, military, and police are being inundated with Anti-American sentiments from other Americans as well as accept the disrespect for authority figures in popular music, television, and movies. Video games glamorizing the murder of cops and the hypersensationalism of Anti-American protesters leaves little Johnny and Jane wishing for their own Ghostbusters for protection.

Pacifists call for an end to war, which if it were possible at this very moment, it would be a great thing. No one I know is 'pro-war'. Ask most veterans and they'll tell you that not only is war Hell, but not many people relished the thought of going to battle no matter, how just the cause.
It's not that I'm one of those "shoot first, ask questions later"kind of people, but I do believe in the notion that the best defense is a good offense. If someone breaks into my home, do you really think diplomacy and negotiations will keep me from being raped? If a knife is held to my child's neck, do I really care why the criminal is acting out? What good is diplomacy and tact if the very same people you want to deal with view you as an infidel worthy of a painful death? The feel-good psychobabble in today's media only serves one purpose: to eradicate responsibility for one's actions. Diplomacy has yet to save a child's life when abducted by a monster, nor did it save thousands of Iraqis buried in mass graves. Tact won't appeal to Osama, or the BTK killer, or any other evil that is hell bent on the destruction of life, innocent or not.

If the police all are corrupt, who ya gonna call?
If the military is fighting the wrong war at the wrong time, when is there a right war at a right time?
If the country is divided amongst itself, how can she defend herself from within?
If we can't acknowledge God, who are we gonna call?

Croc shmock, can you cook?

Dear Steve,
As an avid fan, I've watched you for years on Animal Planet. Your ease with crocodiles and other dangerous beasts is mystifying and somewhat scary to most normal people.
Not to be critical, but I think you've exhausted the animal kingdom for material. Even children are desensitized to the snake bites and gator charges you have endured, so I would like to propose some new adventures for you and your lovely wife. A myriad of challenges, if you will, that could entice new fans as well as thrill your long time admirers.

The Crocodile Hunter Meets WalMart: In this episode, Steve faces his nemesis, the WalMart Sporting Goods Manager all decked out in reptilian apparel. In his quest for twenty items from the sales aisle, he is confronted by three large women hellbent on beating him to the prize. Stay tuned for Steve's confrontation with Laverne and her twin sister Malvern.

The Crocodile Hunter Diaries: Slumber Party: Terri Irwin joins her husband on his most dangerous expedition to date, chaperoning a slumber party of six nine year old American girls fresh from a day at the mall. Watch the pink feathers fly as he refuses to wear the dress-up boa and Terri is reduced to a weeping blob in the corner.


Assignment: Crocodile Hunter JobShare: Steve's emotional and mental grit is tested to the limit as he shadows a home health physical therapist for a week. To his horror, he is forced to listen to the ramblings of a former debutante now beginning Alzheimer's patient rant about bad romances and, gasp, her recipe for alligator chili.

As you can see, the possibilities are endless and can only increase your ratings. Imagine, you and Terri waiting tables at Chinese Buffet restaurant on the same night Ultimate Fighting Championships are held...or serving as a sales associate for Catherine's, a plus sized clothing shop. It's cutting edge, it's reality TV pushed to it's limits...frankly, it's got you written all over it.

Thank you for your time and consideration. I look forward to seeing you discussing the virtues of collegan at the next BeautiControl party as the season premiere.

The most feared word in the US right now...

God.

There it is, ladies and gentlemen. This three letter word has sparked more debate and caused more controversy than any Hollywood screenwriter could invent.

What's ironic is our country was founded on principles found in a book solely written by (divinely, of course) and about God. The Ten Commandments pretty much cover all that is deigned law in the present day, but God forbid we have them displayed! Maybe I shouldn't say 'God Forbid', seeing as He is being escorted out of our society with a swift shove by many in power.

Can't have God in the Pledge of Allegiance. Why, that might sway the minds of our youth to actually believe in something other than Scooby Doo and Pokemon!
Can't have Jesus' birth acknowledged for fear it could hurt the feelings of those that don't believe.
Can't have God's word as part of decision making. That could lead to the something our society is shying away from: identifying certain behaviors as right or wrong. There is nothing that can't be rationalized, explained, or excused away now so don't bring God into the mix.

Since 9/11, Muslims living in the US are able to insert their religion into our society without backlash, without incident but let a Baptist child say their prayer in school and all Hell breaks loose. Instead of respecting all religions, our nation has become so politically correct that we've literally lost the faith our foundation was built upon. No one wants to be beat about the head and neck with the Bible, or threatened with hellfire and brimstone, but what's so wrong with letting those that choose to worship God do so?

I had an instructor once that boasted about his atheism. He tried day after day to prove my faith was not only misguided, but altogether pointless. In the end, his constant prodding only made my faith stronger. Maybe this is what is happening to our nation right now, a test to strengthen our faith as a whole. Are we passing the test? Hard to tell right now but one thing is certain, if we fail the test, our children will pay a price far greater than any generation has ever seen in the history of the world.

Talk about Hellfire and brimstone...

Back by popular demand: Biblical Interviews

Today we have the pleasure of Deborah, the Bible's only female judge in the Old Testament. Lucky for us she is between cases at the moment.



Deborah: Who let you in here?
Tish: Your bailiff, Mr. Byrd. We had an appointment for this interview, remember?
Deborah: DON'T TELL ME WHAT I HAVE TO DO, YOUNG LADY!
Tish: Uh, yes ma'am. We had an appointment--
Deborah: ZIP IT! Do I smell like turnips to you?
Tish: Huh? I don't mean any harm, Judge---
Deborah: ENOUGH! I didn't fall of the turnip truck, missy. You can't get one by me so watch yourself.
Tish: Okay, then. I'll just be going now.
Deborah: Do I look stupid to you? You waltz into my private chamber and say you have an appointment and you think I'm not going to do something about it? PETRI, COME HERE!
Tish: I'll see myself out.

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Due to unforeseen circumstances, I was unable to complete the interview with Deborah as planned. Next week's interview will focus on Orpah, a multi-millionare talk show host, I mean Old Testament wife with a story to tell. Until then, stay safe and smile at strangers.

Riddle me this, Riddle me that

As the world contemplates the future effect of the Israeli withdrawal from Gaza, the neverending media focus of Mrs. Sheehan and her anti-war protest, and now Madonna's horseriding accident, there are other issues that beg the question WHY.

Why do some women wear full makeup when going to the gym? Clogged pores aside, isn't the whole reason for exercising to sweat? Maybe it's just me, but mascara and eyeliner has no place when lifting weights. Who wants to wipe off patches of Maybelline foundation from the machines? Not me.

Why have some men hung onto the 'sock' look while at the gym? Like millions of other teenagers in the early 80's, I had that poster of Jon Bon Jovi sitting on a table. His obvious 'girth' was not genetic, if you know what I mean, but he was a ROCK STAR. For men that strut around in bike shorts and a padded jock, one word comes to mind: Don't.

Why does ESPN waste time on Terrell Owens? Talk about the worst thing to hit the NFL since free agency. Not only is he a virus for sportsmanship, but his antics and selfishness should be banned from the sport. But what do I know, I'm just a girl that likes football.

Why hasn't someone told Donald Trump his hair is ridiculous? Three words: Emporer's new clothes. Money can buy almost anything. The keyword being almost, Donald. Of course, supermodels with dollar signs in their eyes and gold digging fingernails are oblivious to his comb-over.

'Why' is the first question children learn to ask. It's curiosity living within us all that makes 'Why' so alluring. And so dang funny sometimes.

If it ain't one ticket, it's a warning

If you've never watched Supertroopers, you've missed the most hilarious first fifteen minutes of all time in any movie.
For those who have, I was pulled over by a FARVA clone today. Before any rumors spread about me and speeding, I wasn't. The cruise control was set on 70 in a 70 MPH four lane highway.

'Farva' pulled me over for occupying the passing lane. He strutted up to my door, all 140 pounds and 5'6" of Texas Khaki. Far be it from me to criticize a person's height, no one can control that, but doesn't it seem a little on the funny side to look down to a highway patrolman? Unless you are driving an 18-wheeler, eye to eye contact would be the norm, would it not?

In the span of five minutes, I learned that he was unmarried, didn't watch TV or have a computer, had no children to speak of, and enjoyed two-stepping. Um, officer, maybe you didn't see the wedding ring on my hand or the four Power Rangers in the backseat, but I am definitely married with children.

As he eyed the oncoming traffic, his chest swelled with pride. "Yep, I pulled over three cars in a row today for going over 75."
Wow, I kept to myself. Good to know our taxes are paying for 'Farva' to harass everyone on HWY 59.
While he wrote my warning, the ball in the back of my SUV caught his eye. "What's that for? You bounce on it?" He goose-honk laughed at his own joke.

His interest perked up at my career of choice. Leaning onto the car door, he confided,"You know, I could have been one of them therapists." He swabbed his nose with a closed fist and continued. "But the force called to me, so here I am. Protect and serve, that's me."

Uh huh, well I've got another patient to see so thanks for the warning.

He patted my bumper before I sped away.

I wonder if he sat on a seat cushion to see over the dashboard.

That was mean, I'm sorry.

But still, don't you?

Boy did I pick the wrong day to quit...

Day Two in Hell
The world as a whole is against me.
Maybe it's my imagination, but was today "National Drink Dr Pepper Day"? At least fifty people imbibed the sugary concoction in front of me without any semblence of shame. Three women standing in line to pay the standard Texaco $100 gastank charge bragged about the perfect ratio between carbonation and syrup, as if I needed to hear that! A group of teenagers poured theirs out in a covert attempt to drive me insane BUT I remained strong. When a former patient of three years ago dropped by to say thanks, she held in her hand a cold Dr Pepper. Even though I nodded during the conversation, the faint sound of Dr Pepper himself whispered into my left ear, his hot breath tickled my neck:

"It looks delicious, no? You vant it, do you not? Vie not take a leetle sip? It von't hurt you, my precious leetle gerl."

For those that Dance with the Devil by the Pale Moonlight (AKA Diet Dr Pepper Drinkers), I have tried that route many times. Whoever says it tastes like the real thing also substitutes tuna for lobster. As for the caffeine free version, that's like kissing your brother on prom night. Same action, no passion.

Only 24 hours left, and I will have lasted the dreaded three day dry-out phase.

It is three days, right? The worst is over in three days, RIGHT?!

ARGHH!

It's official. The divorce papers were filed yesterday, and I, for one, am happy. This love/hate relationship was doing nothing for me. Sure, at first he seemed harmless. He'd entertain me with his bubbly personality and then energize me all day with his charm. It was nothing for us to meet three or four times a day.

But something has changed. He doesn't act the same. What once was enjoyable became flat and dull. The sweet disposition that captured my attention suddenly turned syrupy and somewhat nauseating. And talk about baggage! He bought with him at least an additional 20 pounds into our world, which isn't healthy.

Bottom line, I will have to go cold turkey. We can't be friends, can't have a casual dinner, nothing. I know, I sound cold hearted, but what else can I do? This is not a productive relationship by any means.

Sixteen hours and I feel fine...really....OH GOD HELP ME, I MISS HIM SO MUCH!!!

Thank you, Thank you very much....

Unfortunately, there were no PB and B rollups but to my surprise there were two corn concoctions that were either desserts or main entrees.
Notice the Budweiser lights? Yep, those are pool tables transformed into delicious buffet tables. There was a chicken enchilada dish that screamed EAT ME NOW. Four different deviled egg containers begged for my attention. And of course who can miss the bag of chicken? Confession time, that was my contribution. My mother suggested an easy way out since I was busy scanning and cropping photos for the family auction.

The stage's backdrop has always been the Budweiser gang. I think the women in the poster altogether weigh as much one normal person, but who cares?
That would be my husband with the full styrofoam cup. Free drinks, homemade food, and kareoke makes for a happy spouse. After a good four hours of friendly banter and drinking, he sang Merle Haggard, George Strait, George Jones, and our duet parody of "To All The Girls He's Loved before." Quite the concert, if I do say so myself.

Every year, this family gathers together to laugh, sing, drink, and eat. We lost the oldest member this year, a WWII POW and his sister as well. New babies joined the group, too. My one year old nephew garnered the youngest Prize. Casper sang "God Bless America" which earned a $5 prize, but Drama Diva was too busy playing with her cousins. She did add her own bit of history to the day by getting stung by TWO yellow jackets above and below her eye. Oh, the agony! As much as it hurt, and I have no doubt that it did, she worked it to the fullest degree. We are talking Oscar worthy performance.

There are more pictures to post this week, and more stories to tell but for now, I shall prepare for Casper's first day of KINDERGARTEN tomorrow. Don't mind me, I'll be the mother weeping in the corner.

Bologna and peanut butter, anyone??

Every year on the second Saturday in August, a distant branch of my family tree gathers at a bar. Yes, I said BAR. Nestled in the backwoods of a small Oklahoma town sits Skinny's, a basic hole in the wall joint. Two pool tables are transformed to a buffet, and the full horse trough becomes a swimming pool for around ten children of all ages. A fire hazardous, rickety trampoline made in the Dwight Eisenhower era and five llamas decorate the front yard.

The first year we attended, we were greeted by the hostess with, and I kid you not, bologna and peanut butter rollups with a banana slice garnish. Of course I passed on that, along with the mystery meat next to the seven KFC buckets. This is our fourth such reunion, and I have attempted to bring some sort of culture to these people. Last year I made 75 crab stuffed mushrooms. In less than five minutes, all were gone from the pool table/buffet. The bearded man that is relations to me in some odd way six times removed had the last four 'shrooms. Watching his wife chew hers without teeth while laughing at the latest "Git'er done" joke squelched any appetite I had for three hours.

Why do I go? Well, apart from the free beer and great blog material, one word:

KAREOKE!

Oh, yeah, uh huh, I'm a singer, yes I am...oh, sorry, got a little carried away there with the Cabbage Patch move. Duets, solos, and group renditions of all genres can be heard up and down the Red River. I am still legendary for my Melissa Etheridge impersonation, and hubby sure can "sang like that country sanger Toby Whatshisface". Drama Diva has practiced "Baby Girl" and Casper will delight the audience with "My Last Name."

So, as much as I hate to leave, this weekend will be blog free for me. I will, however, brainstorm some new Sunday Interviews for those that have so enjoyed them. While I am away, you are all required to LAUGH. That's it. Watch for Sunday's returning home post. It's sure to be eventful.

Stay safe, everybody.

Midgets and Donkeys and Boils, Oh My!!

You know your day is going to be interesting when someone tells you out of the blue that they have built a local midget a home. One of my patients detailed all of the modifications for the home, and just when I thought I wouldn't laugh outloud, he says...

"You know, their little butts fit right in the palm of my hand."

Something about a 9o year old man measuring out the width of a midget's rear end tickled my funny bone but I wasn't prepared for what happened next. My patient has hallucinations, mainly from medications and age-related dementia. He looked past me at the corner of the kitchen.

"GET DOWN FROM THERE 'FORE YOU TEAR UP THE MOLDIN'!" He shook his fist at the darkened corner. "Damn kids, they done tore up my bedroom. I'ma gonna call the schools tomorrow. They're old enough to be learning."

"Grandpop, there aren't any kids here." His granddaughter held a smirk for a moment before laughing.

"The hell there aint! I damn near fell on one of them yesterday in the bathroom. They just don't say a word, none of them."

Three patients later, donkeys surround my car. For some unknown reason, the family enjoys the braying and stomping of loose donkeys. One donkey, in particular, likes to charge the fence every time I pull up. This time, I thought I'd wave goodbye to the animal seeing as it was my last visit. Not smart,especially when the gate is open.
Did you know donkeys will try to bite a person?
Thank God I left my door unlocked.

And for the finale, one of my patient's family members has a large sore on his nose. When I say large, I mean half-dollar and right on the tip. Try not staring at it while he commands your complete attention regarding a fishing story. My patient, the only one that can hear in the entire home, likes to talk about it with him sitting only four feet away.
"Look at it! I can't stand to eat with him and that festering sore. Just look at him." All the time, he's smiling and nodding at me.
"Want something to drink?" He offers.
"She can't drink with that sore staring at her!" The patient screeches, but the man doesn't hear her. "SHE DOESN'T WANT ANYTHING!" He nods and continues to smile at me. I think his nose winked at me.

Flaming Blograffiti hits hard at the World according to Tish

How does that old saying go, you can please some of the people some of the time?

Well, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, last night I experienced my first flaming comments. Many of my blogger friends have disclaimers on the sidebars warning against malicious comments but it wasn't until last night that I truly considered adding my own.

Stupid me, I deleted the comments from the post . The vulgarity and complete stupidity demonstrated by the writers is so offensive that I contemplated whether or not to share their hateful words. Now I wish I would have kept them on the post so you could read them there instead of here.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
you are one iritating egotistical and average looking bitch
--
Posted by rapunzel the beautiful to Welcome to my world - The world of Tish at 8/07/2005 11:40:42 PM
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Being called a bitch by someone that cannot spell the word irritating is beyond ridiculous but at least she/he spelled egotistical correctly. I imagine this person is either very young or very unhappy with their life, their own appearance, and has low self esteem. This comment didn't bother as much as this one:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I bet your husband fucks other women, because you and your shit must drive him crazy..heres some advice....dont hire a hot babysitter!! your bored husband will fuck her tight young pussy all night long and wish he never met plain ol' fat thighed you. I bet you suck in bed, too. You look stiff.
--
Posted by Anonymous to Welcome to my world - The world of Tish at 8/07/2005 11:43:40 PM
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This is a coward, unable to sign his/her name to such filth. Maybe it's a man that has no sense of morality, or a boy teetering on the edge of puberty, or a woman that is so unhappy with herself or her life that her only recourse is verbal harrassment of someone they do not know, have never met, nor will have the right to judge in this lifetime.

The sitemeter information wasn't very helpful in identifying them. I know they are in New York, and came via a search on the bun and thigh rocker on Yahoo but other than that, nothing.

Sad, isn't it? Just when the blogworld feels like a friendly BBQ where all can sit and chat, there's always that idiot or group of idiots that ruin it for everyone.

A Glimpse into the future PC-USA

Hollywood, 2055
At this year's Annual Academy Awards, every actress worth her salt will be wearing the fashion of the century- Burkas. Once thought as denigrating to women, today's elite embrace not only the full coverage that Burkas provide, but also have integrated this new Conservatism into Hollywood. No longer do we worry about nudity, foul language, or promiscuity. Each movie, approved by the UN and Islamic Clerics of the PC-USA, instills positive messages of submission and subjugation overlooked by such heretics like Stephen Spielberg, Ron Howard, Ang Lee, and Nora Ephron.

Of course, there are still those that cling to outdated notions of freedom and equality. In order to reduce the number of public beheadings, Amnesty International purchased all of the empty Federal Prisons to house such enemy combatants of the new PC-USA. Christians, educated women, literate children, and former military are all placed within these walls for their protection. Between the ACLU, former Islamic terrorists turned Senators, and pedophiles on the streets, the chances of survival for the rebels are slim.

It is the hope of the government that researchers can identify why these insurgents have not responded to the new PC-USA Constitution so that one day, any and all resistance to the new way of life can be extinguished with a simple vaccine.

In the meantime, the legacy of Osama Bin Laden and other heroic individuals that helped to squash the last of the rebellion will be taught to all male children in the caves all across this great nation.

In Allah We Trust.

Stupid Tish thought JAIL was appropriate

There are geniuses amongst us, people. They walk into courtrooms everyday wearing flowing black robes. With the wisdom of Solomon, these invaluable individuals are our last defense against the wicked and evil that walk in the shadows of our society.

Or so we thought.

On Wednesday in Judge Rose Guerra Reyna’s 206th state District Court Robert Wayne Thompson, 46, pleaded no contest to aggravated sexual assault of a child and indecency with a child by contact.
Because Thompson has a history of heart problems, the judge allowed him to knit afghans for 320 hours of community service. Each 40-by-40-inch afghan will count as six hours of community service. Thompson told the judge he could make two afghans a day.

Words escape me, at least the ones that I will use on my blog. Knitting? Are you kidding me?
What's next on this supposed judge's docket? Needlepoint for rapists? Or would that be too stressful on the criminals' eyes? Oh, that's right, we should consider the health of each felon so maybe something along the lines of sketching portraits or macrame would be better choices.

Let me offer this solution: give me the knitting needles and the child molester. I can teach him a thing or two about missing a stitch that won't easily be forgotten. Or resuscitatable, if you know what I mean.

STOP THE MADNESS.

Do I have to solve everything???

Illegal immigration. Once a romantic idea, crossing over the border for a better life and opportunities but with national security concerns , border crossings are tantamount to pre-terroristic attacks. A few Islamic militants can afford to bribe the already poverty stricken immigrants on their journey to the Promised Land. Problem is, once they arrive here with their travelling companion, all Hell can and probably will break loose.

The other argument that swirls around illegal immigration is we, the tax payers of the United States, absorb the cost of their education, healthcare, and housing. We've all heard how the migrant workers will do the jobs that Americans won't do. Hmm, we have thousands of incarcerated criminals with three square meals a day, healthcare, and housing...and what are they doing? Sucking from the teat that is government. The fact that new for-profit prisons are being built all across the nation should be the first clue that our prison population isn't shrinking. It sounds to me that we are not utilizing a workforce population that has an endless supply of labor.

Truth be told, we will cannot and will not ever stop illegal immigrants from poring into our country. There is too much money involved but that's where we as American citizens can get our piece of the pie.

I claim my kids on my taxes, seeing as I pay for their well being with my hard earned dollars. The same can be applied to illegal immigrants. We pay for them, their children, their well being. Why can't we claim Maria, Jose, and others on our taxes? It seems only fair that we prosper like the agricultural businesses do from paying them pittance. It seems only logical that the people that pay for the care of these people are allowed an exemption for their trouble.

There is no doubt that Mexico has little to offer its citizens when you compare it to the USA. Who amongst us would not try our damndest to escape a life of poverty? Like so many people, I have sympathy for these people and their children. But like my mother always said, I didn't take the whole neighborhood to raise. Sometimes enough is enough.

The Speeding Ticket Pre-Trial

Apart from the serial killer episodes, I've learned quite a bit about representing myself from Dick Wolf. It's too bad that the Mr. Bald Short Policeman couldn't have been Chris Noth, though. I would have volunteered for a pat-down and possible strip search (just kidding...kind of.)

Phrases like "I object" "Just answer yes or no, please" and "May I approach the witness, your Honor?" will find their way into my defense. My dear friend Hoss suggested that I play soft, which might work for most normal people, but I come from a long line of George Costanza-like raving lunatics that enter a courtroom with a 1958 suitcase filled with papers while wearing squeaky shoes. It's in my blood to point, accuse, and if nothing else works, effectively cry. Crying won't work in this courtroom, I've heard, as it is a female judge with no patience for playing the sob card.

It's in my best interest to wear not the spit cup scrubs (the stain did come out with five washings), but maybe my khakis and not too tight aqua shirt. Color without emphasis on possible body parts that the judge could or could not have been born with, if you get my meaning. No loud lipsticks, no spiky hair, just boring Tish. OR I could wear my black power suit that just screams DON'T DENY ME! Of course, along with that suit comes the channeling of Joan Crawford and her attitude, so that may work against me in the long run.

Did I mention that the fine is 196 bucks? That's more than I spend on myself in six months, not counting Dr. Peppers of course. The fine won't increase if I lose my case, so what do I have to lose by going to trial? Hmm, maybe dignity? The likelihood of me making a complete ass of myself is about as great as Terrell Owens being booed by his own fans.

Maybe I should just pay the fine.

But then I'd lose out on all of this great blog material, so for all of you, I will pursue this. It's for my fans, always about the fans.

Send bail money...

Monday at 5:43 pm.

It's not a good idea to pull Tish over when:

• Drama Diva and Casper directly defied a simple request FOUR TIMES.
• The Regional Funk Stank Patient Convention held their annual meeting at every patient's home that I visited today.
• A patient that uses Scotch Snuff accidently missed her spit cup...and now I need new scrub pants. (Yes, you read it right, it was a woman dipping snuff!)
• The PetSmart flunkie decides to make an example out of my check card not working when I know good and darn well there is more than $27.99 in the account. 100 pounds of dog food, people, every three weeks now. It's a zoo here.
• A teenager at the EZ Mart called me an old lady and not in a respectful way, either. I've got your old lady right here, buster, and it's called a Jackie Chan spin kick. Just let me stretch my hamstrings first and I'll show you.
• FOUR, let me say again FOUR cars are in front of me on a FOUR lane road, and I am the chosen one? The street that runs directly in front of my house is 35 MPH but is known as the Audobon to most drivers but do you see Mr. Bald Short Policeman radaring that road? Of course not. We must stick close to the mall and its interchanges to catch SUV driving mothers.

Mondays. Hate 'em with a passion.

Reason # 45 I am not Martha Stewart

Karin told me I couldn't use my lefthandedness as an excuse to poorly paint. I beg to differ.
It's not the paint's fault, or the brushes, or even the pan. Sherwin-Williams provided me with two gorgeous colors, Sandtrap and Nice White, but try as I may, I seem to drip countless droplets onto the carpet. Good thing we are replacing it soon with laminate flooring.
It's a sad day in the home improvement world when a grown woman has to call her father for paint removal advice- namely how to remove oil based paint from one's body. I was tempted to pull a Farrah Fawcett and just fling my paint covered naked body onto the walls, but who wants to see broad hips all over the room?
In a previous post, I have lamented how I was born without the decorating gene. This still holds true but at certain times I have been bitten by the HGTV bug. Those thirty minute shows detailing the changes within a normal home have caught my eye, and so I've embarked on this home improvement journey. What they don't tell you on those shows is that it actually took weeks, not minutes, to complete the transformations. I couldn't finish one wall between commercial breaks. Talk about false advertising!
On a personal note, the haloscan issue has been resolved but....oh, I'll keep that little secret to myself for now....but let's just say changes are a'coming to The World Of Tish.

Haloscan hell and the Winner is...

Day four and I am still Haloscan-less at home. The computer at work has no problem, so now I'm at a loss. My knights in shining armor, Steel Cowboy and Exscientia, are helping me with this malfunction. And just so you know, Haloscan still emails me every comment, I just cannot access them from my blog or its site. SO NO TALKING ABOUT ME (unless it's good and then chat away, please!)



Now for the winner update! Ginahad the 25,000 logged Sitemeter visit. When Paul captured the Sitemeter, it looked like he was the winner. In all fairness, I should reward both of them.
Gina has kindly provided her address, and hopefully Paul will do the same.

The kids are coming home a day early, something about being homesick. You know I'm loving that!!! Saturday morning I shall paint the living room, or attempt to do so even being left handed and decor-challenged. There's a blog in that, I'll just bet.

Someone slipped me a bad vitamin, me thinks

Today is Wednesday, right?

Either I'm losing touch with reality OR I am unable to access my Haloscan comments. I can't even see the button for Haloscan on my site or anyone else's for that matter.

Do you think it's the new hair color? I had a new 'do done yesterday by the fabulous Kathy Patrick but maybe the dye has affected my brain or something? There will be pics in the near future so no worries there.

No, I've got it. It's a conspiracy against me brought on by my political rants and astute observations. Osama is out to get me for my solution to his reign of terror. Come to think of it, I did see an Iraqi like man staring at me while I was purchasing my first Dr. Pepper for the day. Hmm.

Could it be that they are trying to shut me down just as I hit my 25,000 visitor?

I will not go down without a fight! I have watched all of the Lara Croft movies AND the entire Matrix trilogy so don't mess with me, Internet terrorists. I just need an hour or so to stretch my hamstrings, so give me a little heads up before the rumble, okay?

If anyone has ANY advice, I would appreciate them greatly.

The world may depend on it.

Who will it be?

The World According to Tish is approaching the 25,000 visitor.
Who will it be? A regular reader? A first time passerby?
Or, God Forbid, ME?

So here's the deal: Whomever is lucky enough to be the 25,000th actual visitor, PLEASE capture it and email it to me. If you include your physical address, there could be a

PRIZE INVOLVED!

I should mention that comments are still appreciated, so no drive by clicks, please.

Ready, set, GO!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Hollywood: Our best bet for fighting terror

Thanks to Live Aid 8, there will be more food, money, and supplies for Africans in need. While this is and has been a noble effort by our media elite, it's time to utilize them in the most important mission: saving our civilization.

It's no secret that Islamofascists hate all that we stand for, but at the root of their hatred for us is the freedom women enjoy, and for that matter, homosexuals as well. In their minds, women should be not only submissive, but treated in such a way that is beyond degrading, humiliating, and humane. As for homosexuals, the terrorists see them as target practice, plain and simple. What is so frightening is that these animals believe with all of their hearts that their acts of terrorism are justified, that they will go to Heaven and be greeted by countless virgins for their sacrifice.

This is where Hollywood comes into play. Terrorists cannot become martyrs if unclean, unless a cleric changes the rules for them. Terrorists abhor our women in power, in entertainment, and the acceptance of homosexuality in mainstream population. If each entertainer, Madonna, Lil Kim, Elton John, and the like, were to donate a vial of blood, we could use it to our advantage.

Imagine a detained radical Islamic terrorist sitting in an interrogation room. He refuses to divulge where the next sleeper cell is or who has a suicide bomb strapped to their body. He scoffs at our politically correct interrogation procedures, because in his world, beheading and torture are the norm. Awaiting him are 72 virgins, unlimited joy, and paradise for his sacrifice if he stays pure to his cause and faith.

Enter the officer with a vial of blood and a syringe.

"It's simple, Omar. You either tell us what we want to know or," Madonna's photo emerges from the officer's pocket, "you can enjoy Madonna's DNA pulsating throughout your entire body. Forever."

Talk about unclean! Can't you just picture the sweat beads forming on his brow, his heart rate doubling, and his soul frozen in fear? All that he has worked for would be extinguished with a simple injection of a Top Forty singer's body fluid.

I've read somewhere that dogs are also filthy creatures to this faction of hate. Maybe we should all donate our canine's fluids to this cause. Forget water torture, temperature changes, and sodium penthol. This tactic could produce results far greater than bamboo shoots and electrical currents to the genitials.

For any celebrity or singer willing to fight the war on terror, I will gladly purchase all of your movies/CDs as will every American grateful for your contribution. Think about it, will you?

10,080 precious minutes and counting

At this moment eight years ago, I was screaming at two nurses while in labor. Let me rephrase that, cussing at two nurses during what felt like a revival of "Alien". Before anyone calls me a nurse basher, they were discussing lunch menus while I was waiting for my pain meds, unable to eat or drink. I'd say they earned that cussing.

Eight years later, I find myself free of both children for a week, and surprisingly, in another situation where my anger rises at someone's incompetency. Here's the Tish Tip of the Week: When in Best Buy for an exchange, always seek the youngest person to do the exchange. No offense to anyone over 50, but these kids that have played with a computer mouse before taking their first step will always have the edge over the generation that remembers when Texas Instruments calculators were all the rage.

I find myself listening for the muffled footsteps upstairs, Drama Diva's laughter, and Casper's whining "Momma, tie my shoes." Funny, but I miss them already but I need this time. Twice a year I am blessed with a week off from mothering. You'd think that I'd relax, but my paranoia skyrockets when the kids are out of pocket. Thoughts of not getting to them fast enough, or them needing me...it chews at me. Ten deep breaths. One long prayer. A calendar with a star on July 31st. That's how I'll get through this week without using all of my cell phone minutes.

As for this child-free week, Hubby and I have no real plans other than unbridled sex, sleeping late, and adult conversations.

The question now is: What will I do for the other six days?

You want fortune cookie with that?

Never let it be said that I can't call myself a dumbass.
Today was Drama Diva's birthday party. That in and of itself should produce nods of sympathy from all parents of eight year old girls, but here's the icing on the cake.

We invited 25...35 showed up. Why is that? The sibling factor. I'm just as guilty as the next BPC (Birthday Party Circuit) Mom. Casper tags along with Drama Diva, and vice versa. Following an unwritten BPC code, I always offer to pay for my tagalong child to help defray the costs of what should be considered a tax deduction.
Apparently I am one of the few in our BPC that abides by this rule. Last year, I spent an additional 72 bucks just on siblings for Drama Diva's horse party. This year, I vowed to nip this in the bud, so on the invitation in bright red letters, I added the sentence:
Additional siblings 8.00
Three parents asked me what that meant. WHAT DO YOU THINK IT MEANS? Unless I missed something, I didn't win the lottery and don't have a money tree growing in my backyard. There really is no argument, either, when paying for each child at a party. Ten extra children X 8.00 should equal 80.00 but somehow I ended up with 48.00 at the end of the party. I would have pursued the rest of the money but seeing how Drama Diva's party coincided with the hottest day in recorded history of the world (or it felt like it) and I was running around the pool like a chicken with its head cut off (Sorry, PETA), I was exhausted. AND apparently eat up with dumbass.

Most normal people eat breakfast, then lunch, then enjoy wine before or during dinner, right? Not me. I had one donut at 9:00 am, a half-bite of cake at 1:30 pm, and a full tumbler of wine at 5:00 pm before going to the Chinese buffet with the family.

Know how you feel right before the rollercoaster launches downward towards the loop-de-loop? Well, that was me at Panda's Buffet. I think there is a conspiracy with these restaurants. They keep the dining rooms ice cold but the restrooms are like Hell's kitchen. Five long minutes in there and I was sweaty, nauseous, and on the verge of passing out.

Asian waitress sees me exiting the restroom, my face the color of spaghetti, and asks me,
"YOU WANT FORTUNE COOKIE NOW?"
The entire family is eating while I lean against the wall and cover my mouth. Mind you, I probably know half of the patrons but at that moment, I wouldn't have cared if President Bush walked in and asked for a sit down with me.
"Honey, get my purse and take me home." I managed to holler before lurching towards the door.
"Do you want sit down?" Another Asian waitress offers while holding a large vat of hot and sour soup.
"OH GOD!" I run for the door, hubby on my heels.
Bottom line, I probably suffered from slight heat exhaustion, poor food choices, and an oblivious Asian waitress. Thank GOD for phenegran and crackers, that's all I can say.

My advice to you is never eat Chinese after swimming. Or drinking wine on an empty stomach. Or after being in 200 degree sun for three hours.

Geez, I'm hungry now.

Don't forget the side pockets

As I stood in the supposed 'ten items or less' line at Albertson's, I couldn't help but overhear a conversation between a yuppie couple.
"I'm not happy with this. Searching my purse? I don't even look like a terrorist." Manicured nails tapped her purchase.
"You could probably build a bomb with all the crap you have in there." His teeth gleamed blue-white, probably from overbleaching.
"Shut up! Don't you see what is happening? The government is slowly but surely diluting our civil liberties down to nothing, Dan. It's George Orwell coming true."
At this point, I pursed my lips. 'Don't say anything, Tish,' my conscience screamed, which was silenced by my internal stubborn fairy dressed in army fatigues.
"Personally, I don't mind them searching my purse. I have nothing to hide." I smiled at the flawless faced couple. "I bet there are people in London wishing they'd have searched everyone three weeks ago."
"Yes, but we don't live in a monarchy. Last time I looked, we were a democratic nation with certain inalieable rights." Her stony stare and clenched grip on her gourmet pesto sauce told me I was wasting my time.
"Tell that to the New Yorkers." Flo, the cashier, added.
Ken and Barbie exited without further comment, which was probably a good thing. Flo didn't look like someone who took a lot of guff from anyone.

Civil rights - something that Martin Luther King, Jr. fought for, something that our founding fathers guaranteed for all Americans. The key word being American. What is so hard about seeking out those intent on harming us before they succeed.
No one I know wants to be a martyr for the sake of protecting a terrorist's rights.
No one I know wants to ensure their ability to live amongst us all the while planning our destruction.
No one I know would protect an Islamic radical's right to free speech, especially when his/her speech has one purpose: Kill us. If it's against the law to holler fire in a crowded theatre, why is it less illegal to spew hatred against innocent Americans?

And make no mistake about it, there are actual innocent Americans: children playing in a park, an elderly couple holding hands, a new mother cradling her firstborn with the new father crying at the sight of family. THESE are innocent Americans. And these are who and what our soldiers protect everyday in Iraq, Afghanistan, and anywhere radical Islamic monsters dwell.

So when I am approached by a police officer for the express purpose to search my purse for any reason, I will comply without hesitation. Other than four old peppermints, sixty five receipts that mean nothing, and four notes from Drama Diva and Casper, I have nothing to hide. It's time to realize that freedom comes with a price, and that price is sometimes an unplanned purse cleaning.

White Trash University and a MIL update

At first glance, these people appear harmless. So what if five children are shirtless in the kitchen? It is the summer.
And so what if their one eyed bassett hound lolligags on the only relatively clean recliner? Some people treat their dogs like people, that's all.

I have to draw conclusions, however, when I am confronted with the following situations:

• Three broken sets of dentures floating in a mason jar on the kitchen table.
• Wads of toilet paper decorating the floor while the waste basket remains empty.
• Said bassett hound dry humps a physical therapist's leg to the delight of all five children AND patient's spouse.
• A dismantled CB radio sits near the rabbit ear antenna for the 1981 52 inch projection TV.
• Wedding pictures adorning the wall have the same background AND baby blue tuxedo for each groom. Each bride's vacant stare at the camera distracts you from the same keg of beer to the right of the matron of honor.
• On the walnut-veneer mantle, a can of Billy Beer is showcased next to three photos of dead deer being gutted by one of the shirtless children, beginning at ages 2 and up.

Now I realize there isn't a White Trash certification, but if there were, this ONE home would qualify for the highest degree - A PhD in reneck.

The shirtless children surrounded me as I tested Momma's leg strength and for a moment, I thought I heard the song from Deliverance coming from one of the three bedrooms. The youngest child, a barrel chested four year old, took a shine to my goniometer (a plastic device used to measure a patient's range of motion). When I say a shine, of course I mean taste it for five minutes. Uh, you can keep that son, I won't need that back.
Momma, mother of ten children and grandmother to about twenty or so ("I don't count 'em no more") swatted at the shirtless children with an decorated flyswatter. She confided in me that her youngest son, Dwendil or something like that (without teeth, it was hard to decipher), was looking for a good woman. She eyed my wedding ring and licked her gums for a moment.

"You know, a woman like you could do right with my Dwendil. He's got a full head of hair AND is real manly." The photo of Dwendil doesn't do him justice. Think Harry and the Hendersons and Alfred E. Neuman and you might capture the essence of Dwendil. I am confident when he is released from Rehab, I will have more stories of him and why he has eleven fingers.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thanks to all of you for your support and encouragement with my MIL's hospitalization. She has spoken to the nursing coordinator as well as filed a grievance regarding the nurse. We still have no answers as to why her potassium is low after a week of IV potassium, or where she is bleeding internally but for the moment, it is under control. My MIL is one tough cookie, that lady. She thanks all of you for your thoughts and prayers. And so do I. The blog world is not an empty space filled with words and jokes, but a circle of friends, laughter, tears, and love. Thanks to all of you.

Coulda, Woulda, Shoulda

In planning for today's post, many ideas floated in and out of my mind during the daily drive.

I could write about the flea infested home where I spent thirty scratchy minutes surrounded by of all things, CHIHUAHUAS. We all know by now how I feel about that breed of dog: great jerky if you can find it.

I would write my latest political essay on Ameri-qu'ran, but I need more time to outline my thoughts. It will involve burkas, a retooled Constitution, and boys only public education.

In light of my mother-in-law's hospitalization, I should write about the most recent crisis. It seems that despite all the medical advances in the 21st century, a certain floor in a certain Little Rock hospital cannot identify not only the cause of her problem, but also treat her with a modicum of respect. A night nurse, who I will hereto refer to as TEP SUB (Total Elite Premo Super Ultra Bitch), accused my mother in law of hiding drugs in her room. Not only did she accuse her, but she searched her room, her overnight bag, and her purse. When I say searched, I mean she made her empty her purse, copied down everything including credit card numbers, and after all of that, had the nerve to call her a LIAR to her face. Uh, I thought she was in the hospital, not an intervention! If that wasn't enough, TEP SUB commented to my MIL (with a central line in her neck and oxygen in her nose) that some people just like to be sick...maybe she just wants attention.

ATTENTION? How many people do you know want an endoscope, proctoscope, multiple IVs and blood draws around the clock? Unless I'm missing something and my MIL is a complete nutjob, she's not in this for the attention. I'm sure she faked her way into TWO HEART VALVE REPLACEMENTS, TOO, YOU IGNORANT TEP SUB!

One of the reasons I fell in love with my husband was his mother. She was vibrant, outgoing, and full of life. Ten years later, she has grown weaker physically but her spirit is still intact. Intact enough to tell TEP SUB to 'get your ass out of my room and don't ever come back'. Good thing I wasn't there or it wouldn't have been the Hulk appearance, but more like this:

Do they make pleather for flat butts? The glasses, cool as they are, might get in the way of the death Tish glare. Spinkicking and wallwalking would come in handy but hospital rooms don't have the room required for such a dramatic statement. I will settle for pointing my crooked finger (damaged by a snapping turtle as a child, long story) and a widened stance.

TEP SUB, get ready.

Gritting my teeth, needing a Valiumed Dr. Pepper

Asking questions in normal situations is rarely difficult. Directions, movie reviews, even dinner choices BUT try asking common sense questions to any health care professional in a hospital setting, and you might as well be asking when Paris Hilton will gain weight.

As a health care professional myself, I try to explain not just what we are doing, but why as well. Granted, there are new HIPPA laws protecting personal and private information, but answering one simple question isn't going to break confidentiality.

WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO TREAT THE PROBLEM?

Our trip to Little Rock was, how do I say it?- less than forthcoming about my MIL's status. While I have the utmost respect for most nurses and physicians, there are some in the health care field that must have missed their daily dosage of compassion.
Last time I looked in the mirror, my forehead wasn't sloped nor have I suffered a head injury rendering me ignorant. My clothes matched, I had no foul odor eminating from my person, and believe it or not, I had a decent hair day.
So when I ask a simple question, body language appropriate for a TEN YEAR OLD incites me. Using one syllable words as if I couldn't understand anything over six letters infuriates me. If this wasn't enough, sighing at my follow-up question was pouring gas on a lit fire.
As luck would have it, my children accompanied us on this trip, and because of their presence, evil Tish growled under the surface. Think "Hulk" in the mirror, lurking behind a civil demeanor. I merely gritted my teeth, repeated my first question, follow-up question, and stood in the way. Nurses have the hardest job, I know that. There is no person in the hospital that knows a patient better than the LVN and RN for that floor. The physician sees the patient less than four minutes so the nurse is the best resource for specific information and answers.
In the end, I was told that more tests are needed to identify her problem. Easy answer, I know, but probably the truest thing she could say. There are few things harder than witnessing your children cry at bedside of their beloved grandmother. I try to be so strong for them and for my husband, but it comes out as aggressive bitchery. It's easier to be a bitch when things are tense than it is to lose control.
And control is what we all seek, right?
Thanks for the prayers and thoughts. I hope and pray that this time next week I'll be able to inform you of her recovery. Please continue to visit An American Housewife as she needs all the prayers she can get.

Two favors and another Virgin Stripper story

Tomorrow, we are to Little Rock to visit my ailing mother-in-law. Not to sound the alarm, but I am very worried about her so my first favor is prayers/good thoughts for her. Long story short, internal bleeding plus two artificial heart valves, and respiratory issues. Yep, I'm worried.

My second favor is also in the good thought arena. One of my newer and favorite blog finds, An American Housewife,lost her husband unexpectedly last week. Again, thoughts and prayers would be appreciated along with any comments you can send her way.

Alas, this will be the final installment of the Virgin Stripper escapades. The last visit was, dare I say, more than most people could stand even on a heavy narcotic. Of course, the possessed Pekinese greeted me at the door, freshly shaven. This accentuated the cataracts and frightened me once again.
Fifty cigarettes filled her trucker ashtray. The big screen TV was blocked by the bedside commode, an unusual adornment not found in many homes, but what do I know? Maybe this is a new fad on HGTV.
After a long one-sided conversation about pain, pain pills, acquiring more pain pills, and the possibility of "The LOCKJAW" being the impetus of all of her bad luck, the Virgin Stripper asked me a question not heard since college.
"Will you look at the crack of my butt?"
Apparently she didn't hear my repeated refusals over the demonic dog's constant yapping. The black satin spandex hot pants were yanked down, revealing skin not seen outside of the home in at least four years. Just when I thought I was safe, hubby walks in and decides to comment about how/where/when he rubs that area. What felt like an hour lasted only ten minutes of partial nudity.
WHY can't I keep my mouth shut? I wonder this myself, but if I did, I wouldn't have such great stories to tell like this. While listening to another incredible story of anguish mixed with mobile homes, I mentioned to the Virgin Stripper she should write a book. She stopped for a moment, finished her cigarette, and then replied:

"I could call that Moore fella. You know, the one with the beard that did all those documenderies."
"Are you talking about Michael Moore?" Of course I was joking.
"That's him. I'll just give him a call and tell him my story. You know, if you put things down on paper, people just steal your ideas and then whatcha got? Squat, that's what."
When she mentioned Oprah, I took my leave. As I waved goodbye, I almost teared up. What will I do for blog material now?

Have a great Sunday.

Fantastic Flop

In a word, blah. Just when you think they've scraped the backside of the barrel's bottom, we are given Fantastic Four. I'm not knocking the original comic or the idea of superheroes in general but there are two hours of my life that cannot be refunded or exchanged for a much needed nap.

What Hollywood needs to film are real superheroes. Not muscle bound men or tight butted women, but the everyday unsung heroes found in fire stations, police cars, classrooms, hospitals, and nursing homes. The kind of heroes that dry tears of a broken heart or clap at the mere accomplishments of reading a word or walking across the room for the first time. Spin kicks and automatic weapons make for great drama, but cannot hold a candle to the extra time a teacher takes with a struggling student.

Don't get me wrong, I love a great movie. I love the moment the lights dim and the screen fills with colors and lives unknown to me. Every preview is savored along with the overpriced popcorn and imitation Dr. Pepper (Mr.Pibb). Tonight's previews ended up better than the movie. Who wants to pay for that? Apparently me.

Humph! I showed you...kinda sorta.

I might look like other mindless consumers but don't assume your sales ad brought me in your store. It wasn't your teenie bopper television spots, either. I'd say next to the Burger King commercial with that enormous headed King, your ads sit in the top three for Most Annoying on any given day.

If you must know, I was lulled into a look-see excursion by the proximity and endorphin release of a great meal. There must be a correlation between restaurants and Old Navy stores, the thought that a full stomach will relax the pocketbook.

As we strolled through the brightly lit store, multiple neon sales signs did nothing more than give me a dull headache. Thirty percent? PUH-LEASE. I yawn at thirty percent off.
Fifty percent off? I see you play hardball, Old Navy. You will, of course, notice my poker face countenance as I examine each article of clothing. Not that I don't trust you, but I have watched Seinfeld and am aware of the 'red dot' discounts.

Your token older mom associate and your 'too cool for school boy' associate managed to compliment Drama Diva at every turn. To your credit, this tactic should be taught to every sales person across the globe but is highly deceptive and could cause your demise if performed on the wrong parent.

So now that you know that I know what you are doing, and I know that you know that I know, we can cut the crap and get down to brass tacks.

And just so you know, I meant to spend 145.00.

Shot through the Heart Thighs

When I was young, I feared nurses. For some reason, my pediatrician always hired Nurse Ratchett clones. You know the kind: the sick little smile that appears when a shot is ordered, her firm grip onto a needle made for horse injections, and then at the last moment, her gleeful sigh as she literally punches said needle through your skin within a millimeter of your femoral shaft.
Casper has heard from Drama Diva the peril of shots. To hear her tell it, she suffered more than normal children. Her needle, longer than her first grade ruler, almost punctured her stomach (even though it was injected on the thigh). She then regaled how the nurse, an evil woman with 'yuck teeth' (brown and dagger like) twisted the needle until actual bone flopped out onto the table. And just when she thought it was over, the evil monster nurse almost pinched her leg off while applying the bandaid.

Creativity has its place, and I'm all for encouraging my childrens' special abilities until it creates panic and fear. Casper literally trembled at the thought of his five year old shots, until I dispelled Drama Diva's lore with my own innocent, relatively pain free experience. Of course this was a lie, but my children are slated for years of psychotherapy with me as their mother, so what's one more session topic?

They don't do this anymore, fill the syringe in front of the patient. I guess Dr. Spock or whomever exercised their infinite wisdom with the medical community. Now they walk in holding a tray, a tray showcasing not one, not two, but three separate injections just waiting to pierce the skin of my innocent child. What happens next is just short of Gitmo torture: Parents are told to hold their child's hands as they lie down on the exam table. The nurse swabs the thigh with alcohol, and the trusting eyes of your child stare at you, then fill with painful terror as she performs said brutality in a rapid succession.

There are moments in a mother's life when you wish you could change places with your child: the first fight, the first heartache, and yes, immunization shots. My tears dripped onto his shirt as we waited for the end to arrive. When it did, he was rewarded with a sticker and a sucker. For me, the bill and a pat on the shoulder by Nurse Ratchett. Just when I thought I got the short end of the stick, Casper turned to her and said, "Can my momma have a sucker? She was brave, too."
A heart filled with pride and a face dripping with tears, that's a good Tuesday.

The Human Pinball Game

Today's contestant pinball is Tish, a thirty something wife and mother of two with a penchant for foot in mouth disease and bad luck. Her challenge, to obtain all items on her list while shopping WITHOUT being distracted or disturbed.




The playing field, ripe with obstacles and forces beyond her control. What will happen to our heroine? Let's watch.



Tish rounds the toothpaste corner pushing her children in the standard blue double dutch shopping cart and runs smack dab into panty-less patient, ironically, in the douche area. Ten minutes of listening to how bad the patient's back hurt, how their dog had a spastic bladder, and answering questions about feminine hygiene products, Tish bounces her cart and giggling children to the laundry soap aisle, where she is confronted by yet another ex-patient, Mr. Potty Mouth. Not potty in the sense of cursing, but potty in the sense of breath from HELL. Mr. Potty Mouth engages Tish with a conversation laden with words starting with "B", "P", and the ever popular "THR" - always a sure fire winner for spittle production.
Three aisles later, Tish and her children think they are safe. Only five more items on the list and they are homefree....or are they? Hiding behind the Roma Tomato display, she had no warning of the impending doom sending her into EXTENDED PLAY MODE.

VIRGIN STRIPPER taps Tish on the shoulder, cigarette ash falling in Tish's hair.
"OOH! I told Earl John it'twere you! EARL, lookie who's come a-shopping at WallyWorld today!" Her eyes dance at the sight of the children. "You must be Trish's precious little ones?"
Knowing her son's blunt condemnation of smokers, Tish gives him the evil eye while trying to bounce away from this obstacle. Drama Diva, fascinated with the 65 year old's sequined cat shirt and matching hot pants, asks where she acquired such an outfit.
"Oh, baby sugar pie,My Earl got this for me at some truckstop in Phoenix, right honey?" She points her cigarette at Earl, barely missing Tish's eye in the process. Finding an opening, Tish bids goodbye and quickly finds the shortest line from which to exit...or is it?
Lena, the checker, provides the final obstacle as she details her current love life, past love life, and three near arrests to Tish and the children. Casper listens with rapt attention while Drama Diva's wheels begin turning when Lena mentions her strip search.
The game concludes with Tish loading her children and purchases into the SUV without tonight's dinner or three important personal items still left inside.
DING DING DING! We have TILT!

Tagged by the Displaced Canadian

Mike has tapped me for the following meme. Read at your own peril. I'd suggest large quantities of flavored liquor to make it completely through without falling asleep.

10 years ago: I was newly married, and attempting to cook what I thought was cinnamon pancakes....only we had no cinnamon. The brownish red substance I dumped into the mix was cayenne pepper. Yep, not a good breakfast for hubby.

5 years ago: July 8, 2000. I was probably either starting or finishing breast pumping at work for Casper. Nothing like the sound of 'shrump shrump' every four to six hours to make you empathetic to all dairy cows across the world.

1 year ago: July 8, 2004. Believe it or not, I was NOT blogging at that time. My main concern was the new home health job and the kids' summer wardrobe. Notice I didn't mention my wardrobe? Yea, that's because SCRUBS and old shorts don't qualify as a wardrobe.

Yesterday: I wore my new hat to Best Buy, and tried to pimp Hubby out to the manager for a discount on a lap top (golf game, people, nothing more than that...unless..never mind!)
Today: Slept until 9:15, treated five patients including the Virgin Stripper (new blog material as promised) and instructed the first ever "Laundry 101" class with my two students, Drama Diva and Casper. He can fold a shirt like a pro now!
Tomorrow: Continue on the quest for a new laptop, laundry, and dare I say, CLEAN THE KIDS ROOMS? UGH.
5 snacks I enjoy: Gardettos, Milk Duds, String cheese, cashews, popcorn.
5 bands that I know the lyrics of most of their songs: Eagles, Old Van Halen, Tracy Lawrence, Motley Crue, AC/DC
5 things I'd do with $100 million: Invest in local schools and charities, open a camp for disadvantaged US kids, donate to OSU and Langston University, donate to the church, buy a new laptop (ha)
5 locations I'd like to run away to: Oregon (to see Hoss, of course), Florida not in hurricane season, Australia, Greece, Galveston, Turner Falls, OK
5 bad habits I have: DR PEPPER, pointing when angry, giving my unwanted opinions, goofing off, returning DVDs late
5 things I like doing: DR PEPPER, laughing with the kids and hubby, blogging/writing, reading, laughing with friends
5 things I would never wear: Thongs, daisy duke shorts, spike heels, press-on nails, tattoos
5 TV shows I like: Reno 911!, Arrested Development, Monk, The Closer, The 4400
5 movies I like: Frankie and Johnnie, The Big Lebowski, About Last Night, Batman Begins, Raising Arizona.
5 famous people I'd like to meet: Olympia Dukakis (she was a PT before an actress), Julia Louis Dreyfuss, Steve Martin, Oprah, Fannie Flagg
5 biggest joys at the moment: My kids, my hubby, my dogs, my friends, my family, my new countertop
5 things that are keeping me from being utterly miserable might be: hope, faith, determination, DR PEPPER, laughter
5 favorite toys: Computer, jacuzzi bathtub at my In Laws, water sprinklers for the kids/dogs, book light to read at night, TV remote control
5 people to tag: I think you all know who you are, and will immediately copy this meme into your next post....won't you??

Working for the Man/Stripper

It's Saturday and I have to WORK. Granted, I will probably glean some great blog material as I treat the Virgin Stripper but I'd rather be swimming the kids or cleaning my new countertop for the bar in my kitchen. Instead, I'm off to see five patients so I will leave you with your questions for Saturday's Spill.


When are you the most relaxed?

Where is your least favorite place?

What pleases only you?

Who is the one person you'd like to sing in public to?

How much would you spend on a new laptop computer? (this is my poll, I'm wanting to upgrade)
Why can't we find Osama?

ADVICE TIME: I am in the market for a new laptop BUT due to my cheap DNA, don't want to spend skads of money. Last night I tried to bargain with a red headed manager at Best Buy to avail - AND I was wearing my new cool hat! A DVD-R/CD-RW with a lot of memory and speed, that's all I'm looking for here. Not the solution to saddlebags or a diamond the size of my fist, just a nice computer. Any suggestions?
Have a great Saturday and don't stare at the sun.

Conditional Compromises

Today I was informed that I was as cruel as a Nazi soldier by a patient clearly in need of pharmaceutical assistance (sorry Tom Cruise, but no amount of zinc will help this lady). This following a morning conversation with my Drama Diva including reasons why I cannot understand what a near eight year old's summer life could possibly be like, and how I embarress her with my old fashioned ways.

Never let it be said that I cannot or will not compromise when given the chance. I've thought long and hard about Drama Diva's pleas and the complaints of tired patients as well as my social conservatism, and have decided to issue the following compromises:


1) I will refrain from pushing a patient too hard during a treatment WHEN they voluntarily wear clothing during said treatments and answer the door without funk stank.
2) I will resist the urge to act like a goofball in front of Drama Diva's friends WHEN her eyes don't roll, her feet don't stomp, and she doesn't huff when she doesn't get her way.
3) I will not raise holy hell with Casper about his room WHEN I can see the floor.
4) I can give sex offenders a true second chance in life WHEN they have the word DANGER tattooed bright blue on their forehead.
5) I shall listen to Osama's concerns and complaints about the US policies with an open mind WHEN he is comfortably buried under seven feet of dog feces.
6) I will open my arms to the likes of Ted Kennedy, Dick Durbin, and Harry Reid WHEN they have begged forgiveness from every military family.
7) I can consider Gitmo's activities as atrocities WHEN their prisoners are served the same food our public school children are fed and wear KMart clothing.
8) I will cut any child abusing parent slack WHEN they are tied down and beaten with a high heel.
9) I can overlook hubby's total obsession with golf WHEN my laminate flooring is finished.
10) I will overlook the hypersexualization of pre-teens by the media WHEN my daughter is 45 and my son is 42.


Compromising isn't really that hard when you try to find a common gripe, er, ground.

Tears for Britain

Once again, cowardice strikes a civilized nation. Instead of burying their heads into the sand like so many of our own Congressmen are doing, the British are standing strong against such an evil act.

Terrorism has no conscience, no shame, and certainly no humanity. No matter how small or large the act is, any form of terrorism should be dealt with in the same manner: swift and lethal punishment. No amount of diplomacy, tact, or compromise has ever cured a rabid dog, nor will it lessen the resolve of a militant Islamic terrorist hell bent on destroying our society.

My prayers are with all of our allies over the Pond. My hope is that witnessing this horrible act, we as a nation will set aside the petty foolishness that has infected our Congress, our Supreme Court, and our political parties. Now more than ever WE should stand together, Democrats and Republicans, Men and Women, Black and White, Gay and Straight, Conservative and Liberals, Blue Collar and White Collar - with one voice against this most dangerous enemy ever faced by modern civilization.

Support not only the troops but the war they fight.

War of the Eyebrows

Forget Survivor or Big Brother for entertainment! Tom Cruise's war with Brooke Shields has got reality television beat for summer ratings. While I wasn't a big fan of Tom's before this latest stunt, his attack on Brooke Shields went beyond the pale of normal celebrity idiocy and has earned Tom a plaque in the Dumbass Hall of Fame.

Don't worry about offending, say, HALF of your viewing audience, Tom. Mothers around the world that teeter on the edge of sanity after days of labor won't mind you lecturing how it's all about vitamins or we just need to work out. It's too bad you couldn't have reached Andrea Yates in time with a bottle of Centrum and Denise Austin's latest exercise video. I am positive your years of filming movies like "Risky Business", "Top Gun", and the "Mission Impossible" Series have provided not only a little pocket money but the infinite wisdom that comes from years of reading books written by a sci-fi author on how, what, where, when and why our lives are in shambles. Of course, your example of marital bliss is one that we all hope our children can emulate: two marriages and now an engagement to a woman eighteen years your junior. What you've lost with female fans you can certainly shore up with the male mid-life crisis crowd.
It's one thing to espouse your opinion, but to represent oneself as an authority on such a personal subject...it's a little like me ranting about Viagra needing to be outlawed. Who am I to say it doesn't work for people? Better yet, who are you to tell women, something you can never be, what is right for them in one of most difficult and wonderous times in their lives?

And Tom, do you really believe we come from aliens and are reincarnated? I have a hard time putting any stock into your religion after watching it's foundation played out in this timeless classic. Come on, aliens? I'd sooner believe my Jehovah Witness stalker than that.


If it weren't for the kindness of your fans, you would be selling insurance somewhere in Iowa or God forbid, studying as Tony Robbins stand-in for his next rally. Remember, Tom, you sort of work for us. Like the court jester or Shakespeare, you derive your income from us. So don't insult us. And don't mess with Brooke. She has better eyebrows.

Cowgirl Tish and the AntiChrist

Somewhere, there are pigs flying over a field of crow pies just waiting for my appetite. You see, I am not a 'country' person. Sure, I like country music and have attended many concerts by boot wearing stars, but me? Nope. I like my khakis, high water pants, or the ever so comfortable sweat pants. My friend Laurie had a hat like this and wore it to the Los Lonely Boys concert we took our families to in May. Maybe I bought it because it reminds me of her, or maybe I just wanted to look cool, but whatever the reason, I thought I'd share the moment with all of you.


Now for the AntiChrist. Where else can Lucifer get his hands on our children, our money, our time, OUR SANITY?? Under the guise of a sweet mouse that can juke and jive like a rapper from the 80's, Chuckie Cheese is slowly infiltrating our lives and our childrens' minds. It's not enough that his minion serves barely edible pizza, but their hook of 'prizes' for winning tickets that are purchased by what? Our money. Follow me here - they take our money to hypnotize our children so that their incessant begging for more tokens will eventually cause rampant insanity and possible Satan worshipping. This is no time to dally at Chuckie's pitiful excuse of a salad bar, people. He is here for one thing - the souls of our children. Exhausting our bank accounts and thinning our hairlines is just icing on the cake to him. TO protect yourselves and the precious but mindless offspring, do not entertain even the thought of attending a party, a Saturday event, or GOD FORBID, an end of the year T Ball party.
Remember, it's you against the mouse.

Sleep, Storms, and Eighty Fish

Happy Fourth of July!

For the past three days, I have been internet-less, sleeping past 9:00 am, and watching my nephew dance around Drama Diva and Casper. Hubby went fishing every night with my dad and brother-in-law, which produced skads of croppies (white perch down round here) and one three pound channel catfish. A thunderstorm of biblical proportions awakened Casper, which, in turn, awakened me, which, in turn, continues to fuel my irritation at Oklahoma's schizophrenic weather.


In the next few days, I might post some pics if I can find my software that corrects red eye. That and my theory of the AntiChrist living and breathing in Chuckie Cheese's restaurant. Right now, laundry calls.

Movie Manners

If movies are the reflection of our society, a film's audience and their behavior surely defines our social skills.

In the past twenty years, ticket prices have more than doubled. Despite the fact that concession stands have greatly increased their variety and seats are now comfortable compared to the stadium benches of long ago, the problem we face isn't the theatre but its occupants. Maybe if there were guidelines with basic rules of theatre conduct, going to the movies would be more enjoyable.

Children are not to be seen or heard during a movie.
This means no sound, no fidgeting, no kicking of seats, no movement of any kind from the moment the lights dim until the ending credits roll. Take your children to the bathroom before the movie so they won't whine about going pee-pee during the best part of the movie. Crinkling of plastic,loud sipping of a near empty soda pop, or smacking of any candy/popcorn is not allowed at any time. This is a good time to define the word 'children', too. If you count your child's age by months, THEY ARE NOT ALLOWED IN THE THEATRE. It doesn't matter if Junior sleeps through steamcleaning the carpet, do not bring a baby to any movie. Ever.

Save the analysis for coffee AFTER the movie.
If you don't talk during weddings or funerals, have the same respect for others during a movie. And while it may feel like you are in the story, telling the characters what may be coming their way won't change the outcome. Arguing with the villian won't help the hero, but it might get your butt kicked in the parking lot, so take these two words to heart when the lights dim: SHUT UP.

Cellphones: 911 only. Technology is wonderful but can be more than a nuisance when in a theatre. Loud ring tones are one step behind a crying baby and should be dealt with in the same manner - escorted out immediately. Dishing about the movie WHILE the movie is playing is bad form. Dishing about your love life, career, children, goals and aspirations, jokes you've recently heard, or other topics of conversation ARE NOT APPROPRIATE. Do not be surprised when popcorn, soda, or assorted candies are flung in your direction. You've earned it.

So the next time you sit down in the newly designed high back seats with specialized cup holders, look around at the other movie goers. If you are surrounded by small children, some still buckled into their carseats, three grown men with cell phone accessories in their ears, and four women wearing a red hat society clothing, there is only one thing to do:

Wait for the DVD release.

If variety is the spice of life,

I am having heartburn.

Either I'm nesting OR I have contracted the Martha Stewart virus. Since hubby has been 'altered' and I haven't had contact with other men (excluding my stroke patients, hip patients, and/or cardiac patients), I'm not pregnant. Wait, you don't think those old men drugged me with a good Dr. Pepper, had their way with me, and then awakened me with ammonia? Whew, I think I've watched too many Lifetime movies.

We've been in this home since Christmas 2002, and I've managed to only paint the kids' rooms. When I say painted, of course I mean slapped paint in every direction hoping that it would dry pretty. Good thing Drama Diva has Hilary Duff posters and Casper likes Spiderman wall art. Now I have the itch to decorate once again, only now it's flooring. As much as I love to steam clean, especially during highly stressful situations, the idea of beautiful wood floors has captured my interest.

What astounded me during our sojourn into Home Depot was not only the endless colors of flooring, but the multitude of options: Hardwood, laminate with felt backing, laminate without backing, linoleum, ceramic tile, carpet, etc. While my head was swimming, an orange aproned teenager slid up next to us. I can't be sure, but I think I smelled something not of cigarettes in his wake.

When will I ever learn?
If I have socks older than the so-called expert, I need not ask questions.
If my children recognize said expert from his skateboard antics at the mall, he isn't qualified to handle my project.
IF THE ASSISTANT MANAGER SPENDS MORE TIME DISCUSSING GOLF AND HUBBY'S EXTRAORDINARY HEIGHT WHILE SCRATCHING HIS CROTCH, we need to shop elsewhere.

In a span of 72 hours, we have been quoted in excess of 2,000.00 down to 800.00 - all for the same 520 square feet of space. I'm almost ready to hire six midgets to do the whole dang thing, but hubby is scared of them.

Next week, I will be shopping for paint. If I don't hang up Hilary Duff posters in the living room, that is.

Michael Landon had it right

The man that raised Laura Ingalls Wilder has become my parenting hero.

Since we are battling the 'do you hit back?' conundrum, a flashback to an old Highway to Heaven flew across my mind. Michael Landon's character was hit once in the face, and after he turned the other cheek, received another blow. He then proceeded to fight back, saying that God didn't say turn both cheeks or something to that effect.

I've told Drama Diva and Casper that there comes a time in your life that tattling only buys you the label of coward, that you must stand up for yourself and what is right. In turn, Drama Diva has taken it upon herself to combine her verbal skills with the power of one year of karate into a show of strength and wit. Casper, however, has a more passive quality and will withstand a pummelling by boys half his size. It wasn't until his best friend hit his sunburned shoulders that my boy, my innocent angel, released his fury. Not only did he knock the boy to the ground, but made the bully cry. When the teacher told me what had occurred, I maintained my 'stern mother' countenance until we were out of sight, and then gave my mini-Ali a high five.

But Casper wasn't proud of himself. His eyes filled with tears as he recounted how bad he felt for making someone cry. He asked me would Jesus have hit back, would Jesus push someone down...and I had to pause for a moment. That's the question the whole world struggles with at this very moment, with the War, with the terrorists, with civilization as we know it.

Casper waited for my answer and then it hit me - my son's heart was bigger than fear, hate, and pain. I told him that there is righteous anger, which is what he felt, and then there was ugliness, which is what he had experienced at the hands of his friend. Now he knew the difference. Hubby was more direct, as men will be. His quote, "Don't start something, but if someone messes with you, finish it."

I know this will not be the last time my Casper gets into a scuffle, but for right now, he is my hero. And so is Michael Landon. If you are wondering, Drama Diva's constant mouth seems to be deadlier than her spin kick. For now, anyway.

Remember, YOU asked the questions

Mike, my unofficial brother, asked:
What would you do if you knew you couldn’t fail? On a personal level, I would become a successfully published author that could write full time. On a social level, I would find a way to eradicate the world of child abuse. On a spiritual level, I would seek a deeper relationship with God for myself and my family.
What would be your dream vacation - where and for how long?Oh, anywhere with a pool, a masseur, good Dr. Pepper, and great Italian food. A week is usually the limit for me as I tend to lose focus on reality after that long.
Why do kids perceive the bathroom as the place to wait until the groceries are unloaded? The same reason that they leave the lids off of toothpaste, milk cartons open and water running in the kitchen, BECAUSE THEY CAN!!!

Karin, one of my first blog finds, asked:
What would you drink if they stopped making Dr. Pepper?After a year of wearing all black, I would seek professional help in the form of Mr. Pibb.
Why do liberals think they way they do? I have to believe it's from either exposure to mercury at a young age OR possibly an iron deficiency.
Do you believe that the inventor of high heels was a masochist? I think he hated his mother, probably lusted after his cousin, and had a strange fascination with bunions.

Steel Cowboy, recently engaged to Cheri, asked:
You are given control of the world for one day by God, and can as you wish. What would you do with this power? Implant in everyone's heart and soul the desire to heal, to help, and to appreciate everything and everyone around them. That way, no abuse, neglect, war, hate, or malice could occur.
You have one flower and two friends who need consoling. What do you do? Bring the two friends together for mutual consolation. Flowers are nice but can't provide the same healing as a person listening to your problems.
You are standing before God and He asks why He should let you into heaven. What do you answer? I don't deserve to go to Heaven. Please show me mercy as Your Son has.

Hoss, my West Coast paramour, asked:
Why don't you exchange the picture of you on this page for the one in your gravatar? It's lots nicer. I have done so at your request. Personally, I think I look bloated but since you are my other love, I shall use this picture for you.
You profession isn't based, much, on writing. So how did you turn out to be such a classy writer? Aw, you've made me blush. I have written in some form or fashion since my mother bought me a Big Chief Tablet. Stories, rants, and occasional political opinions keep bubbling to the surface. Some might say like an overflowing toilet, but I like to think of it as a babbling spring in the summer.
You have written several Biblically-oriented pieces. Why is it you know the Bible so well? Years of church three times a week. I was raised in a very conservative denomination, so it was instilled in me at a young age.

Poopie, another writer, asked:
What inspires you to write? Life. And anything that angers or tickles me.
Who was your mentor? As a mom, my own mother. As a PT, a woman I worked for in Broken Arrow, OK. As a wife, my mother again. As a writer, Erma Bombeck. I read her from the time I was about ten.
Is that snake REALLY dead? YES. But the kids sure wished it would have been alive during the photo shoot.

Ian, my favorite Argentinian, asked:
did u picture yourself as DRAMA DIVA HERO MOM when u were younger? I didn't want children until I met my husband, so no. But as soon as my Drama Diva entered the world, I knew I would die for her. And for Casper, my son.
number three things you just can´t take outta your head.My children, my husband, and my job. Money is always dancing in the back of my mind, as is losing weight and writing more.
that ´special´song and why... Since I met Hubby at an Eagles concert, anything they play is special. Oh, and "Here and Now" by Luther, we had it sung at our wedding. Then there's always any soundtrack to any children's movie, since I can sing them IN MY SLEEP NOW.

Finally, Nickle Annie asked:
Do you like Canadians? Yes I do. Well, not the fanatical PETA girl I met in Toronto, or the rude women that tried to knock me down as I walked down Young Street, but the gay men and straight men seemed to like my accent and treated my sister and I like family.
Does that thing gross you out as much as it did me? Not as much as dead squirrels hanging out of Sophie's mouth.
What is your favorite memory from childhood?Catching fireflies at my cousin's house after spending the day with my PawPaw. That's what childhood should be about, not worrying about predators or stranger danger.

Saturday Night in Texas

Just when I was ready to sit back, relax, and blog about how great "Batman Begins" was, Sophie and the rest of her clan begin barking with such an intensity, we had to check it out.

A snake had made its way into the pen and was cornered by all four dogs, Sophie leading the charge. What kind of snake? At first, I thought a simple grass snake BUT with closer inspection, it was identified as a water snake. Not the dangerous water moccasin that plagues my son's nightmares but just an ordinary, harmless snake.

Harmless snake, that's like saying decent politician or reformed pedophile, huh? Good thing we didn't clean out the pen tonight or I'd have three sets of underwear to clean.

Saturday Spillage questions are put on you guys tonight - you ask me three, yes I said THREE, questions each and I will post the answers tomorrow. Better take this chance before I sit down with Oprah and spill my guts to her!

Sticks and Stones

"Words will never hurt me...."

Unless you are a soldier, then Dick "Turban" Durbin has caused mass indigestion.
Unless you are a Liberal, then Carl Rove's analysis of coddling terrorists elicits shame.

Unless you are a Conservative, then the influx of illegal immigrants' Spanish language offends your ears but not your conscience.
Unless you are a woman, then being compared to a female dog and/or a part of genitalia tends to increase the likelihood of someone getting a Matrix treatment.
Unless you are a man, then having your manhood questioned during a road rage incident might find its way onto Fox News.
Unless you are a seven year old girl, then listening to gangsta rap will affect her outlook on men, women, and sex.
Unless you are a five year old boy, then being refused the role of Teen Titan's Robin during playtime because 'your hair is sticking out too much' will release tears.
Unless you are a mastiff/lab puppy, then all you would hear would be:

"SUGAR, WHA WHA WHA WHA, SUGAR, WHA WHA WHA WHA!"

Selective Hearing

Since GOD didn't take me home, I shall continue blogging. Thanks to all of you for your sweet, awnry, and lively comments. Next year, I will be threatening all of you with a semi nude pic if my comment stats don't pick up. There will be plenty of time for sunglasses and vomit bag purchases.

There are many things to look forward to as I age. Today, I learned how important that little dial on a hearing aid really is.

Husband/Patient humming an unknown tune while I am hooking up the Anodyne machine.
Wife/Patient: Honey, what year did my brother die from the lockjaw?
Husband: (still humming, slightly grinning)
Wife: HONEY, what year did my brother John die from the LOCKJAW?
Husband: (nods, hums, and broadly smiles)
Wife: DAMN IT! WHY DO YOU EVEN HAVE THOSE THINGS IF YOU WON'T USE THEM??? (marches out of the room)
Husband: (Fiddles with his hearing aid) She stomps like a horse, don't she?

Children don't have 'external' hearing aids, but it seems like they have a selective mute button located in either their butts or their heads and are activated when scratched. Waitresses with attitudes have built in hearing aids controlled by rapid gum chewing. Husbands control their sound by rubbing one eyebrow while yawning. Wives block out all sound by focusing on a minute pimple, freckle, or stray nose hair. In all fairness, our selective hearing should come with a momentary neon sign above our heads reading "NOT LISTENING ON PURPOSE". That way, important information usually mixed with general blah blah is saved for a different time.

Unless you are like me and purposefully insert crucial information during a blathering session just to see if my husband is listening.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For those interested in Anodyne therapy, I have to say it is a highly effective tool for pain management, neuropathic pain, and wound healing. For more information, visit their website Anodynetherapy.com or email me. Yes, it is covered by Medicare and most insurances. No, it doesn't hurt. No, it doesn't come with a full body rub CHARLIE!!

Pulling an Oral Roberts on ALL of you!

Think back with me to the moment Oral Roberts claimed that GOD would call him home if he didn't raise 1,000,000 dollars. What a BRILLIANT ultimatum! Who dared call Oral's bluff? The believers across the world coughed up the ransom, and now Mr. Roberts will always be known as the best marketer in the entire world.

I'm no Reverend BUT I am ready to pull an ORAL on my readers and silent lurkers if you don't COMMENT. I'm not asking for money, people! A simple click on the either the blogger comments or Haloscan, one or two lines of either obscene flattery or boring compliments will do.

My friends Crystal and Mimi have tried different methods to elicit comments. Crystal uses guilt mixed with humor to coax out the readers still hiding in the dark, but Mimi just calls people out with threats (and she could back them up, let me tell you). Maybe by invoking the Roberts Scam/Ordeal will touch your hearts or minds.

I doubt GOD will call me home if you don't start commenting BUT let's not tempt him, okay???

Aw, did we hurt your feelings, Mr. Child Molester?

What horrible people we are in this United States.

First, we have children, the exact temptation that all pedophiles cannot deny. What are we thinking? That's like swinging a string of sausages close enough to the lion but not within chomping range.

Secondly, we protect these children like they are something 'precious'. Truth be told, a woman has the capability to have over thirty children if she sees fit. What's one or two given over to the child molesters' alternative lifestyle? We can make more children, you know. They are just trying to live their lives like anyone else.

Thirdly, we have the unmitigated gall to actively seek these individuals out, identify them by name, place, and offense, and make their lives a living hell. According to Michael Hill, an AP writer, our society has made the lives of released sex offenders too dificult and he's not alone. Researchers at Lynn University say that the stresses of tighter restrictions may play a role in repeat offenses. Richard Hamill, who heads the New York State Alliance of Sex Offender Service Providers, feels that they should have full time jobs, safe homes, and a chance to contribute to society (more than just the occasional molestation of a boy, that is).

What can we do as a nation to make the lives of these poor souls easier? How about a neighborhood Welcome Wagon, complete with the addresses and vital statistics of each child living in a 1000 yard radius? Or better yet, we could open our homes up these so called predators with a bed, bathroom, and full access to our families? Surely a home environment will only heal these troubled people and allow them a full and productive life.

Mr. Child Molester, feel free to live near me. I shall welcome you with open arms. Pay no mind to the large dog that patrols my home and land, she will not bite any appendage off in one fail swoop. Do not worry about the six guns or countless knives in my home that have potential to harm you. Ignore the duct tape and electrodes near a chair, that's not for you, really. Please, knock on my door anytime and have no fear of the karate chop to your neck or the knee to the groin action I practice, it's only for those annoying vacuum salesmen. We hope you enjoy your time in our neighborhood and as a testimony to our pledge to your happiness, we will gladly install surveillance cameras pointed at your every exit so as to ensure you will not be harrassed in any way, shape or form.

Of course, if you cannot adjust, there is one more place that might treat you with the respect you deserve: it's a little place called HELL. Try it, you might meet a friend or two.

Maybe I'm Estrogen-challenged

You would think after being a woman for 36 years, I'd have assimilated to the feminine ways. My lack of woman-ness is most apparent when decorating my home inside and out.

It's not that I don't like furniture, but I don't go all ga-ga over a dining table like my friends. French country versus traditional European garden, I'm lost. Mixing chintz fabrics with coordinating window treatments - aren't they just curtains? Paint is the bane of my existence. Why on earth does it matter if it's semi-gloss, semi-matte, full satin shine? Geez louise, just give me a spray can and let's get this over with.

I think it boils down to choice overload. I cannot make a decision if there are more than four variables. After the first three aisles of knickknacks at Crate and Barrel or Hobby Lobby, my eyes are glazed over. How many pictures of fruit can there possibly be and, more importantly, who actually notices or cares about the difference?

The main selling point for me are handles. Door handles, chest of drawer handles, kitchen knobs - these are all very important to the world of Tish. Once, the hubby and I were test driving new cars and just because the door handles on the vehicle weren't up to my standards, I would not sign off on the purchase.* All furniture that lives in a bedroom MUST not have clanky, dangling handles that could awaken the sleeping mate (usually me). Kitchen knobs must operate with a two or three finger yank, no more or less.

I don't paint my fingernails or toenails. Capri pants are as dressy as I get during the week and we all know how I love high water pants for my winter wardrobe. I spend as much time on makeup as I do listening to Britney Spears. My cologne collection consists of two scents, both purchased by my husband. Does this make me less of a woman? One day very soon, representatives from NOW (National Organization of Women) will knock on my door and revoke my 'woman' card, I just know it.


* I also asked one car dealer if they could replace the spedometer plate for me as I didn't like the new black numbers on a white background. The white numbers on a black background is my thing, you see, and he just stared at me. 'They come from the factory like that, ma'am.'

Mark your calendars, I am speechless

LITERALLY!

Drama Diva's District tournament felt like a state fair rollercoaster with a drunken carnie at the control. While they won their first three games, the unfolding saga behind the scenes continues between coaches, coaches and parents, parents and parents, and even between a husband and wife (thankfully not me). Where is Rob Reiner when you need him? On every ball field there must be at least four potential blockbuster films just waiting to be filmed. Our final game was in a word FANTASTIC. Our girls and parents stepped it up a notch and claimed District Seven's championship as their own.

After screaming for ten hours and pacing up and down the dugout for six hours, I cannot speak above a whisper or else a an irritating sound emanates from my mouth comprable to fingernails down a chalkboard.

Next week, Saturday Spillage and the Woman of the Bible interviews will resume. In twenty eight hours, we will be finished with softball FOREVER.

Happy Father's Day to all of the wonderful men in all of our lives. Without you, we would have no role model to admire and no strength from which to learn morality and integrity. I am so blessed to have a father that instilled in me honesty, faith, humor, and a strong work ethic. My children are blessed to have a father that has the same strong values. God Bless the fathers of the world. Keep up the good work.

The New PETA and Tricky Dick, 2005

Politicians for Elite Treatment of Al-Qaida, or PETA, have elected their first chairman Senator Dick "Turban" Durbin. According to Mr. Durbin, currently incarcerated terrorists are being held like prisoners of concentration camps and gulags by barbaric American soldiers.

According to Mr. Arnold, I mean Durbin, prison cells that hold the vilest of criminals are not up to snuff for these vermin. So what if they want to slash the throats of every American man, woman, and child? So what if their idea of interrogation is slowly decapitating a prisoner, videotaping it, and sending it to the prisoner's family? It's important to note that Benedict Durbin, I mean Dick, has not been personally invited any of these terrorists to stay with his family or in his home.

So, Mr. Traitor, I mean Senator, how would you have these 'people' treated? Should they have access to their religious materials? Oh, wait, they already are. Should they have a diet tailored to their strident religious beliefs? Um, that's already been addressed. Should they have prayer times set aside to meet with their religious guidelines? Hmm. You are batting 0 for 3 so far. American children cannot pray in school for fear of offending someone but if an Islamic Terrorist wants to pray, then by God, we must supply not only the MAT, but the Koran, the food and the time...all on our tab.

While Dick runs around insulting the very military that is dying so that he has the opportunity to have such verbal diarrhea, Osama sits in a cave laughing at him. What a joke you are to him, a perfect example of weakness and cowardice in our political officials. To him, you are just another head needing separation from a body.

Shame on Dick Durbin, the new millieum's answer to Benedict Arnold. Shame on those in the Democratic Party for not censuring him or at least having a SPINE to say what most of the entire country is thinking:

SHUT YOUR MOUTH.

Brilliance in the form of hysterical laughter

Other than Viva paper towels and exercise balls from BallDynamics, I rarely endorse anything. This is different.
Reno 911! is probably my second favorite comedy on television, Seinfeld being first (yes, Mimi, I LOVE Seinfeld!)
If there was a legal way that wouldn't break my marital vows, I would LOVE to be a hooker on Reno 911!. You have to watch the show to understand why, so I am challenging you to sit through not one, but two entire episodes. If you don't laugh until you wheeze, I will go without a Dr. Pepper for a day. Wait, an hour. Let's leave that up to the final judge, okay? Who is the judge? Me, of course.

Sad to say, my time with the Jehovah Witness is coming to a close. Too bad since I don't have in my possession EVERY Tract they publish yet. The virgin stripper will be on my list for next week, so stay tuned for an update and possibly a pole dancing tip.

Countdown to the end of Softball season: SEVEN DAYS.

The next slap in the face, liberally

How many of you were spanked as a child? I can't count how many times I have felt the leather of a belt, the wire end of a fly swatter, or a unrolled newspaper found at just the right time. Last time I checked, I wasn't a serial killer, convicted felon, maladjusted sociopath, or deadbeat. The 'abuse' I endured must not have injured my delicate psyche. Apparently, I am functional enough to interact with people in the most intimate of situations and have many longstanding personal relationships that were not hindered by my parents' choice of punishment.

Whether you agree spanking works, as an American you have a choice. If this bill passes, state after state will follow in line and our rights as parents will be swept away.

Isn't it ironic that the same legislators that rant about the rights of terrorists want to limit our roles as parents? Since when did my child's punishment become the concern of a legislative body, when they can't seem to agree how to educate, fund, protect, or enforce laws already on the books?

If this bill were to become law, I suggest the following course of action:
Release all of the criminals into society.
Move all of the law abiding citizens within the walls of the empty prisons.
Ignore the wails of former legislators at the door of the prison begging to be let in.

What is next? Do we sign all rights over at conception? Just sign on the dotted line and every decision about childrearing will be left up to Congressional committees, hearings, and mandates. Fathers can change a diaper or two, mothers can provide the breastmilk, state officials the formative training.

Sounds a little like a country far east of here to me, but what do I know? I was spanked as a child, so it's likely that I am suffering from surpressed trauma that is clouding my judgement.

What does 3AM, two sore feet, and one sore throat mean??

It means we won the tournament! When I say 'we', I mean the girls, of course. While I feel like I played on the field with them, I did not score a run or make an out. I did, however, become embroiled in a day and night long drama the likes of which Lifetime and Hallmark Channels should option right now for the fall season.

Say, for argument's sake, that every parent/guardian is assigned certain foods/drinks for the good of the group. Thirteen players, twelve families, four coaches in total. Now say that one or two people bring with them oh, five to six extra half siblings, cousins, nephews, nieces, etc. In a fair world, these guardians would bring sufficient food to cover for their tagalongs, right? Oh but no. Now imagine these additional heathens have the deceptive skill of an undercover FBI agent - food only disappears when the team is playing, coolers are raided without care, and blankets are muddied on purpose.

I think I will rewrite the Team Mom rules to include a new commandment: Team Moms will and shall discipline any or all children, teenagers, and other extraneous individuals within a ten yard radius of the team's camp.
Using my angry voice, I had five stragglers bluffed into submission. One step out of line, BAM, I was all over it. The last two, aged 9 and 12, challenged me with no eye contact, defiance, and sheer disrespect. It would be nice to say their mother/aunt/cousin took care of the situation, but no such luck. Her attitude was equal to or even worse than the children. Apples don't fall far from the tree is a true adage.

Another drama that has been unfolding all year is a woman that refers to herself in third person. Nothing irritates me more than someone who thinks they are a separate entity unto themselves. Then to watch her flirt with a married umpire shamelessly is more than unnerving, it's downright sickening. The last time I looked, a child's softball tournament wasn't on Cosmo's top five pick-up places. Unless you are looking for a married father.

The final part of the saga was fought on the field. Every parent that roots for their child will at one time or another get out of hand. I walk that fine line every game BUT a coach? I don't think so. One coach accused us of cheating (as they lost 8-3) in front of our fans and another local team's coach wouldn't shake our coaches' hand after we won the semi-final game. Something about beating them. I guess if we were in Florida or California, there wouldn't be a score keeper or a winner. Sure wouldn't want to crush a child's spirit with a little thing like competition.

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Sunday's Bible interviews should resume next week. I'd like to hear from all of YOU as to who you'd like to know more about. I think I'm inching my way up the Old Testament but am not opposed to the New Testament ladies. Just trying to stay in a groove, that's all.

Birthdays gracias, JFK, and virgin strippers

Remind me to NEVER take my birthday off - the blog material is worth the work. Thanks for all of your birthday wishes. I don't feel like I am at the end of my mid thirties, and by all accounts, don't act like it, either.

Today, I was privy to a national secret buried away in the Chainsaw Massacre patient's home. When I ducked my way into the 'home (the ceilings being 5'8" and I am 5'9"), I was first greeted by something only Stephen King himself could create: a Pekenise Dog with cataracts. Think Jodie the Pig from Amityville Horror but a dog with glowing white eyes. I stifled a scream.
As I attempted to avert my eyes from yet another pantiless patient (birthday present #2), she casually says:

You know, I was a stripper in my younger days.

Really. While I am trying to imagine this woman who has a balding poodle named Budweiser held hostage on a chain in the bathroom as an exotic dancer, she continues.

"I danced at the Colony, a VERY shwanky club in Dallas." She motions me closer. "I was one of JFK's special girls."

If you keeping count, please add this next portion to your running total of Tish eating her New Balance. During the last visit, she had shared with me she had seven children....

"So, are you the mother of an unofficial Kennedy?" Joking, smiling, patient and therapist reparte.

"Oh, no! I was a virgin when I married. That's something I saved for my husband. I stripped when I was 14 and 15."

Virgin. Stripper. I'd wager my life's salary this is a rare combination.

The centurion did grope, did brag to his cousin that I asked him to get on the bed, and that I wore him out. Let him have his fun. He's 100, for Pete's sake. And much to my disappointment, I didn't get to see my JW patient. She made no mention of my birthday today when I rescheduled. I will, of course, remind her.

Tomorrow's Saturday Spill may be late, extremely late, or rescheduled. The Wardens, I mean coaches, have scheduled yet ANOTHER tournament somewhere in the hills of Arkansas. If I am not back to this blog by Sunday, call John Walsh, call Jon Bon Jovi, just call someone to find me.

It's my Birthday and I'll laugh hysterically if I want to...

Plus eleven more and that's me.

While some people like to take their birthday off, I will be spending mine:
A) In the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre home, complete with psychotic family members.
B) With a centurion that cops a feel at least four times during the session. Gotta give the man credit, he hasn't lost his will to live. Or grope.
C) With the Jehovah Witness. It's highly doubtful I'll be getting a card or slice of cake from her. A tract, maybe.
D) With two deaf married patients that talk about the other one's lack of manners, body odors, or the way they chew their food. Good thing they can't hear each other.
E) Secretly kicking three chihuahuas that continue to gnaw at my ankles. Sorry, but I hate these little boogers.
F) Being called 'honey', 'sugar', and my personal favorite, 'precious'. FORTY SEVEN TIMES IN AN HOUR.


Thirty six years ago, my mother suffered greatly to bring me into this world. In turn, she gave me this name, Tisha, that has been a blessing and a curse. Thanks Mom.

My birthday wish for you, my precious blog friends, is to laugh three times an hour, smile twenty times a day, and love your family, friends, and this country without limit.

Can't lie to a Liar

When I was a teenager, I was what New Age educators would call "imaginatively inventive". In other words, I was a good liar. Whether great or small, insignificant or crucial, my lying abilities had Oscar award potential. I realize now that I shall pay for this power with Drama Diva.

For instance, take my sister's birthday. In our family, birthdays are a big deal. Everyone is expected to buy a birthday present unless unemployed or over the age of 90 (this excluded the Klepto great-grandmother, which if she ever GAVE a present, it would be stolen within 72 hours). Since I was part-time at the TG&Y, a predecessor of Target and WalMart, I should have used my employee discount to buy my then 12 year old sister the coveted Loves Baby Soft travel kit.

But I didn't. Instead I wove together a string of lies that once put together are forever known as the Guatamalen Incident.

Tish: I have something to tell you. (Voice breaking slightly)

Sister: What is it?

Tish: There's a company in Guatamala that makes custom dolls. You send them the photo and they create an identical duplicate. But.. (tears in my eyes)

Sister: What happened? (Hands me a tissue)

Tish: Well, you know how on my (1966) Mustang you have to lock the doors from the inside? (Blows nose) I forgot to lock the passenger door and someone stole it this morning.

Sister: Oh, no! Well, it's not your fault. It's alright, don't cry.

The next day, while eating breakfast, Sister shared the story with my parents. Like a good Mom, my mother smelled a Rat, specifically, a Guatamalen rat.

If only I had used a domestic route.

The Financial Beauty of MPD

I am now eligible to check my credit report for free to ward off any identity theft early.

According to the AM radio programs I listen to everyday, my identity can be stolen by anyone with a computer, access to my address or social security number.

But what if one of my many personalities decides to apply for credit cards, go on a weekend shopping spree, and then not pay? Can't I claim theft if my dominant personality isn't aware of the minor beings hidden in the darkness? Surely I wouldn't be held responsible for:

Tasha: She ignores that fact that her body now has no business purchasing anything from Victoria's secret.

Tysha: Her compulsion rears its ugly head at Target. Anything on the end of an aisle with a red sales sticker is fair game. Many bags in her backseat hold picture frames, hair products, scrapbooking materials, etc.

Teesha: In her efforts to stay slim, Teesha likes to charge any and every diet product, either in pill form or fitness tool.

Tosha: Waiters love her. If it can't be delivered, carried out, or eaten at someone else's table, the food isn't worth it. Her hands chafe at the thought of actually cooking a meal.

Surely I'm not the only person suffering from transient MPD. Maybe we should form a political action committee, hire a class action lawyer, and begin legal proceedings to ensure our civil rights aren't abused. Having multiple personalities that are extravagant shouldn't be our cross to bear.

I'll let you know if it works.

If God meant for me to be quiet,

He would have sealed my lips shut long ago. Far be it from me to save an opinion, a thought, or even a run-on sentence for another day. My heart may be in the right place BUT to some, the blunt sword of Tish slices a little too deep.

I grew up that if it walked like a duck and quacked like a duck, well, it was a duck, by God. That's not popular in a PC world. Now you have to worry about offending said duck, or ruffling the duck's feathers in case he/she has aspirations of becoming something other than a duck.

I also was raised that there is right and wrong. The areas of grey make for interesting conversation but there comes a point in a person's life where the fence becomes to unstable to stand upon and a diet cannot consist of waffles alone. Fear of offending the wrongdoer takes precedent over the rights of the victim. We are made to feel sorry for the child molesters, murderers, and rapists because of their horrible childhoods, but never mind the emotional devastation their crimes inflict on not just the victim, but their families as well.

When it comes to national security, I will not waste my time on worrying if a terrorist has been denied his civil rights. The last time I checked, AMERICANS were the only people guaranteed such rights.
When it comes to religion in schools, I cannot see how a sane person thinks a daily prayer does anything but provide a foundation from which children can learn basic morals and gratitude for all that is given them, no matter what their faith.
When it comes to protecting the innocent of our society from the scourge of the Earth, I rebuke the ACLU and their defense of child molesters and other scum. How many are parents, I wonder? It's easy to speak in general terms of slippery slopes, but try explaining to an eight year old boy that has to live with the nightmares of being molested why the monster should have any rights at all.
When it comes to marriage, I believe in monogamy, fidelity, and forgiveness. Not a popular concept in the world of starter marriages and instant divorces. Of course there are reasons for divorces, but to just jump from one marriage to another like a game of hopscotch, huh uh.

WHEW! This soapbox has a few splinters. Guess I should climb down now.

Inquiring Minds want to know...

In honor of summer and all that is Saturday, today's spillage questions are designed to dig deeper into your psyche so that I can use it against you in a court of law, or as a bonus question on Jeopardy!.


1) What is your most cherished summer memory?

2) When was the last time you slept in on Saturday (and by sleeping in, I mean no alarm clock, no adult/child interruptions, nothing)?

3) Who has better summer vacations, you or your best friend?

4) Where does one find the best Dr. Pepper in your fair city? (This is, of course, filed in my memory bank for when I come to visit!)

5) Why aren't Saturdays allocated extra hours? How many would you add?

BONUS
If you had the opportunity to relive any one Saturday, which one would you choose?

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Tonight marks the tenth Tracy Lawrence Homecoming Concert in Foreman, Arkansas. Since my husband used to chase him down the halls of their tiny high school, we attend the concert and watch from backstage as the hometown star gives back to the community. There is a song on his new album, forgive me for not recalling the name, about a wife dying while the husband regrets all he didn't say or do. Very powerful, and I am afraid that as Tracy sings that tonight, I will have to step back into the darkness and cry for the Powell family. Thanks again to ALL of you for your kindness and prayers.

Have a great Saturday!

Rainbows aren't just vacuums anymore

I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer, so when I heard about rainbow parties, I thought it was just another girls' night out to check out the overpriced vacuum system sold throughout the nation.

Boy was I wrong.

There are many ways to look at this problem, if you are one of the millions of people that see it as a problem. Believe it or not, there are always those individuals (most of whom are not parents) that have no problem with preteens engaging in oral sex. Their rationale stems from Bill Clinton's logic: It's not really sex. Since I literally live across the street from the state of Arkansas, I have heard countless die hard Clinton fans defend his rationale...until this 'rainbow party' scandal broke. Then it was groans and mumblings of "not my daughter" and "How in the hell can kids not think it's sex?" Funny how Daddy's face freezes when he is reminded that Slick Willie is the father of this movement.

For the rest of us, the struggle is to not just educate on the risks but overcome a national complacency towards younger sexual freedom. It's easy to tell Sally what may happen physically to her if she continues performing oral sex with multiple partners, BUT can you look your daughter in the face and with all honesty explain how her dignity, self-worth, and moral code will be demolished forever if she participates?

Many of us are standing on a tightwire as we juggle protecting the innocence of our children and the bombarding reality of a hypersexualized media. Generations before us had a net of security, the religious foundations that our country fought for and a standard moral code. We are not so lucky.

The Silent Conspiracy against Body Hair

One of the crossroads into puberty is the discovery of the 'first' hair. Pre-teen girls giggle and gush to their friends while the boys strut around the school in a peacock like fashion.

So when did body hair get such a bad rap? We coo over our child's first wispy lock and cry at the barber as it falls to the floor. Who cries for the unwanted leg hair, the underarm hair, or the 'mound of Venus' (a term used in old romance novels)? Since I am nine days shy of 36, I have at least 22 years of experience with follicle destruction. Other than learning the difference between tampons and pads,nothing is as critical in a woman's life.

Often misused, the razor has filleted more than sixty acres of skin from women's Achilles tendons. Even going from one to FOUR blades, you have to be both ambidextreous AND 'double' jointed to cover the four square feet each leg offers. Stubble? Oh, yes there is stubble and if men were smart, they'd have less to say about prickly legs and more about the cute shoes.


Hmm, let's see. Who wants to sit with caustic chemicals on their bare skin for at least 15 minutes in hopes that the hair burns off just before the last epidermal layer begins to melt away? Now if you are thinking of bombing for bugs AND need to shave your legs, this is the 'two for one' special - just the stench from the nuclear waste applied to your legs will buy your five months bug free. Indoor animals are often the victim of chemical hair removal...hairless chihuahuas, dare I say more? You know God didn't do that to a dog on purpose.

Not since the Crusades has a torture technique so widely been accepted. Pulling your hair out from the root, yea, that's how I spend my Saturday afternoons. Shortly after, I like to gargle with crushed glass and a cold Dr. Pepper. Sorry, I'm just not that into pain.


One of my college roommates purchased a small device promising hairless legs, arms, etc. Nowhere in the instruction booklet did it say DRINK COPIOUS AMOUNTS OF ALCOHOL BEFORE USING, nor did it advise of heavy narcotic medication prior to application. Needless to say, many curse words, three gypsy poxes on her family, and three ice bags were used the night I tried the Epilady. Great for eliciting confessions or pledge week, bad for innocent hair removal.


So I ask you again, what has our excess body hair done to warrant such extreme measures? In some countries, women are highly regarded for their full underarm forestry. Surely in the uppermost Northern areas, hairy women are warmer to cuddle. Seeing how the anti-hair dynasty, Gillette, will never free us to grow our hair willy-nilly, we must find a way to buck the system.

One hair, somewhere, shall fight the good fight. Just not the chin hair, okay??

My cup runneth over

When I started blogging, I had selfish reasons. To build a fan base, my agent said. For exposure, he said. To catch the eye of an interested publisher, he repeated.

So I began this little blog but I didn't realize who I would meet along the way. What started as a PR tool has become a circle of friends, a net to catch me when I fall.

Thanks to all of you who have commented and emailed me in the last two days. It was a sad funeral, one that I hope never repeats itself in my lifetime. The only funny thing that happened, which as you know I try to find humor in EVERYTHING, was the woman who sat behind me. Either she read the bottle wrong or the stopper fell out because that body spray had a four foot radius and could disinfect three surgical suites. During the musical portion of the funeral, she tapped me on the shoulder.

"Could you move to the right, please? I can't see."

See what? The casket was closed, the song was instrumental, and the piano was on the far side of the stage. Of course, I moved but then I heard her mumble to her 75 year old friend:

"I can't see past that hair of hers."

Now this is where my friend Laurie is laughing at me from Heaven. My hair wasn't big, especially by Texas standards, just a simple french twist. I smoothed it down after hearing this comment, which only elicited this:

"She could comb it out and it still wouldn't do any good."

It never fails, the cranky retired English teachers will always find me.

The Powells felt your prayers and thoughts today as did I. Laurie will not be forgotten, her children will continue to learn of their mother's wonderful faith and love for them, and her husband will be surrounded by friends for the lonely times ahead.

Because my cup runneth over with friends, I can help them and us with the healing that has to begin. Thanks to all of you.

God has taken an Angel from us

Hello to all of you in the blogosphere. I hope your Memorial Day was filled with family, food, and most of all, homage to those that have given their lives for our freedom.

Yesterday I was informed that a good friend, a woman with two children the same age as mine, died. She had two cosmetic procedures, and on day three, they think she had a PE (pulmonary embolism. Her mother found her early Saturday morning.

A mother of two, a wife of one, died.

My heart aches for her daughter who will never have Laurie brush her hair again, teach her about boys, or see her walk down the aisle. I mourn for her son, who worshipped his mother with every glance and stolen kiss. I grieve for her husband that now faces life without his lover, his companion, his best friend.

Instead of making you laugh, or think, or roll your eyes at my normal insanity, I ask each of you to pray for the Powells, for their families, and for the scores of friends left behind.

After that, call your family, hug your spouse, tell your best friend you love them. We aren't promised tomorrow, but we can share our love today.

God Bless all of you, my dear friends.

Nothing Normal this way comes

Somewhere in heaven, God chuckles at the predicaments he creates for me.

"Hey, Gabriel, put that trucker with the bad body odor in front of Tish while she is waiting in line at the convenience store."

"Too bad her next patient just entered her fourth personality's time of the month. He he he he"

"Make sure the dogs tip over the bowl AFTER Tish fills it up with clean water, got it?"

"This should be an interesting fit: Tish and a Jehovah Witness, round two. Man, I love this stuff."

"Stop laughing, Michael. Okay, you're right, it is funny. Who knew the Dairy Queen Drive through window would frustrate Tish so much? Ooh, look, the man is handing her the dip cone upside down and...yep, there it goes, on the ground. Wait for it, wait for it...TA DA! Didn't I tell you Tish would get out of the truck? Didn't I tell you she'd ask for another one which once she was informed she would have to pay for it, she'd throw a hissy fit? Now that's entertainment. Forget 'Alias', I'll watch Tish make a fool of herself anyday."

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TRUE STORY

Momma, can you come play vampire with us?
What do you mean, play vampire?
You know, the guy that stands behind the plate and says FOUL BALL, the vampire???

Chewable Ortho-Tri-Cyclen? Tri-Phasil Bubble Gum?

Just when I think I've heard it all! What do you say to a woman that, with no shame in her voice, tells you she is putting her eleven year old daughter on birth control pills?

ELEVEN YEAR OLD ON BIRTH CONTROL PILLS?!?

I froze with what had to be my well known 'shock and awe' countenance (think Elain on Seinfeld). What do you say? 'Great idea' or 'wish mine was old enough'?

What's so disturbing, beyond the lack of parental guidance on her part, is the fact that a pediatrician can do this without breaking the law.

Let's see, it's against the law for children to:

• drink alcohol.
• smoke or use tobacco products.
• drive a car.
• vote.
• work.
• watch a rated R movie in a theater.
• get a tattoo.
• have sex.
• get married.
• skydive.

I shouldn't be surprised that a country that not only frees sex offenders but provides those eligible free Viagra, would allow children access to birth control. Don't get me wrong, I love my country BUT I do not love what the 'feel good, forgive all mentality' has done to our society.

It's only a few years away and then along with the final booster shots, our daughters will be offered the Patch. Maybe our sons will be given prescriptions for Cialis or Levitra for those that need an extra boost to their masculine identity during those difficult ages, say nine to eleven years old.

The 'mother' asked me if I had children. When I shared with her I did, in fact, have a daughter around seven years old, she bumped me in that comrade fashion. "You wait, it's coming for you, too."

Not this mother. Not this daughter.

Turtlenecks in the summer?

Let me ask you all something: am I a prude? Sure, I've toned down quite a bit since having children, but has it gone too far?

Here's the situation - Drama Diva attends a summer day program that has swimming everyday for two hours. There are approximately 200 kids from five years old to eleven, all being supervised by college students and full-time adult directors. Yesterday, a boy kept calling her "hot" and telling her he loved her. She told him to stop, but he continued on until she told on him but nothing was done about it.

I would have not known any of this had she not broken down crying about someone making her feel "uncomfortable". I assured her I would handle it SO, in true Tish fashion, I reported it this morning to one of the teenage supervisors. Her dumbfounded stare told me she wished someone would call her 'hot' and why was I complaining? I explained that at seven years old, being told you're 'hot' isn't appropriate. Pretty, yes. Sweet, sure. But hot, that's the precursor to sexy and believe you me, I will throw a coniption fit if someone tells my CHILD she is sexy.

Thinking all is fine, I went about my day treating the Costanza family from Seinfeld, Joan Crawford from Mommy Dearest, and a former in-patient of One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest. It wasn't until my husband picked up the kids that the crap hit the fan.

Apparently the mother of the boy approached hubby and apologized in that 'I'm sorry your wife is such a wench' way. Being the dutiful husband that he is, he defended my actions...TO THE PROGRAM DIRECTOR! Oh, yes, Drama Diva failed to mention it was the Director's son that was harassing her. There will be no more discounts coming our way in the future.

So I ask you, was I wrong? Maybe I should dress her down, send her in ugly clothes, swimsuits from the 1920's, and not let her shower for days. OR maybe I'm right in defending my daughter against the germ of sexual harassment.

Either way, I'll be labeled as "that" mother for a while. What's new?

Slipping down the Syllablic Slope

According to the experts, the average educated adult has a vocabulary of 50,000 to 70,000 words.

Of course, these so called professionals aren't considering the "kid" factor.

For example, weren't your conversations full of three syllable words, philosophical tangents, and deep thoughts before the pitter patter of little feet?

I can remember the days when I actually used the words 'perhaps', 'obliterate', 'existential', 'malfeasance', etc. Now my daily ramblings consist of single syllable commands, warnings, and ultimatums often in or near a public restroom. Of course, this in and of itself will have some long term damage on my children's psyche and require intensive therapy for their public facility phobias, but that is another blog post for another time.

The fact that our brains house thousands of unused words is pathetic. They sit in the corner, dusty and cobwebbed, waiting for that magical day when they can fall from our lips during a PTA meeting. Of course, that will cause backstabbing and gossiping as we will be known as the 'snooty' one with all of the fancy words. Again, another post for another time but the intricacies and politics of the PTA is second only to the Congressional goings-on in Washington.

The hardest part about falling from vocabulary grace is while trying to write another novel, I am constantly blanking out on simple words or phrases. Dr. Suess had it made, what with the rhymes and inventions of unknown animal names or foods that wouldn't be eaten if real. Maybe that's what I should do - write children's books instead.

Out of the 50,000 word pool I supposedly have at my discretion, I'm fishing out the same ten or twenty for everyday use. I need new bait. Tomorrow, I shall unearth some rarely heard gems for my patients. This too, of course, will incite grumblings beyond the normal "she works me too hard" or "That smart mouth on her gets on my nerve." But if I can work in 'perhaps', it will all be worth it.

Bathsheba: She's more than a pretty face

Today's guest is Bathsheba, the infamous other woman.

Tish: So glad you could join us on such short notice, Bathsheba. Can I call you Bath?

Bathsheba: I prefer Bathsheba. It's a lovely place you have here. Mind if I stretch out?(rolls around on the chaise lounge and purrs) Aren't you married?

Tish: Yes, happily so.

Bathsheba: Oh, thats' what they all say, honey. (sighs) So, is he around, your husband?

Tish: NO! Let's finish this interview, okay? And cover up, for Pete's sake. You're not in a music video. My readers are interested in your side of the whole David situation.

Bathsheba: I was married to Uriah and one day, David saw me taking a bath. That's the short version. Is your father still living?

Tish: No more questions about any men in my life, okay? What about your vows to Uriah? Didn't you think twice before sleeping with the king?

Bathsheba: What could I do? He was THE King, Tish. When a King sends for you, you have to go. Sure I didn't like Uriah getting killed, but that was David's decision. It wasn't like it was all roses for me. Our first son died, you know?

Tish: I know, and I can't tell you how sorry I felt for you about that. I don't think I could survive losing my son.

Bathsheba: It was hard but then I had Solomon so I had some comfort in that. How old is your son?

Tish: (Gritting her teeth) Not old enough. I think that's enough for this interview. Thanks for coming by. You can go now.

Bathsheba: Oh. (Peeks out of the window to the backyard) I see you have a small pool of water out there. I think I need a bath...(begins to disrobe)

Tish: PUT YOUR CLOTHES BACK ON, YOU SHAMELESS HUSSY!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

SOFTBALL UPDATE: WE WON THE TOURNAMENT! Of course, Drama Diva ROCKED and Team Mom made a complete ass out of herself by CRYING WHILE RUNNING ONTO THE FIELD!

Next Sunday, there will be no interviews. Our crackerjack staff will be on a three day holiday without internet connection. I know, where in the world could be without the internet? That would be the parents. But don't worry, the weekly ramblings of Tish will continue until Friday.

Saturday Spillage

Since another softball tournament approaches at noon, today's questions are sports related. If you are not athletically inclined, feel free to lie. I find that lies about one's prowess on the field/court/diamond are sometimes more interesting than the truth.

1) What was your one stand out moment in athletic competition?

2) Who was your worst coach? Why?

3) When did you realize you weren't going to be the next Tiger/Shaq/Peyton/A-Rod?

4) Where are the best hotdogs served in a professional stadium?

BONUS QUESTION

How will you be remembered athletically?

Let's all take a breath on this fine Saturday, hold it for a moment, and as you exhale, chant the words 'help me, Lord'.At any point during today when you feel frustration, disgust, or dismay, remember this:

I'M TRAPPED IN A DUGOUT WITH THIRTEEN GIRLS AND TWO CHAIN SMOKING COACHES POSSIBLY UNTIL MIDNIGHT, SO QUIT YOUR BELLYACHING!

We return you to your normal programming.

Caged Match with The Jehovah Witness: Round One

So you're telling me there's no Hell? And all this time I was afraid of eternal damnation. Thanks for clearing that up. But, just to make sure I'm understanding this, all that talk in the BIBLE about hellfire, knashing of teeth, and suffering forever is just metaphorical? Could have fooled me and about ten BILLION other people on this earth. And Jesus, too.

No birthday parties? Are you kidding me? Because they didn't celebrate birthdays in the Bible, we aren't supposed to either? Well, they didn't have washers or dryers, cars or bicycles, movie theaters or cable, so are those disallowed as well? Next thing you'll tell me Christmas is off limits or the Tooth Fairy isn't welcome in ....oh, that too? I have to be honest, this isn't sounding too appealing to me.

Only 144,000 are going to Heaven?Those odds aren't exactly in my favor. What happened to that whole Salvation through Jesus Christ, you know, the Son of God? There wasn't a quota in his contract, so....what? Live on Earth forever? Now who wants to do that? I'm in this thing for the grand prize, not some consolation lifetime supply of granola. This really isn't appealing to me, sorry.

Ten minutes of Old Testament scriptures followed, but to no avail. I am still part of the lost sheep. Rounds two and three will follow next week. I'm sure I won't escape without a Watchtower tract or ten.

There's no CHOKING in baseball!

Dateline: Texas
Officials were called to a T-BALL game Monday Night after a coach, his second wife, his ex-wife, and her new husband had to DRAGGED OFF OF THE FIELD after they began choking each other DURING THE GAME. After police ESCORTED the four from the field, game play resumed.

Dateline: Texas
At tonight's softball game, our first baseman tagged a runner out, to which their first base coach told her "I'll have our girls hurt you for that, punk." The coach in question will be approached by our coaches with the player for an apology.

And we wonder how our society produces the likes of Latrel Sprewell, Pedro Martinez, and Ron Artest? Look no further than the little league diamonds, the softball dugouts, and the soccer fields of America. It's not the kids, but the overbearing parents hellbent on winning at any cost.

Somewhere tonight, there is a team raising money for their coaches' bail instead of new equipment. On the opposite side of town is a coach so indignant that harassing a seven year old for his team's failure is his only outlet.

The no refund/no exchange marriage

Imagine there are many stores waiting for your business. Some claim low prices, other tease better selection, and still others bait you with offers of rebates and no payments for a year.

Now imagine that once you choose this store, it's the only store you will shop from for the rest of your life. That puts a different spin on your choice, doesn't it? Convenience stores are out, not enough selection. Hardware superchains maybe great for your hobbies, but will they provide the necessities of life? And will you really be able to survive on frilly underwear and silky camisoles from Victoria's Secret?

This is where long term thinking must override short term desires. As much as we want to live in Victoria's Secret world, decorate from Crate and Barrel, or travel with Sharper Image's newest gadgets, reality says we need more than sex, stuff, and sponteneity. Marriage, the ultimate choice, depends on multifaceted opportunities for years of compatability. Sex has its place, but as everyone knows after being married for a period of time, cannot be the basis of a long term relationship. You can't have sex at work, the grocery store, paying bills, burping kids, and carpooling. Neither can sharing hobbies, because real life isn't only about fishing, golfing, or traveling. There has to be a connection past one or two common interests for survival.

Since I have a daughter and a son, my goal is to teach them what marriage is and isn't so their choices are made with a clear mind and vision for the future. It's my hope that as much as they may 'window shop', their final choice will be one that addresses all of their needs, not just immediate desires.

Target, WalMart, Kmart - they offer everything you could ever want at any age. And while they definitely aren't as exciting as Frederick's of Hollywood, who wants to be sixty five years old, alone, and only a box full of lace teddies to show for it?

Tish Primavera

Today has been scattered, thoughts whirling in a tornadic dance across a my parking lot mind. Bear with me as I throw my mental spaghetti against the wall to see if it sticks.

• Robby Knievel is missing the part of the brain that fears pain, death, and normal clothing.
• Target is secretly taping me in my own home, and places the items I desire on sale just as payday approaches.
• The whore of my home, Biscuit, is more than likely pregnant with a load of illegitimate pups. If I could find the deadbeat that knocked my princess up, he'd be in for child support, alimony, and joint custody.
• Eyebrows grow asymmetrical, pluck unevenly, and always have one renegade refuses to lay down with its brethren.
• Children's sweat after ball games could be the antidote to dirty bombs.
• Women that attend ballgames in clothing out of a magazine deserve the accidental ketchup spill from a stray child's hotdog.
• Do not argue with a woman in charge of bats.
• Eyeshadow always looks better on thin models with makeup artists.
• Do not buy bras when your son has just learned the word "sexy".
• A Jehovah's Witness has made it her mission to convert me. That in and of itself should provide more than enough blog fodder for the next month.
• Burger King commercials really irk me...and have been in a few nightmares. It's that King's head, too big. Gives me the creeps.

After ingesting such a large load of crap, I suggest you take a strong antacid, curl up in the fetal position, and think of puppy names. You did say you wanted one, didn't you?

Embarrassing Moments #421 and #422 for your reading pleasure

Some people have the gift of candor, wit, and sarcasm. While I'd love to claim them as mine, I have been marked with New Balance disorder. It seems that my mouth is just big enough to fit in one if not both shoes when I say/blurt/comment on events that would better be observed in my silence.

Today's TWO examples are set at a t-ball field. There I am, minding my own business as usual (Tish trademark, do not copy),and the coach asks me to be dugout Mom. Fine, but this ship is running my way SO I'm lining these four to six year old children up for batting. Some are kicking the dirt, some are spinning in circles, and one is eating his boogers. GREAT. After the other team scores the maximum allowed five runs, it's our turn.

Now you tell me, aren't wouldn't you root for your team even in the dugout? And wouldn't you scream with joy when your team hits not one, not two, but THREE runs? Well, of course you would.

For those uncomfortable with confrontation - it's time you should sink back in your chair.

It wasn't my son on third base, but a tiny spit of a boy waiting for his turn at glory. The third baseman, a blonde headed child, turns to him and says with what can only be described as hateful: "So what? We are still gonna beat ya'll."

Now I ask you, do you just stand there and let a formerly premature baby stand there and be harangued by some brat? Of course you don't.

Tish: HEY! We don't talk like that in T-ball, do you hear me? Do not speak to the runners." I will admit I was using my not so nice voice, and may have pointed, but someone had to do something.

Feeling a moment of regret when they retired the inning, I approached the very large, very muscular Coach Mom now at the third base side.

Tish: Coach, you should know I got onto your third baseman.

Coach: What for?

I tell her the circumstances and end with "I just didn't want some Mom coming after me with a hammer."

Coach: That's my son.

She thanked me, said she would talk to him, and that t-ball isn't the place for that type of behavior. Most people would sigh with relief and vow never to speak again at a t-ball game. Most people.

Fast forward to Saturday's game. The umpire is young, slightly goofy, and suffering from conjunctivitis or retinal tears demonstrated by his horrible officiating.

Tish: This has to be the worst ump I've ever seen. He sucks.

Guy next to our player's mom: That would be my brother. It's his first time to ump, though.

Tish:(never flinches)Well, I'll cut slack today but he's got to read the rule book.

Now that I sound like a complete psycho mother, let me say this: I cuddle each player, I cheer for every great catch made no matter what team, and I laugh when the kids run backwards around the bases.

Is there t-ball in jail?

Jonah's girlfriend and, uh, Jonah

Tish: On this warm Sunday afternoon, we are joined by Jonah's girlfriend--

Jonah: AND ME! There won't be any discussion taking place WITHOUT ME, GOT IT?!

Tish: Okay then. So, What do I call you? Jonah's girlfriend just doesn't sound respectful.

Jonah's Girlfriend: Try telling that to this lug. (gestures to Jonah)

Jonah: NOT TODAY, WOMAN!

Tish: (Bites lip in frustration)Tell me about dating a prophet. It had to be exciting.

Jonah's Girlfriend: Humph. How exciting can it be when he won't listen to a WORD I SAY? (Turns to Jonah with hands in motion) YOU JUST DON'T LISTEN!

Jonah: WHY WOULD I LISTEN TO THIS? I HEARD BETTER IN THE BELLY OF A WHALE!!

Jonah's Girlfriend: That's what you get, a belly of a whale. There's no reasoning with him, I just tune him out when he gets like this (puts hands over her ears and hums loudly).

Tish: Calm down, Jonah. This interview is of HER, so if you would please let her speak.

Jonah: Humph. (folds arms across chest and pouts)

Tish: I read somewhere, JG, that you don't eat fish or pasta. Why is that?

Jonah's Girlfriend: Have you ever dated a man that has been swallowed by a fish? There is nothing on this earth that will take that stench out of clothes or off of a man.(shakes head) It's enough to make you eat dirt, I tell you.

Jonah: NO ONE SAID YOU HAD TO STAY!

Jonah's Girlfriend: I just might leave then.(Turns away from Jonah)

Tish: Uh, I just remembered I have an appointment with, uh, someone. I'd like to thank you both for--

Jonah: Oh, we aren't good enough for a WHOLE INTERVIEW? Get your bag, woman. WE ARE OUT OF HERE!

Jonah's Girlfriend: And people wonder why God had to punish him. (follows Jonah out of the room).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Could someone remind me to never interview prophets' girlfriends? Next week, I hope to track down Bathsheba. I've always wanted to hear her side of the story, haven't you?

S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y, HEY!

How jealous are the single people are of me right now?

Yea, you've got your freedom, your figures, your 'me' money, your cool cars, your hi-tech gadgets, your expensive hair products, tanning memberships, your spontaneous weekend trips, your nightclubbing, BUT.............

I get to fill up a poorly made eight foot plastic pool in a tilting backyard, mediate an argument on which Justice League Super Hero smells like fish, steam clean my living room carpet AND special tonight, mop the kitchen floor.


someone help me. please. (Whimper)


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Since Sundays have been reserved for my weak imitation Larry King/Oprah Winfrey/Morton Downey, Jr. interviews of women of the Bible, Saturdays will now have their own theme. And without further ado, I give you the Saturday Spill.

It's simple. I'll ask the questions, you 'spill' the answers. Of course, it's all voluntary unless me tracking every hit, website, url, and name is considered voluntary and unobtrusive. Or the fact that your address and photo can and will be posted for all of the AMWAY people to use for recruiting purposes.

Saturday Spill

What three words describe your temper?

When was the last time you lost your temper?

Where were you when you realized you were a grownup?

Who made you laugh the hardest this weekend?

Why did you start blogging?
BONUS QUESTION: How do your friends and family take your blog (if they know)?




This concludes the first Saturday Spill. Feel free to unbuckle your seatbelts and roam around the cabin. If you look to your right, you will see your living room and on your left, your ficus tree that needs dusting.
Oh, wait, that's MY ficus tree.

If youth is wasted on the young, what have the elderly?

You pass them at the pharmacy or the doctor's office. They are the invisible majority in our society. Even though the media celebrates youth as if it were a precious commodity, the baby boomers are the true hidden gems of our time.

Every day I am amazed at the stories these treasures possess, and what boggles my mind is no one is listening. Not to the WWII Vet who survived the front line, not to the mother that raised eleven children on less than what we spend on a night out of the town. No one appreciates the heartaches of lost loves, lessons learned, or mistakes remedied by hard work and determination. It's just another old fogey rambling on about ancient days, blah blah.

Until you hear the story of a woman describing first hand her daughter-in-law's murder, a Veteran detail atrocities of war that make Abu-Grav look like a day in Disneyland, or a married couple of 50 years explain how to stay married longer than a home mortgage.

Someone once told me that parents and grandparents are like professional travelers. Instead of trekking out on our own in this world, why not ask the people that have already been there? They know the pitfalls, the road blocks, and most of the short cuts along the road of life. What better guide than someone who has been there, done that? No video game simulation or interactive computer software can teach that.

During wartime, we should turn to the one generation that not only lived it, but honored this country with their blood, sweat, and lives. Let us not forget where and WHO we come from, or the enemy within and without shall surely reign victorious.

Now I issue this challenge to you: over the next week, spark up a conversation with the slower, older, and collagen challenged sector of your fair city. Within two minutes, you will find someone that isn't a bad driver, or a coupon fanatic, but a person that has such unique experiences you will be better for meeting them. Unless you meet my neighbor, and then I can't be responsible for what may occur.

PS If you aren't reading Hoss by now, you are missing out on pure gold, baby.

Taxes we won't see BUT SHOULD

Texas is considering a 'sin' tax on cigarettes, junk food, and alcohol to fund our bankrupt public education. Our legislature really needs to wake up and realize that there are SO many more opportunities just screaming "TAX ME MORE!" What would these be, you ask?
Well, let's see:

• Playgirl, Playboy, Penthouse, etc. If you really want to see your share of silicone and airbrushing, then pony up an extra dollar.
• Botox Cosmetics. What's another ten dollars? It's not like you can show your dismay, smile, or wrinkle your nose in disgust. Get over it.
• Excessive Bling Bling. If your jewelry weighs more than a Mastiff, pony up a surcharge of five dollars for every kilogram of gold.
• National Enquirer, The Star, etc. Before you read about Angelina and Brad, Michael Jackson's hermaphrodite problem, or Princess Diana working at an Arby's in Missouri, add another fifty cents to your tab. What? You know you gotta know.
• Condoms, Warming KY Gel, contraceptive foam. You have to pay the piper to hear the music, you know?
• All solicitors that come to the door. This includes vacuum salesmen, Jehovah's Witnesses, Mormons, lawn service men, and any person that approaches your home with the intent to sell or convert you. Of course, you will have to have an appropriate receptacle for the required five dollar 'cover charge'.
• Politicians. No need for explanations here.
• Hateful clerks/waitresses/patrons. Of course, this will be a subjective tax and may need some revision.

I know Congress is busy with the persecution of John Bolton, flaying Tom Delay, shining Hilary Clinton's presidential bid, and ignoring the taxpayers (their employers). When the pissing and moaning sessions are over, these ideas could be introduced. Between the mud slinging and gossiping, that is.

THE Mother's Day gift I gave to myself

Welcome to the World, Sugar Sharp!!

Mastiff/Lab Mix

Please Don't Tuesdays

I think Mondays get a bad rap. For the most part,we all return to work, school,and life on Monday. So does everyone else and that means the stakes are even.

It's Tuesday you have to look out for, watch, and yes, even dread.

Tuesday seems innocent enough, the second workday in the week, but look closer. Tuesday is filled with project assignments, job evaluations, and PTA meetings. In her clenched fist, Tuesday holds our hopes for a light work week and slowly crushes them all the while laughing at us, the pitiful mortals.

We can't bargain with her, bribe her, or distract her from her ultimate goal: ruin Wednesday, Thursday, and if she really gets lucky, FRIDAY.

I've resorted to begging, which isn't that humiliating if you consider that no one hears me when I talk to my desk calendar.


Dear Tuesday, please don't...

torture me again with the songs of Jim Nabors in the next patient's home.

send my son to remind me of my stomach pudge by asking if there is a baby in there.

let every patient I have consume beans, cabbage, and a dead rat before I enter their home.

deny me a cold, CORRECTLY CARBONATED Dr. Pepper after treating said patients.

send any more rejections from publishers regarding my novel, A Month Full Of Sundays. I'm up to four now and can't schedule a pity party for another month due to family time conflicts.


force me to take over a t-ball dugout when my son, Casper, has taken his "child from hell" pill against my knowledge.

I hope and pray Tuesday hasn't taken her wrath out on you. The kindness and warmth of Thursday and her older sister Friday can soothe the wounds Tuesday enjoys inflicting on the masses.

Saturday and Sunday? Those lazy hussies. They won't help you with anything except poor lawn care and attempted housecleaning.

A late Sunday Conversation with Delilah

Tish: Today we have caught up with the seductive Delilah between taping her latest informercial...

Delilah:It's all about me, my dancing, and how to, you know, capture your man.

Tish: Wait, didn't you betray your husband?

Delilah: I don't like to focus on what happens AFTER, Tish. (Her eyes narrow in my direction) It's a well known fact that my feminine wiles can encite men to war or...

Tish: Lose their hair and strength?

Delilah: There is that. Can we talk about something else?

Tish: One more question and then you can choose the subject. How did you feel after seeing Samson blinded by the Philistines?

Delilah: It bothered me, alright? Samson was a good man, had great hair, but what's a girl to do? I needed the money. End of story. (crosses legs and plays to the camera) Now, for all the ladies out there that need a little 'umphf' in the bedroom, I have just the ticket. My latest creation "Stripping for Dollars" will teach you not only how to find your man's weakest point, BUT what to do with the information so it benefits YOU.

Tish: I'm not really comfortable with this, Delilah.

Delilah: And I'm not comfortable with this interview, but I did it, didn't I? Now let me just show your viewers the three moves I taught Britney Spears AND Lil' Kim that made them stars.

Tish: Please take your seat, Delilah. This isn't that kind of show.

Delilah:When was your last hair cut? (Reaches into her bustier for switch blade)

Tish: Security! Security! Please escort this guest to the green room.

Delilah: I'll get you! You can't treat me like a common criminal! (resisting the guards taking her out of the studio)

Tish: No, just the Bible's Mata Hari. Join us next week for our stimulating interview with Jonah's girlfriend. She has an aversion to fish, large bodies of water, and pasta. It takes all kinds, doesn't it?

What's in your Box?

Have you ever tried explaining white lies to your children? For those without children, think back to your childhood. Unless you were raised in Hollywood by celebrity parents, it's doubtful the art of white lies was taught to you.

It wasn't the lie that bothered my kids, but the fact that I called it a "white" lie. Casper's eyes searched for the answer to this question:

Is there a blue lie?

That got me thinking and of course, blogging. If a white lie is 'innocent', what would the other colors be? And since we aren't born to lie, we must learn this ability in stages.


In the beginning, children learn the basics. There is no finesse, no beauty to these lies. They are what they are, even as unbelievable as some can be. "The dog ate my homework." "My imaginary friend did it, not me." "I don't know who left the bathtub running." As adorable as this stage is, if not caught in time, children will trade up for the new and improved version.



Teenagers and college students possess these 'boxes'. What once was a bold face lie now has backstory, weight, and on occasion, a life of its own. Plagiarism, missing curfew - hopefully this is as serious as it gets. For the college students, "I'll call you" and "It's not you, it's me" finds its way into their color palette. And with graduation, marriage, children, and life staring them in the face, they arm themselves with the most sophisticated armor of all:


From the white lie of "You don't look like you've gained ANY weight" to the blackest untruth "Of course I'm not screwing around" or "I didn't kill anyone", this container provides more than enough options for adults across all economic and social backgrounds. Every shade and color gradient covers a multitude of sins with another layer of deceit. It isn't until each lie is exposed to the light of truth do they melt away and reveal themselves as nothing but fancy words and colorless promises.

I've told Casper and Drama Diva that all lies are ugly, no matter the color. It's hard to raise honest children in a society that rewards liars, but it's worth it. Even if I have to endure the embaressment of their truth.

Maternally grateful

Once a year, we honor and celebrate the life givers of our world.

Cards are sent, flowers dispatched, and dinners cooked for the one person that held our hearts from the very beginning. Some mothers have the luxury of carrying their children to full-term, others await the arrival of their children via a complete stranger, but they are all mothers just the same.

There are no June Cleaver moments in real life, no moral compass circumstances wrapped neatly into a thirty minute time slot. Ours is a role that no actress in Hollywood portrays correctly without body doubles and dress rehearseals. There are no dress rehearsals for the first words, appearence of teeth, and those precious steps that change life forever. We don't have a stand-in waiting in the wings for a WalMart trip filled with tantrums and sprints down an aisle. There isn't a script from which to read the riot act to a sassy seven year old or a defiant five year old.

What mothers do defies logic but testifies to what is greater than all of us: Love. Love is what wipes the noses at 3 am, spanks the bottoms when dashing out in the street, and cuddles the child's heart broken from a playground confrontation. There is no paid leave, no medical benefits, and certainly no financial gain from being a mother. But the perks, oh, the perks of a slobbery kiss from a toothless baby, the tightly grasping hand while walking in the mall, and the spontaneous outpouring of love from a dripping wet swimmer outweigh any 401K rollover fund.

If my memory serves me, I owe more to my mother than our current National Debt. Her patience, strength, and determination to see me a faithful Christian and a productive member of society have created in me the same desire for my children. How she resisted strangling me and my smart mouth is beyond me BUT her words are coming true: I hope you have a daughter just like you. And I have, as most of you know. Now it is my turn to protect her, push her, and ensure her success in this world like my mother did for me.

Thanks, Mom. I love you.

Going from Sweet to Guard Dog in 3.3 seconds

There are times when you swallow your pride as a parent, and then there are times that the german shepard inside of you lunges at anyone who dares hurt your child. Tonight, my inner guard dog leapt to life.

Normally, I stay out of the coaches' way. Other than assisting in the dugout with the lineup, I don't argue about their tactics. Until tonight.

The first sign to my husband was my jaw. Good thing I don't have dentures or surely the back six teeth would be ground to nothing.

The second sign, clenched fists.

The third and most alarming sign, was my nostrils flaring. He compared me to a bull ready to charge. Of course, I took that to mean I was a fat sow but would deal with that at a later time. I was seeing red, that's true, and my target wore a coach shirt.

When your first born is humiliated in front of the team for asking a question, how do I put this: AW HELL NAH! It's a good thing I don't have manicured nails or they would be swirling around at the moment of confrontation.

I waited until after our victory and the girls had dispersed. Unbeknownst to me (LOVE THAT WORD BTW), my husband, along with four other daddies, watched me from the hill as I approached the coach. With a large base of support, I asked for a moment of her time. She should have said no, as I spoke low and allowed no interruption. Had it not been for Casper, my son, pulling on my leg, I think she would have gotten loud with me. Again, AW HELL NAH.

So tonight's post is about maternal instincts. My cub was being threatened and I saw fit to protect her. On the ride home, Drama Diva told me of two teachers at school she didn't like. Sorry, not playing that game but at least tonight, she knew Momma doesn't put up with disrespect for herself or her children. That ought to bring a heck of a Mother's Day present, don't you think?

So what time do you close?

Hands down, the best college job in the universe. Well, except for the three years surrounded by college athletes and that summer waiting tables in Dallas. From 1990-1992, I held down a full-time job (yes, that means 40 hours a week) while attending college full-time (yes, that means 15 hours of Pre-Physical Therapy courses). Time was limited to work, school, occasional sleep and required Thursday nights at Eskimo Joe's with my best pal, Brendingo.

Why was the job so great? At the time I had NO idea how important this was but FREE MEDICAL INSURANCE. And I'm not talking the crap that is offered to the masses, it was 100% coverage with no deductibles. I know, why would anyone leave that? Five bucks an hour. For a college girl with four roommates, it was more than enough money.

Copy jockeys, that's what we called ourselves, might be nerds to the naked eye wearing the blue apron BUT consider this: we controlled what was copied, how well it was copied, and to some extent, if the thesis was presentable. In short, we ruled the academic world with a fist full of paper. And it was good, until...

The sign on the door says Open 24 hours. The ads in the paper say Open 24 hours.

So when I answer the phone with the rehearsed "Kinko's, Open 24 hours, This is Tish, can I help you?"

DON'T ASK ME WHAT TIME WE CLOSE!! After the fifteenth call while on the graveyard shift, I had had enough. Being the consummate smartass that I was (and still am), I simply told the next batch of sleepless callers that we closed for fifteen minutes every night for cleaning. Think about that - who closes to clean for fifteen minutes? It doesn't take a monkey to figure out I was joking, but....

Imagine my surprise when I finished vacuuming and there were SEVEN PEOPLE waiting outside in the cold for me to finish.

Then there was the time that five Iraqi/Iranian/etc stood at the self service machine emanating a STANK FUNK that only three dead animals in standing water for six weeks could create. What can I do, I ask a complaining customer? For one moment, that sorority girl earned my utmost respect when she grabbed the Lysol can and proceeded to SPRAY THEM DOWN!

I can't make this stuff up, people. If you ever call me and it's one of those days, you may hear the following:
Tish, open 23 hours. Closed for bathing and screaming between the hours of 9 pm and 10 pm.

Desperate Housewives Marriage Counseling Services

Welcome to Wisteria Lane, home of the most dysfunctional marriages primetime television has offered in a long time. Here at the Stay Happy Inc. Tish LLC (AKA SHIT, LLC), we offer four different counseling sessions based on this popular series. Each encounter is tailor made to meet your emotional needs within the loving boundaries of an unhealthy relationship. Our special this month is a combination package: Lying Husbands and OCD. Feel free to bring your video camera as you will want to cherish these moments long after the divorce is final.



Denial isn't just a river...Lynette and Tom lead this lively group. Lynette's suspicions of Tom's infidelity can and will elicit paranoia about your own relationship if your spouse takes up for Tom's latest lie of omission. Many conversations will spring up in your session as you watch Lynette struggle with the whole Stay At Home Mom role all the while Tom is seldom home other than to replenish his wardrobe and grab a quickie. We limit this program to only two couples due to the last group where four women beat four men unconscious with their high heels and a Hot Wheel track.


Having your cake and eating it too For those women that find infidelity a hobby, this is the program for you. We take a different approach to those women that find high school boys and Ferrarris a priority. Instead of condemning them like the rest of the rational world, we find that luring her back into the marriage with say, becoming pregnant against her will, works wonders. For the husbands, it's been our experience that their mothers are often control freaks that have mostly negative impact on the marriage of their sons. Due to the graphic nature and sometimes anorexic participants, this program is only offered in the Spring.


Scrubbing down the whips For many of our clientele, fetishes have torn apart their marriages. Rex and Bree have designed their program to address such issues like how clean can a kitchen be, how many leather restraints are too many, and the ever popular holding a grudge over your spouse's head indefinitely. Their dual sessions combine housekeeping hints with bondage techniques that are sure to help any couple in crisis. Bree will explore with those interested just how deep you can bury anger while Rex teaches the meaning of a safe word. This is one of our most popular classes so registration is limited at this time.



One is the loneliest numberSusan, our only divorcee, has graciously volunteered to lead this group into many walls and a few bushes to happiness. Using her background in choosing loser husbands and mysterious boyfriends, participants can learn the finer arts of discussing their sex life with their teenager, taking dating advice from said teenager, and arson as a second hobby. Only curious, bumbling women are allowed to attend this program.

As you can see, we offer a wide range of services to fit the needs of our potential patients. If you have a question about our programs, tune into your local ABC affiliate Sunday evening at 8 pm CST. Thank you from all of us at SHIT LLC.

Sunday Photo Op

Makes me wish I had put makeup on today.  Oh well, it's just a picture of a dog.  And Sophie's in there, too.

Did you just call me a SUB?

When I was pregnant with Drama Diva, I happened along a fantastic book by Gavin De Becker The Gift of Fear. In it, he defined what a bitch is and it totally blew my mind. I highly recommend this book for every woman at any age.

Being In Total Control of Herself.

His spin on the "B" word is completely different than what I knew it to be. I began thinking of a time in my life when Prince still ruled the airwaves, when big hair and mall bangs were all the style, and life was simple. College, that's what I am talking about, and while in college, one of my best friends and I invented a Bitch Code. You know when you are in the presence of a woman that just screams I AM THE CENTER OF THE UNIVERSE or that one professor that can't grasp the fact that Poiltical Science isn't your end all, be all obsession? Yep, that type of bitch. Today I reveal this code to all of you. Think if it as a springtime gift or a great conversation starter at the office.

The SUB: Super Ultra Bitch. This is your above average woman that sucks the life out of normal, everyday activities. Nazi-like landladies, nosy neighbors, and stick thin preteens that have no business pushing a cart at Walmart into your shins and then giggling about it.


The P-SUB:Premo Super Ultra Bitch. Ranting former girlfriends of your current man, rude supermarket cashiers that question your check cashing worthiness, and the roommate that refuses to pick up her dirty laundry.


The TEP-SUB: Totally Elite Premo Super Ultra Bitch. This is the pinnacle, ladies and gentlemen. Its the Holy Grail of the bitch world. Only the most obnoxious, inconsiderate, and egocentric women fall into this category. Think Leona Helmsley or Marge Schott. Very few women can enter this member's only club without alienating their entire family.

Of course, you can improvise and go with P-SUB, or lighten the mood with just using UB, but by having these gradients of bitchiness, it streamlines the identification process.**


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Today, I attempted to interview Rebekah of the Jacob and Esau fame BUT she wasn't available. Something about shopping for Jacob's kitchen and then painting his house while Esau went to electrolysis, I don't know. She was very nice on the phone. I think next week I will try to reach Delilah or maybe Jezabel. I heard they were the original dirty dancers that spawned what is seen on MTV now.


**Don't think the men are getting off lightly, either. I am confident the Jackass breeds will be posted on this blog soon enough.

Southern Charm

For many people, southerners are thought of as slow witted, grammatically challenged inbreds whose sole purpose is to amuse the more intelligent beings of the world. That misconception has been validated by redneck jokes and Arkansas rumors but couldn’t be further from the truth. Truth be told being southern isn’t a burden but rather a blessing.


Where else can a person appreciate lightening bugs?
Where else can a person learn the art of rocking on a porch in a wooden chair while being serenaded by crickets at sunset?
Where else can a woman be swooned by the mere act of a man opening the door for her AND pulling out her chair?
Chivalry may be dead in the north, as may be appreciation for simpler things of life, but in the South, these are just a few of the perks of a good Southern upbringing.

‘Yes ma’am’ and ‘No sir’ aren’t adorable affectations used in a condescending manner. Respect in the South. It’s a given. But so is laughter. We love to laugh whether it is at politicians or ourselves, we can find humor in the most tragic events. And not just slight chuckling under our breath, either, but loud, feel it in your spine, cross your legs so you don’t urinate on yourself kind of laughter.
If I had to identify the main difference in the Southern and Northern way of life, I would say it all boils down to our choice of drinks. Southerners cherish sweet tea and porches. How many Northerners sit on their front or back porches with sweet tea in one hand and a fly swatter in the other? Not many if any.

There is so much we can learn from each other, North and South. Our ability to disregard time as absolute could be tempered by the fast paced rush that Northerners have embraced as normalcy. We could show our northern neighbors that our choice of big hair, outrageous clothing, and flashy accessories can be a good thing off stage and in public.
May we all find common ground that unites our differences and binds our hearts together with honeysuckle blossoms and crepe myrtle.

Horny? Grab a Snickers.

Snickers bars, they seem so innocent, don't they? All those roasted peanuts drowning in caramel and then drenched in milk chocolate - what could be wrong with that?

Let me take you on a journey to 1984, when Tish was a skinny, longlegged virgin. Every summer, between swimming at the local pool and sleeping late, there was Church Camp. And like every Church Camp, there is that one devotional set aside for just the girls.

One of the youth ministers passed around a brand new case of Snickers, instructing us to take one bar and do something to it. Some twisted it, others pinched it, and a couple of girls tore off most of wrapper. Before he started his talk, he placed that bar back in the box and then offered each of us a Snickers bar for a snack. What fourteen year old girl refuses chocolate? At the end of his "heavy petting is one step from Hell" sermon, he held up the almost empty Snickers case.

"Look at it this way, girls. You can either save yourselves for your husband, or be like this Snickers bar here." He pointed at the mutilated candy bar. "Sure, each of you did something to it, but when it came time to choose one for yourself, you didn't choose this one, did you? No one wants a used Snicker bar or a woman that's been around."

OH...MY..GOD.

For the next ten years, I couldn't eat or even touch a Snickers bar. Just the thought of the gooey caramel in my mouth cramped my stomach. When a boyfriend ate one in front of me, you can bet the only thing he got from me was the cold shoulder.

At some point, I will have the talk with the Drama Diva and Casper about sex. I won't be one of those mothers that takes her daughter to the doctor for her birth control pill appointment, but I also won't leave it up to someone with a bag of Skittles or Milk Duds to guilt my children into abstinence.

After ten years of marriage and two children, I enjoy a Snickers bar with little to no shame. I don't wonder about the Milky Ways, or the Baby Ruths like other wives do. The allure of a mysterious Mounds or Payday doesn't cross my mind. Maybe that's the tradeoff, not wondering what another 'candy bar' would be like.

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Mimi tagged me to do this, so here goes. Out of the following occupations, I will choose five and finish their sentences:


If I could be a scientist... If I could be a farmer...
If I could be a musician... If I could be a doctor...
If I could be a painter... If I could be a gardener...
If I could be a missionary... If I could be a chef...
If I could be an architect... If I could be a linguist...
If I could be a psychologist... If I could be a librarian...
If I could be an athlete... If I could be a lawyer...
If I could be an innkeeper... If I could be a professor...
If I could be a writer... If I could be a backup dancer...
If I could be a llama-rider... If I could be a bonnie pirate...
If I could be a midget stripper... If I could be a proctologist...
If I could be a TV-Chat Show host... If I could be an actor...
If I could be a judge... If I could be a Jedi...
If I could be a mob boss... If I could be a backup singer...
If I could be a CEO... If I could be a movie reviewer....


If I could be a TV-Chat Show host, I would give Oprah and David Letterman a run for their money by combining comedy and current issues for an hour every day.

If I could be a musician, I would play the piano and sing like Diana Krall, but not marry Elvis Costello, sorry man.

If I could be a backup dancer, I would be on first name basis with Tina Turner. Enough said.

If I could be a lawyer, I'd represent children and women abused by their families.

If I could be a mob boss, I'd have every child molester taken out in the most painful way.

NOW, Genuine, Brandon, Crystal, Joe, and Peachy must do the same.

Your Honor, I was just minding my business and they jumped into my mouth!

The Plaintiff: Tish
The Defendant: Hershey Corporation

The Case: A thirty five year old woman is suing the Hershey Corporation for the creation and distribution of White Chocolate Peanut Butter cups.

The Claim: Being brainwashed by the overwhelming marketing campaign of said peanut butter cups, Plaintiff consumed at least two packages within a twenty four hour period. This caused an enlargement of her hips, buttocks, and abdomen with adipose tissue. Tight clothing and swimsuit shock ensued and Plaintiff is suffering extreme emotional distress.

Damages sought: 100,000 US dollars for pain and suffering.

Settlement: Two cases of White Chocolate Peanut Butter Cups.

Who says the justice system doesn't work?

The Seven Dwarfs of PMS

For twenty one to twenty eight days, they hide in the dark recesses of our mind/uteri. Men, co-workers, and children unaware of these ticking timebombs are usually the first innocent victims once these hounds from Hell are unleashed.

Bloaty rears his ugly head on the first day. Jeans that once fit nicely now have zippers refusing to close. Elastic waistbands are tested to their maximum stretch, leaving reddened stripes on the protruding waists and bellies. For centuries, women have battled this particular dwarf with little or no relief until the invention of Midol. And fat pants.



Crampy parks himself deep within a woman's body. His only joy, to elicit groans of pain and discomfort at the most awkward times. For instance, when meeting a new co-worker or potential romantic interests, Crampy likes to double his helpless victim over with excruciating cramps that rival childbirth or food poisoning. Thankfully, Alleve foils Crampy's plan as does three large margaritas with double tequila.

Pooty eeks his way into the atomsphere with a rank, almost funk stank blast. Only during the dwarfs' performance of 5 days can a woman emit such a foul odor and, more embaressing, is the timing of such aromatic interludes. Beano has no effect on Pooty, sorry to say.


Moody, or also known as Psycho, takes every opportunity to inject such comments as "You're lucky I don't have a weapon right now!" or "Don't you love me? SHUT UP!" The erratic behavior of Moody can be seen during any interaction between spouses, mothers and their children in a public place, and at any workplace meeting where comments are requested. There is no stopping Moody other than time...and distance.


Bitchy may look all sweet, but don't turn your back on him. Unlike Moody, Bitchy has no good side. You don't have to read between the lines with Bitchy as he is looking to pick a fight over anything: an unironed shirt, a question asked with the wrong tone, even the purchase of the wrong coffee creamer can ignite Bitchy's wrath. Until there is sublingual Prozac or liquid Zoloft, Bitchy will go uncontrolled until his time ends.

Weepy is always watching life with tears in his eyes. From the commericals that exploit familial bonds to the informercials touting incredible weight loss, Weepy will find a way to sob at any and every moment possible. In extreme cases, Weepy searches the memory files of a woman's mind for the smallest link to a waiter's voice/face so as to remind her and allow him to bawl about a ten year old break-up. The solution to Weepy? A box of Kleenex and dark sunglasses.

NO PIC AVAILABLE for Lazy. He was too tired to shower, dress, and pose for the picture. Lazy whispers the word 'nap' over and over again until the hostage woman is lulled into a trance. Lazy wallows on the couch when there is housework to be done. Lazy would rather drink one day old water from a cup on the nightstand than get up and crack the ice tray. Lazy would battle for supremacy over Bitchy and Moody, but he'd rather curl up on the couch and wait it out.

This information is copyrighted through the Tish PMS Foundation. Any unauthorized reproductions and/or copying will result in all seven dwarfs visiting the violator for five consecutive days.

Appliances of a Woman's life

Ages 0-4: Nothing unless you count the safety plug covers that every child automatically gravitates towards with infinite curiosity.

Ages 5-10:




What little girl doesn't dream of and eventually own the E-Z bake oven? Mine was slightly used, a sticker torn so it read "Z Bak ove". The light bulb unevenly baked the cookies and mini-cakes. Somehow it survived me but bit the dust as my sister introduced the Oven to raw meat and eggs mixed with dollops of butter.

Ages 11-18:




Let the primping begin! How many hours are logged in drying, straightening, crimping, and curling our hair? Learning to style your hair with an electrical appliance falls right below finding the perfect eyebrow arch and/or correct application of foundation. The magnifying cosmetic mirrors also fall into this category.

Ages 19-23:




Freedom at last is never more apparent than the contents of a dorm fridge. Soda pops for the Mormons, ready to eat sausage links for the vegetarian-raised kids, and a six pack of Coors light for the preacher's kid. While the lifespan for this appliance varies for each woman per their major, it represents the transition from dependency to adulthood with three small shelves and an ice tray.

Ages 24-35:




The breast pump. No other appliance in a woman's life holds such importance. It relieves pain, nourishes an infant, and provides an excuse for a larger cubicle at work. The portable units make driving interesting to say the least and are the entertainment for many truck drivers across the nation. Just the sound - SHOOM, SHOOM - can harden the nipples of women of all ages and send men cringing into the other room.

Ages 35-45:




Domestic duties take center stage with children running underfoot and spouses using too many towels. The thought of a brand new dryer, while boring to younger women, sends chills of happiness down a woman's spine. Larger loads, quicker dry times, AND A WRINKLE FREE OPTION...oh, nothing can compare unless you are lucky enough to purchase the matching washer that claims to use less water but eradicates all stains without pre-treatment.

Ages 46-90: To be discovered in ten years. If you have any suggestions, please let me know.

Noah's Wife Tells All

Today, we are chatting with the oh so lovely Noah's Wife.

Tish:I noticed that your name isn't mentioned in the Bible. Can you tell us why?

Noah's Wife:Well, dear, we were a little busy with all of those animals to worry about something so insignificant like that. You women today are more concerned about that sort of recognition.

Tish: Okay..Could you tell us about your time on the Ark?

Noah's Wife: What is there to tell? My sons, wonderful boys, they had their wives on the Ark. Can I share something with your readers?

Tish: Please.

Noah's Wife: Well, it's one thing to SAY you'll help your in-laws with cleaning the cages, but DOING it is what counts. I'm not saying they were lazy but in my generation, we did what had to be done. If that meant scooping out the llama's area three times a day, we would do it. These young people today think that poop just cleans itself and it doesn't.

Tish: I take it you didn't get along with your sons' wives.

Noah's Wife: Ham's wife didn't care for cooking, which if she would have spent any time with me LISTENING, she could have learned how to do more than stand and look pretty. Shem's wife, what can I say? I told her don't play with the animals, and what does she do? No one in their right mind tries to pet a snake!

Tish: And Japheth's wife?

Noah's Wife: (turns her head and crosses her legs) I'd rather not discuss that woman. (leans forward and points) But if I had to say something which I don't usually talk about people, I would say that girl has issues with authority.

Tish: Let's move on. I am sure you have heard of PETA, the People for Ethical Treatment of Animals. Do you have an opinion on them?

Noah's Wife: (Giggles)Oh, you silly people. What are you thinking? I've spent more time with every animal on this earth and I can tell you one thing: the only treatment that they deserve is a good marinade.

Tish: How is your relationship with Noah?

Noah's Wife: That man could drive a wooden man crazy, but I love him. He likes to drink more than I care for, but what can I do? He's a man. You can't live with them, you can't push them overboard.

Tish: I appreciate your time today, Mrs. Noah.

Noah's Wife: Dear, can I tell you something?

Tish: Uh, sure.

Noah's Wife: You really should spend less time with this writing thing and more time in the kitchen cooking--

Tish: Thanks for that.

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Join us next week as we spend an interesting afternoon with Rebekah, Jacob and Esau's mother.

The "Bolton" PTA Hearings for Tish..

This meeting has now come to order. We are hear for the confirmation of Tish as a PTA member, delegate to the third grade class. Do any of the members have any questions for Tish?


VP Boxer: I do, if it pleases the committee. First, we have sources that link you to an incident of gay bashing in 1976. How do you respond to these charges?
Tish: Are you talking about third grade?!
VP Boxer: Don't answer a question with a question, young lady. Did you or did you not have an incident in 1976 where you called two boys homosexuals for holding hands?
Tish: Yes, but--
VP Boxer: But nothing. Now, my sources also tell me you have taught your children not to like smoking. Does that mean that smokers are bad people to you, Miss Tish? Aren't you demonizing innocent smokers to your young children?
Tish: I am just trying to keep them from smoking. What does this have to do with joining the PTA?
VP Boxer: That is not for you to know, Miss Opinionated. Chairman Hagel, I think you should take over. The applicant is being less than forthcoming with me. (sigh)

Chairman Hagel:Young lady, do you feel that your conduct in college represents your character?
Tish: I guess it depends. We all do and say things in college that we might regret later.
Hagel: Do you regret your attitude towards cheerleaders, sorority girls, and fraternity boys? Do you regret the many nights of partying and carelessness perpetrated on your fellow classmates?
Tish: I wouldn't use the word perpetrate since they were active participants.
Hagel: You are arrogant and unruly. From what we are being told, you bully your patients into submission. Your children seem to have their father's good sense not to speak their mind at the drop of a hat, which will serve them well in the future.
Tish: Wait a minute--
Hagel: I will not wait a moment longer. My decision is made but I shall let our Senior school board member, George Voinovich close today's proceedings with a vote.

Voinovich: I hold these PTA members in high esteem and appreciate their time and energy assembling next year's committee. What I have heard today about Tish is not only disturbing but makes me wonder just what kind of mother do we want on our PTA. Reports of disciplining her children IN PUBLIC and other shameful parenting techniques bring into question her ethics and more importantly, her integrity. She just doesn't pass my "kitchen" test. If she can't stay pregnant and in the kitchen with her mouth shut, she doesn't belong on my PTA. This meeting is adjourned.

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Written in light of the current John Bolton confirmation hearings. Whether you are a Democrat or Republican, Libertarian or Green Party, the direction of these proceedings has taken a ridiculous turn, wouldn't you agree? Dredging up someone's prom date, or a co-worker from ten years ago - come on! Who doesn't have those types of skeletons in their closet? Mother Teresa, maybe, but I am sure someone would bash her for the whole 'poverty' thing.

I'll take two at that price!!

I don’t pretend to be a fashionista.

During the week, I can be found in multicolored scrubs from 8-3. In the afternoon and weekends, it’s usually blue jeans and a comfy t-shirt. If I want to scorch the retinas of other mall shoppers, then I break out a pair of shorts. Rarely do I dress up and even then it is something worth alerting the media if I am seen publicly in a dress. Questions surface about what funeral I am attending or if I am appearing in court for some unknown reason (still hasn’t happened YET).

For my summer wardrobe, I’ll probably invest a whopping $100-150 smackaroonies for some new shorts, a couple shirts, maybe a skirt or two, and if I feel sassy, some sandals. Close toed sandals, of course. Who wants to see ugly feet in daylight?
BUT today, I learned that my wardrobe is beyond cheap.
While waiting on a patient to finish her ‘personal’ business, I watched the fantastically annoying Liz Hurley unveil her new beachwear. Rail thin models with outie belly buttons paraded around in Liz’s vision of what bikinis should be: strings with semi-precious gemstones dangling at the hips.
When asked about her new designs, she shared some priceless insights:


“My bikinis can be purchased separately for those that don’t want to show their bottoms.”
GEE THANKS FOR THAT, LIZ.

“You can go straight from the beach to the clubs with this combination.”
DO THEY HAVE A PLAYGROUND FOR THE KIDS?

“My beaded shirt is just fabulous. It runs around $400 but all the work by hand. Quite affordable, don’t you think?”
$400! FOR A BEADED SHIRT? ARE YOU HIGH, LIZ?


Call me crazy, but fashion designers have no clue to reality. Who really wears something that costs as much as a car payment? Or rent? And who thinks that red and hot pink really matches? I may be a total nerd, but even I know that stripes and plaids are a tacky combination. I’d like to see Oprah or the Today Show feature NORMAL clothing at NORMAL prices. Not $400 throwaway shirts or swimsuits, not $300 capri pants or tank tops, NORMAL prices. Think Target to Dillards on sale. That’s what most of the American public can and will pay. We all aren’t Paris Hilton, you know?
What can I say? I still like high water pants.
By the way, the tank top she is wearing: $90.

My Personal Invite to YOU AND something completely insane

Southern Blogs Ring, the premier source on Southern culture, manner, missive and nostalgia will be holding a group blog to celebrate being alive, southern and free all at the same time.

You’ll are cordially invited Saturday April 30th to attend our first neighborhood cotillion and brunch.

The menu will be a light repast of Southern classics and down home cooked tales served up with Southern style and taste by your hosts:

http://wackysouthernhousewife.blogspot.com/
http://tishasharpthewriter.blogspot.com/
http://pgarden.blogspot.com/
http://thegardensgift.blogspot.com/
http://whichblairproject.blogspot.com/
http://floridagardening.blogspot.com/
http://asouthernbelle.blogspot.com/
http://thatsrightisaidit.blogspot.com/
http://southernporch.blogspot.com/
http://thegreencuttingboard.blogspot.com/
http://animalbroadcastnetwork.blogspot.com/

Guests will be offered words, photographs, entertainment and some surprises, to be sure. So plan to attend and spend some time with us in the South.
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THIS IS MY EYE CANDY EVERY MONDAY, WEDNESDAY, AND FRIDAY AS I DRIVE TO A PATIENT'S HOME. ENJOY. IF ENOUGH OF YOU LIKE IT, I WILL KEEP YOU UPDATED WEEKLY.

Not an actual conversation with OnStar

Operator: This would be OnStar if you weren't so cheap. How can we help you?

Tish: There's a man in my driveway trying to sell me homemade panties.

Operator: Huh?

Tish: I was minding my own business as usual, and pulled into my driveway. A thin black man approached me and asked if I needed my lawn mowed.

Operator: I thought you said he was selling homemade panties?

Tish: I'm getting to that. After I pointed out my husband just mowed the lawn and that he was standing next to the bags of cut grass, he asked if I wore panties.

Operator: He asked if you WORE panties?

Tish: Well, he asked if I liked frilly panties, which I felt was none of his business.

Operator: I'd say it wasn't. So, ma'am, how is this an emergency?

Tish: Well, after I told him I wasn't in the market for any homemade panties, thank you, he told me he would send down his wife from the apartment complex two blocks over. Apparently, she makes the panties in their kitchen and their light bill is fixing to be cut off and she also makes lingerie if I am interested.

Operator: I still don't see the emergency.

Tish: Well, from where I am sitting I can see a four hundred pound woman carrying two fistfuls of what looks like panties, bras, and maybe a teddy. Oh, no! She just nodded at me and is heading my way - HELP!!!


THIS HAS BEEN A TEST OF THE EMERGENCY ANTI-SOLICITOR TEST. IF THIS HAD BEEN AN ACTUAL EMERGENCY, YOU WOULD HAVE HEARD THE SCREECHING OF TIRES AS TISH SPED AWAY FROM HER OWN HOME. THIS IS ONLY A TEST.

To All Who Aspire to be a Team Mom,

Team Mom is an awesome responsibility not to be taken lightly. For every one Team Mom that is successful, there are three cowering, chocolate gorging women raving about uniforms, water bottles, and horrible officiating.

For your safety and sanity, we here at the Tish Team Mom Foundation have outlined some suggestions that should assist in your transition from Player Mom to Team Mom. Please note these are not hard and fast rules, but rather guidelines that can be adapted to your particular situation and sport.

1) Team Moms must wear the Team Mom shirt. Players' mothers may choose to attend the t-ball/softball/soccer/basketball games in high heels and hot pants, but you have an image to protect. Do not worry about their spotless capri pants and perfectly pressed blouses, for you are wearing the heart and accompanying dirt of your girls' dreams. And those mothers that opt to wear Daisy Duke shorts are not only shameful, but will pay for their lack of sunscreen the next day so do not despair.

2) Team Moms must protect the dugout/bench.Ladies, this is your domain. In the animal kingdom, urinating around one's territory is considered acceptable but is frowned upon by the Tish Team Mom Foundation. If an intruder attempts to invade your team's area, take the one-two approach: one hand on the hip, two fingers pointing at them. Use your friendly but stern voice as you aske them to leave. If this doesn't work, break down into a three point stance: both hands on your hips, chin jutted forward. Almost every child and parent will back away without incident when faced with an angry Team Mom. In the back of the Team Mom handbook, you will find a troubleshooting guide to assist with the more difficult parents/children so we will not cover that area here.

3) Team Moms should invest in a mild tranquilizer. You will find that after a long day of tournament play, rest and relaxation is a must between games. For those bothersome parents, feel free to slip one or two doses into their Gatorade, but only in the most extreme cases.

4) Team Moms should not distract the other coaches with cheering. Since your voices will carry further than the three benchwarmers, screaming "GET HER OUT, OUT, OUT!" isn't sportsmanlike conduct (but does work well).

5) Team Moms cannot teach umpires how to count.

6) Team Moms should not offer discipline techniques to the team mothers. Smart mouth children, inattentive children, and stubborn children may benefit from your wisdom, but remember, they are only yours in the dugout. You cannot cure the seven year old thumbsucker, the eight year old booger eater, or the potty mouth nine year old. Breathe, smile, and remember, all games must come to an end.

7) Team Moms should only offer rides to and from practice for other children IF she is a taxi driver. The word NO must become a part of your standard reply, not only to your children at home, but to the parents that will foist their demon offspring into your vehicle for endless transportation purposes.

8) Team Moms can and will override the coaches when practice runs over the alloted time. You are the only thing that protects the children from seven day a week practices, late night practices, and meaningless parent meetings. Use your power wisely.

We hope that your experience as Team Mom is as memorable for you as it has been for us. At the end of the season, you will be able to display this token with pride:

So, Eve, can we talk?

Being the first woman, I thought you'd be the perfect person to explain life and what to do after that first mistake to my readers.

How was Eden, really?
It was great. Of course, Adam wouldn't clean up after the animals so I had to but other than that, it was like heaven on earth.

And Adam. What was he like?
Well, Adam had some great qualities and then....well, what do you do when your husband has to name EVERYTHING in the world? And I do mean everything. I know, he was the first one God put down on earth, but come on, where did he get 'hippopotamus'? And would he mark a tree after he used it? Uh, NO! I can't tell you how many times I stepped in his, well, you know, because he didn't have the common courtesy to cover it or even warn me. (sigh) But I did love him, the big lug. We would take long walks over the entire garden and every night he told me I was the prettiest woman in the world. Not too bright, but at least he tried.

At least he didn't break the one commandment.
Yea, well, I guess I won't live that down. What can I say? There I was, out on my morning jog, and I heard a voice. It's not like I killed someone or anything.

Your actions damned mankind to hell, Eve.
Okay, there's that BUT look at what else happened. Moses and Noah had their time in the sun. When Jesus came and died for everyone's sins, didn't that count for something?

Well, I guess so but you're still missing the point. Jesus wouldn't have had to come if you would have just left the apple alone. Do you see that?
Oh, fine! And I guess you blame me for the whole menstruation thing, too! And I suppose I'm responsible for that Paris Hilton, Michael Jackson, and Pamela Anderson? I'm so done with this interview!

Sadly, I could not finish my chat with lovely Eve. I had hoped to ask her opinions on women's lib, breast implants, and the Desperate Housewives phenomenon.

Join me next Sunday when I sit down with Noah's wife and her thoughts on PETA, daughter-in-laws, and that whole flood thing.

Parents Need to Take a Stand NOW

As much as I would like to write something to tickle you, I can't.

After the 14 hour softball tournament, I came home to hear of the latest child found dead allegedly at the hands of a repeat sex offender.

REPEAT SEX OFFENDER? Am I the only one that sees what is wrong with that description?

Please explain to me why a person that intentionally seeks the most innocent, the most fragile out to fulfill their sickest, most evil fantasies have any rights in our country.

Please explain to me how a person is considered rehabilitated when his crime was raping a child.

Please explain to me why sex offenders aren't tattooed for all to see and avoid.

Please explain to me how the sympathy for the victim is minimized to excuse the offenders' behavior.

As a parent, I have had enough. Forget their civil liberties, they forfeited them at the first touch of an innocent child. Forget their 'good behavior', for it is a guise to gain access to our CHILDREN. Forget their horrible childhoods, for that excuse holds no water with a grieving parent.

It is time to write our congressmen, our President, and the media. Reform the law, refuse release, and retain all offenders so we never have to read another horror story that begins with "Another child has been molested and killed by a recently paroled repeat sex offender........"

And if you are curious how I would take care of them, here it is:

Give them a week's worth of food, a heavy coat, and one pair of shoes. Fly them to the Arctic Circle, drop them off. Not only do we cut down on our tax burden housing these sub-humans, but we provide an additional source of food for the wildlife. That should quell the liberal PETA people.

BUT DO SOMETHING, AMERICA. For the children, please.

Stink, Stank, or Funk Stank???

Maybe you aren't aware of the new federal regulations regarding foul odors. I think the legislation was sandwiched between a new tax on liposuction and cosmetic surgery, but I feel it is my civic duty to enlighten everyone to the new offensive aroma guidelines.

The Stink level: Normal flatulence, smelly socks, and one day old tuna fish salad are good examples of this category. There is no damage to the limbic system at this level. Children's growth will not be stunted nor will any adult's fertility be in danger while exposed to this level of STINK. Normal cleaning and/or airing out of the confined space is suffient to de-stink the area.

The Stank level: This goes beyond the Stink level in that actual nausea can occur from three day old guacamole, dirty diapers filled with any meat and vegetable combination, and the infamous 'fart' from exposure to dairy and Chinese food at one sitting. For complete detamination, the FDA and EPA recommend dousing an adult with Febreeze or any Bath and body works Spray. Children will require a spongebath and application of Baby Lotion to rid the skin of remnant STANK. Studies are conflicting but it appears STANK can affect a man's ability to procreate.

The Funk Stank level: This is the most dangerous of all levels. Paint will peel from the walls. Children's height is stunted with any exposure over thirty seconds. Ovaries have shrunk at one minute and ovulation is completely halted. FUNK STANK is to be avoided at all costs for any human being or beloved pets. Dogs at two minutes of exposure have been known to lose all hair and three tails have spontaneously fallen off.
Avoid the following - any person not wearing underwear for three or more days, a house filled with cats and only one litter box, the underarms of a sweaty Sumo wrestler, worn girdles of any woman over the age of forty, the bathroom after an adult male has eaten pork rinds and Coors light, and anyone that has recently eaten at the Cracker Barrel.

We here at the Anti-Stank foundation hope that this information will assist you in making responsible decisions when it comes to exposing yourself or loved ones to potential life threatening aromas.

Elvis is alive and well -

and living in my children's room.

It never dawned on me that a grown man could hide among toys and Barbies. Apparently the children have known about him for some time and have sneaking him string cheese, slide yogurts, and an occasional cracker because I found the stash today as we prepared for the grandparents' visit.

As I rummaged in a large pile of sleeping bags, clothes, and Teen Titans, a murmur startled me. It's an unwritten rule that every fourth toy given to a child at a birthday party must make noise, so I didn't pay attention to the low rumbling.

The King stretched his large legs out and spilled Drama Diva's iced tea (all Southern girls drink sweet tea, for my Northern readers).

"Elvie, look what you did!" She popped his ratty mop of hair. "You have to clean it up."

"One for the money.."

"Two for the show!" Casper joined in. Suddenly, my son and the King were singing a solo in the pig sty of a room.

I have to say that even with the extra 75 pounds, the man can still swivel those hips like a barstool.

And who would have thought that Elvis Aaron Presley could fold fitted sheets with such accuracy? Or vacuum? He serenaded me with a his personal renditions of the Lizzie McGuire soundtrack. When I stood to clap, I tripped on a Spiderman motorcycle and hit my head.

When I came to, only my children were cleaning the twin dungeons. No sign of Elvis. Could it all be a dream? Was it just a hallucination sprung from the impending nervous breakdown at the sight of the rooms?

As I headed downstairs threatening my last ultimatum, I spotted a half eaten Twinkie on the bar. And a white headband. Viva Los Elvis!

Reading between the lines

Oh, you are writing a book? How wonderful.
Who does she think she is, John Grisham? Writing a book, please! I guess she thinks I'll run right out and buy it. Yeah, right. Let me know when Oprah gives you a call - LOSER!

Your children are so spirited.
What a couple of complete brats!! Give them to me for a week and we'll see how they act then.

I had such a hard time losing the last ten pounds after my baby was born so I know how you feel.WOW! I thought I was a cow but after looking at your pudgy stomach and wider rear, I could be on a runway today.

No, really, your hair looks fine. Can we go?
Nobody in their right mind would have their hair cut that way unless they were auditioning for the next Star Trek movie. Maybe I can stand on the other side of the room and no one will know we are together.

Momma, I have something to tell you and please don't be mad.
I've colored/superglued/stained/etc. something of yours that is either a priceless heirloom, valuable keepsake, or a piece of furniture that you just got out of layaway.

Don't worry, honey. I wasn't in the mood anyway.
What? Are you kidding me? I put this dental floss getup on for you and I get nothing? This will be filed in the 'remember for later use' file, buddy!

Tish Takes a Lover.......

Isn't he just scrumptious? I was a little shy at first, which is not like me. He convinced me to use him at will, which is so not like any man I know. We did it on the kitchen tile first. Then the bathroom lineoleum. I thought he would be tired, but this man just gets better and better. On a whim, I threw him behind the sink and what did he do? He cleaned the backsplash like it's never been clean. I know it may comes as a shock to you, but people, I am proud to say that I am Mr. Clean's Ho.

Then he whispered in my ear, "We need another."

Who would have thought Tish would be into a threesome? Certainly not me, but his friend had me begging for more..........


She has a scent that just screams I'VE BEEN CLEANED, doesn't she? When I was a child, I remember her visits to our home but never did I think in a million years I would succumb to her aroma, to her streak free shine, to the essence called Windex. Now that she comes in many colors and new scents, I am free to pick and choose. This is such a great win-win relationship.



And then I went to a place that has never been explored. A device that I can manipulate for my pleasure. I can pull, push, and cram it into the smallest of crevices. It will suck with such force that marbles roll under the table out of fear. My husband enjoys watching me with my toy and has even 'supped' it up so that the suction exceeds the normal manufacturers' guidelines. Each stripe left on the carpet, each corner dust free is a testimony to my new passion. And it only takes one flick of the wrist, mind you.



Now that the house has been cleaned, I am taking on the next insurmountable challenge:



GROCERY SHOPPING WITH THE CHILDREN

Prayers, donations, and any other form of support are appreciated.

Droppings from My Cage

When applying sunscreen, do not assume that the mere act of passing your hand over your right arm will protect it. APPLY GENEROUSLY isn't a suggestion, people, it's the law.

When attending a t-ball game sans spouse, wear your wedding ring. It will shield you from freakish bachelor uncles and their lame come-on lines. If caught, try this excuse: "Oh, I can't take pictures from this angle," and move your folding chair to the opposite side of the fence. I doubt he bought it, but I'm not selling anything else, bub.

When you feel the need to go shopping at WalMart with two children, DON'T.

Resist the temptation to give any advice of any kind to anyone while at softball practice. This, of course, applies only to me.

When your daughter invites two teammates over to play, do not frantically explain why your son says "I want to invite my black friend, too". They will not care that his playdate had been scheduled three days prior or that you are suffering from the "don't say black" itis.

Macaroni and cheese doesn't taste the same made with water.

Don't rent Electra if you have body issues. Or any body fat to speak of, for that matter.

Don't pluck your eyebrows while angry.

That's it, folks. For the next five hours, I shall relax in the recliner..........after I cook dinner, finish the five loads of laundry blocking the doorway to the laundry room, vacuum the latest Rice Krispie fiasco, and go a-lurking in the blog world. Good night.

Try explaining this in the nursing home

Just when nothing can shock me, I see this:

My first question was what will she do when she gets pregnant? Use those stretchy shoelaces? Can you imagine what that labor and delivery will be like? Good Lord. Then other scenerios began swirling in my mind.

Airport Security checks

Aerobics classes

The Beach

Doctor visits

Show and tell for a niece or nephew

Explaining why you need various ribbons to the fabric store clerk

Tattoos can be covered. Certain piercings are removable but this particular method screams insanity, doesn't it? It goes way beyond dyeing your hair fuschia for attention.

PLEASE tell me this won't be passe in twenty years. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around teenagers and the whole oral sex is not sex train of thought.
What's next?

I'm afraid to even hazard a guess.

I’ve been smoke free going on 36 years now…

Ever wanted to feel included in conversations that you jump in without thinking? That could describe my entire life, but I share this as a warning to those that lead with words and no thought.

I just wanted to fit in. I didn’t want any trouble.

“It’s been two weeks since I’ve had a cigarette.” A gum chewing mom commented during softball practice.

“I’m at three months, honey.” Another mother shared.

“This patch must be working,” a father testified as he rolled up his shirt for all to see the Nicoderm appliqué.

Most normal people would smile and congratulate them on their accomplishment. The key word here is normal.

“Yea, I quit drinking three days ago.” I boasted.

The hum of normal conversations halted as all eyes studied me.

“I was up to six a day but knew I had to stop when I almost ran off the road trying to pour one up.” Only I laughed at my admission.

“You drink and drive?” The gum chewer growled.

PSST, the dumbass Fairy whispered in my ear, PSST – you are making an ass of yourself.

“You need to go to a meeting, Tish.” One parent kindly offered.

“I just need to stop bringing it home. If it’s not there, I won’t drink it and neither will the kids. They finished off my last six pack, the little twerps!” Again, I was the only one laughing.

“WHAT KIND OF MOTHER ARE YOU?” The gum chewer bellowed, pointing at me. The entire softball team turned around to watch.

That’s when the ton of bricks fell onto my thick skull, so to speak.

“Dr. Pepper, people, I’m addicted to Dr. Pepper.” My stomach churned at being the only Team Mom in Texas impeached over being a soda pop fiend.

Suddenly, the warmth and care alcoholic Tish earned cooled to an Artic freeze for Caffeine addicted Tish.

The Dumbass Fairy should have whispered earlier, wouldn’t you agree? She either has piss poor timing OR she enjoys watching me make a fool of myself.

Laundry Lamentations

Woe is me, for I tackle the fifteenth load of laundry without dryer sheets.

Woe is me, for the washer’s uneven spinning has scarred the wall with multiple dings and scratches.

Woe is me, for five socks of differing sizes have disappeared from the dryer. Their lonely mates will forever be worn indoors during winter never to be married again.

Woe is me, for someone that I dare not name slipped my dry clean only sweater into the white load – the HOT CYCLE white load.

Woe unto my spouse, whose forty inch inseam blue jeans have shrunk to 37 ½ after being accidentally dried by someone who again shall not be named.

Woe unto my daughter, as her favorite pink pants are now spotted with black ink from a contraband pen left in a pocket. Let it be known that all pockets must be turned inside out TWICE before entering the wash cycle.

Woe unto my son growing too fast for his once fitted clothing. He carries the High Water pants legacy with him now.

Woe unto the towels that are ready for truck washing retirement but are still on active shower duty. The flattened nap and paper thin construction are testaments to the ingenuity of Korean laborers.

O, I long for the day that a petite woman shall gather my laundry, wash it, fold it, and place it in the appropriate dresser drawer. I will, of course, be a resident of an assisted living center unless by the grace of God my book shall sell, I win the Texas Lottery, or an illegal immigrant seeks me for room and board.

Conversations from the backseat

On the way to school today, this conversation actually took place.

DD (drama diva): I think he has brown hair.

Casper: It's yellow and he has blue eyes like Momma.

DD: Brown!

Casper: Yellow!

DD: Brown! Brown! Brown!"

Momma: ENOUGH! What are ya'll arguing about?

Casper: What God looks like.

________________________________________________

DD: I don't like that Britney Spears.

Casper: Me either. She shows all of her boobies and even her tummy.

DD: (laughing) It's okay to show your tummy, goofball.

Casper: Mom, she said I was a goofball! And you can't show your belly either!

DD: Yes you can.

Casper: No you can't!

DD: I show my belly sometimes. It's not a big deal.

Casper: Then your babies will be all freckled from being in the sun too much.

________________________________________________

Casper: Can I say Darn it?

DD: You can say crap.

Momma: No, you can't.

DD: You do.

Casper: Yeah, Momma, you do all the time.

Momma: But I'm a grown up and you two aren't.

DD: Well, when I grow up I'm gonna say crap all of the time.

Casper: Me, too. AND shut up. And Darn it.

Momma: Have at it, baby.

Fuel Crisis SOLVED

Leave it to a mother to solve the current crisis.
While the Bush administration is up to their neck with Iraq war and Social Security reform, the gas prices have skyrocketed out of control. It costs more now to fill up the tank than it ever has. This is not acceptable in the World Of Tish, so I offer four solutions that every mom can put to use immediately.

1) Hair Product Remnants: Every bathroom has at least three near empty mousse cans, gel bottles, or anti-frizz containers. We moms can squeeze another day's worth of hair style from each of these products. If we combined all of our hair products into one massive stockpile, it could fuel a squadron of minivans, a fleet of SUV's, and four Coopers for those more stylish moms.

2) Macaroni and Cheese: Why waste the remaining pasta and sauce? Instead of treating the dogs to a Kraft delight, let's transform our children's dinner staple into efficient fuel for the masses. Trucks and motorhomes will require the heavier weight Velveeta and shells, but for the rest of us, plain old mac and cheese will suffice. Unless you are hauling a fifth wheel, then you might want to add some broccoli for extra towing power.

3) Crayons: Wax and paper burn without releasing any toxic fumes, right? Every mom has in her possession at least four tons of broken crayons in various condition. And for extra mileage, those markers can be smelted into the mix. What a liberating feeling knowing that just cleaning the corners of the kids' rooms frees other moms to drive their kids to playdates, preferably not at your home.

4) PlayDough Clumps: When liquified, playdough offers all diesel users a clean alternative to the current fuel while serving an altruistic purpose: ridding every home of the multi-colored balls of all shapes and sizes hidden in the living rooms of America. Even the small bits that are caught in the baby's hair can be put to good use for lawn mowers.

Now that I've solved this issue, what's next? I think we can put dryer lint to use somewhere.

Wha' happened?

Yesterday I was a Large Mammal in the TTLB system, but for some reason unbeknownst (GREAT WORD) to me, I have regressed.
Have my latest posts offended people? Do blogs have bad breath? For the life of me, I can't figure this out.
If you have any theories, conspiracy or otherwise, feel free to share them. You don't think the songwriter of "Candy Shop" is out to get me, do you? Could it be that last night's umpire read my post, contacted the Ecosystem, and had me bumped down the food chain? OR is it my klepto-great grandmother stealing my links? She's a crafty one, that Vera.

In case you have nothing to watch for a lazy Sunday afternoon, may I suggest one or more of the following movies: Waiting for Guffman, Best in Show, The Mighty Wind, Supertroopers, the Big Lebowski, any and all of the Star Wars Trilogy, The Usual Suspects, Turner and Hooch, and anything with Jim Belushi. Most are comedies for lightening the depressive mood tax time seems to instill in all of us.

Dear Mr. Umpire,

I noticed you were having difficulty during the four softball games you officiated for my daughter's team today. Since I didn't have the opportunity to smell your breath or perform a breathalizer, it will never be known if you were drunker than Cooter Brown. It's doubtful the ASA test for drug use amongst the umpires, so we will again never know if you were stoned out of your gourd.

Let's just say for the benefit of the doubt you were neither intoxicated nor high on illegal substances. And let's just say for argument's sake that you are an actual official, not just some bum off the street promised a hot meal and bed for calling all four games.

Did you not hear my repeated suggestions on how to pull your head out of your ass?

Did you not get the point of my booing and hissing in your general vicinity?

Did you not take the hint that an entire teams' parent section was less than happy with your pitiful excuses for officiating?

Let me provide for you some hints that will not only improve your officiating, but might save your life someday. Literally.


Instead of relying on your piss poor vision, we will generously donate to the vision center of your choice. It must be hell to go through life not seeing what is really there or worse, imagining things that don't exist.



In this book, you will find the definitions of FOUL BALL, BASELINES, and SAFE. Please read and memorize each word and its usage before your next game.





When in doubt, please consult the official rulebook for say, AGE REQUIREMENTS. It's a safe bet that the 7-8 year old bracket will not have fully developed women on their teams. When I say fully developed, if they are wearing a bra and fill it out, they are probably too old.





If all else fails, one of these can be supplied for you. We will be happy to escort you off of the field so you can feed the dog after the game.




Please take this letter in the spirit it was written and realize that we all want the same thing: equitable treatment for each and every team.

Thank you for your prompt attention to this matter.

Out of the Mouthes of Babes

Dateline: Texas
Drama Diva's loss of a top tooth has emptied the Tooth Fairy's pockets literally. By setting the precedent with a five dollar bill under her pillow a year ago, the Tooth Fairy created a monster. Drama Diva's expectations of cashing in on her bicuspids are taking a toll on the fairy banking industry. An anonymous source reports the spouse of the Tooth Fairy has complained that the higher costs of 'buying' teeth have affected the purchase of golf balls, but this reporter cannot find any evidence of this. In an unrelated story, Drama Diva's brother, Casper, has been caught with his father's pliers trying to pull out his bottom teeth. When asked why he would hurt himself, his reply was "They have the Teen Titans on sale at Target, Momma!" In this reporter's humble opinion, life was easier and cheaper when we were young. Paper money was hardly given to children, tooth fairies didn't have to take out loans, and toys were much cheaper.

_______________________________________________

On a personal note, thank you for your kind words of support. My heart knows Will is better off, but I am such a selfish person wanting him here on earth with his family, with me. What a wonderful world this blogosphere is! Wireless, dial-up, DSL, Broadband - compassion comes from all sources but carry the same message. Thank you for that.

After I told my Drama Diva about Mr. Will's passing, she told her brother while they prepared for softball practice. As they watched the heavy black clouds build up for a thunderstorm, there were two large sun filled pockets shining over the park.

"See, that's Mr. Will and that woman in Florida right there. They are watching us right now."

That's my girl.

Sorry, not funny today

One of my favorite patients of all time died last night. His daughter called me this morning to tell me the news personally so I wouldn't read it in the paper tomorrow. I have sobbed for an hour and dread telling the kids that Mr. Will has gone to heaven.

This is what is hard about my profession. It would be easier if I distanced myself from the patient, from their circumstances and their lives. But that isn't me. Every patient is special to me, but Will and I connected the moment he became my patient. Teaching someone to walk again after hip surgery is fine, but teaching someone to walk that was once on a ventilator, once unable to sit up or stand, now that's what being a therapist is all about.

As I taught Will how to regain function, he taught me about life, loss, and laughter. He had lost a son at the age of 19, then a wife to cancer, then when life was supposed to be easy, Guillan Barre came knocking at his door. Sure, he had his pity party days, but then he'd pick himself up and we'd fight that monster. We cried together, laughed together, and shared secrets with each other.

There are lines that are supposed to be drawn with patients if you are a healthcare professional. If I would have obeyed those 'rules', this loss would be another number or statistic on a never ending list. I would have missed the friendship, the memories, and the lessons that only Will could teach me.

There will be no more trips to the gambling boats in Shreveport or visits to gossip and gripe. His laughter will no longer echo in my home but only in my mind.

As much as I cry, I know he is with his wife watching all of us prepare to say goodbye.

I hate goodbyes.

A Humpless Wednesday and other ramblings

Who coined the phrase 'hump day'? For some reason, I picture a poorly lit bedroom set with an overweight director barking orders to bored porn stars. It's the rap songs, I tell you, my mind's been in the gutter all day.

Why is it that on my most bloated day of the month the mailbox is full of swimsuit catalogs? I smell conspiracy. AND why did Mimi have to mention PEANUT BUTTER OREOS? Just plain mean, Mimi.

Where is the Bionic Woman remake? I know that Wonder Woman is still in its casting stages(which if I were 50 pounds lighter and in California yada yada), but there has been nothing on my favorite 1970's series. The springing motion sound, the radar ping hearing, GOD I WISH I WAS HER!! Our daughter came this close to being named after her sidekick, Callahan, until hubby pointed out that was Dirty Harry's last name. Not exactly a great feminine role model, plus I really don't want her packing a .357 for school.

How many people actually fall for that weight loss pill that costs 157 bucks for a 30 day supply? My favorite part is the challenge-no-I-dare-you attitude: "If you are a casual dieter with only 20 pounds to lose, don't call us". Six months ago, they refused people needing to lose only 30 pounds, but I guess business wasn't so good so they've lowered the weight restriction.

Lastly, here's a little helpful hint from Tish-ouise:

When you call a radio station to complain about Candy Shop, use a fake name. Really.

Guess I'm wearing Prude Panties Now!

There I am, minding my own business (as usual), drying my hair at 6:45 am. Little did I know that my children would be exposed to VERBAL PORN so early in the morning.

Give it to me baby, nice and slow
Climb on top, ride like you in a rodeo
You aint never heard a sound like this before
Cause I aint never put it down like this S
oon as I come through the door, she get to pulling on my zipper
It's like it's a race who can get undressed quicker
Isn't it ironic how erotic it is to watch you in thongs
Had me thinking 'bout that ass after I'm gone
I touch the right spot at the right time like something,
i like something,
she like it from behind
So seductive you should see the way she whine
Her hips so slow mo' on the floor
when we grind Long as she aint stopping, homie I aint stopping
Triple wet with sweat, man its on and popping
All my champagne campaign, bottle after bottle, its on
And we gon' sip the heavy bubble, now every bottle is gone

AND THIS IS ON THE POP RADIO STATION!! "Candy Shop" is a long way from "Candy Man", I can tell you that.

People, if this isn't one step away from indecency then just break out these lyrics for the preschoolers:

She getting crunk in the club I mine she work it
Then I like to see the female twerking
taking the clothes off BUCKEY naked ATL.
Hoe don’t disrespect it P
a pop yo pussy like this cause yin yang twins
in this B.I.tich Lil Jon and the East side boys
wit me and we all like to see Ass and tities
Now bring yo ass over here hoe
and let me see you get low i
f you want this Thug Now take it to the floor (to the floor)
and if yo ass wanta act you can keep yo ass where you at

Yea, that's what I want sung on the playground. I can't wait until my son tells a girl to 'crawl'. Maybe he can get a couple of other boys and do a sing-along or 'round'.
I guess some music executive decided that calling women bitches might not go over with the masses, so they've substituted the word female in its stead. Hmm, I think denigration of women crawling on the floor makes the point with or without the word bitch, but thanks for the effort.

This is far beyond what was scandelous in my time. Madonna sang "Like A Virgin" and was banned on many Bible Belt stations. Marvin Gaye stunned the nation with "Sexual Healing" but I doubt he would be proud of this new strain of musical mysogeny. Sure, we all enjoyed Def Leppards "Pour Some Sugar on Me" and even laughed at Quiet Riot's "Cum on Feel the Noise", but there's no comparison to their innuendos and the explicit instructions given today on radio stations across the country.

Of course, radio is like television. If you don't like it, turn it off. But why is Janet Jackson's two second boob shot controversial but insideous songs aren't? Why aren't radio stations held accountable when a five year old riding to school gets more sex ed than the schools are allowed to provide? I'd bet that the kids watching the Superbowl won't remember Nipplegate BUT they can recite verbatim the chorus to "Candy Shop". We teach our kids their ABCs with songs, so why not sex and hate? Sounds good to me.

I don't want to listen to Lawrence Welk, or folk music, or only instumental pieces. All I want is to turn on my radio in the morning and hear the weather, some news, and a Top Forty hit that doesn't deserve an R rating. Is that too much, really?

ATTENTION WALMART SHOPPERS

"For the next ten minutes, we are having a sale on defective children's beds on aisle four.

Please disregard the children with broken limbs and come on down for the best buy

since the collapsing strollers we had back in the nineties.

And as always, thanks for shopping at WalMart."

It's a shame, really. Children aren't safe in their beds anymore LITERALLY.

Their parents mean well but as the saying goes, the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. The doors are locked against predators that invade their homes, the outlets are plugged to prevent their little fingers from exploration, a timely bedtime to ensure adequate rest BUT IT ISN'T ENOUGH!

THERE ARE BEDS MADE FOR CHILDREN THAT ARE MORE DANGEROUS THAN THE OUTLAWED MERRY-GO-ROUNDS WE ENJOYED AS CHILDREN.

My dear friend Crystal has a story every parent should read. It will anger you that companies like Graco and Simplicity will not take complete responsbility for the suffering of innocent children.

It's too bad we can't hire a Johnnie Cochran, or plan a media campaign, or get a bunch of bloggers to.....WAIT A MINUTE!!!

That's the answer! The bloggers that took down Rather and that saved George Bush's presidential hide could send an email or two or a thousand to these companies whose bottom line is worth more than a two year old's broken femur.

Hmm. This could work. Now who could we get to do it??? If I only knew a bunch of bloggers that cared for children...

You are certainly looking pretty/handsome today. Have you lost weight? Is that a new cologne? Great shirt you have on today! Okay, enough kissing up. Go to Crystal's blog and read her story and then let your conscience be your guide.

_________________________________________________________

KING OF THE BLOGS UPDATE

Just wanted to say thanks to all of you for the votes and kind words. In college, I lost the Dorm floor Presidency by three votes but was unanimously elected to Social Chairman. Didn't have anything to do with the fact that I was a football trainer, did it? Anyway, thanks so much. It meant the world to me.

What a difference a minute can make

I measure my life in time. Time spent in school, time spent dating, time spent engaged, and now, time spent married with children. What never ceases to amaze me is how everything in my life would be different if only I was one minute early or late. How many of us can say that? Everyone has a story that starts "It was meant to be..." but do we really appreciate the 'what might not have beens' in our lives? Can you track where the synchronicity began?
Joe Cool Cowboy got me thinking about this idea and I've come up with my own 'sync' time line.

If we hadn't moved to Oklahoma in 1982, I would have never gone to OSU.
If I wasn't at OSU for a Senior day in 1986, I would have never met Tommy, my 'first' love.
If my uncle hadn't had a stroke, I would have never become a physical therapist.
If I hadn't gone to PT school, I would have never moved to Tulsa.
If I hadn't moved to Tulsa, I wouldn't have learned what I didn't want in a mate.
If I hadn't called Tom one spring day in 1994 and visited, I wouldn't have been able to order Eagles tickets for the Hell Freezes Over tour.
If I hadn't invited my best friend Brendingo, my father would have gone and I wouldn't have had the chance to 'troll' the place.
If I hadn't trolled the place, I wouldn't have spotted a tall drink of water and been challenged to speak to him (actually the bet was to get his name and kiss him, that's another blog for another time).
If I hadn't introduced myself to him, I wouldn't have met my future husband.
If I hadn't met my husband, I wouldn't have had children.

Do you see how life depends on delicate, invisible threads considered 'chance'? If you are like me, you know that it isn't chance that directs our path, but a loving God that endures our poor choices and stubborn nature in order to guide us into what we are meant to be. Granted, I don't see God giving the thumbs up to my wearing a swimsuit and daisy duke shorts to the Eagles concert, but that's the creative license we human beings take in the drama of our lives.

What I find ironic is my first love basically introduced me to my soulmate. Two minutes late and he would have already ordered the tickets and I would be a PT somewhere, anywhere, unmarried without children. How do I know this? It's a certainty I feel in my bones, that's how.

And I'm so blessed and lucky that the dominoes of my life fell just right so I could be here, right now, blogging, writing my stories, hugging my children, and loving my husband.

Never Say Never

My mother's favorite phrase behind "I hope you have a daughter just like you" was "Never say never." It's only after 35 years of living that I can dispute this adage.

Sure, there are some situations that validate my Mom, like:

*never say you won't cut your hair short when you get older, because we all do.
*never promise to call a guy/girl the next day you meet at a bar, especially if you meet them AFTER the beer goggles are applied after midnight.
*never condemn someone for wearing white before Memorial Day or after Labor Day, because sometimes white shoes are all your kid has to wear after a growth spurt.
*never say 'be true to your roots' because one day your hair will be highlighted/streaked/bleached.
*never say 'my kids won't act like that' because karmic forces will ensure that not only will they embarress you at Applebee's but you can bet your preacher will be there to witness it.


Still, there are times when you can say "Never" with the assurance that your vow is to the death.

*I will NEVER eat split pea soup and then travel with five other adults in a motorhome with one bathroom.
*I will NEVER give permanent markers to anyone under the age of 20.
*I will NEVER wear a red shirt and khaki pants while shopping at Target. NO, I DO NOT WORK HERE. NO, I DO NOT KNOW IF THAT IS ON SALE.
*I will NEVER get another home permanent EVER. Think Rosana Rosana Danna. All while in the seventh grade, mind you. This scars you for life.
*I will NEVER listen to another AMWAY cassette tape again. AGAINST PENALTY OF DEATH!
*I will NEVER sit next to a person that admits to eating a whole pot of beans for a three hour meeting. It's not that funny, really.
*I will NEVER ask a sales associate a question if I witness him pick his/her nose while staring at the flourescent lights.

"Never" is a funny word. Eternal decisions and promises hinge on that one word, so I propose adding 'Maybe' as the loophole. I'll 'maybe never' eat escargot again while on a cruiseship.
The chances that A) I will go on another cruise and B) that I would EVER order snails again are infintesimal, but I didn't go as far as saying NEVER.

Saying 'maybe never' is the prenuptual agreement of declarative statements. You can substitute 'might' or 'possibly' but the essence is the same. It's an escape plan when never is just too strong of a committment to make, but you need more than the general 'maybe'.

I might never allow my son to get a motorcycle/tattoo/nose ring. See, I'm not tempting fate while making my opinion known.

One thing's for sure, whatever you declare is a never in your life, will come back and bite you on the butt. I'm living proof of this.

Griswold Family Vacations were based on my family

In 1979, my parents purchased a used 1972 Itasca motorhome.

Who knew that brown and gold interior would not transition into the 1980's well?

And who would have thought that an eight track deck AND AM radio wouldn't be sufficient?

Like many motorhomes, the table folded down for a king sized bed, and above the driver was a double bed with approximately six inches room for turning over. This doesn't do well for a young Tish that is for one thing, clausterphobic.
The bathroom doubles as a shower, one that you could use the toilet AND shower at the same time.
As for the kitchen, I think my Easy Bake Oven may have held more cupcakes than the motorhome's tiny oven.
The refridgerator was held shut by one latch that easily sprung loose upon hairpin turns. Once, Uncle LouLou suffered a severe concussion while asleep in the floor under the fridge. Dad dodged a skunk on a Colorado backroad and WHAM, the fridge door flew open and a frozen liter of Dr. Pepper beaned Uncle LouLou right between the eyes. There's no telling if it did any real damage. He can still count cards.

Every year, we took this monstrocity as transportation and lodging to all parts of these United States.
On the trip to Colorado, someone (and it's still a point of argument to this day) didn't secure the sewer line correctly.....three miles up a mountain and the State Police pull us over.
"Are you aware your sewer line is dragging behind you?" Our giggling in the back didn't help, I'm sure.

RV parks aren't known for their timely accomodations, but in North Carolina we happened to find one that had not only a game room but an actual COLOR television. Little did I know that in control of the remote sat Derwood, an overgrown High School flunkie. In a matter of minutes, he decided we would marry, I would bare him three children, and forever would I reside at the Pine Crest RV park. Um, sorry, but at 14 I wasn't looking to get 'hitched'. My sister and I made our escape by asking for pork rinds. The next morning we watched him from a crack in the brown curtains searching EVERY campsite for his true love.

Then there was the time that the motorhome's engine caught on fire. We all stood on the side of the road waiting for Dad to put it out so we could resume the never ending game of Skip-Bo. My sister and I might fight 24 hours a day on vacation, but we always played Skip-Bo.

In Hot Springs, we hooked up at a camp with an indoor pool. For a teenage girl, this requires at least an hour if not longer of primping. A piece of advice: don't plug in your curling iron while drying your hair and the makeup mirror is on. I was responsible for blowing the fuses at this four star RV park. It took hours to regain power for around 50 motorhomes BUT I looked good, so I'd say the ends justified the means.

We purchased bread from some Quakers/Puritans on another trip. I beebopped out of the Itasko wearing my version of Madonna's white shirt and mini-skirt with at least three layers of poorly matching makeup smeared upon my face. My walkman was cranked up to 10 so all could hear Bon Jovi. I know they thought I was the Anti-Christ-ess.

My parents still have the motorhome. Mom updated the brown and gold interior with something more cheerful and modern. My children LOVE to spend the night in the motorhome. It is an adventure, a game, and a rollercoaster for them. Twenty five years ago, it was that for me, too.

Hannibel Lector's Secretary takes a bite of Tish...

1. You've written three novels so far, Tish. Tell us about the process of writing. Do you plan your story by outlining it first, or do you just start right in with Chapter 1 and see what happens?
With Rocks of Ages, my first 'baby', I just sat down and started typing away. That story is forever 'seared in my soul' (John Kerry humor) that I didn't have to write out an outline.
With A Month Full Of Sundays, I wrote it out in a journal, then transferred it to the laptop. I did chart the story out this time, using flowcharts and brainstorming until I got the plot and ending that felt right.
Now, with the suicide story which still has no catchy title (I'm up for suggestions by the way) I am outlining it by chapter. I am changing Points of View so you hear what each character is thinking for this one, very difficult to retain the flow of the story for me. It will, however, add to the suspense and eventual surprise ending of the main characters.

2. In your career as a physical therapist have you ever run across someone who broke your heart? Conversely, how about someone you just wanted to bop upside the head?
Funny you should ask this, Chenoah. I have not posted about the Terri Shiavo case but must relate this story. If you've read my blog for any amount of time, you are aware of my time spent as a nursing home rehab director and Miss Tena. She was my favorite patient by far BUT I had a patient similar to Terri S. in that she was young, stuck in a NH with a feeding tube, and left to die. Our team, consisting of myself, two therapy aides, and an OT, began coma stimulation, followed by aggressive therapy. I am proud to say that our efforts paid off for this patient. The doctors that had written her off were notified of her progression, they inserted a shunt into her brain, and today she is verbal, appropriate, and a part of her family's life. She still resides in the NH, but she is far from the comotose patient she was at the beginning. That is my greatest accomplishment along with Miss Tena in a NH setting. I'm not saying that could have been done with Terri, but I am saying I have witnessed a miracle and believe in them.
As for bad patients, I could write for DAYS about patients that deserve a swift kick in the ass for bad attitudes, noncompliance, and just plain laziness. The thing about me, I look at these people as a challenge to be surmounted. So far, after almost 12 years in PT, I can say that there might be 5 or 6 patients got over on me. Not counting the Chihuahua dog man, that is.

3. What one trait in each of your kids are you most proud of? And (bonus question) is it a trait you share?
My daughter has my dramatic flair, that's for sure. We had the opportunity to act in a play together two years ago, Cat on A Hot Tin Roof, she as my child and me as the pregnant bitch Mae. My husband still says I was typecast but ignore him, please. She is more like me than my son. She has my impatience, my temper, and is honing the manipulative skills that one day will either win her an elected office or really irritate her co-workers.
My son is like my husband, laid back and cautious. He has an eye for the ladies, flirts at a drop of the hat, but his most endearing quality is that he is a sensitive young man. Prayers at night include whatever topic I discuss (ie the Texas City explosion today, he prayed for the workers without any prompting) and he hates to see me cry. That boy has me around his pinkie. God help me.

4. How do you manage your time, what with hubster, kids, writing, blogging, working, and granting interviews?
Oh, the interviews are easy and I love them! I strive for routines with the kids, so when my daughter is doing her homework, I check my blog. I do a lot of paperwork at night for work and personal after they go to bed. My husband probably gets the raw end of the deal out of everyone. My laptop is my 'lover' so to speak and he gets a little jealous of my addiction, but won't ever say it. I do cram writing into any free moment. Yesterday I had a continuing education course for 7 hours, three of which I revised the Suicide book's outline. I am a multi-tasker, what can I say?

5. I've never been Tished. If I had, what would that have been like?
Oh, this could be answered in SO many different ways!
My patients will say that being Tished is like being in boot camp with a drill sergeant from Hell. My friends might tell you that it's like being on a Tiltawhirl of laughter and drama.
My husband, well, that's another story all together.

Thanks to Chenoah for the interview and fantastic questions. I hope that my answers live up to your expectations. And yes, I will honor the 'blog' code by keeping this meme going: the first five commenters will have questions posted by me on this blog.

Until then, keep your eyes on the road and your hands where I can see them.

Vying for the Queen of Hearts

THREE THINGS QUEEN TISH WILL DEMAND FOR AND OF HER BLOGDOM

1) Blogging shall be forever tax deductible in my kingdom. This means that the time spent creating, uploading graphics, researching, posting, and commenting shall be worth claiming a small guatamalan village.

2) All female bloggers' most hated body part will immediately transform into one of the following alternatives:

Anything of Angelina Jolie (she is as close to perfection as we'll see!)

Jennifer Aniston's abs

Jennifer Garner's Upper Body

J-Lo's Butt

Beyonce's Butt

Cindy Crawford's Butt

Tina Turner's Legs

Brooke Burke's Legs

For the men, their choices shall be:

Anything of Brad Pitt (he's repulsive to me, but many aspire to be like him)

Fifty Cent's Abs (he works hard for that gangsta six-pack)

The Diet CokeMan of 1995's abs (that could be perfection in a man there)

David Robinson's Upper Body (that's a spur that keeps on keeping on)

Troy Aikman's Legs (hey, a QB's gotta have great gams!)

3) To prove your loyalty to Queen Tish, the bloggers of the world

choose either or both of the following methods:

A) Flood the NYC publishers with demands they buy my novel A Month

Full Of Sundays immediately.

B) Visit the royal blog daily for your RDA of Tish

Don't you see how the entire blog world will benefit from my reign?

The sun will shine brighter. The birds will chirp. All will be good with the blog world.

Follow this link: http://kingofblogs.mu.nu/archives/072212.php and a new day will dawn in the Blogosphere.

The judges that face this most difficult task of naming a new King of Blogs should be commended. Applauded. Rubbed from head to toe with lavender oils and then spoon fed ambrosia as they listen to their favorite music.

Garage Sale PSA

Since it is supposed to be warming up, now is the time for a little garage sale CE (continuing education).

1) Plan your attack the night before. Countless treasures are lost to the early bird. These people will arrive up to an hour early, pacing back and forth or if agitated, will waken the garage sales dealer from sleep just to garner the first look. Some of these pre-emptive shoppers look harmless, but don't be duped by the gray hair or frail appearance. They will knock you over, push you into a bush, or use more manipulative tactics to distract you from the sale. This can include invoking their age and demanding respect, faking an injury/heart attack, and/or dinging your car with theirs in order to pilfer through the tables while you are inspecting the damage.

2) Hone your bartering skills. NEVER pay sticker price. NEVER. This isn't Dillards, honey. What says a dollar can be argued down to at least 75 cents if you are a novice, a quarter if you are a seasoned veteran like me. And don't be afraid to group unrelated items together. For example, a coat rack, two magazines, and a duffle bag that separately were priced at 10.00, offer 4.50. You'd be surprised at what you can swindle if you take a piece of crap off of their hands at the same time. When bartering, make sure you don't get into a bidding war with the early birds mentioned above. They are crafty and will run in packs so as to thwart purchases made outside of their group. Bid in a low tone, keep the item close to your body.

3) Bring your own drinks. Janey's little lemonade stand might look cute but that 8 year old is scamming people left and right with the prices of OPEC - 2.00 for a cup of watery lemon juice, no thank you. And are you really sure it's lemonade? Better to stop at the convenience store and stock up.

4) Never pay in big bills. This will lessen your bartering ability. Take spare change in jars if at all possible. Hey, sympathy can work in your favor in this environment.

This concludes my Garage Sale Continuing Education course. I hope you have learned something that will be of use on a sunny Saturday morning. If not, it's your own fault. I tried to warn you about the early birds.

PS DON'T FORGET TO VOTE ON THE KING OF BLOGS IN THE LOWER LEFT HAND CORNER !

I'm the Girl with Blue Balls...

I love to play with my balls.

Where is your mind right now? Uh huh, that's what I thought.
Before I get slapped with some FCC fine, I am talking about these balls:

If you watch TV or read fitness magazines, you would think that the ball is a new discovery by Gunnar Peterson or the Pilates people. Truth is, physical therapists have been using the ball for over 30 years.

This is your free Physical Therapy consult Crystal, so pay attention.

Unless you suffer from compression fractures, spinal fusion, ruptured discs or severe OA/RA, you can use the ball. I use them with EVERY patient I treat. I mean EVERY patient. Whether they are bedridden or ambulatory, the ball provides a workout unlike any other piece of equipment.

Before we go any further, let me suggest a website for everyone to visit,

Ball Dynamics.

I had the opportunity to learn from the GURU of ball therapy. This is her company and I give her all the 'props' when it comes to the ball. Joanne Posner-Mayer trained with the very people that pioneered Ball therapy. Do not accept substitutions. She is the real deal, let me tell you. I watched her STAND ON A BALL WHILE TALKING FOR TEN MINUTES.

So, what can you do with a ball? Anything. You can lift weights, perform ab work, even get an aerobic workout just by sitting on the ball.

When you sit on a properly fit ball (correct for your height), postural muscles that do not have to fire when sitting on a chair now have to work. Add a little bouncing, you've engaged your quads and hamstrings. Think of it this way: 30 minutes of Everybody Loves Raymond while on the ball burns more calories than sitting on the couch.

There are plenty of videos, books, and posters that can show you every exercise the ball can provide. I still suggest Ball Dynamics for all of your educational needs.

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COMMERCIAL BREAK

I am competing for 'The King Of Blogs'. There is a link for all of you to check out on the left. Please go and vote for me. There's some 'trackback' thing you have to do, which I have absolutely NO CLUE how to do but surely my super intelligent readers can figure that out.

_____________________________________________________

AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT

My boss has started her own blog. Please go by and say hi. She's my branch manager and responsible for recommending raises, so you know it never hurts to kiss the hand that feeds you. Really, she's a great lady and just getting her feet wet in our blog world.

Jealous of a his dimpled mistress

Seven and a half years ago, my hubby discovered the world of golf.

Our daughter was also born seven and a half years ago - a coincidence? I think not.

For years I hated, I mean LOATHED, the game of golf. Just the sight of a golf ball or a putter would boil my blood.

And then, something happened that changed my mind. For a month, he didn't play. Didn't swing a club, didn't read the Golf Digest, nothing.

He drove me insane. Insane like "I want to bonk your head open with a skillet" crazy, you hear me? Having two kids follow me around is enough, add a bored husband and you've got a recipe for disaster.

I realized that I enjoyed my Saturdays without him. I realized that as much as I wanted him around, I didn't want him around THAT MUCH.

When he golfs, his mood is better with the children, with me, with life in general. Even if he plays like crap, he's better than if he didn't go.

So now I don't hate her, the dimpled mistress. She isn't a threat anymore. I have befriended her. The kids even like her. How many mistresses can say they are WELCOME in a marriage? Not many, I would bet. There are still moments when I have to tell her no, you can't have him today, but that's because of family obligations. Most of the time, I encourage him to spend time with her. And in turn, he encourages me to write and blog.

Golf will be an intrical part of our life for the next thirty years. While I won't play (being lefthanded and a superclutz), I can see me driving the cart and drinking a wine cooler, maybe reading a book while he looks for his ball. That's not a bad life.

When I become a published writer...

I will not wear a funny hat or cape. There is enough drama in my life without costuming it. High water pants are acceptable, though, as will low heeled shoes. I don't do high heels well.

I will only brag in front of people that have previously looked down upon me. Who would that be? Well, if I had to make a list, and of course I HAVE, they would be:

1. Junior League women that don't understand why I don't beg to join them.
2. Former sorority members and their fraternity boyfriends that looked down on the GDI's of the world.
3. Ultra conservative church members that thought I was too wild (and I was).
4. Wealthy people of the town that believe theirs' cannot and will not stink.
5. Hateful, ugly, or rude people that irritate me. This could backfire on me so I may have to rethink it.

I will not 'drop' my current live friends/internet friends to step up the social ladder. I happen to like the view from this particular rung and the people that swing on it with me.

I won't turn down criticisms or compliments but I will reserve the right to blog about them.

I will try to schedule a book tour so as to meet every blogger on my blogroll and somehow manage to run into "Putty" from Seinfeld. It's his voice, people, and the overwhelming presence he commands.

But mostly, I will not change into someone else. Unless there is a melee at the softball field, and then I will morph into either Trinity or Lara Croft, depending on the circumstances.

Now if I can just get that publishing thing accomplished, we are all set.

Money Says I will end up going all Matrix/Lara Croft on someone

I'm normally a peaceful person. Not the Zen kind, or the meditation kind, or even the deep breathing kind, but the kind of person that isn't a threat

UNTIL

my daughter started softball.

The horror stories of t-ball and softball are true. There are parents that actually scream at the umpires, cuss the coaches, and berate not only their children but the opposing team.

I'm all for competition. My daughter needs to learn now the art of winning and the beauty of losing. She doesn't, however, need to witness her mother in a cat fight in the bleachers.

I described my fighting abilities to Mimi as 'going all Matrix'. Trinity not only flipped over the enemy, but kicked their asses in a precise, almost ballarina fashion.

Then I watched the Lara Croft movies, and even with the push-up bra and Angelina endless lips, she whips everyone in her path with discplined feminine rage.

That is me.
Okay, add some weight, cut the hair, don't DARE put me in leather.
So I'm not that flexible, or athletic, or trained in any martial arts.
And maybe I'm not the most coordinated person in the world BUT what I am trying to say is that the time is coming when Tish will

END UP GOING ALL MATRIX ON SOMEBODY.

After four practices, there is a simmering brouhaha that will come to a boil. She outweighs me by at least 300 pounds, so there's the first obstacle.
She also has about six or seven foster children that might be carrying, so that's another problem.
But if she continues to scowl at me, make vague comments about my Drama Diva, or criticize my Team Mom skills, it's all over with but the crying, people.

Mind you, this is a parent ON OUR TEAM. What's going to happen when we are playing a real game?

I guess I will have to invest in some pleather pants, collagen injections, and a miracle bra.

Token White Girl

Remember the first season of A Different World? Marisa Tomei was the token white girl for an predominately black sit-com. For three years, I was her, the difference being I lived off campus.

I was known as White Tish, as opposed to what, I don't know. During my tenure, the Rodney King trial and riots occurred. Luckily, I didn't feel any repercussions from the racial divide.

One of my best friends commented on my anniversary post the other day . She calls me her token white friend, or maybe I call myself that. We joke that our children attend the others birthday parties to either add color or lighten up the room. Some people might find that offensive, but I see beauty in our humor. Friendship beyond the color barrier shouldn't be uncommon in this day and age, in fact, it should be the norm. If she make fun of my flat white woman butt and I can rag on her neverending hair accessories, doesn't that mean that we've buried some of the racial divide? Isn't that better than staring at each other from across the room out of fear of offending each other? Dee and I laugh at our differences all of the time. It's what makes our friendship unique.

When my son spent the night with one of his black friends, he came home with a one thing to ask me.

"Momma, did you know that 'C' is black ALL OVER?" His expression so full of wonder, I had to stifle a giggle. Kids don't see hate in color, only curiosity. His questions and comments are from innocence, not ignorance like the hate filled garbage the extremists spew to their children.

I know there will come a day when the divide will appear for my daughter as well as my son. It is my hope that my example and wide range of friendships soften these blows and help them through the difficult times. Until then, I am the token white girl and proud of it.

The career that just screams TISH....

While on my first maternity leave, I discovered my true calling in life.

No, it wasn't turning pro in the competitive breastfeeding circuit, although I did try, believe you me.

It wasn't becoming a full time Neilson TV rater, much to my chagrin.

For years, I had heard about the home shopping networks, but never had the opportunity to fully appreciate their contribution to society. After six hours of close scrutiny, it came to me like a lightening bolt in the middle of an Oklahoma thunderstorm.

I WAS MADE FOR QVC!!!

Now, before you scoff (that should have made the favorite word list!) at me, look at the Tish facts.

• I come from a retail family. It's in the blood.
• Remember the greeting card companies that advertised extra money in the back of the comic books? I SOLD THEM FOR THREE YEARS. And that's how I discovered I didn't want to be a junior detective kit OR a chemist. That's another story.
• Talking to people is like breathing for me. I don't need a subject, a purpose, or a theme. Hell, I don't even need an English speaking person. Just give me eye contact and WHAMMO, I will chat it up.
• Public speaking for some is one step away from a root canal - for me, it's a day at the park. I love it, making people laugh at me or with me, it doesn't matter. And soapboxes fit well under my size 8 1/2 shoes.

Maybe I should start a petition or something. I think it would interest viewers if a real woman hawked the workout equipment, chatted with the callers, and flirted with the bisexual models demonstrating the goods. And computers? PLEASE! I would have story after story about computers, good and bad, as well as snarky comments about what you could do with a digital camera. Scrapbooking? Being a lefty, this would open QVC's door to so many non artsy-fartsy people. By watching me struggle with cutting a straight line, correctly use a template, and misalign a picture would increase sales by at least 200%.

Jewelry is the only area QVC wouldn't want me. It's a conflict of interest for me AND I can't go against the family. Not quite the mafia, but my father does have one eye, so you go figure it out.

If anyone has a direct or indirect line to the QVC people, drop my name. Maybe we could co-host together and discuss blogging while selling denim applique shirts and matching sarongs. It could happen.

A day to wonder why you even put a bra on

Today, I learned that.....

I'm not too big for my britches. Not in the 'oh, you've lost weight' way, either. Call me crazy, but seeing as I have twelve years invested in the physical therapy game, I think I am qualified to determine who needs or doesn't need a wheelchair. Forget my degree or experience, Miss Patient's wife, you just tell me what I should think and do.

There is an invisible sign that only children can read when entering Hobby Lobby. Don't quote me, but I think it says "TOUCH EVERYTHING IN SIGHT. PULL PETALS FROM THE SILK FLOWERS. TALK LOUDLY DURING CHECK-OUT." And the employees, knowing full well this sign exists, stand and watch with amusement as every mother plies assorted greenery from her child's hands.

Husbands that have been up since three a.m. will initiate a major home improvement project that require cutting a HOLE IN THE SHEETROCK THE SIZE OF A PROFESSIONAL DARTBOARD. Who do you think is going to clean that up? Hmmm.

A trip to the Pizza Inn buffet while wearing work clothes sets off sensors in the well dressed women of the town to congregate near my table. Their eyes skim my high water pants. I can only take this as jealousy since I am brave enough to wear something comfortable, unlike their heeled boots. Who dresses to eat PIZZA for pete's sake?

Girl scout meetings run much smoother when I don't attend. My maternal instincts combined with my obnoxious take charge-ness often put me smack dab in the middle of activities. Not that I don't enjoy making Smores with my daughter, but after the 15TH Smore, I'm bored. No, not bored, irritated is more like it.
Just put the chocolate on the broken graham cracker, it will taste the same - ARGHHH!

So I ask you, why did I leave the bed? I could have gone braless, in my own home with the remainder of the Girl Scout cookies to keep my hips company. Dang it.

Little man syndrome/Pretty girl syndrome

Since I am married to a near giant (6'7"), I can verify the little man syndrome exists. During our second date, a guy a full foot shorter tried to pick a fight. HELLO? Do you really think you have a chance in a fair fight? Puh-lease. You can see the men with low self esteem immediately puff up when he enters the room. Their pectoralis muscles engage, shoulders square, and fists clench. Meanwhile, my husband ignores their obvious pleas for attention.

I think the same thing happens to the average looking women in the world, me for one. When the fashion stick thin models sashay into a room, the claws come out with a vengance. It's not a fight we are after but rather the voice of insecurity spurring our catty remarks on. Maybe those lips and boobs are real but it's easier to write them off to technology, not genetics and hard work.

Yesterday I saw a little man that compensated by taking enough steroids to bulk up the entire Dallas Cowboy offense. He stood no more than 5'3" but his neck and head were larger than the pinata heads at Mardi Gras. The moment he made eye contact with my hubby, I could have sworn he grew at least one inch from standing on his tiptoes. I had to laugh.

Now that steroids has made front page, I've decided that it's the boob job of athletics. You know, that extra umph that transforms a pretty girl to a knockout - pardon the pun but steroids does the same thing for a man.

What will be the male equivalent for a lip job, I wonder?

What Ten years gets you

Ten years of marriage - it's official. We celebrated with my family at our favorite hometown restaurant, where our rehearsal dinner took