"Pray for intestinal fortitude, work hard, and keep the faith. Oh, and pray for good luck, you're gonna need it." Jerry Reed

I’ve always loved “trashy” boys. Always. I can prove it.

When I was five or six, I can’t remember which, my mother came into the living room as I was watching TV. I was, she says, enraptured. I turned to her with the love light in my eye.
“Isn’t he beautiful?” I asked.
My mother looked at the television. I was watching “Smokey and the Bandit.”
“Who,” she asked, “Burt Reynolds?”
“No! Him!” I said, pointing at Jerry Reed without turning around.
“Sure,” my mother laughed. “He’s dreamy.”

Now, for those of you who haven’t seen this edifying and transcendent film, Jerry Reed was playing a good old boy trucker. Not much of a stretch I imagine. Who cares? I was, for once, not in it for the acting. I loved Jerry Reed’s character and, therefore, since I was five (or six) I loved Jerry Reed. And, lo, these many years later, I still do.

Of course, now I know the difference between an actor and a character. Still, for all that, the man apparently made a deep impression on me in my youth. To this day I love a man who was brought up rough, if you will, around the edges. A man who knows what a dollar is worth and how hard you have to work to get one.

Don’t talk to me about men who know which fork to use at every course! That is knowledge I can give them if need be. But you can’t teach somebody things that should have been instilled since birth. Respect for hard work, love of family and how to react when times get tough…’cause they pretty much always do, eventually. These are traits I admire.

I do not, let us be clear, want anything to do with an illiterate (or may as well be), slack jawed, hill billy, beats “his” woman because he can redneck. No. Thank you. I’ve had one of those. I don’t care to repeat the experience. Call me crazy! However, a blue collar man is a thing of beauty. A blue collar man who reads and doesn’t listen, exclusively, to country music? Indefinable joy. If I could find all that and he can make me laugh until I pass out? Book the hall, people, I just changed my mind about marriage! But, sadly, they are few and far between. And, as of September 1, 2008? They’re getting rarer.

Goodbye, Mr. Reed. You may not have been any of the things I thought or admired. You may have been all those things. But, whatever you may or may not have been, to this little girl, you were beautiful.

The Carrot & The Stick

Annie Pinchis sat staring at the ink blot. Her therapist, Dr. Lipke, seemed to think this was an important step in her “healing.” Healing from what he had, thus far, kept to himself. Annie thought Dr. Lipke was a douche bag but, thus far, she had kept that to herself.

If Annie had known that she would be subjected to an unholy mélange of Jungian philosophy. Freudian analysis and self help mumbo jumbo she’d have given therapy a pass. But, unfortunately, Dr. Lipke was the only therapist in her insurance network within fifty miles. He also insisted on her attending at least one session a month in order to get her prescription. Annie knew that medication was all she needed. So, she thought, my brain chemistry isn’t right. Big whoop. Give me a pill and leave me alone! Dr. Lipke continued to hold up the ink blot.

Annie began to panic. What if she said the wrong thing? How often would he require her to come in then? Oh, Christ, she fumed, they always find something wrong with your answer. They say there is no right answer. So, if there’s no answer why ask the question? Hu? Why? Just to mess with you.

Annie looked at the ink blot. It looked remarkably like someone had spilled ink on a white piece of paper. Wisely, she decided that that probably wasn’t the right not right answer. She leaned forward as if concentrating on it more closely.

“It looks,” think, she screamed in her head! “It looks,” safe. Safe. What’s the safe answer? “Like Bugs Bunny holding a carrot!” There! What could anybody possibly say about that? Annie felt a smug smile creep across her face.

“Is it,” Dr. Lipke leaned forward excitedly, “a large carrot?”

Annie sank back in her chair, smirk sliding away to nothingness, and resigned herself to twice weekly sessions.

I Didn't Fall Off The Wagon Today . . .

so much as I jumped off and flipped it the bird as it drove away. And, yes, if you must know, I feel pretty foul about it and the fact that I can't seem to quit smoking on my own. So, feel free to keep any shitty comments to yourself.

What can I say? I'm an addicted addict. I can't stop. Maybe next I'll try Wellbutrin and hypnotherapy. That last one would be good just for the fuckin' comic value.

In conclusion, I am a loser. I accept this.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BIRTHDAY GIRL!

Happy 4th Birthday, Sadie!

How To Avoid Thinking Of Smoking

Step 1:
Go to the farmer’s market. Buy a roast, a pound of green beans, a pound and a half of peas (in shell), six ears of corn, a pound of potatoes and a pound of peaches.

Step 2:
Go home. Attempt to refrain from hitting other cars/pedestrians “accidentally”.

Step 3:
Season roast beef and place in preheated oven.

Step 4:
Snap the green beans.

Step 5:
Shell the peas.

Step 6:
Shuck the corn.

Step 7:
Peel the potatoes.

Step 8:
Cut up the peaches. Sprinkle them with sugar. Place in refrigerator.

Step 9:
Boil the potatoes.

Step 10:
Mash the potatoes. Cover bowl of mashed potatoes and place over a pot of simmering water to keep warm.

Step 11:
Boil corn, beans and peas (in separate pots).

Step 12:
Take meat out of oven. Leave to rest for 20 minutes.

Step 13:
Make gravy.

Step 14.
Move all vegetables to serving dishes.

Step 15:
Cut roast beef.

Step 16:
Serve dinner.

Step 17:
Whip a cup of heavy cream.

Step 18:
Place peaches in dessert bowls. Top with whipped cream

Step 19:
Serve dessert

Step 20:
Clean up.

Step 21:
Make chocolate chip cookies.

Step 22:
Clean up.

Step 23:
Clean bathroom.

Step 24:
Type up list.

That’s it. Now keep in mind that during all of this you will still think, constantly ,about having a cigarette and also about killing anyone who gets in your way . . . Or who is breathing within a six mile radius. But all of these separate steps will keep you from grabbing a cigarette, or a knife, for at least a few hours.

One day at a time. Oh, and let someone else do the carving. Seriously. You can’t be trusted.

Take Two (million and six)!

Today I cleaned out my car. It was disgusting. My car is clean and I am filthy. I found jackets and shoes I forgot I owned. Oy. So, yeah, maybe once a year isn't often enough. Who knew?

Also, as of today, I've quit smoking...again. I know. I know, I've tried before. I KNOW! But I'm feeling good about it this time. Last time I quit I just decided one day to do it and didn't prepare at all. This time I think I'm prepared.

• I cleaned out my car so it no longer smells.
• I threw away all my cigarettes and cigarette related paraphenalia (except my engraved zippo - it says "Dark Fury" I had to keep it. Besides, I've never filled it so how can it hurt?).
• I purchased the Commit nicotine replacement system. They're gross but we'll call the aversion therapy.
• I joined a quit smoking support group website.

We'll see.

Roll Up! Roll Up! Get It While It's Hot, It's Lovely!

Lately, I’ve been too bored to blog. . . too pooped to pop. . . um. . . . too nauseated to navigate? Hu. Yeah. Probably not that last one.

So, back by unpopular demand –

Stream Of Consciousness! And the crowd goes wild! Or just sits there and thinks, “ok.” One or the other. Up to you.

I’m getting a wrinkle. A laugh line to be precise. I suppose that that’s better than a frown line but it’s still a wrinkle. It still smoothes out when I relax my face. Nevertheless, I know it’s there. Waiting. Maybe Botox isn’t so bad. No. No. That’s probably how they sucked in Nicole Kidman and look at her now! Scary. I hate when men get Botox. Hate it. I like a lived in face. Besides, how do I know what you’re saying without facial cues? I don’t. You could be lying through your teeth and, without the appropriate facial expression, I’ll believe you. I’m kind of gullible. I need the cues to know what’s really going on. Maybe that’s why Nicole Kidman hasn’t made a movie in yonks. Because she can’t get the emotion across. Not that she ever really could but that’s a different story. I wish Craig Ferguson would write himself another movie. There, my friends, is a lived in face. Lovely. Or a book. Where’s the next book? Bloody hell, man! Get with the program. I need to quit smoking. I looked into Chantrex (sp?) but that’s not meant for people with a history of “mental illness.” I hate that expression. I want a different one please. How about “batshit”? Or “loopy”? Or “mad as a bag of cats”? That last one is my favorite. It’s so colorful. Imagine if that was the clinical term.

Doctor: Well, Mrs. Jones, we’ve figured out why Mr. Jones sits in his study all day listening to death metal and screaming obscenities at the dog.

Mrs. Jones: Oh, doctor! What a relief. The children were beginning to notice.

Doctor: Yes, yes, Mrs. Jones. We’ll soon have it sorted. The technical term for your husbands’ condition is “Mad As A Bag Of Cats.” It’s quite treatable. Pick up the six prescriptions at the desk on your way out.

Mrs. Jones: (weeping quietly in relief) Oh, thank you, doctor! Thank you!

Ain’t language grand? All languages are pretty. Well, ok, not German but I’m biased. Maybe it’s simply gorgeous but I’m a bitch who can’t let it go. Probably not but it could be. Wrinkles. Wrinkles. Wrinkles. Wrinkles. It honestly never occurred to me that I would live long enough to get wrinkles. When I think of it like that, I’m almost pleased. Almost. Vanity thy name is Dark Fury. Who knew? Luckily, I’m smart and funny. If I were just a pretty face, I’d be screwed.