Happy National Men in Heat Week

I received this advert in the mail yesterday.


I do consider myself somewhat of a scented candle hoarder (mainly for the purpose of masking the odoriferous scent of dog, old woman, and old house stank), but I’m not sure giving me a candle would end in kisses.   Now this gift, on the other hand…………………….

KB and Tootsie Rolls = Unconditional Love

This week has been a bit strange for me in the man-attraction department.  Male attention given to me has been unprecedented.  I’m scratching my head.  Maybe I smell like horny deer pheromones. Who knows.  I have started to think maybe it is just National Men in Heat Week or NMHW (I’m sure there is a motorcycle rally for it somewhere).   With NMHW in mind, I’m a bit afraid to ask, but………….. if you’re a man would giving you a candle earn me kisses? I’m not sure I want any of you to answer at the height of NMHW.  The one man I would want kisses from would most likely answer with a resound “no.”

My Great Grandmother’s journal is loaded with recipes and anecdotes, but on the back of some of the loose clippings there are adverts that are just as absurd as the “Give Candles Get Kisses” sales beckoning.  Despite their absurd alien-esque antiquity, I think they are beautiful and I wanted to share.

Circa ~1912

Just in time for HNMW!  Hey boys……..  what could be better than looking through a woman’s clothes at her nakedness with the X-Ray Kathodoscope?  hmmmm?   I wonder how many prepubescent boys ordered this contraption in hopes of seeing the unthinkable.  Can’t you just see them rushing to check the mail each day?

Circa ~1912

When it’s not NMHW, men have good ideas.  I wonder what would have happened if a 1912-ish Steve Jobs had sent in an idea to this address for a Macintosh computer?  I bet Randolph & Co. Patent Attorneys would have chunked it!!

Circa ~1912

If it truly is NMHW, I do not want to know what you would do with this contraption.

Seeing this ad made me realize how much we take current technology for granted.  These days, anyone can make a  movie.  Everyone has “ideas” ……….and not just the patent kind. One of my Twitter followers tweeted the following today:

@LoveFilmFunds:  ”When you make a film you usually make a film about an idea.” Sydney Pollack.. If you made a film about an idea. what would it be?

I had such a movie idea come to me this week.  It happened when  I plowed into a public restroom stall and saw the sight in the next picture.  My mind went totally berserk.

Have you seen the movie A Message in a Bottle?  Well, for me this moment was my movie idea.  This moment was A Message in a Toilet.  Was this watery message a plea for reconciliation to a long lost lover? Was it a confession of undying love? MAYBE it was a wish list for NMHW?    My movie might even focus on how insane I was for taking a picture of A Message in a Toilet.   I suppose it is entirely possible the stall was out of paper. BUT….  Who in their right mind would use a NMHW wish list to wipe?   Of course, men in heat might like the idea of an NMHW wish list wiping.  Sydney Pollack, here I come!

NOTE:  Next week, I cook again!  BEWARE.

Pearl & the House of Kennel

Pearl watches the sun rise.

Both my Great Grandmother and my Grandmother were dog people.  I, too, am a dog person, if not by default, by reasoning of the very nature of dogs.  Their unconditional ways soothe my troubled soul.

October 22 is my dog’s birthday.  Of course she could care less, but I do!  Her name is Pearl. She is also known as the Fablabulous Pearl Girl in broader canine circles.  I thought I would share how Pearl found me.


This is my neighbor, Tom. He is 80 and has no clue what the internet is or anything about digital photos, so I covertly took this photo of him with my cell phone. He is a dog man………calls his house, “The Kennel.” He has two ex-wives who he claims put him in “The Kennel.” His favorite saying is, “if you don’t move, they’ll paint ya,” and boy, does he move. If you need advice, Tom has it, and he is blunt.  He is somewhat of a curmudgeon who constantly spits tobacco and is always pontificating about why the planet has gone to hell.  His voice is booming and his comments are almost always offensive. The thing is, he’d give me the shirt off his back if I needed it, so I see past the gruffnosity of his ways.

Tom is a trial bird dog trainer. He wheels and deals in dogs like a seasoned Donald Trump slinging land. One day he called me and said, “I have me a black woman.” I giggled a little and waited for what was next. You never know with Tom. Long story short, the “black woman” was none other than THE black Fab Lab, Pearl. Another bird dog breeder owed Tom a bird dog but the breeder had gone out of the bird dog business and had started breeding Labrador Retrievers. The breeder gave Tom a female Lab instead. Reluctantly, Tom took the black Lab thinking he could train her to respond like a bird dog. She never did.  Soon after, he offered her to me! I am furever in debt to him.  The funny thing is…………Pearl adores Tom.  Whenever she hears his truck, she runs toward it like a green fly drawn to a pile of glorious poo.

Squirrel, it's what's for dinner! ugggh.

Pearl’s favorite things include food, couch sitting, squirrels, and car rides. On her birthday, I’ll give her three of the four (no dead squirrel birthday cake up in here).  The bonus?  I made her a special photo.

Scooby and Pearl


Though I Walk Through the Valley of Godzilla Chickens…….

Recipe Source: none
Year: none
Recipe: Fried Chicken
Music to cook by:  Chicken Heads (brock brock)

I thought I’d share a picture of me with my new beau.

The future Mrs. Sanders??????

Okay, so maybe the Colonel and I aren’t doing the chicken tango, but the Colonel’s chicken and I were childhood friends.  My family frequented his house of fried birds more than frequently.    Fried chicken was a way of life.  Everyone cooked it.   Everyone ate it.  But not everyone gave you wet naps at the end of the meal like Kentucky Fried Chicken.  For some reason, I was obsessed with KFC’s wet naps as a child.  Thus began my love affair with the Colonel.

This fried chicken childhood wasn’t always about wet naps, original recipe, and an old man in a leisure suit for me.  My Great Grandmother not only fried chicken she raised the dang things. Her chickens always terrified me because they strutted around her yard like miniature fire-breathing Godzillas dominating everything in their path.  I screamed in abject horror every time I was forced to walk amongst their clucking kind.  It’s a good thing I never made the connection between the Godzilla chickens and the Colonel.   I may have befriended them and campaigned like a rabid Republican in an attempt to save them from the frying pan.

For some reason I realized recently that I have never fried chicken.  I decided if I wanted to keep my Southern woman’s card, I needed to try.  I thought there would be a fried chicken recipe in my Great Grandmother’s journal.  Nope! Not a one.  The only mention of any chicken is reference to the rationing of eggs in winter.  Rationing eggs?   Say whaaaat…….

Anyway, in my failed fried chicken journal search, it dawned on me Southern women are born with an inherent knowledge of how to cook fried chicken.  Receipe smecipe. They need none.  The fact that I was not born with this knowledge is further proof that my older brother was right.  I am an alien……….. hatched……….. adopted.  Thankfully I have the “y’all” and “fixin to” phonetically perfected. My alien hatched heritage goes unnoticed for the most part.

With no Great Grandmother recipe, I knew I had two options.  I could ask the mechanics at work and/or Google it.  I did both.  The mechanics suggestions were as follows:

  • cook it slow  (ummm……… I have subzero patience).
  • use a cast iron skillet  (ummm…… last time I tried to season an iron skillet it turned into a rusted relic reminiscent of the Titanic).
  • use seasoned flour (I could do this).
  • drink before you eat it  (I could do this too).
I knew I was capable of two out of the four!  The only problem with the last suggestion was that I ran the risk of earning the “I’m too drunk to taste this chicken” shirt.  Such a problem might not be so bad given my inability to boil water correctly.

You too can have a dunk chicken shirt. See zazzle.com

Next up!  Google.  A Google search netted me 36,200,000 entries.  Yikes.  I decided to glance at a few and just wing it.  I used a simple combination of chicken dredged in egg and seasoned flour.

The outcome?  It tasted like chicken.  Duh.  Actually, it was pretty good.


I do believe I get to keep my Southern woman’s card and keep my alien heritage quiet a bit longer. I think I deserve a reward for such an accomplishment.  This will do.

Ho Ho HO......

I asked my dad about his experience with my Great Grandmother’s Godzilla chickens and he shared the following:

 I was also terrorized as a child by roosters on the farm. I remember one attacking me and scaring the hell out of me. The best chicken story I can tell  occurred when I was five.  I really loved going around with grandmother to gather eggs from the hens’ nests. She would always leave one in each nest to encourage the hen to keep laying eggs.  I always thought about that one egg wondering if someone else might get it. Sometimes I would go back and see if the one egg was still there. On one occasion, when I returned, the hen had already laid a second egg. I couldn’t resist taking one of the two eggs thinking that no one would ever know.  I sneaked off to a well-hidden place and decided to crack the egg. What I didn’t know was that grandmother always left the same egg, which had served as a dummy for a very long time. By now the egg had gone rotten. I had taken the rotten one.  I didn’t know that when eggs rot, a lot of pressure builds up inside. I was really in for a surprise. ………….KABOOOMM!!. I had rotten egg all over me and I smelled really awful. I had to confess what I had done before getting scrubbed down. This was one of my first lessons in the consequences of deception.