Listening to: Beethoven Symphony No 7
Thought for the day: If alcohol is a crutch, then Jack Daniel’s is the wheelchair.
My father and a few of my friends are members of Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Squire Association. Squires are considered royalty by the Jack Daniel’s company and they are treated with kid gloves. It’s a rather brilliant marketing setup and Squires are fiercely proud of their membership.
This past weekend, I attended a function at the house of two of my favorite Squires, Stephanie and Greg. These two have a collection of Jack Daniel”s that probably qualifies them for an upgrade to the title of Super Squires 2.0. Their house plays host to a large ornate china cabinet that boasts not grandma’s china, but multitudes of collector’s bottles of Jack. Their den walls are lined with even more of the stuff. I mean. Who needs paint when you have shards of golden amber bouncing off the walls as the sun peeps through the window trying to get its own taste? These bottles are not for consumption which presents a problem. What happens if you host a party full of peasants (non-Squires) and you run out of the peasant’s Jack (the non-Squire non-collectible stuff) yet are surrounded by enough collectible Squires’ Jack to fill a sodding swimming pool? The unthinkable almost happened at Super Squires 2.0′s house.
As one of my peasant friends drained the last drop of the bottle of the peasant’s Jack, everyone was calm. Greg commandeered the situation and began looking for a replacement bottle. The moment became tense as seconds turned into minutes. There was a small roar of panic amongst the Jack peasants. I had fears the peasants would grow angry and torch the place, or start smashing the collector’s bottles. Alas, Stephanie swooped in to save the day (today’s photo). Hidden in a cabinet, and not on display (it’s obviously not good enough to display), Stephanie retrieved a new bottle of the peasant’s Jack. The peasants let out a collective sigh of relief. Everyone lived happily every after!
Here’s a fun article related to Jack Daniel’s. In June, 2012, a Welsh man claimed he found an original recipe! What a cool find? It’ll be neat to follow-up and see if it is legit.
Listening to: CBS News
Thought for the day: If you want to live and thrive, let the spider run alive. ~American Quaker Saying
What is this? I’ll tell you what it is. It’s what kept me awake last night. I know it looks like a time portal to 1918 when gunpowder was king and so was George V, BUT IT’S NOT. IT’S A #)(*$&%*& SPIDER WEB…………..IN MY BASEMENT. I spotted it last week, but last night is crept into my sleeping brain and flipped my eyes open.
This morning I tried to find out what kind of spider builds this type of web. At first all I could find was information on the Australian Funnel Web Spider. Its bite is extremely toxic. A toxic Australian spider. In my basement. Great.
Turns out there are hundreds of varieties of funnel web spiders. I’m going to conclude that the spider that built this particular funnel web is friendly and likes mozzarella cheese, kettle chips, and Oreos (in that order).
I did additional research to figure out what to do. Should I call an exterminator or spider bomb my basement? I still haven’t decided what I’m going to do. There are those who think it’s best to leave spiders be as long as they aren’t in the house. I found some hilarious suggestions in my quest for knowledge about spiders in the basement that are worthy of sharing. Here they are…….
Kidnap one of their generals. Hang him by 3 legs in the open as an example to the rest. Offer amnesty if they’ll give up peacefully. If they don’t…Raid.
Put hedge apples around your house to poison them.
Feed ‘em hot fries. Like, place them in a little bowl in the corner. The spiders become your friends and they will leave you alone. It worked in my basement and my garage! I know it sounds crazy but trust me.
They aren’t immune to a blow-torch, I can guarantee you that.
I fucking hate spiders. I stepped on one a few weeks ago. Turns out it was pregnant. Anyone else ever see that shit?
I keep a 15″ Black Widow in my basement. It acts up now and then, but I think it’s something with the amp.
Listening to: Cupid Shuffle (and dancing too – I hope I don’t have any peeping Toms – if you’re peeping on me I AM SORRY)
Thought for the day: Act as if what you do makes a difference. It does. ~William James
Just when I think I’m a good person, some one comes along, unintentionally kicks my ass, and then shows me that I have a very long road to travel toward being the best person I can be. Non-political charity-ass kickers are the best of the best in our society. They rival any athlete or celebrity. Some are just a paycheck themselves away from needing help. These are the true heroes.
This morning in church, the Executive Director of the Christian Community Outreach Center in Old Hickory made an announcement that they were in dire need of food. I thought, “hmmm……….. I can help.” After church, I went to the store for my weekly supplies and had every intention of buying a crap ton o’ food to donate. Y’all know I have a “problem” with mozzarella cheese. I ended up filling my cart with mostly mozzarella cheese and forgot to buy food for the CCOC. It’s typical. I’m selfish. Mozzarella cheese is my equivalent if “SQUIRREL” for a dog or “BACON” for a man.
After beating myself up for being a poor excuse of a human, I made an announcement on the neighborhood Facebook page about the need for food. I offered help transporting food to the CCOC as their operating hours are not conducive to those that work during the day. Immediately, one of my neighbors messaged me and said, “I have several flats of food you are welcome to take.” So, I decided I would stop by the neighbor’s house on my way BACK to the store to buy food for the CCOC. When I arrived, the neighbor invited me in and took me back to a room with a large walk-in closet. Inside the closet were stacks of canned food. This neighbor has their own community outreach going on in hiding! I suddenly felt unworthiness. Note: the neighbor wishes to remain completely anonymous. Today’s photo features a fraction of what the neighbor piled into my trunk.
When I returned home from the store with my meager contribution (which paled in comparison to my neighbor’s), I had two more Facebook messages in response to my post. One was from the neighbor offering to give even more and asking for a “wish list.” The other was from another neighbor wanting to organize a substantial benefit to help the CCOC. This particular neighbor has been nudged for awhile to do something to help the CCOC. My nudge seemed to be the nudge that pushed her into action. Who knew? Maybe I’m not so horrible after all.
If YOU want to help, you can send a contribution to:
Christian Community Outreach Center
Hours: 10:00 a.m. to 1:00 p.m. Monday through Friday
209 Bridgeway Avenue,
Old Hickory, TN 37138
Listening to: That’s What I Like About You
Thought for the day: I love a dog. He does nothing for political reasons. ~Will Rogers
Abby, my BFF from high school, invited me to her house tonight to celebrate her husband Mark’s birthday. Abby did not inform me that she had invited a couple who owns a catering business and that they were bringing hors d’oeuvres that would turn me into a cookie-blue monster the way anger turns Dr. Bruce Banner into the Hulk. The caterer couple brought “deconstructed stuffed mushrooms” which consisted of mushrooms, smoked tenderloin, and some type of smack yo mamma good cheese all piled into a little delicate pastry. I ate a few. Then I ate some more. At one point, I started having vivid fantasies of opening my mouth like Cookie Monster and shoving the mushrooms, platter and all, inside a big gaping black hole, crumbs dusting the ground like early-winter snowflakes. By the time I picked up the mushroom that is in my hand in this picture, I was trying to be discreet. I snuck off into a vacant room to relish the moment. That’s when Bear, Abby’s dog (also seen in picture with the treasured mushroom), busted me. Look at that face. How could I not share? So, I gave Bear a piece of my pastry. Suddenly, I was human again. Abby walked in a moment later. I tried to hide my transgression of feeding Bear human food, but couldn’t. She scolded me. I looked back at Bear who was doing me proud in how he was savoring the moment. It was worth the scolding I took. Bear and I are now BFFs. We bonded over deconstructed mushrooms.
Shout out to “The Chef and I” for helping to eliminate the memory of the McDonald’s I had consumed earlier in the day. In the fall they will be opening a chef-interactive-type restaurant that sounds really cool. I’m sure you’ll hear more from me about them. Check them out!
https://www.facebook.com/TheChefAndICatering or http://thechefandicatering.com/
A “rebuttal” from “the cat”……
via Bear & the cat’s owner, Abby
I get locked up in the bedroom during the party because “I am a danger to others” and that dog, which some humans believe is from a breed “too dangerous to live”, is BLOGGED about because he ate a treat. And you wonder why I attack you. -Alice
Listening to: Nessun Dorma
Thought for the day: One may go a long way after one is tired. ~French Proverb
Notice the plethora of water coolers. It was HOT today and these young musicians were working their asses off at the height of the sun’s moments of torment. Today’s photo is a section of the Phantom Regiment Drum and Bugle Corps from Illinois during their rehearsal prior to tonight’s Master of Summer Music Games held at Middle Tennessee State University. Phantom Regiment was one of 8 corps competing in tonight’s competition. They placed third. A corps consists of young musicians ranging from12 to 21 years of age. The sound these kids produce is indescribable…………..chocolate for the ears. I had goosebumps on goosebumps listening to this rehearsal. I can honestly say I’ve never had goosebumps in 100 degree heat until today.
Listening to: Some Beethoven I don’t know
Thought for the day: I can’t think. I ate too much!
Taste Makers of Hillsboro Village Restaurant Crawl
I spent tonight shoving samples of food down the ole pie hole. My group visited 5 different restaurants in the Hillsboro Village area. I bailed when my group went to the dessert locales. I know. Shocking isn’t it? I ate so much I have brainstipation. The restaurants included Zumi Shushi Japanese Chicken, Belcourt Taps and Tapas, Cabana, Sunset Grill, and Bombasha Brazillian. The cost was $20 and well worth it.
Today’s photo demonstrates what I learned tonight. At one point we settled down at a restaurant and ordered food more substantial than a sample. When the waitress brought out bread and set out the bread plates, I looked around confused and said, “Which bread plate is mine?” My friend Jo Ann, sitting next to me, demonstrated (the photo) how to remember where the bread plate goes by holding up her hands in a b and d form. Of course we could probably come up with some other hilarious reasons for her holding her hands like this, but I’ll save that for later. B and D……….. The bread goes on the left and drink goes on the right. The more ya know!
Listening to: Some Nights
Thought for the day: It is impossible to imagine Goethe or Beethoven being good at billiards or golf (or Gatorade brewing). ~H.L. Mencken
Cue the 2001 A Space Odyssey Music………..
GATORADE BREW MASTER’S CONTEST OF CHAMPIONS – 2012
Tonight I returned to the gory battle field that is the Gatorade Brew Master’s Contest of Champions to compete for the beautiful piece of trophy visible in today’s photo. The competition involves making vats of Gatorade for the 130+ member McGavock High School marching band. There is a science to it. It’s not one simple flavor. My competition? The Godfather of Gatorade………dun dun dun………Nick Passomato. He’s been making Gatorade for the band for 25+ years.
The judges for tonight’s competition were the band members themselves. The identities behind who made which brew were suppose to be kept a secret during the judging process. The moment the judging commenced one of the band leaders (Erin- *hugs* ) mouthed to me, “Which one is yours?” She wanted me to win. I cheated. I told her. She immediately started skillfully campaigning for me. One of the parents standing nearby that witnessed what had transpired held up her iPhone and said, “Siri, how do you dispose of a Gatorade Brew Master Champion’s body?” I suddenly had visions of my body floating in the bottom of the river with concrete filled Gatorade canisters tied to my feet.
When it came time to vote, the band director asked for a show of hands. I was the obvious winner. I knew it. Nick knew it. Then, much to our surprise, the band director declared it a tie. HE CHEATED ON BEHALF OF NICK!!! That’s Gatorade competitor karma for ya. That’s okay; I’ll be back next year. Victory will be mine. Muwhahahaha.
Listening to: meditative ocean waves
Thought for the day: Hope weed eats eternal!
Down in the depths of my cold dark cellar where a spider the size of Godzilla once lived and crickets run amuck lies a graveyard of mass proportions. It is a graveyard where weed eaters and yard equipment go to die a lonely death. Matters are not helped by the fact that the ghost of the man who hand-dug the cellar, Digging Bill, probably lurks around looking for his next dime to buy a pint of ale (Digging Bill was a real person – Godzilla the spider was really not that big).
My name is Kris and I murder lawn equipment. The idea occurred to me that I should just start burying the ones I hideously mutilate with my stupidity in the soft clay floor that lines my cellar. Imagine what residents from 100 years from now would think when they made the discovery? It’d be a good gag.
I have no idea what it is about weed eaters but for the past 20 years I have gone through them like underwear. I have yet to find one that I don’t break within a year’s time and yet to find one that can handle me (it’s kind of like my man problems). I go all Salivador Dali eyed any time there is an infomercial on promising the perfect weed eater. Alas, I am on about my 20th weed eater this year. I used the latest weed eater for the third time today without saying the F word. Hope weed eats eternal ya’ll!
Note: if you’re British and reading this, a weed eater is a strimmer.
Note: Tomorrow, I go to defend my Gatorade Brewmaster’s title. See http://jellyjumbles.com/?p=172.
I may not sleep tonight. Stay tuned.
Listening to: Every Breath You Take
Thought for the day: People that hate cats will come back as mice in their next life. ~Faith Resnick
As a single middle-aged woman I have a fear that I’ll grow old alone, refuse to throw away Tootsie Roll wrappers, and start collecting stuff………..like cats. Meet Miss Kitty. She was thrown from a car pregnant. If Pearl (my dog) did not have a penchant for cat canapés, Miss Kitty would be at my house right now. I met Miss Kitty at the Pet Smart this weekend. I don’t understand the piece of shit people who toss animals from cars. Thank God there are those who care about the Miss Kittys of this world.
I think many middle-aged single women share my fears. My fears, however, are intensified by an experience I had a long time ago. The year after I divorced (when dinosaurs roamed the Earth), I moved into a very small house next to a 70-ish year-old woman whose house was in extreme disrepair. I never thought anything of it. She wore a wig that was always half-way on her head, she smelled of urine, and she always had the rouge circles on her cheeks…………….but I liked her. She was sweet. Several of the uppity long-time residents said to me, “Stay away from her. She’s an alcoholic. She’s Crazy.” BLAH! BLAH! BLAH! I helped her as much as I could, but I never went in her house. Then, one day, I woke up to see fire engines, news cameras, and cop cars outside her house. Turns out, she was an EXTREME hoarder. She made those people on the TV show look like amateurs. I never knew. It was so bad that she had, like 20, dead animal carcasses in her house and trash piled up to the ceiling. They carted her off to some mental facility and I never saw her again. I am terrified of becoming her.
Sometimes I think as long as I have a big dog who hates mailmen, visitors, and cats, I won’t become that next door neighbor. I mean, there’s no room in my house to collect anything. The hair I sweep up daily from Pearl is enough to supply a small toupee’ factory!
Listening to: We Are Family
Thought for the day: Sunny day, chasing the clouds away = time spent with my daughter.
I never received a school supply list when I returned to school as a child and was a bit gobsmacked by the lists my children would bring home each year. Their lists were always a mile long and included some bizarre items. Hand sanitizer was always one of the items. How did my generation survive without hand sanitizer (shakes my head)? I digress.
I thought once my children graduated from high school we were done with school supply lists. I never dreamed I would be confronted with a sorority supply list. Christian is a member of Kappa Delta at theUniversityofTennesseeatChattanooga. This is her first year as a sister. I had no idea what being a sister would mean. She recently presented me with a list of clothing required for their rush week. Today, we set out to fulfill the list. The clothing items she is required to have include red heels, a green or yellow flowy shirt, denim capris, and white pants/skirt. We have the most difficulty finding the red heels. The instructions were something along the lines of no cherry red, no vinyl, no suede, no overly rounded toes, no pointy toes and no dark red. I looked at Christian and said, “What’s left?” When we finally did find a pair Christian said, “Do these look to stripper girl?” To me, queen of the ballet flats, the shoes did indeed look “stripper girl.” Thank God there was not a “no stripper girl shoes” on the list. Whew.