All Things Royal - 2010 and beyond

All Things Intentional

2012-10-24T11:07:00.001-05:00

It's been said that good intentions pave a road to Hell. In my case, it's a super-highway with eight lanes.

I do; however, have the best of intentions. I wake up every day full of vigor and raring to go. However; somewhere between guzzling coffee and checking Facebook to see who took their garbage out that day, got a haircut, or cleaned between their toes, my list of good intentions finds me paving yet a new lane.

So...I make lists on Post-It notes. Several. I tape them to my purse, the inside of my car so I can view them, and also different strategic spots throughout the house. No space, living or otherwise, is sacred when it comes to Post-It note "sticking." Ask my dog.

I even carry said list into work and tape it to myself. Customers observe the list and go, "Oh aren't you smart! I wish I were that organized." Bawwhahahaha...(one born every day, eh?) Of course with all things being ABOUT ME, I beam, offer them my best philosophical look, and say pointing to the sky, "Well you know what they say...never put off today...bla...bla...bla." Hey, they started it.

Oh a good day, I've been known to go as far as actually reading the day's list. And then somewhere in the large, open space between my ears (think empty gymnasium) my intentions crumble and the list is forgotten.

At the end of the day, my list is replaced with a new and improved list; and the beat goes on. Are you sensing a pattern here?

I've realized something about myself. I am one of those people who just like to make list. Unfortunately, that's as far as it goes. In reading over the last 25 or so lists I've made, one could say I am statistically below average on accomplishing goals. So low I could walk upright under a snake's belly. Sigh...

Then again, it's all in perspective. I like to think I'm doing my part in keeping a lot of people employed at the Post-It Notes factories.

Oh crap, that reminds me...

1. Need more Post-It Notes
2. Thank neighbor for cake they brought over last year
3. ...

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Chipwrecked

2012-06-24T18:10:00.000-05:00

I'm all about food. I should be...I work at a grocery store. I live, breathe, and ah...eat it. Every single day. I see the good, the bad, and the "what the H were they thinking?"

Take chips, for instance. On Saturdays before leaving, I browse through each aisle looking for a treat. One needs that special treat when one's watching TV late at night, am I right girls? Sooo...here I go, looking for that special something when what do I see? Hot Dog-flavored potato chips. Yes, you read that right.

OMG...is nothing sacred? I don't know about you, but when I eat a hot dog, I want the chips nestled beside my dog, not in it. Besides, if you skip the dogs entirely, aren't you putting a lot of people at the hot dog packaging plants out of work?

Let's not forget the hot-dog buns. Two industries; dead. Kaput. Wait! What about wherever the meat comes from? (No, I don't know and don't tell me and yes, I do know they don't come from trees. How dumb do you think I am? Don't answer that, it's one of those retro questions) But doesn't this strange combination of chips put those folks out of biz as well?

Food science has gone crazy, if you ask me. It's a dang chipwreck! Already there are:

dill pickle potato chips
BLT (bacon, lettuce and tomato) chips
ketchup potato chips (um...I LOVE these...they should call them Ketchips!)
pizza-tasting chips
sour cream
Parmesan and herb
salt and vinegar
BBQ, Onion, and on and on.

So why am I ranting about chips? Think about it...if this industry is so smart, why haven't they made any chocolate-flavored chips? Margarita-flavored chips? OREO-FLAVORED CHIPS, for Pete's sake? How hard could it be?

I'm thinking of boycotting the entire industry (except the Ketchips) until they meet my demands. Who's with me?

JJ - Once again tirelessly thinking for the entire world. Sigh...I doooo what I cannn.

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The Queen Speaks on Aging...or What Seniors Know

2012-06-20T08:55:00.000-05:00

My friend Ruth wrote a blog on aging. You can read it Here. I read it twice to absorbed the wisdom there, and to enjoy feeling good about my age.

I have some thoughts of my own about aging. Since my brain (yes, I have one) is so full of "stuff," I thought I'd spit them out making room for more...ah...stuff. And you thought this was just another pretty face, am I right? Peeshaw...

Senior Queen's Top 10 Reasons Aging is a Good Thang

1. Seniors know that singing out loud every day will exercise and flex-i-ze your jaw muscles. Guess what? This makes it possible to cram six Oreo's into your mouth at one time - instead of the customary five. Singing in the car is a good time to get in that exercise. Ignore people who point, stare, and giggle at red lights. They are probably communist and don't eat Oreo's.

2. Seniors know that ugly feet are normal and anyway, who gives a rip? When was the last time you heard a man say, "Oh Bro! I just have to ask that babe out...did you get a load of her feet? They just don't make um like that anymore."

3. Seniors know that wrinkles = laughs. If you aren't laughing, then you are probably dead, or you wish you were. Me? I'm soooo alive.

4. Seniors know that goal setting began with someone who had bad habits they wanted to change. Bad habits are an art form and can take many years to develop properly. Think it through, peeps. No bad habits = no goals in life. Duh? If you don't have any bad habits, there again, you are probably dead. Me? Oh honey, I'm so, so, alive. (You can add another "so" in there)

5. Flabby arms have multiple uses. If we didn't have them, how would one permanently indent our "grandmaw" scent into the grand-children's tiny brains? They will recall it years down the road. I know I do. Flabby arms and hugging children tightly, also comes in handy when they want to repeat to your friend what you said about them last week. Tip: When children turn blue, lighten up your hold just a tad till friend is out of sight. See? Do I have to do all the thinking for you people? Sigh...it's hard being the Queen.

6. Seniors have learned that when a store announces proudly, "No, I'm sorry, we don't offer Senior Discounts," a pretend heart attack will get you 10% off, immediately...if for no reason other than to get you off their floor and out the door. Mention loose bowels and you get 25%! Have a REAL heart attack (this is optional) nets you 50%! No, don't thank me, I dooo what I cannn.

7. Seniors are wise and grasped the art of multitasking even at a younger age...say, like 50. For instance, if you didn't have a big tummy, where the heck would you sit your plate of food while watching TV, or playing Solitaire?

8. Seniors know that attending funerals and saying, "Don't she/he look good?" is mandatory. Taking BBQ and potato salad to their home afterwards; however, is reserved only for Southern Seniors. If I'm not mistaken, Northern Seniors take some sort of macaroni salad and/or dead moose.

9. Seniors know that volunteering at the local hospital not only provides insider information as to who kick the bucket that day, but allows you to be the first to deliver your homemade potato salad. Or dead moose; depending on your location.

10. Seniors know that the REAL goals in life are to tell family and friends how deeply you care for them, and make someone feel good today, if only for a moment. Do it just because you can, not because they owe you twenty bucks. Be good to yourself. Eat an Oreo or two...or five, sing in the car, take a friend to lunch (me), walk among nature, love a dog, cat, or a moose (alive, preferably), but most of all, love yourself.

JJ - loving God, family, life, and herself. In that order.

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The Final Good-bye...or is it?

2012-06-10T08:49:00.002-05:00

Writing is sacred to me. I haven't written in such a long time; mainly because my heart didn't have anything to say. You see, when I write, it's a window to my core. It tells the world what's going on inside of me.

To some, that's scary. Don't worry, your secrets are as safe as a Mother's love. Or as my dear friend Nancy used to say, "I'll keep it as good a secret as you did." Ouch!

Nancy kept me grounded and no whining. What kind of friend is that?

The truest kind. The kind of friend that finds the good in others even when you have to dig to China to find one morsel of good. One that will shake you and say, "Enough already! Put your big girl panties on and deal with it. Now, let's go have some Chinese food. That and duct tape can fix anything."

You know, she was right.

Nancy died. A disease ravaged her body and claimed a sad victory. First, I was angry at Nancy for supposedly giving up and leaving. Then sadness overwhelmed my soul. Mix that with the anger and what do you get? A woman who could walk upright under a snake's belly. I've never been lower.

I wasn't there when Nancy died, but I knew the instant she left. Gut? A solid, 40-year friendship? Dunno. I just know I felt something leave my heart.

It's taken me months to realize that it wasn't Nancy leaving that I felt that day, and it wasn't "the final good-bye." Nor was she making a hole in my heart to be filled up with endless tears. Always the organizer, Nancy was simply making room for all the memories to nestle in, get comfy, and nudge me on days when the loss seemed unbearable. Like today.

I miss my traveling buddy, my girl-pal, my confidant. I have so much to tell her; so much has happened. I'd write her a letter only I don't have stamps and let's face it, my "mail" person can't hit MY mailbox. So what are the odds my post would make it to Heaven?

I'd call, but I couldn't afford the long-distance charges, although AT&T would declare me their new, best friend.

So for today, like so many others, I'll gently retrieve the memories from their permanent home. I'll laugh, I'll cry and I'll hold conversations that only Nancy and I would understand.

I'll massage each and every memory until the edges are worn. Then, just like a favorite book that's been devoured again and again, I'll place them back where they belong. Most of all, I'll thank her for always being there...and for being here now.

I'll look for you in the clouds.JJ - BFF cloud watcher...

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Life Before Facebook

2011-11-09T07:28:00.020-06:00

Don’t get me wrong, I love Facebook. So much so that I’ve added it to my early morning routine. It goes something like this.

1. Wake up. Put feet on floor. Avoid mirror.
2. Make coffee. Tap fingers while waiting on coffee
3. Cheat, slip cup under agonizing slow drip and get first cup
4. Sit in front of computer until coffee hits brain

After fueling, I check Facebook to see who’s celebrating another birthday, what animals need rescuing, and other miscellaneous posts. It’s what I do. However, some days it leaves me cold. It’s on those days that I’m reminded of a time when writing/receiving letters or cards was an important line of communicating with friends and family.

Whatever happened to writing a page or two, or even a short message (dare I say it?) longhand; and then actually mailing them? Who doesn’t love getting something in the mail besides, “we’re going to come and get your stuff if you don’t pay.” Bawwhahaha…you want my dust? Puleaseeee, be my guest.

For the record, I do have ONE friend who writes and it is always so exhilarating to know a letter is on the way. I wait impatiently with double—no wait, triple excitement as I watch for the post-person to deliver my friend’s fun-filled, detailed letter. Planting myself by the window, I watch…and wait…and wait. Kinda like the coffee thing.

Then…spotting the vehicle carrying my bounty, I race out to the mailbox in case she even thinks about NOT stopping. Post-person pulls up, rolls her eyes (why does she do this?) as I thrust my hand in her face and yell at the top of my lungs, ‘GIMME! GIMME!’ By the way, what’s a duffus?

Sadly, it seems writing letters or sending cards is a dying art. Well, except for bill collectors. Yet why?

Its fun, your replies can stir creative juices in your mind, and it keeps the post office in biz. It is a win-win.

Thank goodness peeps like Pam have excellent cards for practically nutin' so I can continue spreading joy (or some would say, manure) to my buds. Why not write to someone today; specifically, ME. Make it as straightforward as you want. Or lie. Lying is acceptable along with gossip, half-truths, and even no truths. Just write. I’ll be waiting outside with my dictionary looking up new words; like duffus.

Queenie - Waiting impatiently for letters, cards, and what the heck; donations in large, unmarked green bills; not the other kind.

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Top 5 Most Annoying Commercials

2010-11-10T06:27:00.011-06:00

Every once in a while I need a rant. Here tis. Commercials annoy me. Like I need a car that can drive faster than I can sneeze? Or see a family of mucus doing the rumba in my throat?

However, if I listed every single commercial that annoys me, this blog would never end. So I narrowed it down to the "Top 5 Most Annoying Commercials" here in the Queendom.

Here they are listed one to five, with number FIVE being the big winner.

The AD SHAMEPAIGN...

1. Swifter Duster - Somebody please fire that ad person. You're not funny, you're overpriced, and I have one word left for you. MUTE. This commercial makes my butt want to crochet barbwire. Nuff said.

2. Victoria's Secret - Here's the REAL secret. Out of the bazillion women in the world, 10 can wear your "stuff." The rest of us visit the store, find nothing fits our bodes, gag at the prices, and then go home and eat a box of Oreo's. I have one word for you and it's a special one. P-O-R-N. What's the difference in that and VS commercials? And now I'm making room for all of the comments from the bazillion men in the world.

3. Old Navy - The talking mannequin movie was done in the 70s. Get over it. I have one word for you. Done. Make that two. Boring. There are tons of ad people unemployed. Fine one that's hungry and dump the ones insisting we'll LOVE seeing more talking mannequin's using words like "bootie." Hell-O OLD NAVY! Old being the operative word here.

4. Musinex - Do I really have to tell you that the short, ugly, slimy, fat guy with the raspy voice WILL NOT, I repeat, WILL NOT make me rush out and buy your product? I have one word for you. Gross. Make that one, GROSS. Notice the all caps? Pay attention because you almost made it to number five which is the MOST ANNOYING.

And the MOST ANNOYING COMMERCIALS ARE...

5. Political Ads - I could write a thesis here. You call our homes all day with recorded messages AND after 7:00 at night, UNINVITED, and right in the middle of "Dancing with the Stars." This alone should get you jail time.

You invade our TV's, ad nauseam (pun intended), and you sling mud against your opponent thinking this will make YOU look all innocent-like. My kids used to try that one. Didn't work for them either.

Do you stop there? Are you KIDDING me?

You send mail giving us more "dirt" on your opponent, you blatantly campaign at funerals (Hey, why not? In some states, the dead vote anyway), and you actually stand on the highway waving at us as we go to work. Some call this "target practice." I'm just sayin'...

Listen up...we're tired of you. You have nothing new to say, no respect for the voter's intelligence, and you never tell us what YOU will do. What you give us is the standard lines of "more jobs, more industry for our states, then more mud slinging. This is older than the dust in my living room. Too bad I can't "Pledge" you away...Pledge. That's the word I have for you.

The Pledge of Allegiance...try reading it. Or the Constitution. Remember those?

Quite frankly, I would love to see you run away with the mop and the mannequin, in fancy underwear that rides up in places that never see sunshine, doing the rumba.

JJ - Feeling better already! Who made YOUR list?

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Senior Citizens Discounts - I'm in!

2010-10-27T07:40:00.005-05:00

I love coupons, don't you? Just think. You can get 50 cents off a product if you buy ten of them! How cool is that?

Whatttt? Oh sure, like you couldn't use ten cans of potted meat? I suppose next you'll tell me you've never heard of potted meatloaf. Potted spaghetti? Mac and potted cheese? Potted roast? A ~~milk~~ potted bath?

No matter; 'cause recently I discovered there's an even better discount going on called, "Senior Citizen discounts." Now I know you find it hard to believe I fall into this category, but alas, da Queen here is a SC. Young at heart, yet senior in body and mind. Let's hope they don't catch up to each other.

AnyHOO...did you know you can get Senior Coffee at McDonalds, Hardee's and all the other fast food places? Not only that, but you can drive around and go back thru the window and get another one! Same discount. I ain't lying, either. Another three trips and you have a full cup, too. Only in America.

Movies, restaurants, hotels, and even some concerts offer senior discounts. Car insurance? Discount. Clothing? Discount. Some places even DOUBLE your coupons on Saturday. I swear, senior discounts are like bird poop, they are everywhere! There's even discounts for Gyms, if you're crazy enough to join one.

So tell me; why aren't doctors and hospitals in on the game? Hello? Would it hurt them to offer a dollar or two off broken bones or surgery? I can just see it now..."Ah, Ms Queenie, that will be $14,278 dollars to remove your appendix, BUT! Today, if you let us take out that nasty old gall bladder, you get a two-fer. Two for the price of one! Whatcha say? You in?"

A two-fer? You betcha! This old gal wasn't born yesterday and I know a deal when I hear one. I may have to cut back on the potted meat sales, but a two-fer? I'm in.

Come one peeps...get with it. Seniors rule. At least for the next twenty years or so.

Discounts - that's what I'm talkin' bout.

JJ - Plotting, potting, and discounting her way through life.

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Grandchildren Teach Us

2010-08-30T08:31:00.011-05:00

My grandchildren offer me insight, eye-openers, and heartburn. They also give me pure and unconditional love. Who else does that?

The most important thing they offer though is lessons in life, should I care to learn them.

After this past weekend at ~~Bernie's~~ grandma’s house, I was once again the student.

My grandchildren taught me:

1. Kids are smarter than we are, or were. When discussing upcoming birthdays, it seems I'm not "with it." In their hip language, one said, "Grandma," (insert rolling eyes); "Check THAT off your list. Nooooobody gets THAT!" Well excuse me...if an etch-a-sketch was good enough for ME at six, it should be good enough for you.

A laptop? I don't thinkkkkkk so. Who do I look like, Donald Thrump? (Okay, maybe on a bad hair day, but that's beside the point)

2. Kids love, absolutely LOVE games and especially hide and seek, i.e., hiding things of great value from grandma. Anybody seen my glasses?

3. Kids love to sleep with grandmas. Two kids and one fluffy grandma cannot sleep in one bed no matter how much you cling to the side. Don't EVEN suggest taking out the three dolls, a teddy bear missing a nose (that's another story), or their favorite books, movies, and half-eaten fruit. Snug as a bug in a rug...sigh.

4. Kids want to help. Teaching them responsibility is a good thing unless they decide to water your plants when you're not around...and the hardwood floors. Shop vacs...they are our friend.

5. Kids love bath time and getting naked. They also love to watch grandma's hissy fit when they run outside to greet the neighbors. Never turn your back on a 4-year old. EVER.

6. Kids love to dance; however, showing them YOUR moves from 196_ is a big mistake. Suddenly, you feel your age and the hysterical laughter doesn't help.

7. Kids love to help make milkshakes. Note to self: Check lid on mixer. Keep shop vac near.

8. Kids love to play dress up. Especially wearing your favorite blouse as they eat Spaghetti-O's. Ewww...Shop vac's can't fix that.

9. Kids love makeup and perfume. They love smearing it on until they resemble hookers...oh, and making the cat smell pretty. At least now the cat can't hide. I just follow the smell. Padlocks, they are ALSO our friend

10. Kids love their grandmas. Why not? It's the only place they can come, totally be kids, and eat, drink, and ah…be scary.

I love my grandchildren more than my life. They make me so happy when they arrive. On more adventurous days I’ll admit, I'm equally happy when they depart.

My grandbeauties have taught me that sleep, glasses, and live plants—these things can be replaced—but love, unconditional love bestowed with giant hugs and sloppy kisses...never.

JJ, the proud grandma knowing they just don't make a Hallmark for that.

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When Old Friends Collide

2010-08-16T08:53:00.003-05:00

This past week I had the pleasure of dinner with some classmates from high school...the "girls," as I've labeled them.

Yes, we graduated like a 100 years ago, but that night, just that one night, we were sixteen again.

The chatter was nonstop and the laughter, tales, and love for one another was alive and intact, even after all these years.

By the way, if they mention anything I did in school, it's a lie. I was framed, I tell ya, framed.

Time may think it has been successful in being unkind to us and our bodies, but time be damned. I saw girls that have been transformed into some of the most beautiful women on earth.

I saw nothing but sparkles in each woman's eyes. There was evidence of growth and maturity of the best kind as they told the stories of their lives since school. I witnessed a love for each other that cannot be measured, nor interrupted. Not even by time.

Yes, the wrinkles and our "fluffiNESS," was there. No one noticed. Like a buried time capsule, we opened every memory and discovered lost treasures, once again.

Each "girl" undoubtedly left with a full heart. Time may have changed us physically, but time cannot alter hearts that are connected. It cannot penetrate, or harm, the love that was passed back and forth across the table that night, because just like the ketchup bottles, it was refilled.

As the nice people at the restaurant turned out the lights, (Yes, we closed them down) we parted with many hugs and with tears, and also promises to meet again, very soon.

I'll not deny that time does march on, but for one night--that one, special night--time was gracious and oh so giving, allowing us to fill the atmosphere with our yesterday's.

Most of all, we walked away knowing...we did, and we do, matter.

Dinner = $14.00 bucks and worth every penny
Whose boobs now touches our knees = It was a draw
Who did what in school = I was framed I tell ya!

Rekindled friendships = Priceless

JJ - Proudly, one of the "girls"

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New Friends Needed

2010-07-26T06:23:00.008-05:00

I have a friend who just put in a pool. She's worried that Wally World might not have the outdoor cushions for her lounge chairs in the color she wants.

My heart bleeds.

Another friend just received a new car for her birthday from hubby...plus tickets to her favorite entertainer, a first class hotel, and moola to spend on...whatever. It's out of town, so should she drive the new Lexus or take the Corvette?

What a burden.

And yet another said she's retiring and found out her retirement was actually more than she's bringing home NOW. But she's worried and has committed herself to monthly pedicures instead of weekly.

It's a cold world (insert rolling eyes)

Then there's my friend who says its near impossible to find a summer home on the river complete with furnishings...this was said as she forked over 300.00 for a pair of shoes.

Let's see...that's 150.00 per foot.

I'm not jealous of my buds. Okay, big fat lie. I'm jealous down to the bone, but I DO love them. Honest injun.

It's obvious though, I need a new set of friends.

I've decided to hang with deadbeats from now on so that my life can appear suckLESS. So, if you want to run with da Queen, you must first meet my low standards.

Da Queen's Running Buddy Qualifications are:

You work your fingers to the bone yet you're always broke
You're wearing underwear the same age as your oldest child
You're car is older than the underwear
You buy store brand items vowing they do not taste like cardboard
You've convinced your cat that bologna is good for them
Your 401K is...wait, never mind, you don't have one
You like fried pickles (I just threw that one in, it's optional)
The Salvation Army gives YOU stuff
You don't have any bad vices cause you can't afford to be bad
You peep through your neighbors windows to watch cable
You rob Peter to pay Paul...and Mary
Your "decision-making" dial is set permanently on stupid

Applications are now being accepted on a first-come basis.

Whoever said writing was a profitable business, didn't write humor for a living. The line forms at the rear. Mine...for kicking.

JJ - Down and out in Alabama

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What's in a Name?

2010-07-20T07:27:00.006-05:00

A friend of mine says her name gets slung around and misused all the time. Same here. When you have a name that is synonymous with a state, and you live in a town that is also a part of that state, guess where your mail goes.

Living in Athens, AL, but having the first name, Georgia, means that well-meaning letters and post go to Athens, Georgia, then they are returned to sender.

That's when I'll get a call or email saying, "Hey, your letter/card/check was returned to me." CHECK? You sent my CHECK to the wrong place? A pox on you! Why I ought-a-- Ahem...sorry.

I've considered having my name changed to prevent this, but what's in a name? Heritage, that's what.

I was named after my Uncle George who drowned at a tender, young age...and I adored him. He was kind, gentle, and everyone that knew him loved him. I'm hoping for name-osmosis. Hey, it could happen. So change my name? No way.

But it's not only mail that gets sent to that other state, it's callers who don't know me and who take liberties with the pronunciation...LIKE Georgie (I detest that one), or Georgianna, or Georgina. How hard is it is say, GEORGIA? It's two syllables, for Pete's sake. GEOR-GIA.

There you have it. One name, two syllables. Except, of course, when it was Mom. Then it became Georgia Lynn Staggers! Did you do ____! (fill in the blank) and yes, I usually did it. Bawwwhahahah...but that's another story for another day.

I'm proud of my name and love the fact that Uncle George is looking down and most likely saying, "I-ya-ya...that girl...is she a mess or what?"

I ams who I ams...you can call me Georgie (but you're out of the Will), call me Georgianna, call me Hard-headed Hanna, or anything else you want to call me...within reason, of course. I will answer. Especially if you have a check in hand.

A Queen by any other name is still a Queen.

Geor-gia (pronounced Jaw Jaw when said realllll slow and reallll Southern)

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Celebrating the 4th, and Towanda

2010-07-02T10:20:00.012-05:00

Americans everywhere are cleaning out the old grills, making homemade ice cream, buying up hot dogs (the nectar of the Gods) and getting ready to celebrate the 4th of July. Sure wish the firemen would let me use my grill again.

AnyHOO...I'm celebrating too. Only my celebration of freedom and independence is two-fold today.

Freedom and independence means celebrating first why we are free (Thanks to ALL of our Armed Forces, love you!) but it also means celebrating who we really are because we have been given this precious choice.

It means never having to tell a lie about how you feel, what you think, or if those pants really do make your best friend look wider than a moving van.

It also means being all that you can be, stretching yourself daily, and living the life you really want; despite the naysayers.

I like to think of myself as Towanda (Kathy Bates) from the movie Fried Green Tomatoes.

Whenever I pull into a Wally World parking lot, I always remember those morons who deliberately steal Towanda's parking space right out from under her. Bawwwhahahaha...bad move, whippersnappers.

In an instant, her life of being the whipping post for others and always doing what they told her she should do, flashed before her eyes.

Towanda snapped. Enough was enough. She slammed into their car and kept doing it until she felt empowered. She drove off a new and happy person, changed for life. From that day forward, she was true to her own self.

Are you being true to yourself?

You don't have to run over anybody, or their car, to be the woman/man you want to be. Just follow your gut and live your dream. If you aren't living your dreams, whose dreams are you living?

Towanda yourself!

If you want to be a singer, do it.
If you want to be a dancer, do it.
If you want to be an actor/actress, for Pete's sake, do it!

If you want to be a humor writer, a pox on you. Just joshin' with ya, Hun...do it!

Celebrate who you "really" are inside and if you start having doubts, just shout to the world, TOWANDA ...and feel the power!

I know I do...

JJ - Celebrating her TowandaNESS

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Sammie, da Burd

2010-06-30T08:06:00.007-05:00

I've been chastised---and by a burd, no less.

Sammie, a feathered friend living in Arizona, said I never mention her anymore. There's a good reason for that.

Sammie is...or can be, funnier than me. Da Queen don't do "funnier than me." Seems she's learned the mastery of mock. She can sound like the owner's dog Max, the owners themselves, and dare I say it, impersonate bodily functions better than the movie Porkies...if you get my drift.

Sam's house is always jumping. Just when her owners think it's safe to relax, there comes a voice identical to the hubby that says something like, "OMG! Did you do that? What the devil did you eat? You're sick, you know that?" And the fight is on.

Hubby and wifey don't speak for a week. Her pleading her innocents, Sammie suppressing giggles and looking like "Whatttt?"

If company calls, look out. Just when Mommy thinks she's got the guest fooled into thinking she slaved all day over a hot stove and cleaning house, here comes the ~~stool~~ perch pigeon matching her own voice with, "Glad you liked dinner. It was catered and by the way, I have a maid. You know, those pants really DO make your butt look big."

If this wasn't enough, Sammie barks just like their dog Max. Try sleeping with barking going on round the clock. Max spends most days in "time out" and thinking about eating a burd...

Doorbells, no problem. Mommy has learned to just sit tight until she hears banging on the door. Thennnnn...she gets up to answer it.

When the FedEx man enters wearing his uniform shorts, Sammie whistles a woof call. Try explaining that it wasn't YOU...it was a bird. Uh huh, sure babe says the FedEx man as he leaves you with a wink.

New neighbors drop by to introduce themselves and bearing yummy food, Sammie comes out with, "You expect us to eat THAT crap?!!"

You gotta luv Sammie's sense of humor...and timing. However, if I were Sammie Da Burd, I would listen very carefully when Mommy whispers to Daddy about serving up "Sammie Da Sandwich." I'm just saying...

JJ - With da wurd on da burd.

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Animals, they are our friends

2010-06-28T08:07:00.014-05:00

I was taking a break from blogging, but when something comes along that is near and dear to my heart, what's a Queen suppose to do?

I miss my Trixie, my Boxer, every single day and know first hand the joy and love a pet can bring to our lives. I now have a cat, Miss Kitty, pretty original, eh? Soon I hope to have another Boxer (who doesn't eat cats).

I believe strongly in helping cats, dogs, birds, fish, and every living creature on the face of the planet...ahhhh...except snakes. Ewwww...I get the heebee jeebee's just typing the word. Oh and alligators; except of course the one's around the moat here at the castle. I feed them door-to-door salesmen. Hey, alligators have to eat too!

The reason for this blog? Here tis...

Rikki's Refuge, a wonderful no-kill shelter in Orange, VA, needs your vote to win The All-Star Animal Rescue Site $100,000 Shelter Challenge. Can you image what that moola could do to help a shelter?

That's where YOU, my loyal readers come in. You can show you care by voting for them in this challenge. Rikki's has over 1200 rescue animals of all breeds and really needs the money from this challenge. Please take the time to vote today and pass this on to your friends.

You have my thanks, and the thanks of the precious animals. If you want to help, please go to this LINK, put in US (if you live in the US), then put in VA...just go to page 12 and scroll down till you see RIKKI. Vote. You'll be asked to confirm your vote by typing in what picture you see (like a bird, dog, fish, etc).

That's it. Done. You've given voice to the ones who have no voice. If you ask me, that's a great way to start a Monday.

JJ--AND Miss Kitty.

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TGIF - Thank Goodness It's Finished!

2010-06-25T06:39:00.009-05:00

I did it! I did 30 blogs in 30 days. (Queen moves arms in a circular motion gyrating her fluffy self round 'n round). Cough...spurt...cough...Okay, enough celebrating.

To all my adoring fans, both of you, I want to say the past 30 days have brought me more joy than a room full of Oreo's...or even licking the screen of a Russell Crowe pix. Um...I reallllly didn't do that. Okay once, you happy now?

You've helped me dig deep into the recesses of my mind and dig up old memories that I thought were long forgotten. You've inspired me to tell on others AND yourselves (will you ever learn?) and given me NEW gossi--ah, fodder for my blogs; almost daily.

Because of your generosity, I want to leave you today with what I've learned.

1. I've learned that my friend who lives in Warrington, VA, who is married to Pam, will hold on to old things 'till they disintegrate. And beyond that, if he can. Duct tape is his friend. You should see his airplane. If he offers you a ride, DEEEEECLINE. See Dave? I never mentioned who you were.

2. I've learned that my buddies at RPG love a good laugh better than just about anybody I know. And...they know class when they see it. Big shout out to my buds.

3. I've learned that no matter what pocket you've put your keys in--when you're carrying multiple bags of groceries and get to the door, the keys will NOT be in the one next to the your free hand. Murphy's Law. Okay, so maybe that doesn't have anything to do with writing...but it will.

4. I've learned that reading other people's blogs, articles and such, makes me grow in ways that don't affect my hips; just my heart.

5. I've learned that I am above average when it comes to some things, like getting old-fashion whoopin's, or being grounded for things you KNOW I didn't do. Then of course, there is stuffing 10 Oreo's in my mouth at once while humming "The Battle Hymn of Republic." Oh sure, like YOUUUU can do that? Puleaseeee.

6. I've learned that no matter where I go or what I write, there are people who need to laugh, if only for a sec. They need a break from all that falls down around their heads. Somehow, I want to do that for them. I learned that my heart believes God said, "I'm giving you a chance to help others. Don't screw this one up."

To all who joined me in the last 30 days, ever faithful, ever so kind with your words of encouragement, I adore you. I've added you to my ~~expensive~~ Christmas ~~gift~~ card list.

To those who didn't, may your children grow up ugly and dateless and live with you forever.

JJ--Writing till she's pushing up daisies.

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Why I failed Beauty School

2010-06-24T05:40:00.019-05:00

Among the dreams I had as a youngster, being a beautician (do they call it that anymore?) was right at the top. My Barbie dolls suffered under my training and at one point in time, so did the dog.

By the time I finished giving the dolls a makeover, they closely resembled Soupy Sales...on drugs. Ken wouldn't come near them. Chicken poop.

I showed him. My next occupation was a surgeon. Let's just say Ken became known as Kenirita...bawwwhahaha. But that's another story for another time.

As my hairy exploration continued, our Collie, Ringo, didn't fare as well as the dolls. Ringo got the dye job. Mom and Dad didn't share my vision. I couldn't sit down for a month. Who knew the dye could last so long? Ringo did.

Personally, I thought having matching red hair was becoming. Daddy said the only thing "becoming" was my juvenile delinquent status.

With the dolls and dog off limits, where else to go for training but the sisters. I had four and their middle names were "gullible."

This is where that old adage, "Don't try this at home" could have really come in handy. Where are the wise ones when you need them?

I learned a lot in the summer of '58.

One, hair takes a long, long time to grow back. Two, if your customers are tied to a chair, they tend to scream. Stool pigeons.

Three, if those said screamers don't like the new look, they WILL complain to the management (Mom/Dad). This can result in having your hand-written Beauty School Certification torn off the bathroom wall.

Four, and this is important, neighbors tend to frown, LOUDLY, on using their little darlings as ~~experiments~~ customers.

And of course, five is...nothing, not even a good old-fashion whoopin' can turn off a creative mind.

I moved on to dentistry. Some day the "gullibles" may even thank me.

JJ--the occupational hazard

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Getting Even by Spatula

2010-06-23T06:21:00.013-05:00

I am not the world's best cook. I'm also not the worst. One thing I am though, is consistent, and that means, I rarely cook anymore--consistently.

This week I was running low on groceries AND moola, so I decided to break out the frozen meat(s) and give it a whirl. I found the stove with no prob. I also remembered how to turn those knob thingies!

You know, sometimes I even amazed ME.

Homemade spaghetti sauce, green beans, baked potatoes, pineapple salad. Nummy. That first night, I was Georgia Deen (sans the high hair) all over the place. Shu nuff, ya'll.

THE SON came home from work. Being outside in the heat all day, all he could manage was "Food. Not burnt. Gimme." The look on his face was one of total amazement...and gratitude.

Next day, round two.

Baked chicken, creamed potatoes, corn-on-the-cob, bread sticks. I was "in the zone" and knew if the phone rang, it would be the Food Network, begging me to go on the road.

I was on fire; only this time it wasn't my hair. It was my "homemade-NESS."

So in walks THE SON from another day out in the heat. He looks around, assesses the situation, walks over to the stove, looks at me...back at the bounty...again--at me.

He bows his head as if the world had just come to an end. A tear?

Whattttttt? For the love of all that floured, the stuff wasn't even burnt! So I said, "Son, what's going on?"

He whirled on me, planted his feet out and said, "Give it to me straight, Mom. You're sick, aren't you? How long you got?"

Staring at him, the light bulb started flashing a neon "got-cha." I had a golden opportunity here and it was handed to me by my very own spatula.

Remembering the state he left the bathroom in that morning, I said,...

"...Well, (with downcast eyes) they saiddddd, I will PROBABLY make full recovery if I could just stick around and take this pill.

But I said noooo, I had to get home and get your supper on, and then.........clean the bathroom."

One hour later, I had a full stomach, a clean kitchen, and a sparkling bathroom.

Yeah, I know...I'm going to burn in H for that one...teehee...whateveee-er.

JJ--Score THE SON = 2, Da Queen = 1...I'm getting there!

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Singing the Email Jail Blues

2010-06-22T06:16:00.008-05:00

I spent the last two days in Email Jail. This means whenever I would write to a particular friend, it would bounce back saying I was ahhh...you know the word, it rhymes with HAM.

My bud and I have things to say, people to gossip about, weight to discuss, new shoes to dream about. So not being able to get through, we had to resort to that other thing--it rhymes with HOME.

My bud decides enough is enough, so she called the Email Police that serves her account. I ain't sayin' who it is, but it rhymes with Farter.

Here's how the conversation went down...and I do mean downnnnn.

Bud: Hello, I need your help. My friend, Queen Jaw Jaw, writes to me and every time she does, the Email Police bounce it back to her.

Farter: Apparently--WAIT...did you say Queen Jaw Jaw? Is that her name?

Bud: No, it's her Moniker.

Farter: Her what-a-ker?

Bud: Can we move on?

Farter: Apparently, the Queen (not trying to hide her amusement) is sending too many emails and was flagged as HAM.

Bud: This started two days ago and she only sent me THREE emails.

Farter: Yes, and that was three too many.

Bud: Are you serious?!!! What kind of answer is that? We've been emailing back and forth for five years. Why tag her as "ham" NOW?

Farter: Apparently, she sends too many emails to you and to others.

Bud: Excuse me, but how do you know who else she sends them to?

Farter: Well...ah...well...we...ah...look; you just don't understand how this end of things work. (Farter said with a superior voice)

Bud: Listen, you ___ (Rhymes with---hmmm...what rhymes with moron?) I want her out of jail. Toooo-day! And here's how it works from my end. You block my friends, I go to that other company (It rhymes with Hell-SOUTH) and I say, buh bye to Farter. CLICK

I was busted out shortly after. Me and da Bud are back in biz. I have to tell you though, that two days were long and lonely. The worst part was I had to resort to doing that other thing...it rhymes with DIRT.

JJ--the Jail Bird

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Ghost - I want to see one - No I don't - Yes I do - No--

2010-06-21T06:45:00.010-05:00

Every since I was a youngster, I've been fascinated with the likelihood that ghosts were among us. I used to stand in front of the sheets drying on the clothesline in the backyard and hold conversations like, "So, Casper, how's it hanging?" (A little ghost humor).

As time moved on and I grew into a more intelligent being, ahem, there were books, documentaries, and friends stories to inhale. Seems I couldn't get enough. I was/am just downright enthralled with the possibilities that these "sheets" walk among us.

Until the other night.

Nothing doing but I watch some show on the most haunted places in the world. Dumb, I repeat, dumb move. Being the official poster child for "Wimps" I won't even let my shadow come out unless no one else will talk to me.

So I'm knee-deep to a giraffe's butt in this doc, and instead of turning up the volume (another dumb move), I decided to move closer to the TV so I could see the "sheets" up close and personal-like.

Here's the scene...

Me straggle-legged smack dab in front of a big screen TV. I'm throwing down on some heavenly, gourmet brownies sent to me this weekend from a fan, the adorable KC Christensen-Lang, (she's getting a Christmas ~~gift~~ card this year).

With each scene...each "sheet" that comes into view, I'm getting more and more "afeared" as my granny used to say. One might say I had the "willies." Big time!

You simply don't mess with someone who has the willies. EVER.

THE SON, being the practical joker he is, (where does he get it?) comes in the room. Taking it all in and knowing I can be had, he runs in the laundry room, grabs a SHEET, sneaks up behind me and...lets out a blood-curdling scream while throwing the sheet over me and holding me down.

When a Queen meets a sheet, that Queen has a come-apart.

Let's just say I may be a wimp, but when it comes to ~~ghost~~ sheet busting, they NOW call me the Heavy-Weight Sheet Killer of the World.

Oh...and THE SON. You can send your get-well cards via email. I'll read them to him, since he is...under the sheets for a while.

JJ--da Queen of don't mess with yo mama

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Daddy's Little Girl

2010-06-20T07:36:00.005-05:00

I don't hold the monopoly on loving and missing my Daddy, but today, just for today, please indulge me.

Daddy gave me much more than a home, security, and good old-fashion whoopins (in abundance). He taught me to love my fellow human being, no matter what their statue in life.

"Honey, you just never know what demons they are fighting inside," Daddy said.

He taught me to think for myself, although at times he swore my brain was on hiatus.

Daddy said if I believed in myself, always helped those with hands stretched towards me, and lived by the Golden Rule, my heart and mind could rest peacefully at night.

Because of this truth, I sleep soundly most nights. When I don't, his words haunt me.

Daddy believed there was good in everybody, you just had to look a little deeper for some folks, but the "hunt" was always worth it. He was right.

When leaving Mom and Dad's after a visit, Daddy would stand in the driveway as I backed out...never leaving that spot until I was out of sight. I know because I rounded the corner one time, and watched. He was standing there faithfully, dabbing his eyes with a hanky. I did my own dabbing as I drove away.

If you can call or see your Daddy today, don't miss the opportunity. Give him a hug from da Queen here. And then give him your own..AND THEN DO IT AGAIN. AND AGAIN. Some day, that memory will sustain you.

Daddy always said, "If you or your sisters ever need anything, call your Daddy. I'm never far away."

Queen dialing 1-800-Heaven...

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Texting is Vexing

2010-06-19T15:36:00.006-05:00

I have a gripe about texting and/or talking on a cell while driving. It's been proven over and over and most of us can't walk and chew gum at the same time, so why do people believe they can text and drive?

Once I saw a mom text the kids in the back seat with, "If you hit your brother one more time, I'm texting your Daddy!" When did hollering go out of style? At least she was parked.

What is so important that you textually active kids can't spare two minutes, pull off, and send John-boy, or Billy-bob a text message to let them know you got two tickets to go see a vampire suck the blood out of another teen?

Today I had such an experience. I'm not picking on teens, BUT this is what happened. There were THREE of them in the car beside me in the other lane. The one driving decides nothing doing but she text, hold a coke, look up in the mirror to check for pimples...all while turning her head to the side and backseat to confer with her buds. She was knee-driving. Whattttttttttttt?!!!!

However, she found out a lane holds ONE car at a time. ONE. And mine was in it.

I laid down on the horn when she tried moving in. Big mistake because they were undoubtedly fans of the Queen. Every person in the car held up a finger letting me know that I'm still "number 1!" God luv um.

Shortly after, another car in front of me started weaving back and forth over the road like an Olympic ice-skater. I gave her a 10. When I was finally able to get around "granny," guess what she had stuck in her ear. Yep...a cell phone. "Mabel, you on for Bingo? Hold on a sec, some whippersnapper is holding up a sign that has a 10 on it. Moron...now where were we?"

Peeps, I want to be around to see my grandbeauties go on their first date so I can look at the fear in their Daddy's eyes and say, "Ninner, ninner." It's called revenge.

But if you don't hang up and drive, one of us is leaving this old world just because you couldn't wait to...reach out and touch someone. Please don't make it ME. I ain't ready to check out.

Hang up and drive. We're all going soon enough. I don't need your help.

JJ--putting a hex on your text

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Let's Have a Pow Wow

2010-06-18T06:18:00.010-05:00

Can we talk? Oh ye-ah, like you have a choice? I need to have a Pow-Wow...

This past weekend I read what is no doubt one of the best historical fiction books ever written--River Passage--a true story of the Donelson Party of 1779-1780 on a trip from Virginy to Tennessee by river. I suppose they had too much carry-on luggage to fly.

I started at 9:00 Sunday morning and didn't stop 'till 9:00 that night. I couldn't put it down.

We traveled by flatboat (yes, Princess Whine-A-Lot was right there with um) which exposes you to the elements, which weren't friendly. It was colder than an ex-husband.

The Indians were downright hostile and wanted my scalp to wear around their belts (~~gray~~ red tends to hide the old midriff bulge). We ran out of food on more than one occasion (not ONE Oreo), wore the same clothes every day (kind like one does when one works from home) and honey, I was worn slap out by that night.

The trip was suppose to take four weeks but ended taking four months and they got lost a time or two. And just whoooo was in charge of bringing the alarm clock? Probably the same man who wouldn't stop and ask which fork in the river to take. I'm just sayin'...

Holy Tepee! What an adventure!

But hold on to your moccasins cause there's a new kid in town. White Messenger. Now he isn't entirely "new" to me since he was in the first book by this author, p.m. terrell. That's when I first fell in lus--ah, love. Hubba, Hubba!

Talk bout a man. It was enough to have me braiding my hair and wanting to skin a bear. Whatttt?

Oh sure, like YOU don't fantasize about some Indian swooping down and gathering your fluffy self up on his horse, carrying you off to his tepee, and--uh--well--never mind.

With my luck, he WOULD have a bear that needed skinning and he'd want me to cook something over an open fire...at night...while he sneaks over to Princess Has-Abs-Of-Steel; a well-known tepee-wrecker.

Don't mess with Princess Gonna-Scalp-You-While-You-Sleep. And that ain't no sittin' bull.

JJ--on the warpath.

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Taking the Pet to the V-E-T

2010-06-17T07:56:00.007-05:00

Why oh why do my friends confess things to me? Haven't they learned that I'll write about it the next day? No matter...they won't sue because I have nothing but dust and books, so there you go.

A friend wrote yesterday about taking her cat to the Vet. Now I'm not naming names, but her pet's name is Sam, and she is the author of David's Bridge. That's all I'm saying. You figure it out.

Seems ~~Pam~~, ah...I mean this person, and hubby, play this cat and human game when it's time to take Sammy to the V-E-T. I'm spelling it in case Sam reads today's blog.

So hubby runs to the back door, opens the garage and backs out the car. Next, he starts the engine, and then hides. Why? Does he really thing the cat will think, "Oh look, the car is taking itself out for a spin!" She confessed they do this because Sam hears the "ding-dong" bell whenever a door is opened or closed, and knows something is up.

If that cat is that smart, I guarantee you that he has read the calendar marked "V-DAY" and is wayyyy ahead of you.

Next, she puts Sammy's harness on like it's just another trip out to fertilize the yard. With cat in tow, they head out the door where she scoops him up making a break for the driverLESS car, which by this time, has run out five gallons of gas.

With feline secured in car, hubby jumps up and throws it into reserve and they race off to the V-E-T.

Gives new meaning to the word, "cat-napping," doesn't it?

I've known Sammy for years. My guess is that he's thinking:

"Oh geeish...hereeee we go. Whatever. I'll humor them and act surprise...again. Look at um, they're so smug. Hey, the V-E-T beats the B-A-T-H...any day."

JJ--telling on her friends. It's what I do.

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Vacation of the Mind

2010-06-16T06:11:00.008-05:00

My bud Margaret, Maggie, the Magster, as I call her, was chatting with me yesterday about how we do dumb things on occasion. Yes, I said, on occasion. We both agreed that our Mama's told us there would be days like this.

We swapped stories about how some days our minds take mini-vacations, or in my case, a trip around the world. With luggage.

Having to one-up her, I told her that every time a storm comes acallin’ and knocks out the power, I go in a room and try to flip on a switch. She admitted to doing the same thing.

You ain’t gonna believe this…

Thirty minutes later, there was this humongous storm and ZAPPPPP! Out goes the power. And the brain. I ran into the next room to get some candles but couldn’t see, so...what did I do? Uh huh. You’re way ahead of me on this one, aren’t you?

I flipped on the switch. Twice.

Shouldn't that have been enough to clue in the clueless one? Nooooooo…remember, my brain is somewhere in the South Seas.

Next I go out to get the mail in pouring down rain, thunder and LIGHTENING with an umbrella the size of Texas. Why didn't I just wear a sign that said, "Please strike HERE."

Later, my pinhead brain had another thought and it was, “Hey, since the power is out, why not eat?” So I strolled into the kitchen and took something out of the FREEZER (I ain’t lyin’ this time) and put it in the MICROWAVE…to cook. It gets worse. I thought the thing was broken.

Mama said there would be days like this…only she didn’t say how to handle them. Course Mama also said, “Wear clean underwear in case of a wreck.” I have had two bad wrecks, and trust me Mama, it ain't necessary.

JJ--the mindless Queen

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Crazy Unusual Pet Products

2010-06-15T06:39:00.006-05:00

A friend sent me the link to a well-written, yet wacky page of pet products; such as the one pictured on the left. The Paw-Plunger.

Is it just me or does that dog's face say, "Gawd, don't tell the boys, 'k?"

Then there was the high chair that lets your pet sit right up at the table with you while you have dinner. 'Cuse me, I think I just swallowed a cat hair. What? Sit at the table with you?

Somehow I can't see my cat being strapped into a highchair and saying, "Pass the spuds, will ya. I'm starved. My stomach thinks my throats been cut. Oh, and a little ketchup on the taters."

Ain't gonna happen. Now if she gets her own commercial, or at least starts earning her way around here; maybe. But no ketchup on taters...that's reserved for pizza.

One that really got my attention was a set of pet doorbells. No longer do they have to sit outside and wonder if you heard them knock. They just hit the bell and like Pavlov, you come a running to let um in.

If my dog were still alive, she would have taken great pleasure in waiting until I was in the bathtub and then, Ding Dong! More than once, too.

Any pet that can learn to sit at the table and eat taters, or ring a doorbell, scares me. That's when they go from being the house pet to being in charge and this house has one Queen...ME.

Ding Dong! Okay, that's not funny. Which one of you clowns did that?

JJ -- the Queen of Wacky

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