CRACK YOU WHIP

Wal-Mart for Dummies

2012-03-02T08:07:00.000-08:00

My handicap is my own heroism; it is like a raw, dripping ham dancing on the limb of a tree over a pack of slightly unbalanced wolves. Nothing good ever seems to come of it and eventually my heroism will fall to the ground where the wolves patiently wait to tear it to shreds. The wolves are always there and not always guised as wolves.

I have an acquaintance who is constantly sick or has some type of injury going on at all times. You name it and she has either had it, broken it or is perilously trying to get her hands on it. She is what I like to call a professional sick person. Her ongoing drama with herself exceeds the normal capacity range for what the allowable amount is for drama queens in the professional sickness category. I've often thought of buying her a book to help her with her already exploding career in the sickness field.

Here are some sample pages from the bonus section on how to get sick, but in no way am I endorsing the book. Us famous people have to be careful about things like that.

I volunteer to clean her house, free of charge, on a weekly basis. I have no idea why I do this, except for the fact that I know if I don't do it, no one else will and she will crumple and die into a fetal heap of dark morass on one of her self-loathing days. Her daily lists are always the same:

Before each visit, I have to pump myself up like one of those karate people do before they have to break a pile of bricks with their bare hands. Yesterday, she whimpered into the phone for me to swing by Wal-Mart and pick up a few things for her before going to clean her house.

I am not sure about your town, but my town is infested with Wal-Marts, like fleas or taxes. They are everywhere only you can't get rid of them, ever.

I decided to stop at a Wal-Mart that I don't normally frequent, closer to her side of town. Fortunately, it wasn't "Wear Your Slippers or Pajama Pants to Wal-Mart Day." I walked in the door and walked straight to the only shopping cart that had water dripping off of it. I hesitated before touching it and decided with great thought, much like that of a cat, that I didn't like the feel of water on a cart.

My glance immediately went to a shriveled up elderly gentleman who was lining carts singly in front of the doors. I had to smile. Wal-Mart "people greeters" rock! He was making it so easy for the rest of us...we didn't have to step to the side for our carts, but walk right into one, whether we wanted it or not. Once again, a Wal-Mart employee going over and above his call of duty.

I quickly theorized that he was the oldest human being alive on the planet, but not a day older than 300 years. He had on the typical Wal-Mart school uniform colors of a blue shirt and I surmised that he had somewhere in his lifetime stolen a pair of Lyndon Johnson's khaki pants and had the pants pulled up high almost to his face. His belt was actually where his Superman logo should be and his eyeglasses were thick enough to catch his face on fire if he stood in the sun for too long.

Wal-Mart instituted those school uniforms for their employees so that the employees would stand out from the rest of the customers; either that, or they wanted them to enroll in high school. I love older people, but they tend to stand out on their own, though, without the uniforms. By virtue of having lived forever, he probably knew everything there was to know about anything.

Then, I noticed that he was in a bind. One of the wheels from the cart he was moving became caught up with the wheel of another cart he had lined up at the door. He stood there struggling with all of his poor little strength trying to yank it free and there I was a perfectly good superhero standing there like a Trojan waiting to be utilized.

I needed a cart and he was struggling with one, so after doing the math in my head, I quickly ran to his rescue. This would score me extra brownie points for my daily citizenship goals with myself.

I swiftly grabbed the cart and tried to pull it out of his hands so that I could do the untangling process that was so desperately needed.

One good yank and I had it, but I needed the cart to do my shopping so proceeded to go in the store with it, only the people greeter wouldn't let go. As a matter of fact, he yanked it back. I decided not to report him to his boss and still try to salvage my heroic efforts and so I pulled the cart back.

"I'll take it," I said with a smile, "I need this." I thought I was being pretty nice about it considering he was being rude.

He yanked it from my hands and said, "No! Give it back!"

The wheel became tangled again after his new yanking episode and at that point I figured there was something more serious wrong with him and maybe they shouldn't have put him at the front door. I now knew that he needed me more than he thought he did.

I ,once again, saved the day by yanking the cart away from the other one and while I was at it yanked it away from him and said, "Look, it's OK, I'll take this one."

I was quickly losing my patience and thought about not helping him anymore.

We both had our hands on the cart, each pulling. I waited for him to let go, but he quickly yanked it out of my hands. What was wrong with him? I was about to call his manager when what he did next completely shocked me and threw my mind for a loop.

He pulled out a whistle that was on a string around his neck that had been tucked under his shirt collar and proceeded to place near his crusty lips, ready to blow at any moment.

Yep, he was going to blow a rape whistle. On me. Then, he screeched this with hundreds of years of vent up anger, "Let go of my cart, it's the one I want to shop with! Let GO! Let go!"

Suddenly, my life was a slow motion video as I closed my eyes and silently berated myself inside of my own head. Thoughts sorted themselves inside of there like dirty laundry. He didn't work for the store. Wal-Mart didn't make him dress ugly, he was dressed ugly on purpose. He was just sorting the carts into everybody's way until he found the one he liked. I wasn't helping him at all. I was harassing him. Oh, my brownie points!

I let my hand slip off of the cart while his lips desperately clutched the whistle.

"I am so sorry," I sputtered, "I thought you worked here."

Like a hostile behemoth he jerked the cart out of my hand (oh, now you muster up strength) and left me standing there with the lineup of carts he had pulled out and tears in my eyes.

My apology meant nothing to him and I felt horrible. He callously walked off while I looked for a hole to crawl into, but that is the one thing Wal-Mart doesn't have, is holes.

Then, from out of nowhere, comes the real people greeter.

"Ma'am," she snapped at me, "you can't put all of these carts here in the way! This is a walking path!"

I suddenly felt as though I had been mauled by wolves.

If they ever make a movie about my life, that part will be so confusing.

Well, this was my rambling story of heroism gone awry, but at least this trip to Wal-Mart didn't involve rabid raccoons (another story, another time) or a slipper fight (sigh). Also, I didn't get bitten this time.

I just want to shop and leave. False hope--gotta love it. Now, I have to go flail myself with humiliation and shame and hope that one day somebody writes this book because I sure need it:

Just a few pics of some friendly Wal-Mart shoppers

This is why I stay home...

How I Brought a Weapon, a Bomb and Terrorists Into the State Capitol

2012-02-24T22:42:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I form ideas.

Entertaining an idea can be very dangerous. It is not unlike entertaining a hungry pride of lions or a baby cousin. You have to be careful what direction your idea decides to go in. At times, I think too fast and let my brains go to my head.

Several years ago, I came up with this rather intoxicating idea to save the wetlands. I learned at a young age that you can do anything that you set your mind to, except maybe be an astronaut,climb a mountain or change the world and a whole bunch of other stuff.

That one idea started to reproduce at an alarming rate.

I wrote a book about saving the wetlands.

I wrote a television pilot based on the book.

Went to Hollywood. Met famous people. Walked on the red carpet...

after the movie stars, paparazzi and cab drivers went in.

I was invited to appear on several major television shows, including Ellen DeGeneres and The Tonight Show.

My idea had morphed itself into an amalgamation of every dream I had ever had.

Don't get me wrong. My fifteen minutes of fame was amazing and I will always treasure it, but ultimately decided to take my idea a step further. I had an ephiphany, which is like an idea jacked up on a massive amount of steroids.

I decided that since the alligators were losing their wetland habitat due to coastal erosion that I would take one to live in my house (I couldn't leave an alligator outside...that is just dumb). I got with the right people (yeah, I got people) and they granted me a license to have an alligator to bring to schools and functions and speak about coastal erosion.

I stoically became known as "The Alligator Lady." It sounds way cooler when you say it outloud in a slow, deep, mesmarizing voice, not just reading it. And, just in case anyone is wondering, it does hurt if you stick your finger in an alligator's mouth...just sayin'.

One day, I received a call completely out of the blue. I was invited to the State Capitol to meet with the Governor for some publicity shots and simply had to fill out some documents naming the people who would be in my party,etc. I recall that, but don't recall any documentation about not bringing weapons. That is something that they should send in the paperwork and make very clear upfront.

So, the big day arrived and I was very excited. I brought my son and another child (professional actor/musician) who was in the book, the child's mom and myself. Of course, I brought the alligator as he was the star and I knew the Governor would love him.

The child musician decided to bring in his accordion, which was in a big, black case. He had played his accordion all the way up to the White House for the President, so it was nothing new to him.

We were a great sight. A lot of people stared at us. I am pretty sure they thought we were famous.

We arrived at the door, alligator and accordion in tow. We met a grumpy man at the door in a security uniform.

He took my paperwork, looked it over and then whispered some sweet, secret whisperings into a handheld radio. I don't know what he said but before I knew it there was either a swat team or poison control people searching us.

They proceeded to call a bomb squad because of the "bomb" the 10 year old musician was carrying and wouldn't let him open the case out of fear that it would explode. They couldn't understand why we would be walking around carrying an accordion. Why would we walk around carrying a bomb?

Apparently, alligators are weapons (exact words) and 10 year old boys holding a bomb and a weapon are terrorists.

Also, I was supposed to have listed the alligator on the documentation under "People in Party."

Don't get me wrong. I am usually very proud to live in Louisiana. We have the Saints and...Ok, that is all we have. Texas is our sidekick, so that counts as something, but this was not one of those moments where I was real proud to say where I lived. I pretended to be a tourist in handcuffs and did the "whistling walk-away" like I didn't know any of these people or alligators.

Eventually, contact was made to the Governor and I think she told everyone that they were nuts as she permitted us through and OK'd us (and the alligator) to come up to the upper floor. We got our photos, after all. I just can't leave the country...ever.

I do have to mention this before I go:

And for the record, don't ever try telling an alligator your problems. His advice is usually dumb and meat related.

This is a video of one of my "terrorists" playing with Hank Williams, jr.

Significant Award

2012-02-21T19:31:00.000-08:00

Well, apparently I spoke too soon.

In my last post, I mentioned that during my lifetime I only received "insignificant awards," such as:

Well, I am happy to inform all of you that since that post, I have received a "significant award" that has nothing to do with my freakish jumping skills:

or the fact that I am a towering inferno of beauty:

My calculated plot to take over the blogging world is finally starting to take root. (Something sinister won't plant itself).

My pal over at Randoom Blog! has so graciously passed on the Liebster Award to me! I would like to thank him because this is the second award he has given to me. If I understand awards, and I am pretty sure I don't, you must reasonably deserve them. I feel that there are so many more deserving blogs than mine, but will accept it with gracious humility.

So, like other "Liebster" recipients before me, I will accept it properly according to the rules:

1. Link back to the person who gave you the award. Please show your love to my friend over at Randoom Blog!. He is a very funny fellow and I love reading his posts!

2. Pick 5 deserving people and notify them on their blogs.

This was my conundrum. I don't feel comfortable at all picking from so many great blogs! It has to be blogs with less than 200 members so that narrows it down a bit.

Making important decisions is not something you can run away from like paying your cell phone bill or a crying baby.

I actually have to do something! So, I sat down and had to choose from over a hundred blogs that I love and have narrowed it down to 5:

I. Pickleope.com--He makes me smile, makes me laugh and is a great commenter on my posts.

II. Stephanie at Claybaboons.com--She does with clay what I do with drawings only she is good at it. She has something that is very original and she is actively involved in my blog. Thank you Stephanie!

III. Youngmanbrown.com--I just love him. He has a dire seriousness about his posts, yet trims it with funny. I don't event think he does it on purpose and I see so much potential in this blog. By potential, I mean he's awesome!

IV. mayorgia.blogspot.com--She makes me laugh...a lot! Also, very good about commenting on my blog.

V. Brett at transformednonconformist.blogspot.com--I love how Brett describes the ongoings of his day. Maybe I am just nosey or maybe it is how he pulls me into his little world and keeps me there. Check him out!

Like I said, the worst part is that I couldn't choose you all, because I would have. You have become my second family and I love how you accept me and my blog into your lives.

3. Post the award on your blog and spread the love.

Well, to you five, I am passing this lovely award onto you for you to place on your blog and I hope it means as much to you as it does to me.

And as for the crying babies, just remember that they are here for one purpose and one purpose only and that is to replace us all.

Blood Chocolate

2012-02-18T12:20:00.000-08:00

No one in this world loves chocolate more than I do. NO ONE.

I didn't give myself Type II diabetes out of my deep-seeded love for okra (which I hate). Every time I take a breath, I secretly hope that somehow scientists have invented chocolate air. Once, I thought they had, but it turned out to be something in complete contrast to what I had hoped. I believe that at one point in my life I ate through half of the world's supply chain of cocoa because of my suffocating, unbridled love affair with the stuff.

Even the word itself tastes good! When I hear the word chocolate, I think of love, goodness and of every foxy day of my life. But, take a word like "spinach." It is like green terror, fear and all things not stamped "Nestle" blasted into a leafy flatness that is completely despondent and tastes poorly like sadness.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not pimpin' chocolate. OK, maybe I am, just a little...

At one point, I wanted to build a house made completely of chocolate, fatally slathered in rich cocoa frosting and completely furnished with dark fudge furniture.

But, after weighing all of my options, I realized I would be homeless within two months. I would have to choose between chocolate or shelter. Obviously, shelter is optional...

There have been (sad times) in my life where I have thought about giving up chocolate, but then that would make me a quitter. Maturity, though, has taught me one important lesson in life and that lesson is that quitters never win, unless you are playing the game, "Who Can Quit First."

Lately, though, I have felt bad about eating it. Oh, how I wish I could believe or understand that!

But, it is true. And it is not just because I can't fit into my jeans anymore, which I can't. Studying history and world events a bit more early on probably would have saved me from being an exhaustive human chocolate vacuum completely unaware of the excess burden that I was placing on the world's cocoa industry.

Recently, I really have had some issues with supply chain practices that chocolate companies are using.

In our heads, we probably imagine a whimsical man dressed in purple-garb skipping through fields of dripping chocolate patting tiny people on their heads.

In reality, it is a bit more like this:

Child labor (slavery) bothers me a lot. I'm not sure if it bothers me too much or not enough. I know it bothers us all, but I feel this stabbing need to be a part of the solution instead of the problem. I have never been good with solving things, which is why it is such a difficult conundrum.

I realize that I have metaphorically made a deal with the devil. By the devil, I mean Hershey or Nestle or whoever is in the cocoa bean buying business. By metaphorically, I mean, "Put down the bag of M&M's, Tracie!"

I look at myself in the mirror now and it is like looking directly into the sun...a really, really awkward sun. How can I be proud of myself sitting over here in my blogging chair, feet propped up, snacking on snickers while some poor kid is carrying around a sack of cocoa beans weighing more than he does in 100 plus degree heat, barefooted and getting beaten every time he falls or slows down?

Wow. Something that makes me so happy makes someone else so sad. Life is full of ironies that daily trample on the weak or poor, but being the astute mathematician that I am, I did the math.

It doesn't make me happy, anymore. If something that I do makes someone else unhappy, it doesn't matter who it is or where they or at, then that is my cue for me to stop in my tracks and examine my actions and the consequences they have on others.

I have officially nominated myself for a new award and I am accepting it on behalf of myself. I suppose I am behalfing it:

I can honestly say I deserve this one.

During my childhood I never won any significant awards, as I suppose I didn't deserve them. I did, however, proudly win a handful of insignificant ones such as:

Apparently, the large chocolate manufacturers are aware of the child labor practices and continue to do business with these plantation owners. An awful lot of heads are being turned.

Well, here is where I come in. I am not a head turner, well, I don't look away. I suppose that I could over-expose them to my awesomeness and they will be solidly blinded into oblivion by my awesome rays and not have to turn their heads anymore on this blood bath of chocolate that they have created.

Or, I could pull out my secret Kung Fu skills, which by the way, are the stuff of legend.

But, I think I will solve this issue with my usual style of grace, class and diplomacy.

Mark my words, if I ever get out of my blogging chair, off of my sofa, or out of my bed before noon, I will be completely unstoppable! Until that time occurs, I hope that you take the time share this message and educate your friends or family, especially any choco-holics you may know and help put the pressure on the big companies to take more responsibilities for their supplies by not rewarding ruthless plantation owners with loaves of cash. Be a part of the solution. In the meantime, I am leaving you with this:

Headbanging

2012-02-15T18:53:00.000-08:00

Hey guys! I collaborated on this project with a friend. His site is randoomblog.blogspot.com if you get a chance to check it out. Wasn't sure if I could pull a "headbanging" piece off, but it works! Hope you like it! And this was my first time drawing cavemen...so yeah, I'm kinda proud of them!

Headbanging is an exciting form of entertainment that has been around since cavemen times.

Thankfully, over the years it has evolved into a much more enjoyable experience. However, it is not to be confused with Repetitive Motion Syndrome. This condition usually occurs at work.

Remember, this is not a form of headbanging. It is a desperate cry for help.

Have you ever been to a crowded concert and it gets hot fast and starts to get miserable, but you really want to be at the concert?

Try headbanging. If everyone practices the headbanging technique, there would be no need for air-conditioning. This is a win-win situation for you, the person sitting next to you and the environment. That would actually be win-win-win situation, which is even better.

Have you ever been speaking to someone in a real conversation and all of a sudden neither of you has anything to say and the seconds tick on and you are standing there not real purposeful and then awkwardness starts to set in like E Coli on warm beef? Then the beef gets warmer. There are a few things you can do to help take the edge off of the awkwardness:

1. Tapdancing

2. Pull a rabbit out of a hat

Pulling a rabbit out of a hat does work to ease the awkwardness. The only problem with this technique is the average person doesn't wear a hat...or a rabbit.

3. Pull fire out of a hat

This is one of my favorite techniques, however, it carries the same problem as technique #2. Most people just don't wear hats.

4. Headbanging

There seems to be something about the gentle, repeating motion of headbanging that relaxes everyone and distracts away from awkwardness and unlike the hat issues, most people have their head on. The subtle, but rapid movements, also keeps blood from pooling in the back or side of your brain from any bad posture issues you may have. You will never have to stand up straight again!

As a result,headbanging could save your life and is highly recommended by the American Posture Association. Headbanging could be your ticket to a healthier, more eco-friendly life and the worse-case scenario is you will fall face first into a wall or the cement, but remember at times, cement can be very giving.

A Series of Events That Were Not So Fortunate

2012-02-11T22:12:00.000-08:00

I have always been a methodized planner. Being born was a strategic goal of mine. Oh, it was happenin'. I plotted and I planned my way out of that trifling dungeon that secluded me from the world for nine months. I had already pinpointed my life's goals down before I even knew my name. As a matter of fact, the name didn't even matter. They could have named me Candy Liver for all I cared. I just wanted out.

I did my nine months of time. Whatever lesson was to be learned from that experience, I learned it. Under no circumstances was I going back. And then one day, plan number one on my list was set into action. I was born. I quickly crossed that one off. Let me warn you that this is a true story, so if you can't handle true stories or the color purple, you might not want to read this.

I was actually born purple, you know, like as if one of "Barney's" arms is barbarically ripped off and then two eyes poked on it and the doctor just keeps hitting the arm's buttocks over and over and harder and harder and the arm doesn't cry at all. Yeah, that was me.

Unfortunately, I was one of the one out of every 5 billion, no make that 10 gazillion people in the world who are born allergic to themselves. Yes, that actually happens, but mostly to just me. So things didn't start off too good with myself. Statistically, I had a greater chance of being born a unicorn than being born allergic to myself. In all honesty, I would have rather been a unicorn. I was purple because I couldn't breathe.

The doctors decided to give me someone else's blood in hopes that it would help save my life. A lifetime supply of blood was ordered for me and the orders were given to the courier so that I could have a complete blood transfusion.

Sometimes I secretly wish that maybe it was an Astronaut's blood that I received.

Or from an award winning scientist,

but deep down I know it was from this guy:

After the complete blood transfusion, I made an amazing turnaround.

I rekindled my lifelong love of breathing. Luck was on my side for a change, but in reality consciousness hurt. There were needles and IV's and the horrifying banter of doctors saying I probably wouldn't survive (thanks a lot, doc). I had a full gamut of emotions. My goal in life was to be a superhero and in those moments, my only marketable skill was taking up space.

I wasn't a bad person, though I knew that I had the full capacity for it. Why was this happening to me? Why couldn't I be allergic to cats, dogs or sheriffs? Why was I allergic to me? That made no sense.

In the back of my head, being held hostage, was this thought that if I managed to get out of this alive, I would spend the rest of my life trying to make the world a better place. There were days the doctors said good things, like there was a one in a billion chance I would survive. Then, there were days that they said other things.

I was in the hospital a while. Life was getting rough. Living was less fun than previously indicated. I tried to blend in with the crowd.

A fear started to mature inside of me that I would be in the hospital forever. I became afraid. I began to develop a stinging fright inside of me that they would find other reasons to keep me there. I only had the one thing going for me, which was laying there being adorable wrapped up in wiring. What if they wanted to take that away from me? I started having fevered dreams of a madman with fears of trumped up surgeries chasing me. What if the doctors got bored and on a whim decided to give me "cuteness reduction surgery?" CUTENESS REDUCTION!! What if I obliviously woke up in the hospital one day and looked like this:

I tried not to panic. Then, one day, I had a good calm going and I started to articulate my thoughts. Things would get better for me. And then, slowly, my body started to accept my newfound blood. My fear was replaced by cautious optimism as finally the doctors released me.

I have had my blood a while now, but now that I am older, wiser and gaining a bit of weight because I have a love/hate relationship with chocolate (except for the hate part), I now know what to ask for if I ever need blood again:

Note to my beautiful readers: If you like my posts please help me out by subscribing and sharing on Facebook or Twitter and if you are a famous director, I will let you make a movie about me...probably. Thanks! Everybody have a GREAT week!

Tracie

Facebook and Me--The Untold Story

2012-02-07T21:49:00.000-08:00

Kids have it easy these days. When I was younger, we had to rifle through people's garbage to find out what they were up to. Now, there is Facebook. There are only a few reasons why I like this social networking tool. It allows me to interact with people without actually having to see, hear or smell them.

We post our hopes, dreams and photos on Facebook. There are people who post photos of their baby with the umbilical cord still attached. There is some sort of an infinite hypersonic race to get photos on their "wall" with the breakneck agility and speed of a two-time Kentucky Derby winning racehorse as quickly as it is humanly achievable without actually being a horse.

There are times, though, that I feel like Facebook is like the evil pirate of life and I want to kick his peg leg from under him.

I have learned through battered experience that there are 3 things in life you NEVER do:

Pirates make me nervous and so does Facebook. I resisted Facebook for a very long time. I finally worked up the nerve to make a page and after very little thought or effort I put up a profile picture that looked like my eyeballs were hanging out. I then sat back to see what I had.

Zero friends. Can they make that zero a bit bigger so the aliens living in the next solar system can make it out? I felt like it was laughing at me, taunting me, pushing me further and further onto the plank of rejection only to fall into an ocean of seclusion and self-doubt. It was actually a bit depressing. I had to fill out the profile information next. My only skills are sleeping and eating. Now, the entire world knows. And to top it off, I was supposed to come up with a status on the fly, just like that.

I didn't want a ham-fisted potpourri of words to redeem itself as my status. My status had to completely dominate the online world. I became consumed by anxiety and started to wonder what the big deal was with Facebook anyway.

Apparently, people either text or Facebook now. Do people actually talk anymore? What about countries? Does Rwanda or Zimbabwe have a Facebook page? Would the world's problems be solved simply by not speaking and merely having statuses? After all, we need to know what is going on.

Sometimes, I believe that there is a bigger picture here that we do not see. Does Mark Zuckerberg actually work for the CIA? The CIA's work has been cut by two-thirds since the onset of Facebook (OK, I am just making stuff up now). But, think about it. Our entire lives (interests, friends, thoughts and what we had for breakfast) are consolidated onto one platform...Facebook. What about "Operation Farmville?" That pacifies the unemployed and retired so they are distracted from the bigger picture of not having any money to pay their bills because of the economy. Everything is right there on one platform for the CIA to utilize.

At times, though, I have trouble keeping up with my newfound Facebook life. I reached the point of having three friends and they started sucking the life out of me. They posted pictures of their happy families and get togethers and I only have a picture of my blog.

As my Facebook page had grown to the three friends and other people had blocked me permanently, I realized that people stopped calling because it was easier just to "update." My only outside contact with the world seemed to fade away into an abyss of loneliness and despair. At times, I tried to convince myself in an argument not to get discouraged. Sometimes, I was on the winning end of the argument, but then...

My initial thirst for Facebook imploded on itself, leaving behind this huge dark hole inside of me full of self-doubt and insecurity. As though a special award was created for them doing so, the evil minions inside of my stomach started to pounce and jump in the hole the implosion had created. As a result of the confluence of the many disappointments of Facebook, I started to feel defeated. I pathetically started to expect failure from myself. I began to think that the minions were rabid.

And then one day I get a message and a friend request from this kid I had never met.

As I read this, the dark hole inside of me began to fill with this gooey sense of pride and joy and the evil minions became trapped in the goo and I think they died, which is a good thing because that is what I wanted them to do. Not live.

I quickly accepted the request, but not too quickly (play it cool, Tracie, play it cool) and updated my status.

Ok, I have one more thing to say:

The Breakfast of Champions

2012-02-03T19:55:00.000-08:00

As a child I had freakish jumping skills. Combine that with my invincibility skills and my superhero cape (it wasn't a towel it was a cape!) and I was pretty much destined for success no matter what path in life I chose to take. Unfortunately, my name is Frakey Frickel.

No, it isn't my real name. I would have stabbed myself with a unicorn or something if my parents had named me that. My birth name is Tracie Crystal (middle name), yet at the age of 4 it doesn't help to have a cousin with a slight lisp who can't pronounce your name and she tells everyone your name is "Frakey Frickel" and then people laugh and think its cute and they start making stupid poems like "Frakey Frickel had a nickel...went to the store and bought a pickle" and you are running around looking for a unicorn to put to good use and for the rest of your life people ask you why you want to stab things.

Anyway, one summer my parents decided to take my two cousins and I on a vacation to Hot Springs, Arkansas. To date, I am not really sure what their expectations were.

The first day at the hotel we had no plans, so us kids decided to run amuck up and down the hotel staircases creating havoc and chaos. By happy chance one of my cousins knew that I loved to show off my wild jumping skills. She looked up at one of the upper balconies and suggested that I jump from there to the ground. I didn't hesitate and ran up to the mentioned balcony.

I did a few acrobatic routines before my plummet to the Earth.

I truly impressed myself that day. And then the moment came for me to jump. Here is the thing. When I plummet, I totally monopolize the air. It belongs to me. I become a superhero, so to speak, as I can probably grab an endangered kitten from a limb as I hurtle perilously towards the Earth. I love being a superhero, however, in an ironic twist of fate, there were no kittens that day.

I did own the air on the way down, but the ground, not so much. That was the first trip to the hospital for that day. I felt my two cousins dragging me to my room as I lay like an adorable semi-conscious helpless black hole of a need on the ground.

Once back from the hospital and after a few hours of bed rest, I couldn't stand being in the room any longer and begged (harassed) my parents to let me go to the pool with my cousins. They relented as they were tired of me.

As swimming is the most boring thing on the planet, I decided to one-up my own jumping event from the balcony and do a running jump/flip off of the side of the pool.

I ran past the "no running" sign as fast as I could and just as I got to the edge of the pool did a beautiful jump mid-air flip. People clapped and cheered. In the background, I believe I heard someone singing "The National Anthem." I was that amazing.

Unfortunately, five thousand pounds of concrete edging decided to jump up at cataclysmic speed and crack me across the center of my face, which would be my nose, and thanks to that one event in my life, it now looks like a range of mountains.

Not only did the jump break my nose in several places, the concrete cut a gash across my nose and yes, I still have the scar as a significant lifetime award for the pool jumping event that day . I like awards.

Initially, I lay in the pool completely unaware that my nose was gushing blood and laughing because the water was turning red for some reason.

And who turned on the red shower spray that was spraying all over me? Why was everything turning black around me? Oh, magic stars!

I felt one of my cousins pull me to the side as the world started spinning just for me. That is really a special feeling when the world does that for you. I then came to the realization,though, that the force of gravity was not as much as a friend to me as I thought it was. It quietly made my enemies list that day.

To me, jumping is like ballet, except there is no music, no choreography and the ground likes to punch me in the face hard. Some jumps go really well. I am like a champion, perfectly proficient in the art of jumping. I could be on all of those Wheaties boxes. I could own Wheaties. I'm not even sure why they haven't called me already to be a spokesperson. They will, though, they will.

I received stitches on my nose and made a few more trips to the hospital before our vacation was done. Fortunately, we were on a bulk services discount plan, so my parents saved lots of money because of me. I never asked them to thank me. To date, they still haven't, but I don't hold a grudge.

I am quite sure that they realized just how lucky they were to have me.

The Blog Squad

2012-01-29T20:32:00.000-08:00

OK, I have to apologize upfront for this one! I should not even have to write this, but unfortunately, this one is for the 1% of the US population that has no other way of "burning calories," as a friend of mine said, than to stir trouble on the internet.

I started this blog a little over a month ago and I can't complain. It is doing very well. I am a published children's author and I write, draw and take way too many photographs of other people's children. Not a real big deal, but that is what I do. I am not a Monet at drawing (obviously), but like to think I am comparable to Shakespeare or Dr. Suess when it comes to writing.

I get an unreal amount of emails a day and at least 10% of the emails say that I am "similar" to "Hyperbole and a Half" (another web comic), not in a negative way, just sayin'. I did check out the site, LOVE it and yes, I see some slight similarities, but in the web comic/stick people world, there will be that. And yes, I am flattered for the comparison because the site is freaking amazing, but there really is nothing to compare. Then, out of the 10% that suggest that (which I don't mind), there is the 1% hate group that sends me "hate mail."

Really, anonymous people, you hate me? So because I write words and draw pictures (something I have been doing for 20 years) I am not original and ripping an entire site off? When none of our posts are even remotely close to being the same? And you have absolutely NOTHING else better going on in your life than to surf the net and compare web comics, judge them with your keen web comic judging skills and send your anonymous hate mail?

This really happened. One person sent an email saying that my stick figures were AWFULLY similar to Hyperbole and a Half's stick figures. Once again...really? Are you serious? Stick figures that look similar? Do you know what stick figures are composed of? OK, I will try to demonstrate the components of stick figures and what we have to work with.

I could put the pieces together in a different way, I suppose and "be original."

Or this.

Oh, I could put the eyes on top of the head. Yeah, that's original...

But in actuality, stick people kind of all look the same, like oompa loompas.

Actually, most stick figures do look similar, especially if they don't have clothing on and that just looks really sick. My people have clothing. Normally, I put pink on girl stick figures as a gesture just to make it easier because pink is associated with girls. Not every one does. I am very simple minded, so I do.

I am not the type of person who goes on other peoples blogs to judge or condemn them to a lifetime of fire and ashes. If I don't have anything positive to say, I won't say anything. I do try to leave positive comments on the blogs that I visit. I want to be a part of the community. There are actually people who like to do just the opposite! They feel like they are the blog squad. They hate you and the blog you came writing in on.

Just a few comparisons of me and Allie (creator of Hyperbole and a Half):
1. I don't have a boyfriend to talk about (Don't want one...Happy!). Allie does.
2. I have no dogs and two children. Allie has two dogs and no children.
3. I live in Louisiana. Allie lives...somewhere else.
4. I have never cursed in my life and never will on my blog. Allie does and I don't care that
she does. I just don't.
5. Admittedly, we both like sharks...but that is just a coincidence!
6. I am allergic to peanuts and bees.
7. We draw pictures. We write words. We are both stealth.
8. I have no life. Allie does.
9. We both run, but mine is more of a fast paced walk. And that leads to number 10...
10. We both have feet.

Well, to all of the wonderful people who send me wonderful emails and great comments, thank you for being a positive part of my life. It is appreciated and I hope that my blog can be a positive part of your days. To the haters, this isn't a competition or a battle. Just a couple of blogs. Nothing more than that. And for the record, Allie knows all about my blog so please stop trying to make this your own personal vendetta against me for drawing a few pictures and writing a few sentences. Life is too short to be angry over cartoons. And maybe, just maybe, this will be the new me...

But, probably not.

Smile

2012-01-28T22:40:00.000-08:00

This is something I made a few weeks ago and posted elsewhere, but it ended up getting shared all over the internet. Thought I would share it with you. Hope you have a great day!

How I will live in the White House

2012-01-26T06:48:00.000-08:00

As a child, I was intoxicated with the idea of everything being bigger and better. I always wanted that extra edge and have always been on a quest for never ending excellence. When I was six, on all counts I dominated six, but I wanted to be six and a half. When I was six and a half, I wanted to be seven...well, you get the idea.

I am forty now and I want desperately to be forty and a half...

However, like a raging maverick ready to come out of my solitary hiding, I want above all to be President of the United States, specifically so that I can live in the White House. Actually, that is the only reason. I have already started preparing for this great venture.

First, I have enrolled myself into flight school so that I can fly myself to Camp David every weekend and every other week.

Secondly, I am trying to figure out how I am going to live off of $400,000 a year (President's salary). It won't be easy, but I am already working on a budget.

Thirdly, I will have to consolidate my furniture so that it will fit comfortably in 55,000 square feet of living space. I believe that this is possible.

One obstacle for me is that the White House has 28 fireplaces. This is going to be difficult as I have children and surely Santa will be confused by all of the chimneys. I realize that by the time he figures out which one to climb down, he will have to use one of the 35 bathrooms so we will need to be prepared to see a 500 year old man walking around in the middle of the night, but only on Christmas Eve. That is not acceptable most other nights.

Another important step is I need to practice smelling things so that I can enjoy the $262,000 fragrance of fresh flowers that are nonchalantly placed around the White House and grounds yearly.

I also need to be really nice to the Chief Usher. He or she is the one who is in charge of the Residence Staff, which includes the Executive Chef, who is in charge of the three kitchens and the other four or five full time chefs. I don't want anyone spitting in my food, especially the Executive Pastry Chef. I like pastries...a lot.

I do love the fact that the White House provides room service as that involves two of my favorite things--eating and not moving. I love to do them seperately, but doing them both at the same time is like winning a million dollars, no make that 10 million dollars!

In the interest of full disclosures, you must know that I have many destinies, including but not limited to death and fudge brownies. Living in the White House (ummm...and death) is something I definitely see in my future and it is not, I repeat NOT going to be as "First Grandmaw." My plans are to use my dark side for good, so therefore I will be nominating myself to run for President.   Read my blog (haha read my lips) I will be the first woman
President
of
the
United
States
and
will
eat
brownies
                                                                                                           all
                                                                                                                the
                                                                                                                     way.

When bad things happen to good plants

2012-01-23T01:01:00.000-08:00

Over the past few years, I have adopted this practice of purchasing overeager plants goggling for a home that will cultivate and cherish them forever. I have no idea why I do this. Maybe, I do it out of pity or because I know that I have the ability to completely dominate plant life. Either way, this last plant I purchased was a random decision. Unfortunately for the poor little fellow, I chose to pick him up and put him in my cart that day. He was none the wiser.

People say that plants don't have feelings, but this one did. I could almost see his little leaves clapping for joy as I pulled my car into the driveway. Magic rays of sunshine exploded from the sky to welcome us home. I had but one role and that was to take care of this plant for the rest of its entire existence. Seemed like a simple enough plan.

I found him a beautiful spot in my home. He glowed in the light and seemed happy there.

I spent a great deal of time coaching myself on how to take care of this plant. I was not going to fail, again. "I shall call him Planty," I said to myself, "and he shall be mine."

I even went to the library and checked out books on plants. My plant was going to be a super plant, like a super hero, only without the cape...and the superpowers. I realized that for years I had taken advantage of the fact that I was higher up on the food chain. Plants are actually our friends.

If there was such a thing as Plant Olympics, Planty would be there.

If a plant would ever be chosen to be sent into outer space on a shuttle mission with the astronauts, my plant would be the one.

I had great plans. I made graphs and charts.

Secretly, I wished I could speak plant. Every week I picked up more books from the library.

And more...

more...

Until...

Sadly, things seemed to go in direct contrast to what I had envisioned. During my quest of trying to fulfill my desires of aspiring to morph Planty into the "Plant of the Year," it seems that I had completely forgotten to water him.

One day I decided to do some cleaning and found him lifeless behind a pile of books. Plant books.

My heart was broken. He had relied on me to care for him and give maybe just a tad of attention. I had become so engrossed in my own selfish wants and needs that this sweet little plant died behind a stack of books. I silently berated myself. This was my tenth plant murder of the year.

I have officially become a professional plant assassin.

Fun size candy is not fun at all

2012-01-18T15:29:00.000-08:00

I would really like to know what exactly the definition of fun is. Is fun a candy bar that is so small that it looks like it was just born? I really have a problem eating things that were just born. It is not fun at all. So, why name a candy bar, "fun sized?" Were the "sad sized" not selling well?

Did the candy bar marketers think that my life was so boring that a tiny candy bar would bring me to a state of euphoria that I have never before experienced.

It is really embarrassing to go to a party and there is a dish filled with these so-called "fun sized" candy bars swaddled in tiny, crinkly papers that you have to try to hide after you open each little bar because you don't want anyone to know how many you are eating. Then you crinkle when you walk.

If they were fun, they would be the size of a loaf of bread. I would not eat an entire loaf of bread, ever. But, somewhere along the way, during the course of popping "fun sized" bars into my mouth like tic-tacs, I went and gave myself Type II diabetes. Am I supposed to stand there and count the bars as I eat them?

Here is how it actually plays out...Chomp. Gone.

I have no idea how many times I do that. It is a very complex thing to count and eat at the same time, like multitasking. My brain and my body are completely blindsided when I am doing two things at once, like trying to text and drive an ambulance at the same time. I have trouble doing that.

I get very stressed at having to rip all of those little papers off of the bars and then trying to stuff them in my pocket or a baby's diaper and then have to figure out who I am going to blame for the deed. But if there isn't a fresh baby around, guess what? I got 32 crinkly papers to try to nonchalantly dispose of.

Then, to top it off, I remember "you are what you eat." I guess that means I should eat skinny people. Why did I eat all of that chocolate? They are too small! Just because they are smaller, I feel I can eat significantly more of them.

My life, in those moments, starts to spiral out of control. I start to get frustrated. Agitated. The crinkly sounds drive me nuts.

The baby starts crying.

My stress levels and confusion helplessly converge into one giant psychotic machine of delusion and despair. I start to shout and scream and fling myself across the room. The evening pathetically becomes a blur as I perilously try to conquer myself. Did I crash an ambulance earlier? I drift around, completely unaware that I am either in the beginning stages of a sugar hangover or a chocolate induced seizure. I get cocky.

The room starts to spin.

Inevitably, the next day, I get a phone call.

"Wow, you were so much fun last night! Thanks for making it the best party ever!"

After I hang up the phone and inject myself in the stomach with a syringe full of insulin, I realize that maybe the candy marketing people are very clever and know what they are doing after all.

I really should not be so quick to judge.

What heros are made of--Tripp Roth

2012-01-15T12:47:00.000-08:00

I have my serious hat on today. I often write about how I have always wanted to be a superhero. Oftentimes, I feel these huge labyrinths of guilt because I have not made an arresting difference in my world. Yet, there are others who silently usher the world to its knees for a few moments to peruse itself. Those are superheroes to me. One of my superheroes passed away yesterday. His name was Tripp Roth.

If you don't know who Tripp was, I encourage you to google his name, but be prepared to cry. He was only two and a half years old and he and his family lived in a town called Ponchatoula, Louisiana. He was born with a disease called epidermolysis bullosa, which is a disease in which any slight friction to the skin causes huge blisters. He fought from day one. He played a little drum, had an Elmo...and he changed the world.

His mom, Courtney, blogged his entire existence of struggles and triumphs on her blog. In the end Tripp won and the world lost, because sometimes superheroes are made up of stuff you and I can't even possibly fathom and he has moved on to a place where superheroes go when their job here is done. Tripp had inside of him a will and a desire to be everything he could to everyone he could around him in his short life. He was compassion, zest, and tenderness wrapped tightly in love.

Anyone who looks close enough can see that I am nowhere near good enough to be a superhero, but when and if I become one, I can only hope to be half of the blazing torch that Tripp Roth was. Heroes don't have to fly or run into burning buildings. Everyday heroes treat those around them with an amazing sense of mercy, kindness and forgiveness.

And some, but not all, hold in their hand a little drumstick and beat out a little tune that will stay in our hearts forever to remind us how short and sweet and beautiful this life is and why we are here. Thank you, Tripp, for being my hero...

Tracie

How to be a crazy cat lady

2012-01-15T00:25:00.000-08:00

Step 1: Go to a fortuneteller

If she sees cats, you are in. Don't worry, she will.

Step 2: Take this test

How many cats are too many?

In order to make a proper home for your cat, you need to limit...

No way, that was a trick question! There is no such thing as too many cats, EVER!

Step 3: Find a cat

The local shelter has 5 billion.

Step 4: Welcome the cat into your home

Step 5: Name the cat

I know it is tempting to name him after a cute food or a verb, but don't. Give him a human name. Crazy Cat Men name their cats after women. Crazy Cat Ladies name their cats after men. It is just how it is. I don't make the rules. That way, if someone calls you and asks what you are doing, then you just say, "Oh, I'm talking to Tom." They will never know you were talking to your cat (never tell people that!) and you are still considered borderline normal.

Moving on.

5. Invest in a cat lady wardrobe

Crazy Cat Women wear sweatpants. Crazy Cat Men wear plaid. Once again, I don't make the rules.

6. Find a good friend

Hanging on married people is best. They know you are a crazy cat lady and don't care if you hang on them for your human attention and usually will put you to work to earn your keep. You will be more than happy to do it! In the end they go home to their human counterparts. You get to spoon with your fuzzy, squishy little human!

Examine the pros and cons of being a crazy cat lady. Just think, you will never, ever have to share your food again (pro)! Yay! But, your fuzzy, new snuggle partner(s) will always leave you full of hair and try to claw your face off (con).

You will never have to make the effort to love another human being again (pro). No one will ever love you (con).

Big-boned Mr. Jones

2012-01-13T22:49:00.000-08:00

Ok, I overheard someone telling another someone that he was pretty sure he was big-boned and I didn't want to hurt his feelings and tell him that I was pretty sure he wasn't big-boned so I pretended to be an X-Ray machine and came home and drew this up. I like the skelaton...hope ya'll like it, too. Please like my Facebook page to get more updates and share with your friends. And thanks to everyone for visiting my blog and making it a success! And now, Mr. Jones...

Things I learned in the third grade that had no purpose for the rest of my life

2012-01-11T14:02:00.000-08:00

Who Stole the Cookies from the Cookie Jar? I did. Thank ya'll for singing about it...

Connect the Dots. Who would have thought that hours of mindless dot connecting would not provide me with a cornucopia of brilliance into my adulthood.

Square Dancing Am I missing something here? Why did they teach me to be barnfolk?

The Color Wheel It was not conductive to my life of not caring ever about colors

Red Rover My back, arms and neck still hurt from that one. "Red Rover, Red Rover send Tracie right over so we can clothesline her and leave her scarred for life physically, mentally and emotionally because she cannot break through our lineup of 6 foot third grade boys all destined to play professional football by the 4th grade."

Rotary Phone Usage Pick up the phone. Dial. Then, while you are at it hang up and join the rest of us in the 21st century.

I have to say that while I was in the third grade, I had hopeful projections for myself. Even though I am 40 years old now and unemployed, I suppose that I cannot implicate the third grade in the failing stages of my life. Now if you will excuse me, I have some dots to go connect.

Why I bought an eyepatch farm this weekend

2012-01-08T18:53:00.000-08:00

On a normal day, I suffer an irrational anger at milk or cats or something that I can physically destroy with no consequences. But, lately that stinging anger has shifted to my thriving dome of bills that teeter off of the edge of my kitchen cabinet where I toss them unopened.

However, when that dome starts to mature itself into an entire mountain range, it is time to take action. The problem is that I do not have a job, but I do shop. I spent the weekend pondering my situation, about how I am going to get rid of all of these bills. Of course, I tried stabbing them first.

I am considered, however, very creative and inventive. As I sat there this weekend staring at the mounting stack of bills, I visualized in my head what I could invent and sell to make money. And then...

It hit me! What was the one thing that the world needed and I could provide? Something that could have MULTIPLE uses. Economical. Practical.

Eyepatch and eyepatch accessories! Not pirate eyepatches. No, my product is unique as it will always have more than one use. Pirates are just dumb.

Here is an example of what I call "Firepatch." I have a few kinks to work out, but so far I am very impressed with this product! Once again, all of my eyepatches will double as another product.

The next patch I had to buy an entire eyepatch farm for, but I think that it will be a best seller. It is called "Cabbage Patch." The great thing about the "Cabbage Patch" is that the patch can be recycled, like a dirty cloth diaper, only you can eat it! Cabbage is known for its many health benefits including lowering cholesterol, thus the patch would serve more than one purpose. When your cholesterol is lowered as a result of eating the cabbage, your life would possibly be saved, thus making me a hero for saving your life! You are welcome!

Another patch that really excites me is the "Pumpkin Patch." I see this one quickly becoming a best seller as the pumpkin can be used in many versatile ways, including making a pie out of it! Who doesn't like pumpkin pie? We all do. We LOVE pumpkin pie. And you can carve it or play pumpkin bowling. The pumpkin can even be used as a weapon in self defense if someone tries to attack you. Once again, I have created something that saves lives. That is a good feeling.

I will be selling the patches at the low price of $12.99 each. You will not find a lower price as I am the only person who will be selling them. No competition and the world is my possibility. I am so glad I poured my life savings into this venture instead of paying my bills! Well, I would love to finish this, but I have a few dollars left and a whole lot of shopping to do!

3 things I would do if aliens ever take over Earth and yes it can happen

2012-01-06T00:11:00.001-08:00

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..." That is a quote by Charles Dickens from A Tale of Two Cities. Unfortunately, he did not know it or he would have written that the worst of times would actually be when the mothership decides to finally come off of its homebase from the other half of the moon (the half that we can't see) and herd us up like cattle hanging around for their slaughter.

Well, be thankful, because I am always one step ahead of everyone else and have a plan already outlined and ready to put into action.

1. Watch Men In Black. Reenact. Save the Earth from destruction by rogue aliens.

2. Damage Crop Circles.

Fortunately, as a child, I learned to speak and read compass. Crop circles are actually directional tools for aliens to plot territories that they will dominate and destroy. My theory is that if they can't find it, they can't destroy it. They would become very confused with the my new version of crop circles. This would cause them to be genuinely perplexed and leave.

3. Wear my seatbelt

When the cops tell you that seatbelts save lives, they really are not joking. I am going to wear my seatbelt so that the aliens cannot suck me out of my car. Life saved. I am actually hitting two birds with one stone. Not getting sucked out of my car and not breaking the law. It is just one of those win-win situations. Well, the aliens don't win.

It pays to plan ahead. And to have racing stripes.

If I Could Have Just One Superpower...

2011-12-28T23:17:00.000-08:00

My life's dream has been to don a pair of spandex pants and take crimefighting to a whole new level. When I was a child, I used to tie a towel around my neck for a cape (my parents never thought to buy me an actual cape) and I would pretend to "fly" through the front yard saving everyone I could. Looking back, our neighbors must have thought I was a real nut job.

Sometimes, I would swoop down and save the Professor from "Gilligan's Island," but leave the rest.

I think we all know that he was the only one that mattered. But, if I were granted just one super power and had the option of that one choice, I think it would be mind control.

Why would I need X-Ray vision? I don't feel the need to see that criminals have developed a crippling case of arthritis. Telekinesis? Oh, maybe for some superheroes, but not for me. I just don't think I could make my car or shovel go on a murderous rampage, even against a thug. And for the record, I am not picking on thugs...some of my best friends are thugs. Yep...

No, mind control is the super power I want. If the villain tries to rob a bank, I would just make him very sleepy. Go home and take a nap, bad guy. Oh, yes, they would have to go home and sleep instead of robbing the bank. BAM! I'm a superhero crime fighter maverick. That is me. A maverick. I do not need anyone or anything, except for mind control. I need that.

Actually, I already have mastered the art of mind control. I even control you and you don't even know it. Are you ready? You will stop reading this post right now. BAM!

Where Was I Going With This?

2011-12-27T22:15:00.000-08:00

The sky burst open with all of it's width this morning. And across that same sky flew billions of beautiful white doves and I believe an angel or two. Today, life specifically tasted like teddy bears...no make that chocolate teddy bears. And on this day the South could once again poke it's chest out and be proud to call itself...ummm...the South.

My son, Teen Boy, got his driver's license today, December 27, 2011.

Hark! Do I hear no more midnight runs to the Hungry Store for food? Can he not pick up his own keys and make his own runs now? As a matter of fact, I never, EVER again for the rest of my life have to get out of my PJs ever again. Did I say ever?

Except, I do have a ten year old...OHHH...I totally forget about her! UGHHHH!!! Suddenly, I feel this driving need to pack bricks into a sack and bludgeon myself in the face with it over and over and over again! Let me grab the back of my shirt and fling myself onto a massive fire ant mound while I am at it.

I love to write and blog. My job is in my home. I really don't have to get dressed at all. But, those rotten kids always wanting something to eat or drink make me have to get up and moving and do for them.

Then, they try to embed themselves into my skin and suck the last little bit of lifeblood out of me. Sometimes, I think I am present on this Earth just for them. It's true. Kids are very demanding. They only think of themselves. They both made Christmas lists for themselves this year (as usual). Neither of them made a Christmas list for me! So selfish! I went ahead and used most of the Christmas money to buy myself an IPad so that they could feel better about themselves and feel charitable. Life is too short not to give your kids life lessons.

And just as I get old enough and lonely enough to need them, they will take their power of youth and hostility somewhere else and leave me rotting like an alligator corpse on the side of a swamp-infested back road. Only in my case, I do pick up the alligator if it is still warm. You would too if you knew how expensive alligator meat is. And that is what I will be. Expensive. Rotting. Alligator. Meat.

Ok, so where was I going with this? Oh, yes, Teen Boy got his driver's license today! Teen Boy, if you are reading this, and you probably aren't, you may be a brat sometimes (OK, a lot of the times) but I am still proud of you! Now, I am hungry, can you go to the Hungry Store for me...please?

I WAS Good!

2011-12-25T22:13:00.000-08:00

Like a creature of the night, Santa snuck into my little abode I call home and slipped some great things under the tree. Teen Boy got what he wanted also, but he definitely wasn't good. And on the way home today, an unbelievable thing happened...I hit an alligator with my car. It was a Christmas miracle! Alligator tacos this week...yummm!

Hang On Santa...

2011-12-23T23:24:00.000-08:00

I just bet you have heard this one. "Santa is watching you. He knows whether you are being naughty or nice." I staunchly believe that it is totally fabricated and I will tell you why I believe that.

One pitifully prosaic December day, as I went about my usual, habitual duties of being a child, playing "beat my brother with a wooden chair" (it was my own personal game I created as I had the imagination of a true visionary) and my mom screamed at me with all of the trembling fury that she possessed that, "Santa was watching and had decided I was naughty and not going to get ANY presents for Christmas!"

Oh, really? So, let me get this straight. There is this unshaven, morbidly obese 500+ year old man sitting in his ice fortress in the Northern Hemisphere of the Earth, lounging around in who knows what the 364 days of the year he is not actually working watching me through his magic crystal ball at all hours of the day and night passing judgement on my playing skills. For the record, my goal was to make my brother stronger as a person so I was doing a good thing, but even if that plan didn't pan out I still resent the fact that Santa was on a power trip dangling toys over my head like I was a puppet in his creepy little ice world.

Hang on Santa. I'm coming.

Obviously, the old man didn't really know who he was dealing with. I just happened to have first hand information (my mom) that Santa was going to be at the local mall that Saturday. I had only days to put a massive offensive campaign together.

Oh, I'll show you naughty, big guy. Drink your milk. You gonna need it.

I spent night and day plotting against Santa. There could be no tactical errors on my part.

The day arrived. I loaded up my gear into my backpack and headed to the mall on my bike.

"Are you going to see Santa, Dear?" I heard my mom yell as I hopped on my bike.

Oh, yeah, I'm going...

I waited in that line for what seemed like hours to see him until at last my turn came. The first part of my plan was to get close to him and lure him into my trap so I crossed step one off of my list of sitting in his lap. I lay my backpack out of sight close to an elf. I thought about bringing the elf down, too.

As I got close to him, I was shaking with excitement. I was going to bring him down, down, down!. I was going to be the kid to bring down Clause.

And then something happened after I sat on his lap that totally caught me off guard and completely threw me for a loop. He asked me what I wanted for Christmas.

Was he kidding me? Was this some type of joke? There was still a chance? My heart beat fast and my mind raced faster. I had to think with the skill of lightning. Was this a trick or a defensive move on his part?

It got worse. He put his arm around me and smiled. "Ohhh...he is good," I thought to myself. I looked over at my backpack full of weapons, including a small rocket launcher I had devised. I looked back up at him and smiled. I knew exactly what I wanted.

In the excitement of the event, with great hope of getting toys, I ran out of the mall without my backpack. I didn't remember it until the next day I saw on the news that a backpack filled with weapons of mass destruction had been found at the mall near Santa's post. They had evacuated the mall and temporarily closed it down. Almost, 1500 kids didn't get to see Santa that week and the mall lost tens of thousands of dollars in revenue.

I secretly smiled to myself while watching the news, so thankful that they had found someone else's green backpack with the initials TF and not mine. Santa might not have thought I was nice, after all.

The Professor and Me...A True Unpublished Confession of Why I Really Watched Gilligan's Island

2011-12-22T07:16:00.000-08:00

I have a confession to make. I never wanted him rescued. The day he washed ashore on that island was my dream come true. I was all of eight years old and he was my castle in the air and with great certainty, I knew that one day we would be together. I wanted him stuck on the island forever, just for me to watch him inventing and fixing things. Every time a boat sailed along, I secretly prayed a rescue wouldn't happen. It wasn't that I was selfish, but I actually was.

I hated Mary Ann. HATED. She was my competition. At times, when she would be standing underneath a coconut tree with her scantily dressed glamour girl body, I would find myself up against the TV screen with my fists doubled up hoping for the day a coconut would fall on her and cause her some extent of blunt trauma. I didn't want her to die, give me some credit, just permanently disabled.

Now the love of my life looks like my Grandad...ugghh

Water For Elephants

2011-12-21T21:17:00.000-08:00

When I was eight, I was going through a perpetual state of world-weariness.

My Grandad decided it would be a good time to bring me to the circus.

Though his dementia hadn't quite set in at the time, he felt certain that since the animals were locked up or heavily guarded by trainers that they would be safe.

When we got to the circus Grandad held my hand tightly.

There were bears and elephants and tigers! After we arrived, Grandad ran into one of his friends and they talked and talked and talked. Then, I realized that I needed to get some water to drink or I would die! I begged Grandad to let me go and get something to drink. He glanced around to make sure all of the animals were safe in captivity before he let me go. He handed me a dollar to buy a drink.

On the way back from the concession stand, I saw some elephants behind a tent. I decided that they must be thirsty so I looked for water to bring to the elephants. I searched and searched but there was no water for elephants. I saw a bear in a cage. Then I saw of set of keys near a circus man who was sleeping. I decided to borrow his keys to get into the bear cage to get some water. I would be like a superhero saving the thirsty elephants.

I unlocked the cage with one of the keys. I stood back while the bear stepped out for some fresh air. Then, two other bears came out of a little house and decided they needed some fresh air, too. I like bears. I went in and picked up a bucket of water.

But, while I was walking back, I passed by the tiger's cage and thought I saw food in the cage so then I figured that the elephants would probably be hungry,too. I still had the keys, so I opened the cage to the tigers and they decided they needed fresh air, just like the bears. Once I was in the cage I realized that there was no food and they must be hungry. Maybe they went to look for food.

Then, suddenly I heard screaming. I looked up and the tigers were chasing the elephants and the bears were chasing everybody. The elephants ran into the tent and then the tent collapsed.

A man with a tall hat was angry and screaming at me in the cage. I figured the elephants didn't need the water anymore since they were playing with the tigers so I went to look for Grandad. The man with the tall hat screamed at Grandad and told him to leave and for us not to come back.

I thought that was very mean of him since I tried to water his elephants for him. I then asked Grandad if we could go to the zoo, instead.