Sammie, da Burd

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

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!

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

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

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

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--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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Messin’ with your neighbors

Need some fun to kick off your summer?

I’m here to help. No, don’t thank me…I dooo wh—oh never mind. You know the line.

Everybody has “garbage day,” right? So here’s what you do.

Roll out your garbage can early, early one morning that ISN’T garbage day. Don't forget to recycle! Do it early enough so you can stay in your PJ’s and bunny slippers. What? Like you don’t wear bunny slippers? Uh huh, sure Hun.

So roll it out say, around 5:30ish. That way you beat the crowd that has to leave early for that real job.

AnyWAY, roll it out and then run back into the house, grab some java and watch the fun begin. Neighbors will look out, see your can, and panic. If it’s on a Monday, they are still fuzzy from the weekend and it won’t hit them that…it runs on Tuesday.

Men, women, (and sometimes the ones that can actually get their teens carry out garbage), will come running out, racing down their driveways, trash flying everywhere, with one, two, and even three cans, trying to beat the truck. They have this look on their faces that says, “Crap! What day is this? Did someone change the day for garbage? Why doesn’t the city notify us! I’m calling those suckers today!”

I’m particularly fond of watching the neighbor that parties hard on the weekend. His can and ten boxes of empty beer bottles isn’t the only thing dragging.

Here’s the good part. After all the neighbors have their cans out, sneak out and bring yours back in.

Trashy, aren’t I?

If you wait one month to the day, you can have a repeat performance…unless you get a call from the city in which case, there are always Halloween decorations for August. THAT really messes with um. And Christmas…Flag Day. Be creative!

I guess that saying really IS true. Someone's trash is another person's treasure...or something like that.

JJ - Queen of the Trash. Wait...hm.

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A tight situation

There’s another job out there just waiting on the peeps who package light bulbs. Have you tried to get one out lately?

I push, I pull, I say words containing four letters, use a knife, soak um in water, run a chainsaw; and the list goes on.

Those packers need to apply to the airlines as packing experts. They’d have everybody that flies the friendly skies down to one bag, including carry-on.

Getting a bulb out reminds me of those baby-proof bottle caps. It ain’t gonna happen. Not until you break the remaining four bulbs or worse...one of your teeth.

What is that stuff made of ‘cause it could stop a speeding bullet, would laugh in the face of tornadoes and it could give new meaning to push-up bras.

Seems with all of today’s technology, they could find a way to let me slip out a bulb without having to perform a light-ectomy.

If we can send people to the moon, why can’t they make cardboard that bends or gives a little? I’m old. I need bendable, people!

Ping! Oh Lordy. Here we goooo again.

‘cuse me, peeps…gotta run fire up the chainsaw.

JJ--sitting in the dark.

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Housework makes you tired

I stand in amazement at the number of friends who write to me on Saturday saying they are worn slap out from doing housework. I'm thinking, why?

First, it should be outlawed, period. Write to your Congressman/woman. They're all experts in DIRT.

Don't you know that once it's done, you have to do it over again the next week?

I feel for my buds. Obviously, they don't know about the shortcuts. Because I dooo what I cannn, (annoying, isn't it?) I'm going to offer to my fans (both of you), insider tips for housecleaning.

Tip #1: Ovens are large. They make them that way on purpose. One can fit three dirty skillets, two bread pans and if you center them just right, four casserole dishes inside the oven when company comes a callin' (like Mom).

Tip #2: Dust (and I can't believe they don't know this!) substitutes for sticky pads, or if the grandbeauties are there, Lego’s. You can build castles, birdhouses and if you practice on a weekly basis, it will be no time before you can boast about your Russell Crowe look-a-likes. Practice people! Practice!

Tip #3: Cleaning bathroom tubs, showers, and thrones. Why do you think God gave us children? If guilt doesn't work, threaten to show their latest "flame" pictures of them on a rug...naked. Experiment with different lines of threats. You'll be a master in no time. Just ask THE SON.

Tip #4: Laundry is a bit trickier. There's that dryer thingy, then folding and putting away. Whew! This can really bite into Saturday's Facebook time. So my tip is---just buy new clothes, problem solved.

Tip #5: Ironing. Only the rich wrinkle. Nuff said.

And of course, if all of the above fails...move.

Housework can make you tired and it's a nasty job (pun intended). But sommmmmebody's gotta do it--just not ME.

JJ- da Queen of Dust

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I don't feel funny today

I'm crawling at a nail's pace today. I don't feel funny. No, I'm not depressed. That's reserved for when I pay the IRS each month. I'm dragging, that's all.

Sleep failed me last night and since there wasn't JACK on TV, I worked a bit. I know, I'm a sick puppy. But the thing is, work is fun to me. Yes, F-U-N for those that can't read. Phonics...it's a good thing.

So I worked a bit, got happy, then went off to bed around 3ish; after checking FB that is. Good Lord, what did we do before Facebook?

Oh yeah, now I remember, when I couldn't sleep, I would call my friend Jane. It usually went like this...

ME: Hey, it's me. Wanna hear what I wrot--

Jane: Whattt?...crackle, crackle, crackle (made with her own voice, how lame)...sorry, bad, crackle, connection. Can't hear you, crackle, crackle. Call tomorrow...or Monday, or..crackle...CLICK.

Then I'd call Vicki (Pick one...six friends are Vicki's)

ME: Hey, guess what! I wrote three--

Vicki: Whoops, would you look at the time! I have to run to the ah...emergency room and get my throat, ah........cut. CLICK.

On to Dinah. Dinah never fails me. She's my rock.

ME: Yo, Di--

Dinah: Wong number...you got wong number please. No one name Di-ah live hee-ah. CLICK.

When my friends, who will NOT be getting a gift card from me this Christmas, failed me, thankfully, there's always...

ME: Hey Mom, it's me (said in my most downtrodden voice)

MOM: Hey darling. Oh please tell me you've written some more. If you have, let me get a cup of coffee and you can read them ALL to me. You are soooo funny!

Mom. She makes me feel funny.

Call your mom today if you can. Thank you God for letting mine be on the other end of my ringy, dingy's.

JJ

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10 Ways to Annoy Your Friends

Everybody is good at something. I seem to have a knack for annoying those I love. I thought; why not share my wisdom with the rest of the world?

For those of you wanting to graduate from the Queen Jaw Jaw School of Charm, read on.

No, don't thank me. You know meeee...I dooo what I cannnn. Here they are:

10 Ways to Annoy Your Friends.

1. Call them up and say, "OMG! Did you hear what happened to ____ (fill in the blank) and then say, "Whoops, gotta run, there's the mail. Click.

2. Lose 10, 20, 40 pounds. Personally, I haven't tried this, but I have friends who have. Morons. See? It's already working.

3. Win the lottery. Another one I can't say I've done, but if I doooo, I intend to be obnoxious. More than usual.

4. Learn all there is to know about Facebook and then gloat about it. While guaranteed to annoy at least 90% of your friends, dream on. Ain't gonna happen.

5. When you meet with friends for lunch, take like a bazillion pictures of your grandchildren including the video of their birth. Don't forget the ultra sound pix!

6. One-up them when they have pains. My hemorrhoids can beat up your hemorrhoids.

7. When you know they're out, call and leave a message hubby will hear. Like, "Hey Vicki, did you get that new pair of shoes you wanted; in all five colors?"

8. Tell them you saw their old flame who is filthy, stinking rich. He/she had all of their hair, is still drop-dead gorgeous and just sold their biz for like a gazillion dollars.

Even if they were bald, had three teeth, maybe...and helps Elvis pump gas in Arizona. This one can be particularly fun. Use your imagination or call me for tips. I'm here to help.

9. Shriek loudly then exclaim, "What is that on your neck? Eeeek! What species is that? OMG!" No prompts necessary. Trust me--they'll become airborne and spastic-like. Bring a chair, Oreo's and a drink before you do this exercise. It can be very rewarding. Oh and running shoes. You'll need them.

And the most annoying thing you can do to your friends is...

10. Write books and blogs. Send them to all of your friends with sassy notes, or better yet, remind them that you know stuff and will sing like a canary if they don't read and leave comments. NOTE: This only works if you know more on them, than they do on YOU.

Once you graduate, signed certificates will be mailed directly to you providing you can verify your annoyanceNESS with pictures.

The Queen of Annoyance...JJ

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Equal time...Equal Love

Yesterday's post was so popular, I felt it was only 'fittin' that I write about my other son, Tom-boy. (Why yes, I'm Southern, why do you ask?)

When Tom-boy was born in 1974 (I had him when I was 10), it was smack dab in the middle of the tornadoes that nearly wiped out Huntsville, AL. Right when the first one hit. Omen?

His first word wasn't mama; it was Golf. I've told relatives that if I ever had an emergency, don't call Tom, call an ambulance. If he happen to be on the back nine, I'd be one dead woman.

But does he love his mama? I can honestly say YES, and big time; and more than golf, although I jest. His hugs make my heart swell with pride, and his smile can light up a room. He has such a great sense of humor (he IS my son, after all) and he uses it. On me.

Tom-boy is a practical joker and one thing he loves to do is jump out at me whenever I least expect it, just to see how high old women can go. According to him, and after the laughter dies down, Olympic pole vaulters are wimps compared to me.

I found a way to cure him though. See...Tommy is deathly afraid of spiders. Neverrrrrr should have admitted that to me.

To give him a taste of his own medicine, I tiptoed in his room one day while visiting the grandbeauties. Placing a rubber BIG, HUGE spider on his arm, I then called the grandbeauties and my daughter-in-law to come watch the show. I whispered, "Wanna see how high Daddy can jump, girls?" To which everyone nodded with glee.

Tom! Tommy! Wake up honey! What's that on your arm? Oh my gosh! Wake up! Wake up!

We're still looking for him.

Don't mess with yo mama...I made you, I can send you into orbit.

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When Words Fail Me

Some days I look at the blank screen before me and words fail me. When this happens, I try to think of some topic that will make my fingers fly off the keyboard. It works for the most part, but there are days, like today, when words fail me.

It's early and most of you are asleep. Being an early riser, I try to make haste to offer as many humorous and hopefully, inspirational words as I can muster for my fans. Both of you.

On the way to mainline coffee, I walk by THE SON'S room and hear the gentle snoring escaping from his beautiful self. That's when I know all is as it should be, and I am blessed.

I don't need a string of words to tell me, or you that life has been, and will be, a good one. I don't need to shove sentences down the public's throat to emphasis living life to the fullest is the only way to live.

What I do need is to sit by the door, listen, and count my blessings.

I need to realize that the tomato plants on my carport may look like giant trees, but I have tomatoes.

I need to realize that my carpet needs cleaning (understatement) but I have softness under my feet.

I need to realize that my waist may need its own zip code, but I have plenty of food to nourish me.

Most of all, I need to realize that the gentle, sweet sounds emitting from the room next door proves to the world that if I died today, he is a testament to my life.

HE says...I mattered.

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The Good Old Days

In this day and age of FAST, it is hard to keep up with each new technology birth. Almost as hard as keeping up with post on Facebook. Some days, I find I yearn for the good old days.

I said...sometimes.

Then I remember no air conditioning and playing outside all day. I couldn't prove it, but I'm pretty sure Mom locked the door once we went outside around 8:00ish. Someeeebody did.

Mom said it was stuck because everyday from 8:00 to 5:00, the Glue Monster made the door stick. At darkthirty, it mysteriously became UNstuck.

I, being somewhat of a truth-stretcher (I have degrees in this) questioned her TRUTH. I got an old-fashion whoopin.

Then there was walking to school. No, not in snow, uphill with no shoes. It was blazing hot, flat, and the shoes were hand-me downs.

Back then, we didn't have snow in Alabama. Well, there was that one time in 1967. Do you know that you can bury your siblings in snow and all you can hear is muffled threats? I got an old-fashion whoopin.

And speaking of school. I was the Valedictorian of Summer School. Were my parents proud of this accomplishment? Nooooo...they told friends I was dropped on my head at birth. I demanded to know which one of them was so careless. What did I look like, a basketball?

Yep, you guessed it. An old-fashion whoopin.

I once changed a grade from a D to an A. Don't try this at home. One stroke of a different colored pen does not a grade change make.

I got an old-fashion whoopin. Big time.

So do I still yearn for the good old days? I think I'll just stick with the NOW and maybe, just maybe one day I'll be able to sit down without "Ouch!" memories of the...not so good, days.

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Russell Crowe wants me...or should

Last night I had the pleasure of a night out with a good friend. We decided to go see the movie, "Robin Hood." I'm in love, or at least that other "L" word. Hubba, hubba!

Russell Crowe had me wanting to fight the bad guys with my trusty bow and arrows, ride horses while the wind blew my long, beautiful (sans the gray) red hair (hey, it's my dream, 'k?), and catching wild animals and cooking them over the starry skies...at night...with him.

Him doing the catching and the cooking, that is. I can't even kill spiders.

After seeing that action-packed movie, I had a hard time going to sleep. When I did, it was Russell Crowe all night. He wanted me.

Course I played hard to gettttt. It's what we women do. I was Maiden Jaw Jaw, and he was my hero, come to save me from the nasty old icky tax collector. Reminds me of my IRS bill. Where's Robin when you need him?

AnyHOO, it was a good night except I'm worn slap out. Villains were around every bend in the forest, and there was always a battle to fight. Being a fair maiden isn't all that it's cracked up to be, peeps.

My guess is that Russ (as we that know him, call him) would like a nice, quiet vacation in Alabama. As Monty would say, "Come on down!"

Wait a minute, that would require housecleaning, and da Queen don't do manual labor. So I'll just be happy to view him on the big screen cause this baby boomer ain't no Merry Maid.

Love and lust to Russ till we meet again. Next time at the Hilton.

Maiden Jaw Jaw

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The Bank Whisperer

It's taken me years to train my bank. They were under the impression that I put money in, they keep it. Puleaseee...how lame.

Course some of them are grasshoppers, so not wanting to embarrass the new kid on the block, I pulled her aside last week and whispered, "Now honey, here's how it goes. I put money in, I spend it. And sometimes, I spend more than what's in there. 'K?" You could tell she was new by the puzzled look on her face. Give her a few withdrawals, and she'll catch on.

Come on people, it isn't like they don't have bunches and bunches. I bet if they looked closer at some other accounts, they'd find extra and there you go; problem solved. Do I have to teach them everything? Oh well, you know meeee, I dooo what I cannnn.

Yesterday I drove up to the window to cash a check. I could tell they were so glad to see me because every single teller in the place, plus the prez, two unknown customers, and the janitor came running over and stood around as she pushed out that drawer thingy. Warms your heart doesn't it?

Somehow they've gotten the impression I'm rich. They must have because I overheard one of them say, "If there's a pool, I want in on it." Ahhh, you guys! Aren't they just the nicest things?

I know they were sad to see me leave too because all smiles dropped when she gave me my cash. Sigh.

Just call me the Queen of Withdrawals.

My bank does.

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TGIF (Thank Goodness I'm [NOT] a Farmer)

TGIF to all you growers and farmers out there. I'm a farmer. Or at least I thought I was.

How hard can it be to grow tomatoes? VERY. You have to do stuff.

I thought you just bought some patio tomato plants, slapped those babies in a pot, watered them when you thought about it, (but not before coffee) and...boda bing boda boom! You got tomatoes!

NOT.

First of all, a word from the not so wise. Make sure you read the label on the plants at Wally World before you buy. If they don't say Patio, then you've just bought a tree.

Second, you really do have to water them. Every day. Just like the cat.

And third, don't get more than one. OMG! I have a forest. I remember thinking "Why just get one, or two, GET SIX! Oh look, cucumbers!"

So if you're looking for me and can't find me, stroll through the bushes on my "patio" or just follow the strings of dental floss until you find a coffee cup. I'm attached to it. Dental floss is the new duct tape cause people, duct tape won't fix that. And what may I ask are "cages?" Good grief, there's just too much technical stuff to this farming gig.

From now on, the only tomatoes I want to see are on an All-You-Can-Eat buffet. That goes for cukes, too.

You say tomato, I say, what the devil was I thinking?

JJ--the farmer in the dell...which, by the way, starts with an H.

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THE SONS

After raising two boys on my own, I can tell you there are no surprises left. They found my buttons years ago, and learned to push every single one just at the right moment. But, for all of their shenanigans, I am still in love with both of them. They light up my world and make my heart sing. I am blessed.

Even when I ask THE SON to take out the garbage and he forgets. And even when I sit said garbage (mind you, it's only ONE bag) in front of his work van and he runs over it leaving for work. How do you run over a bag that's in FRONT of you vehicle when you are backing up? Do you think he was trying to tell me something?

THE SON redeemed himself by cooking pancakes that evening so I let him live to see another garbage day.

I'm thinking that both boys are savvy in the ways of Button Pushing. For instance, they let me think they've forgotten Mother's Day and right after I announce that I'm surely not long for this old world, (sniff...sniff, hanky in hand), they pull out the cards and a dozen red roses which I'm pretty sure didn't come off a grave. Score one for the boys.

Or when I get on a tirade of "why haven't you called me? I could be dead or tied up on the kitchen floor while robbers get my stuff!" They say, "Check your answering machine, Mom. Two calls just yesterday; no answer. And who would rob you of dust?"

Score; Mom = 0, Boys = 2

Are they going behind my back taking "Pushing Mom's Buttons - 101?" Is there such a class? If so, THE SONS are undoubtedly ace pupils.

Just once, just ONCE I would love to get the upper hand. One would think they love me or something.

Wait...ah...hm...never mind. Humility; it's a good thing. Sigh...

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