It Goes Something Like This...

I've said before that I live my life in a constant state of live, musical theatre. I spend about 3/4 of every day singing or humming, and sometimes I get really fancy and throw in some random whistling just so I don't get bored. So, recently, in the middle of one of my musical numbers, I suddenly realized just one more thing that we Americans take for granted...song lyrics.

When you really think about it, just about anything that ever needs to be said can be done with nothing other than song lyrics. So, if you're really creative, quick on your feet, and happen to know a lot of songs (which I do, YEAH) you may never have to have an original thought ever again.

Give these a try...

Conversations with Siblings:

Joe Jones came out with this in the 60s, and it couldn't more more appropriate for my sisters. I, of course, mean this with the best of humor, so please don't call and tell me that I talk WAY more than you do. It's a blog, for crying out loud, and I'll say what I want to say.

You talk too much you worry me to death, You talk too much, you even worry my pet. You just talk, talk too much. You talk about people that you don't know. You talk about people wherever you go. You just talk, talk too much.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iMoDwz9BW0I



Parenting Advice:

Chill out, What you yelling for?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qr5PZuE_vaU

A big thanks to Avril Lavigne for that one. It's one of my favs.

Conversations with Ken at work:

Just hit the eastside of the LBC on a mission trying to find Mr. Warren G. Seen a car full of girls ain't no need to tweak. All you skirts know what's up with 213.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uXNvHNOD-ZY

Ah, some Warren G and Regulate. This of course makes no sense at all, but does fit into one of my favorite hobbies of calling Ken at work and singing him random songs. He totally loves it ;) but occasionally does try to hang up on me. He's so lucky to have me to occupy his day. Don't you think?

Pep Talk to Myself

Cause I'm a redneck woman And I ain't no high class broad I'm just a product of my raisin' And I say "hey y'all" and "Yee Haw" And I keep my Christmas lights on, on my front porch all year long And I know all the words to every Charlie Daniels song.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y8ECto9wdRw

Gretchen Wilson read my mind with this one. It's my self-appointed theme song, if you will. It's such a fun song to sing at the top of my lungs while I'm doing the dishes.

I could go on and on but you get my drift :)

Hello, breast...meet my 9 pound, 15 ounce son.

The. Breast. Center. Maybe it's just me, but simply hearing the three words together makes it a bit difficult to understand exactly what this establishment is. Should I go there to get some enhancing in my obviously lacking cleavage area, or should I expect Bambi to show up next to my bar stool with a Cosmo in hand?

And poor Ken can't speak the three words together without chuckling out loud a bit. (Good thing he didn't see the paperwork.) I had no earthly idea what to expect, but I knew it was something that I needed to do sooner rather than later.

So, today, at the ripe 'ole age of 33-and-three-quarters, was my appointment for my first ever mammogram. Yikes. Ouch. I was scared stiff. And when I found out that I couldn't wear deodorant, I wanted to scream out over the phone, "It's LATE JULY, people!" Whatever. Surely it wouldn't kill me.

Whoever said that a mammogram was painful has obviously never delivered and breastfed a 9 lb., 15 oz. newborn baby. Breastfeeding is much more painful than a mammogram, hands down. Today I saw no needles, no blood, and no hands in holes they shouldn't be in. Nothing. I've had blood pressure cuffs be more painful that this.

I am, however, feeling a hint of discrimination. So, on behalf of all small to average breasted women out there, I must ask...is there a reason the platform has to be so large? I mean really? I took up maybe one-sixteenth of the allotted square. Really? Are there women out there that take up the entire thing? Holy crap.

And I'm not really sure why the examiner feels the need to carry on a conversation with me while I'm half naked. Pardon my rudeness, but I CANNOT talk with you while I'm wearing a sideways-turned, polka-dotted smock and exposing everything God gave me. Sorry. I can't. It's weird, and I'm not going to do it. But I am thrilled for you that you have two children and three amazing grandchildren. Really I am. Couldn't be happier, but shouldn't you be clicking something over there on your computer?

BTW, to all of you with computer speakers, I just couldn't resist this song. I'm not apologizing for it. Gotta have some fun with all of this.

"Beat It" Mandy M.

The following is a true story. While the events you are about to read about are in fact true, last names have been abbreviated to provide anonymity.

You've undoubtedly heard by now that, of course, Michael Jackson has officially died. Dead. Deceased. Gone from this Earth. And unless you live in a shack in the middle of the woods with "Dueling Banjos" playing in the background, you've heard at least one MJ classic song on the radio or T.V. since his untimely death.

I get it. He was the "King of Pop," his album "Thriller" is still the top selling album of all time, and he changed the way we view and hear music even today. Really, I get it. But, I still a little bitter. It all goes back to 1983 for me...

I was in the 3rd grade in Mrs. Dixon's class at McRae Elementary. One of my classmates, RaeLynn, always brought things to school to sell. At the time, that didn't seem all that unusual, but now looking back, I wonder who exactly lets an eight-year-old girl peddle items to her peers? And an even better question is why the school let it go on. Anything from homemade, teddy bear shaped lollipops to my all-time favorite, the coveted, amazing, one-of-a-kind Michael Jackson purse.

It was such a cute little carryall. I can still picture it now. It was solid black with a shoulder strap that could have doubled as a black shoestring and right there on the front was a picture of MJ himself in white. I was in love. The price? $5.00.

Seems like a deal in 2009, but in 1983, things were really tight for us. I begged and pleaded with my mom for five bucks, but my constant nagging, as I had assumed, went unrewarded. No purse for me. I would have to settle for looking at Mandy M's latest MJ accessory. She was so cool.

And it didn't help matters that she walked around taunting me with it. She'd carry it different ways just to annoy me..."normally" as one would expect to carry such a kickass handbag, casually without the shoestring strap, or my absolute favorite diagonally across her body. Any way she carried it spelled trouble for me and my now overwhelming envy.

And what did she carry in there anyway? We didn't wear make-up, and we didn't need feminine products just yet (thank God). Maybe she just carried around to see what else she could buy from RaeLynn and shove in there.

I have no idea whatever happened to RaeLynn or Mandy ***insert sarcasm here*** but just in case either one of them is reading this, I would like to tell you something. Something I've been meaning to say for years now...

"Beat It" Mandy. I've moved on. I now carry a purse that my little sister bought me from the Sarah Jessica Parker collection at Steve & Barry's. And yes, it cost $9.99, so if my math is correct, that's exactly double what your purse costs. It's big enough to carry around my wallet, gum, crayons, and even my cell phone (assuming it's charged and I know where it is).

There. Deep cleansing breath, and I'm done.

The Rise and Fall of Jon & Kate: An Insider's Look into the Genre of Reality Television

Okay, so I'm not an insider by any means of the Jon and Kate phenomenon, but I do watch more than my fair share of reality television, so I do have some insight into our recent "development." So, here we go...

Dear Kate:

I've watched your show for years now.

I really loved the fact that your husband went off to work and you stayed home with eight, count them EIGHT, little ones. I was exhausted with my mere two, and here you sit with six more than me. Either I'm a complete loser or you're nothing short of a modern day Mary Magdalene. I applaud you, I really do.

I loved the fact that you fit all eight of your litter in one, rather compact home. They were always fighting over the same toy, constantly throwing temper tantrums and fits, and always peeing (or worse) on the floor. It was great television for stay-at-home and working moms alike across our cable T.V. viewing country. So, I was thrilled, maybe even a little jealous, when you got the tummy tuck.

I mean, shut-up girl. You spent months on bed rest IN a hospital with a severely overstretched stomach centered with a belly button that was just screaming for someone to draw large, black circles around it thus making it a moving dartboard . You deserve to do something nice for yourself. Go for it.

I didn't even care when Jon had his hair transplant. I mean, yes, he was losing his hair, but it didn't seem that overwhelming to me. Nonetheless, I say take it. If it's being offered free of charge and your kind brother and his pretty redheaded wife are willing to take care of all of the kids, I say heck yeah, bring on the follicle support.

It was fun that you went to various places around your hometown with the kids. I enjoyed seeing your church, where you bought groceries, and the little kids' preschool. Very cool. I wasn't even that put-off when you went skiing in Utah or to Disney World, even though I had never been to either place.

But, I think we crossed the line when we took the entire family on an all expenses paid trip to Hawaii for a wedding rededication ceremony. Really? Was that entirely necessary? Yes, yes, I know Jon's family lives in Hawaii, but you didn't seem all that interested in getting to know them. You seemed more into your designer wedding gown and complimentary spa treatments than into meeting your in-laws. And now, all of the sudden, it seems you've gotten too big for your britches, as my dad would say. That one episode alone was enough for me to re-examine my TIVO lineup and delete my season pass.

You more than double your filming from the first season, get complete body makeovers, and move into a multi-million dollar house and now all of the sudden your "documentary" has turned into a paparazzi chasing, media frenzy. The viewers suddenly turned on you, and we now hold you somewhere between Amy Fisher and Michael Jackson.

Now it seems that all the crap you've dealt out to your husband has come back to bite you. No more "it's a crazy life, but it's our life" and "we're in this together" intro into your show. Should have thought about that before treating your husband like he was just another one of your many disposable diapers.

So, what's a thirty-something, mother of eight to do? Go on with the popular reality show where you get paid to go to the zoo, create pottery, and make cupcakes or get a regular 9-5 job and keep your family together. Hmmm. Guess you'll have to think about that one for a while.

My advice? Get out while you can. Try to scrap together any shred of sanity you have left and move to Zimbabwe. Give your sweet kids a break before we see them on an episode of "Reality Show Kids of the Past" and they're talking about their tormented childhoods.

P.S. I like the white, wide-rimmed sunglasses. Do you mind telling me where you got those?

A concerned ex-fan,

Heather

On behalf of dogs everywhere...

I'm not a dog fan. There I said it. I'm not. Not even close.

I just can't wrap my little brain around the idea of actually paying for a four-legged-pet, papers or not, and then taking care of them as if they were a child. I mean come on...you've got the feeding, the watering, the papering, the grooming, the walking with the poopy clean-up along the way, the obedience classes, and who could forget the ever-so-popular "doggie day care." It's enough to make my head spin and my wallet shrivel up and die.

Maybe I'm just way too lazy, but I can't imagine cleaning up after one more living creature. If I wanted to do that, I'd just ***swallowing loudly*** have another baby. At least that way we'd get a tax credit, right honey?

I know it's an unpopular opinion, maybe even an un-American one, but I don't care. Somebody needs to stand up for these guys, and I have self-appointed that somebody as ME.

I recently watched the movie Beverly Hills Chihuahua and...okay let me stop myself right there. I should have said I grudgingly sat down and tried to watch this flick that my 4-year-old begged me to watch with him. How bad could it be? It's a cute kid movie.

I got about five minutes into this "movie" before I realized what I had succumb to. I'm watching a movie about dogs...not just any dogs but talking dogs for that matter...dogs that wear SHOES and HATS and LEATHER COATS and get PEDICURES.

Seriously? Why are we doing this to poor, innocent canines across our country? So, on behalf of dogs everywhere, let me just say that they HATE, with a capital H, wearing any type of clothing. Just to be clear, this would include any kind of shirt in any material, jewelry, shoes (yes, boots too), raincoats, hats (even with the appropriately sized openings for their ears), and please don't get me started on Halloween costumes.

Dogs are dogs. They sniff each others privates and drink out of toilets. They don't require countless trips to the groomer and the nail salon. Give them food, a bale of hay, some rain water, and maybe a flea collar, and they're good to go. That's all they need. Period.

Don't get me wrong. I'm all for equal rights for all of God's creatures, but where I'm from, dogs were lucky to get FED. They sure as hell didn't wear CLOTHES. And don't tell Bob Barker, but we never had them spayed or neutered. That's what a water hose was for.

Perhaps I'm just a wee bit cynical, but deep down you all secretly agree with me. I'm all for vet visits, rabies shots, flea control, and maybe even an occasional bow or scarf in the fur. That's it. Just let it go. ***CHANTING (and holding my picket sign)***No more clothes...No more clothes...No more clothes!

I feel better already.

What I'm STILL Learning...

As my friend Ginny would say, "This is a serious blog. Sit down, shut up, and listen."

Yesterday was probably one of the hardest days of my life as we were faced with the funeral of our sweet friend, Ginny. About six years ago, way before she was ever faced with cancer, she asked me to sing a certain song at her funeral. I believe the words I said to her were, "Would you stop it and stop talking about your funeral. Who does that?" Well, she did apparently, and I remembered it.

That was all she said, and she never brought the song up again - until she was diagnosed with cancer a couple of years ago. On what was apparently a particularly hard day, she asked me in front of "witnesses" as she called them, to sing at her service again. I just shook my head and started crying. Now all of the sudden it seemed all too real to me, and I was literally terrified.

So, when she passed last week, I knew it was coming. Her husband, David, called me on Saturday and asked me to do just that. I knew I had to do it for my friend, but I was completely mortified of singing at a funeral, especially one of someone that had made such an impact on my life. But I knew what I had to do.

Those of you who have been to funerals with me know what I'm referring to. I'm a contagious cryer. I can sob at a service of someone I've never even met. I actually did that once when my mom forced me to go to a funeral of one of my great aunts when I was in high school. It was bad...really, really bad. I think she got some comic relief out of it because she was too busy laughing at me rather than paying attention to the service. BTW, thanks for that, Mom.

Anyway...back to my friend. I've known the song selection for years, so I didn't have to learn anything. I just had to get geared up for it...put my game face on and get to work.

I was nothing short of an emotional wreck. I mean a sobbing, tissue grabbing, eye-swollen mess. So many people, myself included, didn't think I was going to be able to pull this off for anyone, much less for Ginny. As Carl and I were practicing the day before, the funeral home pulled up. Now I know these guys do this for a living, but they just wheeled her in and flipped open the lid. WAIT A SECOND. HOLD THE PHONE. I wasn't ready for that. But I think it turned out for the best. I was able to have my own private viewing, sort of speak. I cried, talked to the kids (who were of course with me) about death and heaven, and I then knew I could do it.

The day of the service comes, and I'm still an absolute wreck. My heart is beating out of my chest, it's hard to breathe, and I think I could very easily vomit. I think I'm having a panic attack. But in the back of my mind, I keep hearing Ginny's voice saying to me, "Would you stop being such a baby and shut up and just SING THE SONG! It's just me for crying out loud!" Then I suddenly felt a peace about the whole thing. And she was right.

I had considered, depending on my emotional state, saying a few words before I sang. I had this elaborate speech all prepared in my head, but when I got up to start talking about her, I really didn't say any of it. I just said what came out, what I felt. To me, singing is always the easy part. It's the talking that always gets me. My voice was shaky, but I was able to somehow keep it together.

The song went very well, better than I ever expected. I owe a lot of thanks to Carl for playing guitar for me and for talking me down from the rafters when I called him crying and telling him I couldn't do it. Also a big thanks to everyone who encouraged me along the way, and to Denni for the emotional support she showed to me after I lost it when I finally sat back down.

My point is this: I learned something about myself today. I didn't think I had the confidence to do this, but Ginny knew I could. She wouldn't have asked me otherwise. She's still teaching me things, and I think that says a lot to the testament of her character and her influence on my life.

So, I'm grateful for friends both on earth and in heaven. I'm grateful that I am in a position to bolt off to the emergency room at a moment's notice to be able to tell my friend how much I love her and to say goodbye. I'm grateful that I'm not totally wrapped up in a job, activities for the kids, or other things that don't really matter in the grand scheme of life. I'm grateful for the things she taught me and for the things I'm still finding out along the way.

I'm grateful that Ken and I got to ride to the cemetery with an past pastor from Foundery and get our own little private counseling session along the way. John Humphries is one of the greatest people I've ever met; he makes me want to be a better person. Ginny loved him, and I know she was happy that he spoke about her amazing life.

In fact, she would have loved every minute of the service. She would have loved that a lot of people from our old church were there and that we all sat around and laughed, exchanged pics of the kids, and talked about old times. She would have loved that and would have been right there in the middle of it all. In fact, I think she was.

What I've Learned from my Friend

There she was. She was the skinny, short-haired, glasses wearing lady sitting on the ottoman. She was older than me, maybe old enough to be my mom, but it was hard to tell exactly. She seemed nice enough. I guess I was going to have to like her. Then she opened her mouth and out it came.

It was the first time in my then 22-year-old self that I'd ever heard someone curse in church. I just knew that God himself was going to appear in the room with a cloud of smoke and fire and strike her down for such an abominable act. But He didn't.

He didn't. Interesting. Okay, so I was naive, but I'd never met anyone like her before. She seemed to say what was on her mind and somehow get away with it. She didn't sugar coat her words; she just told it like it was, pretty or not. But I probably learned the most from her by what she did rather than what she said.

She was an amazing mentor to me. She taught me to be ME - never to pretend to be someone I'm not. She taught me to be more confident in myself. She taught me to be accepting of others - judging was a waste of her time. She taught me to love. She taught me to never give up.

I know she's up in heaven giving 'em heck. I can just hear her now..."Pearly gates? Streets of gold? Crystal seas? You know you can't write those things off on your taxes so don't even try that crap with me."

I know she'll be there waiting on me, with some sort of sarcastic comment that she's probably already brewing up. She'll be ready to introduce me to all the people she's met since she got there and fill me in on all their info. And maybe then we'll understand all those New Testament parables that went over our heads in Disciple II. Or maybe we won't care at all.

My friend, Ginny Cheek, died on Friday night after a more than 2 year kick-ass fight with lung cancer. She meant the world to me, and I can't wait to see her again.