Chicken Fried Vogue

For 15 years and most of her adult life, Bubblez lived in the suburbs of a major metropolitan city. She enjoyed taking her children to museums, parks, and dates at Starbucks. Then Bubblez moved to the country and her En Vogue attitude got chicken fried. Her yard is a park where the neighbor's rooster won't stop crowing, Starbucks is almost an hour away, and her large collection of fancy shoes is worthless. But, living in the acres of green has presented more opportunities for living "green" as Bubblez travels the path toward self-sufficiency (and bitches ((and prays)) along the way).

Sunday, September 30, 2012

Should I Wear Make-Up To Church?

When I was growing up, my parents really weren't church goers. On the occasions when I did find myself sitting in a Sunday service, I was put into a dress first, becaaaauuuuse... we dress up for church.

Living city fried, the church we attended had a dress code that was fairly relaxed. Think casual Friday, but on Sunday. It wasn't at all unusual to see blue jean wearing bodies filling up the pews. But me, I still dressed up. It was just a part of who I was and my way of showing respect.

Now before I go any further with this, I want to mention that God does not care one iota about how you're dressed or what you look like when you come a knockin' on His door. This blog is not about church etiquette. This blog is about me.

I attended a "wealthy" church, meaning the congregation was more affluent (as opposed to less). The congregation contained a large number of business owners and executives. It was the nature of our burb: full of people who sat a little higher on the economic ladder and didn't have a problem showing it.

They weren't even showing off. Usually, they were really good natured, down to earth, peeps. They were just good natured, down to earth peeps with disposable income and a plethora of retail outlets clustered around every stop light. Needless to say, blue jeans or otherwise, these people looked good, and even though we weren't as wealthy as all that, I looked good, too.

Now, I've never been a girl who can't step outside without her make-up. I wish I were because then I could justify why, out of the six drawers in our bathroom lavatory, one is Sheldon's, and five are mine. I guess I just like to be prepared.

To get to the point, I wore make-up to church in Suburbia. Always. Even if the weather was particularly cold and I defiantly wore jeans, my face was properly painted; modest yet elegant.

I think Country Song has been bad for my complexion. That's my way of saying I've gotten lazy. Most of my days are spent in cut-off denim and old t-shirts. I still pull a dress on for Sunday, but it's pretty much always the same one. The dress comes out of the closet. The dress goes to church. The dress comes home. The dress gets put away and replaced with cut-off denim and an old t-shirt.

My make-up is quietly lying in the drawer, hoping that some day I will love it enough so that it will become a real face, sort of like what happened to Pinocchio and The Velveteen Rabbit.

Don't get me started on the shoes. You would cry.

So, I've been contemplating. Should I wear make-up to church? Hadn't I ought to take at least one day a week to give a shit about how I look? I'm tired of looking like a slob, but my inner fashion Jedi has yet to discern a way of bringing balance to the force.

It doesn't behoove me (*snicker* behoove) to wear heals or wedges on these darned gravel roads, driveways, parking lots, but you'd think I could muster a little freaking make-up. Right? Am I right?

Let me know what you think. You might just be the droids, I mean Yoda, the Yoda I've been looking for.

Hep meh!

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

My Big Fat Chicken Fried Summer

Hey. Have you seen that movie, My Big Fat Greek Wedding? Yes. Yes. No? Ok, you hold on a minute while I talk to these people.

You know that scene where Toula is telling her hot new boyfriend, Ian, about why they shouldn't be together, and she asks him how many cousins he has? Right. And he says that he has two cousins. Then, she proceeds to tell him about her huge ass family with the "27 first cousins, alone?"

Yep. 26, here. I have 26 first cousins. But, today I'm only talking about my Dad's side, so that makes 12.

You take 12 first cousins, add in a handful of second cousins and first cousins once removed, plus all of their parents, and one very tolerant Grandmother, and you've got a party.

Now take all those people, throw in several coolers full of pop and beer, add explosives, and a dash of redneck.

Yeah. Big party.

We used to all get together at Grandma's house for the 4th of July. One of my uncles would fire up the old brick grill that Grandpa had built in the back yard, and start cooking up the dogs and burgers. A couple of others would set up the extra long Slip'N'Slide and the volleyball net.

Everyone was invited to play. Young and old would take turns seeing who could slide the farthest. Volleyball games got kind of rowdy sometimes, and the big people would take turns picking the little people back up off the ground.

Whoever wasn't playing games or chasing kids around the yard would begin waging war on the neighbors across the street. Bottle rockets flew back and forth over the roofs between them, and everybody laughed as we listened to the shouts and cussing from the other side.

One of my uncles had a particular fondness for half sticks of dynamite. At some point during the day, after everyone had eaten and was starting to get bored, the big boys, meaning full grown men, would sneak off toward the river bridge a few blocks away on the edge of town.

Grandma would shake her head and mutter about how she just knew they were going to hurt themselves or get into trouble of some kind. After while we'd all hear a big boom as they dropped that dynamite off the bridge and into the river. They'd coming running back laughing and proud while the women gave disapproving looks and the kids talked excitedly about how that one was so big it made the street lights go out.

My Dad and his brothers planned the fireworks display for months in advance, each year trying to make it bigger and better. They built special launch pads and worked out the order and the timing. As evening fell, we'd all set up the lawn chairs auditorium style and get ready for the show. Ooos and ahhs erupted from the lot of us as each pop lit up the sky in an array of sparkles and light.

When the show was done, our mothers would hug and congratulate our fathers on a job well done and begin the process of packing us kids off to bed. There were cribs set up in Grandma's living room for the babies and at some point, before it got too dark, tents were erected in the yard for most everyone else, even though some of us only lived a block or two away.

With the children safely tucked away, some with glass jars full of fireflies that they'd watch blinking in the dark as they all slowly took turns giggling and then drifting off to sleep, the adults would gather their chairs in a cluster together to drink beers and shoot the breeze in the cool night air.

When morning arrived, we'd pack up our belongings and clean up the yard trying to find as many burnt out rocket sticks as we could so that none of them would be in the way for next week's mowing. We'd say our goodbyes, hung over adults and whiney kids, and all take off for home to work or rest as the need required before settling back into the daily routine of life.

We were best friends, my family. The amount of love that was shared between us on those occasions was insurmountable. I can't imagine a life with only two first cousins, and although in my grown up days, there have been years when we couldn't be together, the memory of those wonderful summer days in Grandma's back yard is part of who I am.

My greatest wish is that my children and their children should get a taste of that wonder that is family and hold onto it for the rest of their lives, for friends do come and go, but family is forever.

Monday, September 24, 2012

Buying Bread In Country Song

One of my favorite things about living in suburbia was the local grocery delivery service. It kicked ass, yo. After a long day of heaven knows what I would have been doing, if I was tired or just didn't feel like going out (to the grocery or Target which were less than one mile away), I'd just plop my buns down in front of the computer and click, click, click: a week's worth of groceries would be on my doorstep the next afternoon.

Yeah, well, tonight, I'll be driving into town. We're completely out of bread, four of us need to pack lunches for tomorrow, and I've got no other options.

Around 9:30 at night, (it's SO late) I climb into the truck and make my way toward Country Song to the single, somewhat overpriced, grocery store where I'm one of three shoppers, and the only one with a cart, because, honestly, I never need just bread.

Grabbing some lunch foods for tomorrow and several packages of cheap hot dogs for the party next weekend, completely forgetting that we are also out of cereal and eggs, I head to the single open register where, half dead, I'm unloading my cart.

"How are you, tonight?" the fellow working the register asks.

"Exhausted," I say. "We're having a party next week, and I spent all day cleaning out the barn so there'd be a place to step in out of the weather."

"What kind of animals do you have?"

"Huh?" (Animals?) "Oh. Uh, we don't have any. We just moved there. It's more of a tractor barn. I mean, we have dogs and cats and stuff but no, uh.."

"No farm animals."

"Right. I was just moving out scraps of wood and tires.."

His eyes lit up a bit. "You can use the tires for people to sit on." He smiles.

I obviously looked confused. "Well, maybe. There's no middles in 'em." I chuckle, and cock my head. (Ugh, my grammar)

He looks at me bewildered. "I guess it depends on how big they are."

Now, I'm catching on. "Oh," I say, "they're not big tractor tires."

And this poor dude is now wondering why there would be any other kind of tire in a tractor barn. Well, because, it's not a tractor barn. I just said that because I forgot that my half pole barn is not a tractor barn. I think, around here, it's called a shed. Heck if I know. Anyway, a tractor barn is something different. And so, as not to look like an idiot, I pipe in with: "a friend of mine just cleaned out one if his.. out buildings.. and they pulled Eighteen tractor tires out of there."

"Wow. (Blah blah blah)"

And now we're done, and I can go. "Thanks for the chat," I say.

"Have a good night."

It was a nice chat. I used to have little chats with the check-out ladies who worked near my house in suburbia, too, but those were always sort of vague and rushed, even late at night, which was midnight, there. When you talk to the clerks in Country Song, it's always slow and natural, like talking to an old friend.

Having loaded my bags into the pick-up, I head toward the edge of town to drop off a couple of Redbox movies outside the CVS before making my way home.

See what I did there? THE cvs. Everything here is THE. THE Wal-Mart, THE McDonalds, THE Kroger.. if you're in THE next town over which is farther away by five or ten minutes.

CVS is the only store in Country Song with a Redbox. We just got it about a year ago.

Having returned the movies, I then drive two blocks to the covered bridge, and shoot out of town down the middle of bumpy back roads with my brights on so that, hopefully, I'll spot any deer or other critters before they jut out where I might hit them.

The roads are pitch black, as is my driveway where I dim the headlights but leave them on while finding my way to the house. The automatic shut off for the truck lights usually gives me just enough time to find the light switch inside the mudroom, after I cut the engine and climb out.

Between the open mudroom door and the open truck door, I have just enough light to get the groceries inside without running into anything or tripping over any thing that is not one of the cats which are circling my feet wanting a snack of their own.

It's such a pain in the butt, and it'll be worse when winter comes, but maybe by then we'll have bought meat to fill the freezer and stock piled canned goods from the garden enough to keep me from reaching the point of desperation, and I can spend my evenings curled up in a warm chair instead of out chatting it up with the poor lone soul who's working the register at the local market.

I doubt it.

Thursday, September 20, 2012

Dawg Ain't Gettin' Da Pussy

Ed won't stop staring at my pussy. He's never actually eaten one before, but there's a look in his eye and I don't trust it.

I'm actually in possession of three pussies. The smallest one came first, and the next two showed up a day later. I was genuinely expecting to have a fourth pussy by the end of the week, but I haven't found any more, yet. Because I was so certain there would be four, I named them after the head masters at Hogwarts. Besides, this may be vain of me, but I honestly believe that MY pussies are magical.

Ed watches them all with equal fervor. He sits and stares completely fixated, and if one should move a little or twitch, he jumps to his feet, excited, eyes shining. He wants to play with them so badly, he can taste it. If he happens to see me sitting by the window stroking one, he really goes wild, jumping around and pacing like he'll lose his ever loving mind. Often, when he sees me touch one, he'll lean in like he thinks I'm going to hand it over to him. I'm telling you, he's crazy.

I told him, "No! It's MY pussy, and not for you." Then, he started whining and trying to get his nose a little closer, which was not the response I wanted. I was hoping that eventually he would just get bored and give up; go lay down and play with his bone, but he doesn't. I can't blame him. I don't find bones as exciting or interesting as the pussies, either.

When he was younger, we used to play with his bone, together, like tug-of-war, but then I got kind of grossed out by how sticky it always was, and he would get a little rough, sometimes, so I quit.  

The only other time he's been near a pussy like mine is when we were visiting my parents in the country. We were all standing out in the driveway, and Ed was happily saying hello to everyone when suddenly, my mother's pussy got a little to close. Maybe, it was the smell. I don't know, but Ed pounced on it. Then he gave it a good shake and walked away as if it were dead, and therefore, no fun to play with. Mom's poor pussy lay there shocked and lifeless, and to my surprise, dry.

I mean, if it had been my old pal, Fritz, he'd have drooled all over it and made a real mess. But then, Fritz was a boxer and boxers can get pretty rough. Fritz would have drawn blood. You couldn't trust Fritz around children, either.

You know, as I write this, I'm thinking that the problem isn't with the pussy, after all. The problem is with, Ed. I hate the idea of it, but maybe I should chain him up outside, or get a cage or something. Perhaps, a new home for him? With less temptation? It doesn't seem fair to kick him out of my life, like that, but the way he's been acting, lately, is simply intolerable.

I looked online to see if there was some way to train this pussy chasing behavior out of him, but I guess it's pure instinct, and there's nothing I can do. Some of my friends asked if I'd had Ed neutered. They thought that might calm him down. I suppose, I could look into it. I'm thinking, given Ed's age, that a surgery of that nature would be pretty expensive.

Until, I come up with a better idea, I guess I'm just going to have to work doubly hard to keep Ed separated from any kind of pussy. I don't even want him looking at pictures of one. With any luck, all will go well, and he'll forget I even have a pussy. That would be ideal.

If anyone reading this has any suggestions on how to help me with this problem, please let me know. Since, I found them, I've worked very hard to keep my pussies alive and well, and it will make me really sad if something bad happens because of old Ed.    

Monday, September 17, 2012

Blogger Idol

I decided at the last minute to overcome my hesitations, procrastinations, and fear (as if), and enter to be the 2012 Blogger Idol. I could win some cool stuff, like a Samsung Galaxy Tab, tasty foodstuffs, or my personal favorite, giant microbes .

You can follow me at


I'm guessing there will be a chance to promote me and stuff. Hahahahaha! *sniff* Ok.

Check it all out here:

Pretty sweet, right? 

Monday, September 10, 2012

Mary, Martha, and Me

The Lord and his disciples were traveling along and came to a village. When they got there, a woman named Martha welcomed him into her home. She had a sister named Mary, who sat down in front of the Lord and was listening to what he said. Martha was worried about all that had to be done. Finally, she went to Jesus and said, “Lord, doesn't it bother you that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her to come and help me!”
The Lord answered, “Martha, Martha! You are worried and upset about so many things, but only one thing is necessary. Mary has chosen what is best, and it will not be taken away from her.” (LUKE 10:38-42 CEV)

Marsha! Marsha! Marsha! Haha. I couldn't help myself.

I'm sharing this because I finally get the story. You know we got this new house. I have been working my tail off trying to make it look nice while taking care of everyone at the same time. I've been cooking, though not up to par. I've been cleaning. I've been decorating. I don't even know what all I've been doing because when I look around, it doesn't seem to amount to much. I've definitely been freaking out and irritable and cranky and down right pissy when I don't feel like anyone else is working as hard as me. So, yeah, Martha and I have been like two peas in a pod, lately.

In fact, if I were with Martha that day, with the super important company visiting, and all, I sure wouldn't have left her to do all the work by herself. I would have been hanging out right beside her while our buddy, Jesus, took a nap or watched TV or something. And Mary would have pissed. Me. Off.

I hate when people drop by unannounced and the house is a mess, or when they come at dinner time and I wasn't prepared to feed them. I've been one of those people who had to be told by a guest to sit down.

But like I kind of mentioned up there. I really never feel like I have anything to show for it, except a family who is sad that I'm not spending time with them and a million tiny worries.

Any doctor will tell you that stress and worry are bad for you. Why is it so hard to recognize what my priorities ought to be? I know that when I spend time with God, I have peace. I am happier, the people around me are happier, and the things I do seem to have worth.

The peace God gives me, that everything is being taken care of for our good, frees my spirit to rejoice in the little things. It also puts my focus where it belongs, not on how clean the floors are, but on how happy my family is; how loved they feel.

I need to be more Mary and less Martha.

Mary understood that relationships matter so much more than anything else, and she understood that Jesus, in particular, had something very special to offer, you know, being GOD and all.

In fact, it was pretty cool of him to not tear Martha a new one right then and there. "Don't you know who I am?!" or better yet, "I'm kind of a big deal. I have many leather bound books, and my apartment smells of rich mahogany." Lol.

For real though, I guess Martha just didn't get it, and Jesus knew that and chose to share the same love and generosity of spirit with her that he wants us to share with each other.

Jesus was the guest who said, "I didn't come to see your house. I came to see you. Sit down."

Mary has chosen what is best, and it will not be taken from her.