FunnyBlog

Go Vols!

I knew it was that time of year again when I saw the church sign.

I know you’ll all be surprised, but I haven’t photographed it yet.

It’s along the interstate right after the on ramp, and I am too cautious to stop, and too busy to make an extra trip out of my way to the front side of the building. Although the trip would most definitely be worth it.

The sign reads: God loves a Volunteer.

Knoxvillians are crazy about their UT Vols. Especially during football season.

I’m sure you’ll all be impressed that I captured this license plate while driving on the interstate. I think this plate belongs to Abigail’s first grade teacher. I didn’t get close enough with my camera to make sure it was her. It seems to freak people out when you follow them and then point your camera in their face.

I’m sure my anonymous Southern die hard will be appalled to hear that I don’t even own a piece of orange clothing. I am such an outsider. And it’s never more apparent than during football season, when Coach Fulmer reigns, even when his team doesn’t win. (which seems to be more often than not lately)

Personally, I love football season. I know that I can finally go to Wal-Mart on Saturday and not have to fight the crowd. EVERYONE is home watching the game. And for that, and for my husband’s law degree…I say…..GO VOLS!!!

Here is the soda pop display at the local Food City grocery store.

A soldier and a stranger

Oh, how I love it when humanity shows its grace.

The Saints

I was at Wal-Mart doing my late night shopping last night.

I am known to hum or sing softly to myself while browsing down the aisles.

For some reason the song When The Saints Go Marching was stuck in my head.

While inspecting the breakfast cereal for the best deal, a woman stopped me in the middle of my measure. “It’s so nice to hear from a good Christian”, she declared.

I said, “Oh, excuse me, I just get a little carried away sometimes.”

She said, “Please don’t apologize. It’s wonderful.”

I was happy that she was happy. I was happy that she was a Christian too. I was happy that she took the time to tell me that she was glad that I was Christian. But, I was skeptical that she would still think so after finding out that I was a Mormon. Most protestant people in the South are taught by their clergymen that Mormons are not Christian.

I didn’t say anything to her. I didn’t want to burst her bubble. And, I was a little embarrassed that I was caught in my musical praise while dissecting the price per ounce of the Life cereal.

But, I would just like to take my Sunday post to declare. No matter what you have been taught by your pastor, please know this….I am true believer in Jesus Christ and his saving grace, and so are my other Mormon friends. We truly believe that we belong to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. And so we try to be saints.

And, if you don’t think I am a Christian because I don’t put something so sacred like my testimony of Jesus Christ on my bumper, I will gladly give you my best rendition of any gospel song of praise in the cereal aisle: “Oh when the Saints go marching in, how I want to be in that number, when the Saints go marching in.”

Codependent Elephant?

It took three years for this elephant to master his addiction! Yeah, that’s a long time.

I hope it won’t take me that long to maser my addiction to food.

How long do you think it will take this guy to give up the Big Macs?

Cook with common sense

Mom’s advice for the day is cook with common sense.

And if you’ve don’t got any, watch your mother in law while she cooks mac n cheese.

I used to always put the pasta back in the sauce pan and then add the rest of the ingredients in one at a time.

It was horrible.
The bottom would burn and the cheese would be clumpy and the pasta would crumble.

I may not have common sense on my own, but I do know how to watch and learn.
And, trust me when I say that I learned the much more effective method.

Leave the pasta in the colander. Then melt the butter in the empty sauce pan, add the milk and cheese, whisk, and wha -la…it’s creamy sauce. Not clumpy or burnt.

And, THEN you add the pasta. And, it won’t crumble.

It’s as simple as well, should I say it? It’s as simple as mac n cheese. And so was this post.

How to know the hurricane hit…

……without watching the news.

Beer alternative.

We had a talk with our daughters last night about what it means to be worthy to go to the temple. (For those of you who aren’t Mormon and are curious as to what it means to be worthy to go to the temple, I suggest you read this.) Here’s the conversation.

Me: “So girls do you know what you have to do to be able to go to the temple someday?”

Abigail: “Yeah, we have to keep the commandments?”

Me: “So, what exactly are you not supposed to do if you want to be able to go in the temple someday?”

Abigail: “What?”

Me: “Well, dad is about to tell you.”

LG: “You have to keep the Word of Wisdom, The Law of Chastity, pay your tithing, have a testimony.”

Abigail: “What is the law of chastity again?”

LG: You know, it’s the law that says you can’t have sex until you get married.”

Abigail: (embarrassed) “Oh yeah.”

Later in the conversation. Thank me for sparing you the details of the sex talk.

LG: “So girls, just don’t have sex and no drinking Budweiser, and you’ll be worthy to go to the temple someday. Got it?”

Abigail: “What’s butt weiser?”

I guess we’ve been successful in indoctrinating our kids to not want that drink. Who wants to drink anything that originated from the butt plant?

LG: “And girls, trust me on this, it’s a lot easier to not have sex after you are married than before you are married.” (with a wink in my direction)

Abigail: “Yeah, that’s because you have all these kids now.”

More than words

I loved this song when I was a teenager.

I would fall madly in love with any boy who could play it on his guitar.

And, I am tired and must go to bed and it was the best thing I found on YouTube for my Tuesday post.

I hope you enjoy.

It was red.

It was red. It was perfect. And the story goes something like this:

The anticipation of Mother’s Day was slowly putting my husband over the edge. How the man ever buys a satisfactory gift for me with all that intense pressure, I will never know.

On Saturday morning I chuckled inside as he begrudgingly announced that he had some business to tend to and would be home shortly. As he dragged himself out the door, I hollered out, for the twentieth time that week, my short list of things that he could buy for me. I try to help him out like that. That’s what mothers are supposed to do and I wouldn’t want to shirk my responsibility so close to the holiday, would I?

Less than ten minutes later, he walked in with a good size box under arm. It was all wrapped up. What in the world? He confessed; he had gone to work to pick up the gift that he had really purchased several weeks back. He had been acting worried for two weeks just to increase the surprise.

I gasped for air. Had he really bought me a gift two weeks in advance? I must be getting more special by the minute. Or was I just better looking when I was 8 months pregnant with number three? He never buys Christmas gifts until Christmas Eve; he learned quickly to put off the torture as long as possible. Wow. I couldn’t have been more speechless if I had won the Grammy for mothering.

I was in a trance. I sat and I unwrapped. I felt like the luckiest mother alive. And let’s keep this between me and you, I was taking my time because I was a bit worried about what he may have picked out all on his own. Ideas were flowing freely into my skeptical brain. What if it was horrid? How would I play it off? The worry lasted for just a second. The picture on the box stole away all of my spousal anxiety and mistrust.

My jaw dropped. If the box was correct, he had purchased my coveted Kitchen Aid mixer. I can’t even tell you how many times it was on the long list of gifts to buy! It was the gift at the bottom for another day when we had more funding. It was a gift of such magnitude that it was never on the list that I typically yelled to him while he stomped out the door. How could he have remembered?

When I started to tear up, it was a little more emotion than he was ready for. He quickly explained, “I hope this gift lasts you for the next three years because you probably won’t be getting anything else for a while.” We would all become law school orphans soon enough.

The gift couldn’t have been any more phenomenal. Except maybe if it was a new couch. That is still on the long list. I tore into the box; I couldn’t wait to make some homemade rolls; I would finally be free of the torturous duty of kneading. I made a vow, the man would never hear me complain again.

But, wait! What color is that? It’s not the same as the picture on the box? It’s not the plain old white model. Oh my goodness. Oh my goodness. My eyes did not deceive me. My man had given me the moon and the stars just as promised in those old fairytales. My new mixer was a mixer with a purpose; it made a statement as grand as mine.

My new mixer was the color of my personality. My new mixer was my favorite color that I had never dared to declare. It was red. It was perfect. It was the color that I always described like this, “I don’t have a favorite color. I love them all. How could anyone declare a favorite color? All of the colors are beautiful in their own way. Oh, if I had to choose one? Well, I really do love the color red. It would be at the top of my list.”

I am sure that LG has given me great Mother’s Day gifts over the last ten years, but I can’t for the life of me, think of one. How could he top perfection? And not because it was from the long list, but because it was red. He had chosen my favorite color. And it was beautiful. And if his 8 month pregnant wife wasn’t beautiful, you could have never convinced her of it. Her husband had reached perfection in the gift giving department. And he did it just for her.

And I am now proud to exclaim my favorite color. When people ask, “What’s your favorite color?” I proudly reply. “It’s red. My husband chose it for me. It was a mixer. It was red. It was perfect.”

Now honey, don’t be getting any crazy ideas. A red couch would simply not do the trick for my upcoming birthday. Please keep the couch at the bottom of the long list and don’t EVER try to pick me out a couch, o.k.? Really, I want a say in the couch department. I am serious.

Oh, and I love you. And, I love red. And, I love my red mixer. But, I won’t love a red couch. Got that?

I will be submitting this to Scribbit’s September Write Away Contest. Just for fun. And as my way of saying thanks for the topic.