Potpourri For $1000, Alex

I have so many things to tell you but who’s got time to write a meaningful post these days? Not me, that’s for sure. Oh, I can write meaningful crap, believe you me. My writing has made grown men cry. Just ask my husband. Anyway, I just don’t have the time right now to be meaningful so instead, I am writing a potpourri of a post. Yeah, that’s it. A post full of flowery this and that sprinkled over all the stinkiness of life. And like potpourri, this post will make you think I have spent hours working on this mess when actually, it’s just a pan of lavender scented Lysol slid under the couch. I may have just given away one of my many cleaning tips but anyway, here is what I thought you should know today.


My sister is trying to kill me. No, seriously, she is. I want it in writing for all the world to see so when she succeeds there will be witnesses to the crime. Remember, you read it here. She is trying to kill me. How do I know? Simple. I hate to fly. She keeps making me fly to Houston to meet her at MDAnderson. She even buys my plane ticket for me. On Southwest Airlines.

This Southwest Airlines. The one with the moonroof.

What? Airplanes aren't suppose to have moonroofs?

TELL MY SISTER THAT!

When I called her after the news hit the airwaves regarding Southwest’s “mishap”, I very clearly stated that I hated flying, did not want to fly ever again and definitely not on Southwest Airlines. Then I got this in my email today.

Another round trip ticket to Houston.

Or is it a one way ticket? Hmmmm?

I’ll show her. I am going to take out a million dollar life insurance policy before they drag me kicking and screaming onto the plane. That way, Bob will have money to prosecute. You have been warned, Kelly Jeanne.

Call me a chicken. I don't care.

They don't fly without a lot of squawking either. 

Speaking of my sisters, they have informed me I am not funny. They have also informed me that my writing is not appreciated as it is mostly a crock of something or other. Oh yeah, well I beg to differ. I have received a precise message from above clearly disputing these false allegations.

Read em and weep girls. You can’t fight Confucius.

The fortune cookies have spoken.

Dear Diary ~

Dear Diary ~




It’s been three months since I started my new job. Can you believe it? Three months. Time really does fly the older you get. The funny thing is, I feel younger the older I get so time flying by must wipe away some years from your mind. Just another one of my deep thoughts.



Anyway, this job has really opened my eyes to so many things. Having been raised in the church most of my life, including nine years of Catholic school, well, let’s just say I may have been a bit sheltered to certain parts of life. Oh sure, I have volunteered plenty, worked with the homeless, fostered children, you know, the usual fairly safe sort of things. But no, this job has taken me to an entirely new level of dealing face to face with humanity.



Did I ever mention, dear diary, that I am working in the inner city? No seriously, it’s what us white folk refer to as “the ghetto” thanks to Elvis. Other folks refer to it as “the hood”. My customers refer to it as home. Interesting people, my ghetto, hood, homie, customers. I should probably be quite frightened of many of them and yet I am anything but scared. I actually find myself relating to them more each day. Take for example the other day.



Bob had stopped in to take me to lunch. Seconds before he walked in the front door, one of our regular customers entered the store and stomped up to the counter demanding my immediate attention.



“Hey! Here yo money! I aint buying nuttin else from y’all neither! Y‘all discriminatin me!”



“Well, hello Shemika. Thanks for bringing your payment in. Now, tell me about the discrimination that is leading you to no longer do business with us.”



Shemika then went on to tell me how although she desperately needed an 82” television, our store manager would not sell her one. The unreasonable reason he gave? She had no money. I immediately empathized with her in regards to the obvious unfair treatment she had received and offered her a bottle of water and some cookies to help calm her nerves. I also told her I would be happy to sell her an 82” television as I steered her towards the 19” version. By the time she left the store, we were besties forever.



“Dang girl, you a crazy white girl. I gonna tell all the sistahs bout you. We stick togetha. We gonna buy all our @&%* from you.”



She then turned to the other two male managers who had been watching the scene unfold and yelled,



“Yeah, that right. We gonna buy from the crazy, white girl. We all done with you two.”



As my new bestie walked out the door with great, triumphant attitude, I turned to my manager as a line from Tyler Perry slipped from my lips before I could stop it.



“That’s in the playa handbook.”



Yes, dear diary, it’s a new day for this Catholic school girl. I think Bob is a bit concerned about this new colorful side of me. I just hope the gangsta don’t get up in my grill about all dat.



XOXOXO,



Marla

So Much To Write, So Little Time

I am having a terrible time finding the time to write these days. My new job is kicking my butt. Six months ago that would have been a good thing but now that my butt is thirty-five pounds smaller than it was back then, well, there is just not as much to kick as before so I am feeling the effects more profoundly. Have I mentioned I've lost thirty-five pounds? Oh yeah, I am awesome now. Men fall over when they see me. Women want to be me. Children marvel at my lack of girth. I'm amazing. How amazing? I'm glad you asked.

I am so amazing now, that one of our biggest customers finds excuses to come into the store just to "visit" with me. I am unmercifully teased by my co-workers about this gentleman's obvious crush on me. Take for instance what happened on Monday.

"Well, hello Mr. X! I didn't expect to see you back so soon. How can I help you today?"

"Hey there sugar! I thought I would just stop in and have a look around."

That's when my boss stepped in with this brilliant line.

"Look as long as you like, Mr. X."

Upon hearing this invitation from the general manager of the store, Mr. X stood and stared at me, smiling adoringly, to which I stood and stared back, smiling crookedly as my manager and co-workers walked off snickering. Idiots.

Let them laugh, I say. They are just jealous. I mean, what girl wouldn't want an older, toothless, long-haired, hippie calling them sugar and smiling adoringly at them at least three times a week?

Jealous, I tell you.

You Smell Like A Monkey

Well, she did it. My little sister turns 50 years old today. Plenty of people said she couldn’t do it. Most of those people were doctors. Idiots! They watched her go through six brain surgeries, a total hip and femur replacement, brutal back surgery including rods and bolts and who knows what else. Then there was the chemo, the radiation, steroids and drugs that would have surely killed a person with any sense. Luckily for us, my sister never had the sense to give up. She is, after all, a Casas/Walter. What is a Casas/Walter, you ask? A fighter!




Speaking of fighting, here are some of the things I am thankful for today on Kelly’s 50th birthday.



~ I am thankful for a sister that is well enough to drive me insane with her constant interfering and bossiness.



~ I am thankful for a sister that is well enough to answer the phone when I call, give me advice I don’t ask for and get mad at me when I don’t take it.



~ I am thankful for a sister that refuses to give up whether it’s about getting her point across, getting people to do things her way or living through another day.



Kelly, I cannot imagine my life without you in it. I know I have threatened to never speak to you again, smother you with a pillow as you sleep and crimp your oxygen hose. Ok, I know I have also posted unflattering photos of you on this blog, written things about you that make you look beastly and maybe even exaggerated a time or two in regards to your fangs. In my defense, I just can’t help myself. You make it way too easy to do. Stop playing right into my evil, blogging fingers and I’ll quit. Maybe.



Anyway, I love you and hope today, your 50th birthday, is everything you want it to be and more. I hope you find nothing but happiness in the days ahead with the people you love the most. I hope I’m one of those people. Most days.

Kelly Jeanne Walter Casas Pittner Sewart Hansen 

One last thing! Please send Kelly a birthday wish.

Make sure and tell her I sent you.

It will drive her crazy make her day.  :-)

kcsewart@yahoo.com

http://kcsewart.blogspot.com/

Sundays In My City

Sundays in my city is about

hanging out with the people you love.

It's about playing inside when it's chilly

and outside when it's not.

Sunday means telling the same old stories,

singing the same old songs

and loving every minute of it.

Sundays in my city is about hugs

and dinner,

laughing

and relaxing.

The best part about Sundays in my city however is the napping.

Stop by Unknown Mami's blog 

and tell us what's happening in your city.

We Got It Goin' On At Least Eight Times A Day

I work in a store where there are a bazillion televisions, all playing the same video all day long. That means that whatever is being played that day will repeat approximately eight times while I am there. Not only will I see the video eight times a day, I will also hear it eight times a day. The last two weeks I have seen and heard Bon Jovi Live at Madison Square Gardens eight times every stinking day. My brain has been Bon Jovied at least eighty times in the last two weeks. Eighty freakin times, people.

The first few days of listening to Jon and Richie were great. My co-workers were even making fun of me because of how much I was enjoying the music. I was constantly movin and a groovin to the tunes. For a few days anyway. Then I started wanting to scream every time the dang thing came on. I mean seriously, I get it. The boys are pretty and great to dance to but please, enough already.

Jon Bon Jovi, you are a middle aged man. So shake your money maker all you want, you are still old. The women who have been throwing their undies at you all these years now wear Dr. Dentons. Do you really want those flying through the air like massive parachutes? I mean, come on already. Face reality, man. And Richie Sambora. Please. You give love a bad name, bad name.

I might just be tired and cranky. Yeah, tired of listening to two wrinkled, old men try to convince me I was born to be their baby. All I want to do when they start singing is Runaway. When I heard Whole Lot of Leavin for the fifth time today, I could only nod my head in agreement. Please, leave already. I really try to Keep The Faith but It’s My Life and having to listen to this day after day is no Bed of Roses. This constant diet of Bon Jovi is Bad Medicine. I may be Livin On A Prayer right now but I have to hope there is a Disney movie in next weeks line up.



Anyway, Have A Nice Day.

Time Waits For No Blogger

One of the really tough things about having a blog is that I am constantly writing posts in my head. I write them in bed late at night while Bob snores like a freight train next to me. I write them driving to work, on my lunch break, at the bank, in the bathroom and while counting down the drawer at the end of the day. I also write them in the middle of family conversations, while taking my shower, visiting the dentist or just about any and every other scenario you might imagine. It’s maddening but I have not a clue on how to stop. The truth is, I have always written in my head like this, since I was a kid. The only difference now is that I post many of these musings on the Internet for all the world to see. I wonder what Freud would say about that? Probably not much since the guy is dead. Just pointing out the obvious, folks.

The other tough part about being a mental writer is …wait, that doesn’t sound right. Anyway, the thing that drives me madder than I already am is that I have some pretty interesting things going on in my life and in my head. Stuff some people might actually want to read if only to say, “Can you believe the crap this chick writes? Unbelievable!” There is where the difficulty begins and ends. Actually living this insanity on a daily basis, writing it down in my brain and then not being able to find the time or energy to actually write it down. I am honestly not whining about not having time to write. I honestly don’t have time to write lately. It’s starting to annoy me because of all the stories being written in my brain. It’s seriously getting crowded in there.



Anyway, I have been thinking of ways to find more time to write.



1. Hire a servant. He must cook, clean, do farm chores and laundry. Grocery shopping is expected. He would also have to do all the extras like remember birthdays and throw elaborate dinners because that would also be expected. It would be crucial that he be ready, willing and able to jump in the car and take the soon to be 13 year old and her friends on their constant excursions. And listen to their ear-splitting laughter while driving without driving off the road or into a brick wall. Although he may consider both options just to shut them up, he would not be allowed to exercise either option. He would also have to keep a smile on his face at all times while making sure everyone in the house is clean, fed and happy. I would want him to be sort of like a wife, that way I wouldn’t have to pay him either.



2. Clean out our bank account and run away to Europe where I can sit at a little sidewalk café, eating hunks of cheese and bread while writing the memoir of my life. This might not be a viable option however as I believe a ticket to Europe might possibly cost more than $83.47, so scratch that.



3. Get up two hours earlier every morning so I can be alone with my thoughts and write. The only problem I can see with this option is the getting up at 5 am part. I sincerely doubt my brain would be awake. Although, now that I think about it, my writing might be a whole lot better if I wasn’t actually there when it happened. This could work.