These are a few of my favorite things.
As I was reading my own work today, two things dawned on me.
Number one: spell check sucks.
And two: Sometimes I sound a little angry. Sort of like a person might sound right before they execute some sort of newsworthy "incident".
I don't want to sound that way. I'm not an angry person, no matter what Mr. Man would have you believe. In fact, I'm a pretty happy person. I think the reason I don't write more about the things I do like is because most of the things I really love are quite honestly, a little embarrassing. I'd much rather have my readers believe I am something other than a backwoods hillbilly that enjoys a good pig pickin'. (Which I really do, by the way.)
It's time for me to fess up, I suppose. You have the right to know who I really am and what cranks my tractor. And besides, maybe it'll be therapeutic to bare my soul and stop all the hiding.
I love potted meat. I know, I know. It smells bad and it's ingredients are questionable at best. I can't help it. I love it so much that were it not for the fear that my family would develop the rickets, I'd spend a large portion of my weekly food budget on potted meats.
I consider myself to be a reasonably intelligent woman that has at least enough knowledge of how that little food pyramid works to understand that whatever is in that can is not "heart smart". However, I simply refuse to face the possibility that the potted meat I ate in 1992 is sitting in my arteries even now. I figure if I never, ever look at the list of ingredients, I can't be held responsible by God for spending the better part of my life eating what is probably pig tonsils and horse ears and therefore will not be struck dead on my toilet, the victim of a gigantic heart attack. (Just a little shout out to the King there.)
Not as unhealthy as the potted meat, but just as embarrassing is my love of classical and orchestral music. Any of you that are not of the southern persuasion cannot understand how my loving a type of music could be a source of embarrassment for me. Those of you that say ya'll and you-uns, will totally get it.
A redneck girl loving classical music is akin to burning the Southern Cross on top of Conway Twitty's grave. It's an abomination. I was raised on songs like "Rocky Top" and "Honey, Let Me Be Your Salty Dog". I learned to spell divorce because of Tammy Wynette and Loretta Lynn made me wish I was borned a coal miner's daughter. I used to sing "Harper Valley PTA" into my hair brush and I knew all the words to every Charlie Pride song I'd ever heard. I could kiss an angel good morning and worry about rings not fitting fingers with the best of them. That's the way it was supposed to be.
I still love country music very much. And had my parents kept my country ears pure, I'd likely not be facing this problem today. But in their youthful parental ignorance, some of that devil music crept in when I was allowed to watch cartoons. They subjected me to the William Tell Overture, the Barber of Seville and countless others that played in the background when Bugs Bunny was slapping on lipstick to fool that dim-witted Elmer Fudd. (Who I almost married, by the way.) What did they expect? It rubbed off. I'm just lucky my condition is no worse than it is and I'm not conducting somewhere. My parents would have to go into the witness protection program.
"I heard your daughter Sher is a conductor for the Philharmonic."
"Oh Heaven's no! She's a middle-aged table dancer at Joe's Spit Shine Bar & Grill. We're very proud."
I love to chase my dog. I'm a grown woman that gets her thrills from chasing a tiny, three pound animal around and around the inside of my entire house as fast as I can. He reaches such speed that his little ears blow backwards and I won't stop pursuing him until he runs under something that is impossible for me to get underneath. Many is the time I have nearly knocked myself unconscious because he has cleverly darted under the kitchen table and I was unable to come to an abrupt stop. You'd think I'd pick up on his pattern by now.
I love to eat frosting from a can. Chocolate frosting, to be precise. I've often preached against the evil that is cake, but you've never heard me say an unkind word about frosting. I don't understand why someone doesn't sell little brightly colored containers of it in the candy aisle. I'd buy it. Why open an entire frosting tub if all you need is a little frosting hit to get you through a tough morning? Get your head in the game, Betty Crocker.
I love to wear Mr. Man's t-shirt after he's worn it all day at work. That's not weird, is it? I love that they smell like him and I just can't help myself. You'd love it, too. He's one good smelling Pookie. I've often told him if I could bottle his scent, I'd make a million dollars. I think I'd call it "Pookie Stank" or maybe "Essence of Poo". (He's going to be so proud that I have announced to the world that his nickname is Pookie. I just hope his potential prisoners are not loyal readers. The first one to refer to him as Officer Pookie would get the chair.)
So you see, I can love. I'm not all about hating and complaining and threatening to climb up on water towers and randomly pick off passersby. I'm just too embarrassed by who I really am to let people know what it is I truly love.
I hate that about me. I should fling myself off a water tower right now.
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Copyright © 2004, Sherri Bailey
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