Missy wraps up the Oscars

There’s only one way to watch the Oscars. With cynicism and at 11:15 for 15 minutes. I caught everything I needed to. Do I really need to know who won the award for the best panty hose design for the ballerina movie? Do I need to know who won for best cinematographical watercolor painting? Send them a letter in the mail. Congratulations to you and your family. The rest of the world is pretending to feel the impact.

So here’s the summary of what I saw.

  • Jessie Eisenburg hates Sandra Bullock for some reason and is not going to accept her friend request on Facebook.
  • Annette Bening has not had any work done and is very, very ancient. Also, are the kids all right? Are they really?
  • Ballerinas wear a whole lot of ugly makeup and cry a lot. They should consider all that make up if they are going to cry so much.
  • If you have a British film and it comes out the same year that Prince William is getting married, it will win everything. How mundane is that?
  • People punching each other for 2 hours is only interesting if those people are boy-band cute.
  • I don’t even know what to say about Inception. I have overheard so many people talking about dreams and spinny-rooms. No thanks. Also, Leo is not my thing. Not since Growing Pains when we were both 13.
  • In the scene they showed of True Grit, I didn’t understand one single word from Jeff Bridges’ mouth. Not one single word. I’m still a fan, though.
  • There was a kid in Winter’s Bone who definitely was not all right. She was all bloody and stuff.
  • And as for 127 hours, please do the math for us in the future. I still do not know how many days or weeks or months that is. I do not want to divide 127 by 24. So, I’m guessing he was trapped under a rock for like 6 weeks or something.
  • Toy Story 3 was robbed. They are owed every award from every facility that exists anywhere, ever. I am vindicated by the fact that there are no Natalie Portman scary dolls, but my children play with Buzz and Woody daily. Daily. So maybe the Academy didn’t give it a little gold guy, but it wins in the Money and Popularity category.

And the Moscars (that’s Missy’s Oscar) go to:

Best Picture: Justin Bieber: Never Say Never.
Best Actor: Justin Bieber’s grampa. He was really good.
Best Actress: Cher, Moonstruck.
Best Original Score: KidzBop 19.

Life after Tallahassee

Is there life after Tallahassee? There was a time when I surely didn’t think so. Bawled my brains out all the way to Tampa, back in 1995. I probably shaved two years off my life that day, just crying. Since then, I’ve grown fond of Central Florida, but Tallahassee will always have my deepest affections. There is no place like it.

I left on Thursday for my uncle’s funeral. I wish the trip had not been the result of this occasion. We did all make the best of it, I think, and I spent the weekend mulling. It’s funny how families work. We only get together for weddings or funerals –lately this has been only funerals. My grandmother, who died in 1991, would not approve of this and I am committed to changing the pattern. But the interesting thing is that though we rarely see each other, the bond is solid and comfortable. The strands created in childhood, over fried chicken and banana pudding, are still visible today– 30 years later. It feels like a trail of bread crumbs we began dropping then as kids. Now, with so much time gone by, so many important people already gone, we can still follow the crumbs. And it leads us back to the memories we share. To laughter. To each other. It’s nice.

But I know families where this is not the case and I started thinking about that within the context of my uncle’s actual funeral service. And I realized that the reason those strands are still tangible is that Jesus is part of our family. He was there at the funeral and He has always been there. Without that, I don’t think any of us would bother. Besides our common childhood experiences, this is the one thing we still share. Again…nice.

Besides being with my mom and dad, first cousins, second cousins, first cousins once removed, second cousins once removed with no hair on their legs, third cousins soon to be removed, etc….I thoroughly enjoyed sharing a too-small hotel room with my three youngest children.  They think staying in a hotel is the next best thing to walking straight in the front doors of heaven. Here are a few images that reflect this:

Mamasboy missing a wrist, unfortunately.
More jumping.
Three peas.

Ah, what fun, right? I remember loving me some hotel time too, many MANY years ago. And to be completely honest, I still love it. There is something very cozy about having so many loved ones right there together under one roof. It’s a tent, without the ground, and dew, and dirt, and with hot showers. And with a really bad WiFi connection that you finally manage once you figure out what in the world DNS settings are and how to automatically detect them. And you can look over in the night and see the porcelain outline of a fat baby face or hear a soft snoring in the quiet of the room. And there’s a certain joy that comes from a free continental breakfast of pre-wrapped bagels and orange slices and waffles. Those are some pros.

Porcelain Fat Baby Face
Almost spooning...

The cons are that sometimes you discover your bed partner likes to sleep across the bed, where pillows typically go and you end up confined into a 4 inch strip of real estate where not even a yard stick could get comfortable. And sometimes that same bed partner falls out of bed because of her contortionist tactics. And sometimes that very same (still) bed partner slithers out of bed in the middle of the night and turns on every lamp in the room and throws the entire posse into a disturbed and wakeful state.

She takes up more space than John Candy...

But I will take the 4 inches of double bed, incidents with lamps and floors, and lots and lots of “we’ve been in this car for like a million hours” because it means we are all together, sharing one space and one purpose, creating moments and memories that I hope they’ll share together when my funeral rolls around. But that’s another post entirely. I’ve got some really great ideas…

Nibs and Nubs

Apparently Nyquil is not my only problem. I seem to have a largish crush on caffeine. And since I was unintentionally separated from my crush for 2 days, my head began to throb like a finger in a car door. Man oh man. I am now hooked up to an IV with Diet Mtn. Dew in La Quinta Room 239. That isn’t my actual room number, Stalkers, and I’m not really hooked up to an IV. But I am drinking one and hoping it works wonders very soon. Someday I will tackle the caffeine monster. Today I am just attacking the symptom. Forgive me.

Brendan Fraser is incapable of starring in a movie that doesn’t make adults want to vomit. I’m watching some sort of horrific piece of “art” that mixes cartoons with actual humans. Since Who Framed Roger Rabbit, I have not been able to cope with this genre of movie. Yosemite Sam cannot bite into a DiGiorno. It just can’t happen. I don’t want to pretend to believe in this.  But Brendan Fraser makes more $ on one very bad film than I will see in a lifetime. So I guess there’s that.

I love Tallahassee. Love. It.  I feel a future post coming on.

I’ve decided to celebrate the arts in awkwardly passionate ways. Coming soon.

Also, the Informinator just Instant Messaged me a challenge. She is challenging me to a taste test between a real Diet Mtn. Dew and Winn Dixie’s version. I know she feels victorious already, because in a past taste test of four diet drinks, I got every last one of them wrong. This is entirely due to the temperature of the drinks. They were warm. Who drinks warm soda? Mr. and Mrs. Informinator do.  At 70 degrees, there is no good or bad. They are all flat and disgusting. At any rate, here is the challenge:

Informinator: Currently drinking a Kountry Mist. That would be Winn Dixie’s own version of Mt. Dew.

Me: Oh my. I don’t think I’d admit to that.

InFRMTR: It was $2.50/12 pack. I will challenge you to a taste test.


InfrORMtr: WOW.

Me: Monday, shall we say? Get one frosty.

INFR: Oh, it’s on like Donkey Kong.

Me: I can’t drink them warm or tell anything about anything with warm soda. My buds shut down at 44 degrees.

IN: Shall I also bring Freshy (fresca), Dr. Check (dr. pepper) and Check Zero (coke zero)?

Me: Indeed. See you then. Prepare to lose the challenge and your very last strand of dignity and self-pride.

And now I’ve gone public with this, which means I have no shot at winning. Also, I have no idea what “it’s on like Donkey Kong” means. But it sounds cool.

Generic Ramblings

I am definitely unwell of mind and body. And in addition to that, I am supposed to be packing up three small children and heading to Tallahassee for my Uncle’s funeral tomorrow.There is no telling what sad conglomeration of clothing will limp into my duffle bag. It is highly probable that we will be either mismatched or completely inappropriate in some way. I am hopeful, though. Hopeful for better.

Do you like my new shades? Yes, you do. There’s only one answer to this question, so I will save you the nano-second you were going to spend in thinking on this one. These are awesome. This photo is self-taken, though I know it looks like I paid $100 sitting fee at a pretty nice studio.

Spies like us...

For only $25 more, I got a second pose.

Where's my Z-pak?

So, in light of the very obvious fact that I have literally not one interesting thought in my unwell head tonight, I will post my obituary for Blockbuster.

Blockbuster C. Movies was well-beloved by at least 26 people. He was old and full of years and movies. He could be seen with Little House on the Prairie or The Godfather. He liked to keep things interesting by promising no late fees but charging crazy high ones whenever he felt like it. He was preceded in death by Hollywood Video. There will be 4 little Snapp babies wearing black arm bands for 30 days and gripping their crinkled rewards cards in anger and bewilderment. Cause of death: Netflix.



I have to admit that the words Primate Sanctuary are what pulled me in. I read the email from groupon, luring me into buying some sort of 5-admission-pass to some sort of weird monkey hotel. I read the email thoroughly. As the lines flew by me, I was more and more perplexed by the language. My eyes began to squint dangerously close to a completely-closed state.  Then I read the email again. And still have have no idea what those people were talking about. So I am pasting it in for you. It is possible, though unlikely, that my lack of comprehension is related to a recent habit involving Nyquil and a short stint in the Betty Ford Clinic. But I prefer to believe that the writer of the Monkey Hotel Marketing materials is smoking something very strong. You be the judge and take notes for Scrabble: (italics are mine and are accompanied by confused expressions.  Bold italics represent extreme confusion and are also added by me.)

Animal sanctuaries protect endangered creatures from peril and are significantly different from animal houses, which shroud residents in beer-stained togas and discourage high grade-point averages. Eschew rowdiness for an altruistic respite with today’s Groupon: for $25, you get a five-admission pass to the Suncoast Primate Sanctuary in Palm Harbor (up to a $50 value).

The nonprofit, volunteer-run organization rescues in-need animals deprived of shelter and fetes them with affection, food, and a loving abode while welcoming human visitors Thursdays through Sundays to glean knowledgeable tidbits about primate life. Take in orangutans and monkeys as well as tropical birds and reptiles basking in their nourishing surroundings, or get schooled in chimpanzee facts, learning they can live up to 50 years in the wild or into their 70s in supervised areas, enjoying leisurely days of shuffleboard and discussions on how many miles they used to knuckle-walk to buy bananas in the wintertime. Although dubbed a donation, the admission fee is mandatory as well as tax deductible, much like dues to labor unions or high fives from opposable conscience owners.

What? Beer-stained togas? Grade-point averages? Eschewing rowdiness? Gleaning knowledgeable tidbits? High fives from opposable conscience owners? WHAT IN THE WORLD ARE THEY TALKING ABOUT?

I’ve seen enough Planet of the Apes to know a monkey takeover when I see one…

Stupid Salsa Knuckles

Dear All People Who Make Salsa,
I have been a long-standing fan of salsa far and wide for many years, since my babies were diagnosed with Robbie Benson’s Bubble Boy syndrome and I was reduced to a diet of salsa and meat and flax chips as I attempted to ‘purify’ their food source. During my salsa dieting days, I learned a thing or two.  You, Salsa Makers of the World, have learned nothing. So let me inform you of four things.

  1. Taste and freshness matter. Some salsa makers are aware of this. Green Mountain Gringo Medium Salsa is a fresh as a babbling brook and as tasty as my grandma’s fried chicken. So to speak. Pace–just stop trying.
  2. Texture matters. If I have to chew anything, besides the chip itself, I’m done. Also, the tomato paste/pizza sauce consistency is quite icky. Somewhere in the middle is where you ought to be. I should not have to be telling you this, since this is your chosen profession.
  3. Price matters. And though Green Mountain Gringo can kill any other salsa producer on the planet in taste and texture, they are quire unaware that the economy tanked badly. There are, I would imagine, a goodly number of people who can skip the freshness when $5.19 is the price you have to pay for it. I am one of those skippers. It hurts my heart to pass it by, but at that price, I have broken up with Green Mountain Gringo.
  4. SIZE OF JAR matters gargantuanly. I am baffled that there is no salsa maker out there who understands this point. The life’s purpose of a jar of salsa is to be a swimming pool for a triangular chip. So why, OH WHY, is every jar designed to cause Salsa Knuckles when you go for your 10 minute chips n salsa fix every afternoon? To Chi Chi’s, I must specifically say: Woe to you for your tall, skinny jar. Only a pickle should come in a jar like yours. Put some thought into your packaging, people. What am I supposed to do, crush up a chip into the balled-up fist of a 10-week-old baby  and somehow dip out some salsa? Even if that worked, I’d still have Salsa Baby Hands to clean up. Perhaps I could cinch up my Tostito into a corset and lower it through that scary funnel you call a jar opening?  Don’t make me pour my salsa into a bowl like I’m a farm donkey from 1898. Don’t make me nibble the corners off my perfectly shaped tortilla chip until it is thin enough to lower down your little mine shaft. If I was willing to do that, I would be snacking on cold corn on the cob. And what about Man Calves? Her hands are twice the size of mine. She will be reduced to using a teaspoon just to get the salsa out. If this is where we land, we may as well be spreading jelly on scones.

So how about a jar that is short and fat? How hard is that? Do you know how much money you would make off of that? You can target women with french manicures or people who hate eating ribs.

Or how about a jar that has a little wheel at the bottom like a tube of chap stick? As my salsa gets lower in the jar, I can adjust the bottom and keep pushing the salsa up as I go. This one may be slightly cost prohibitive, but I’m just brainstorming in an area that is clearly unexplored.

I am tired of salsa knuckles. It is ruining my snack time.



The Disney Church

I have friends staying in Orlando, doing something with their own family that I have never done with mine: a week at Disney. Since I have always lived in Florida, with Disney in our backyard, we have always done the 12-hour-Magic-Kingdom-Cram. You get there as early as possible. You strategize about how fast you can run from one part of the park to another and which rides you do when. And you stay until someone is screaming and frothing from the mouth or until the employees are sweeping up behind you. At any rate, the friends I am with know how to work the system. They are all staying together in a house and doing a week of parks together. I am blessed enough to be over here with them for a short 24 hours, hanging out before their festivities begin. This morning, we all took off together toward church. I drove my van, with friends and Snugglemonkey. And we were following the other family members in their van.

Well, there was a little chit here and a little chat there and 1000 millions of cars not headed toward church. And before I knew it, there were two cars between my van and the one I was following. So my buddy located the other van and I cut across two lanes to follow them and take their exit. And off we went. Though the husband figure in the car expressed some discomfort over the road we were on, we kept driving. Because we were following our friends.

We passed the little statue for the Tower of Terror. We had a conversation about Disney changing MGM studios to Hollywood studios. And still, dumb as we all are, we were still thinking that we were on the correct highway and that maybe all of this Disney paraphernalia was due to Disney owning all of Central Florida. But 50 yards from Donald 14, my friend’s phone rang and the voice on the other end said, “Where ARE you?” Yeah, um. Actually, we are about to pay $18 for parking at the Magic Kingdom. I got the pleasure of rolling down my window and saying, “Yes, um. We aren’t actually supposed to be here today.”

“Where’re ya headed, honey?” She asked me. Um, church? Back to I-4, please?

Crazy times. Crazy times. You just can’t be sure that every 2011 Silver Dodge Caravan with a tall driver is the one you are supposed to be following. But if none of that clues you in, and you start seeing hoards of people and the big Epcot ball, you probably are NOT headed to church. Just a thought. One I didn’t really have in time to do us any good.

But the really good news (besides having had a lovely time with my baby daughter and my dear friends) is that I opened a fortune cookie tonight and this was my fortune.

“You will be spending time outdoors, in the mountains, near water.”

That was specific.
And also quite false.
I suppose I could wind up there next Sunday on my way to church…

Who am I?

I am not yet under the influence of Nyquil and I think I will steer clear of it entirely tonight. I am staying in a vacation home with dear friends tonight and sharing a space with my baby(ish) daughter. On that basis alone, perhaps it is best I not go into Vasoline Mode that is induced by Nyquil.

I saw Justin Bieber: Never Say Never today. Like my husband, I want to say “Yuck! Why did you drag me to that? Oh, my eyes! They are burning like acid mixed with lighter fluid! My ears…they are bleeding!!” But actually, I will likely own the movie when it comes out on DVD. My 3 year old knows that he is dating Selena Gomez. His story is interesting. He’s a neat kid. And he loves Jesus.  I was just thinking about how much praying they showed in the movie and how his mom ended a prayer “in Jesus’ name” just like we end ours.  And I thought about what that actually means. Sometimes when we say things too often or too automatically, we forget their meaning. Love you. How are you. Sorry. But I hope I never forget what it means to say “in Jesus’ name.”  In the name of Jesus.  “And whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through Him.” Colossians 3:17. Everything I do is because I am wearing His name. Because of Him. Because I am His.

In Jesus name,

The Egg with a side of Nyquil

Pheww. I feel like I just got unstuck from the vasoline that comes from a night of Nyquil. I took the recommended adult dosage, forgetting what happens to me when I do that. Medicinal coma of the most beautiful variety….but I become useless. If there’d been a fire here last night, I’d be dead.  I did observe, as I was swallowing the stuff, that someone went to a lot of trouble to make it turquoise. Turquoise. The least natural color in the universe for a liquid to be. Perhaps it was brown after they spun their magic and they said, better make it turquoise? I don’t know. Brown is the only thing worse than what it is. But why am I complaining. It’s the miracle drug.

Now on to The Egg.

I feel betrayed like you can’t know. For years, I ate the egg. I babied the egg. I befriended the egg. I even picked my eggs from the carton by size and personality. If you don’t know that an egg has a personality, then you aren’t treating yours properly. I have eaten them scrambled, fried, sunny side up, cake side in, and deviled (only once, since deviled eggs are aptly named for being OF THE DEVIL). Then pregnancy happened and eggs were about all I wanted. I had an egg every.single.morning.without.a.single.skip for the entirety of 3 pregnancies. That’s about 32 weeks x 7 eggs per week x 3 pregnancies. Best I can multiply, that amounts to approximately 672 eggs. So I think I’ve got some experience in this area. And through all of that, the egg never talked back or betrayed me in any way. Until 6 months ago. And one day, out of nowhere, it turned on me. And it made me hurt. Bad. It doesn’t make me sick. No need to close a wing of the house or call the doctor or anything of the sort. There’s just a gradual searing pain in my stomach that starts about 30 minutes after eating the egg and ends naturally in about 2.5 hours or in 30+minutes  with a little help from Pepto Bismol. Pepto has never turned on me. Bless it for that.

With my love of the egg so strong, so emotionally based, I didn’t want to give in that easily. So I tried just egg whites. That failed. And then I went to Texas, where my sister-in-law raises chickens. There are more chickens on that place than I have pairs of shoes.  And occasionally, you’d run across a scene of nature’s harmony at its most unusual and finest, like in this shot.

The Mr. and Mrs.

Or even in this shot.

At any rate, she kept bringing us eggs. And I ate them. And that seemed to work for awhile. So I just chocked the whole thing up to the estrogen and Prozac that grocery chains inject the chickens with (please don’t quote me on this one, I didn’t check my data in a very scientific way…). When I returned home, I bought farm fresh eggs. Eventually, that stopped working. Then I tried farm fresh, pasteurized eggs (how in the world do you pasteurize an egg?). Then I tried farm fresh, cage-free, pasteurized eggs. Fail. Farm-fresh, cage-free, pasteurized, curfew-free chickens that read the bible and listen to Mozart in the evening? Fail.

So I posted my disdain for the egg and how it was making me suffer. And the Informinator, as is her custom, researched it. According to her sources, my problem has something to do with the histamines contained in the whites. AHA! I said. So I had tried the whites by themselves, but hadn’t tried the YOLKS by themselves. This will definitely work, I thought.

And so. This morning I tried an egg yolk on toast. And I waited.

And waited.

And 30 minutes later, I wanted to do great bodily damage to one of Eggland’s Best’s chickens and then immediately go have my stomach pumped. Oh, The Egg. Must it end this way?

So, I’m doing the Pepto thing this morning and ending this whole chicken egg madness. Oh the madness of it.

According to the Informinator, they sell quail eggs in the ethnic section of the grocery store. So I’m going to put on my best non-American disguise and go buy some. Also, I’ve seen ostrich eggs by the side of the train tracks at Busch Gardens. Those ones are free. (I am aware of the grammatical issues. I’m upset. I’m just talking crazy.) Though I am most definitely daunted at the thought of eating anything that comes out of a quail, in the name of the love of the egg, the experiment will continue…

Sleepytime Villas

That first attempt at Sleepy came out slee[pu. If I’d left that there, you’d know what I’m fighting.

I want to post, but must close eyes. Cannot.stay.awake.


Will post tomorrow with pictures. Please…check…back………