Eartha Kitsch

Let Us Give Thanks

noreply@blogger.com (Eartha Kitsch) — Fri, 28 Nov 2008 02:38:00 +0000

Strangely enough, Thanksgiving has always just seemed like a precursor to Christmas to me - sort of like the checkered flags dropping to say, "Start your engines! You are getting ready to eat and stress your way through the new year!"

I've never been into the mottled mess that is the Thanksgiving history lesson...or the Thanksgiving day parade....or the insane burst of consumerism blamed on Christmas cheer that comes right after. I never really even know how to decorate for it. It stumps me somewhat....where does one get a horn of plenty?

The main things that come to mind about Thanksgiving to me are:

(1) That sucking noise. The one that cranberry sauce makes as it's factory vacuum seal is released and it slides from the rippled can to jiggle on the plate.

(Do people eat cranberry sauce during the rest of the year? Does anyone say on a regular basis, "Hey honey, can you run by the market on the way home from work and pick up diapers, milk and cranberry sauce?")

(2) Giblet gravy. As a kid, I would eat bowls and bowls of giblet gravy just like it was soup. I'd beg for the stuff. Then one day, I found out what giblets were. That pretty much nipped that in the bud.

(3) Hand turkeys. I love turkeys made from traced hands. I once tried to decorate the top of a Thanksgiving cake by holding my hand in the air and tracing it's outline over the cake with icing. It didn't work worth a damn and I'm here to tell ya.

Anyway, Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

And Janet Leigh says, "What the...?"

noreply@blogger.com (Eartha Kitsch) — Sun, 16 Nov 2008 15:21:00 +0000

Here is a little film starring my mannequin boy, Jack Lemmon:

Boo! Y'all

noreply@blogger.com (Eartha Kitsch) — Tue, 28 Oct 2008 21:01:00 +0000

Halloween is my favorite holiday by far. I think that's so because it's always been so magical and fun. I can remember the thrill as a kid - running around the neighborhood, trying in vain to breathe behind wet, foggy hard plastic masks with their tight rubber band straps cutting into my scalp and gathering up candy just by yelling, "Trick or Treat!!" at the top of my lungs at total strangers. Total strangers giving out candy just because I yelled at them. Kid heaven.

At the end of the night, it never failed that I had a cut on my tongue (from the teeny tiny plastic mouth slots in those masks...I used to jam my tongue through trying to find oxygen) AND that my brother and I were still in our costumes and surveying our hoard of candy on the living room floor like people about to go out into the wilderness with only the candy in our plastic pumpkins for survival. The orange and black papered peanut butter taffy and the circus peanuts were always last on my imagined food chain. Fresh fruit and raisins - ditto.

Growing up in the South, it was sometimes chilly and brisk like you see in movies about Halloween but a lot of the time, it was hot too. When it was indeed hot, the trick or treating was pretty brutal in those nylon costumes. I'll never forget the sound that sweating nylon legs made as they rubbed together during a good run to beat the rest of the kids to the "rich peoples' houses" for the best candy - miniature candy bars! Have mercy! I also remember the nationwide scare/myth of razors in apples and candy which led Moms everywhere to treat each goody as a possible kid killer....thus we trick-or-treaters hid a couple of handfuls in the pockets of our Rough Houser jeans for good measure. As a kid, you're about nothing if not living on the edge. And rebellious sugar highs.

My favorite Halloween memory was the year that my Mom let us go down the street to the rental home of the "Confederates", a local motorcycle gang that was notorious far and wide for being rough and tumble and hardcore, and who displayed Confederate flags on their bikes and clothes. This was completely out of character for my protective Mom and as kids, our blood pumped with new found freedom and the danger that loomed ahead on the peeling porch of that run-down mill hill house.

My Mom stood at the bottom of the steps with watchful eye as my brother and I made our way up to the front door. The door was answered by one of the Confederates who instantly yelled to the other bikers inside that they had to see. My brother was led into the living room where the Confederates were watching TV. They then started to hoot and holler over my brother's Ace Frehley costume. They couldn't get enough of it. My brother stood there and shined like a new penny in the glow of the spotlight. After talking with him about who their favorite member of KISS was (the lead biker's favorite was Gene Simmons) they gave him some candy and then one of the female Confederates turned to see me, lingering in the doorway and said, "Oh my goodness! She's a little angel!" and giggled. She then put some candy into my plastic pumpkin and complimented me on my bent coat hanger halo wrapped in tacky gold Christmas tree tinsel. As we walked away, my brother and I were both gloating from the unexpected positive attention and lack of injury laid upon us by the neighborhood rabble rousers.

Afterwards, we went to the local stop-and-go, Sam's Curb Market and reached our short arms deep into an ice cube filled claw foot bathtub in vain, trying to win the prizes of shiny quarters and dimes that evaded our numb fingers, deep at the bottom of the tub.

weekend milked

noreply@blogger.com (Eartha Kitsch) — Sun, 06 May 2007 22:05:00 +0000

The weekend is winding down fast but it has been a good one - lazy and entertaining for the most part.

Last night, the boy and I went to an air guitar competition with a friend. Sadly, there were only three "guitarists" but still the crowd was stoked. Here is a photo of competitor #3:

The competition was to promote a film called "Air Guitar Nation"(awesome film which I would highly recommend). I was disappointed by the turnout but I think it was the usual Nashville situation. People just never turn out for things here (and if they do, a lot of the time, they talk through the acts loudly).

Across the street, several hundred screaming people drank beer in plastic cups and danced in a parking lot to an 80's cover band. As we left, two girls drinking beer and wearing sombreros kissed each other so that some guys could take photos of them.

(Girls Gone Cinco De Mayo)

Today, we ran errands and went for a leisurely walk around Spring Hill Cemetery in Madison. Here are some photos from the day:

These are from the grocery store (yep, I take photos everywhere):

Sadistic photo, no?

Truck load of meat! And it's on sale!

(parking space for expectant mothers)(or storks who shop)

I think I've met this guy (or could it just be the Willie Nelson resemblance?)

Here are some cemetery photos:

Jimmy Martin:

Hank Snow:

Big Slim Benham:

Photo from mausoleum:

Photo left on mausoleum wall:

Photo on grave:

Coloring book pages taped to mausoleum:

Flowers left in pill bottle on mausoleum:

Pretty grave statue:

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hey good looking, I'll be back to pick you up later

noreply@blogger.com (Eartha Kitsch) — Sat, 28 Apr 2007 00:30:00 +0000

This week has been the worst. The pits. I'm more frazzled than a rat in a coffee can.

If my psyche had a Mr. Microphone, it would be 7 straight days of:

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGH!!!!!!!!

sport

noreply@blogger.com (Eartha Kitsch) — Sat, 14 Apr 2007 19:45:00 +0000

Usually, I only kick myself after missing choice events at the fairground (buying other people's stolen stuff from the sheriff's department)(gun shows) (gun shows) (psychic fairs) (gun shows) but this time around, the boy and I caught wind of a dog relay rally event and headed down for a looksy.

It was a blast! Thankfully, there were less stage moms than we guessed (though we saw one who had lost her freakin' mind and yelled at her dog in a lengthy tirade- It made me want to revoke my "No Clobbering Idiots" rule.)

Here are some of my favorite shots courtesy of the boy (click on the pictures for a closer view of the frenzy):

(Border Collies are insane and I must have one.)

And in case you've never heard a load of dogs collectively losing their minds, listen and look here:

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me

noreply@blogger.com (Eartha Kitsch) — Sat, 24 Mar 2007 23:34:00 +0000

I usually shy away from photos of myself, but this one I LOVE. Isn't the decay of the house stunning?

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honky tonk hayride

noreply@blogger.com (Eartha Kitsch) — Sat, 24 Mar 2007 23:20:00 +0000

Just a few bathroom photos from nights out honky tonkin' (call me a "redneck" or an "old timer", but that's what we call it here - honky tonkin'.)

Jesus knocking on the United Nations building:

A call to arms:

No explanation needed:

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in our generation

noreply@blogger.com (Eartha Kitsch) — Fri, 23 Feb 2007 02:46:00 +0000

Almost four years.

It doesn't seem like there has been a single 6:00 a.m. alarm clock waking in the course of the past four years that didn't start out with a report on the deaths of soldiers and citizens from suicide bombers, arms attacks or roadside explosives. That's a lot of mornings. My mind hasn't numbed to it yet. I can't remember anymore what NPR talked about in the time before this war. I can't keep track anymore if our president still thinks that we are "winning" or which current catch phrase has replaced "the war on terror". Upon my 6:00 wakings, I can only imagine what it would be like if it were me waking up in the world of horrors that the reporters talk about on the radio. Then I wonder if we all think that - "what if it were me?" - and if there will come a time when I won't think that anymore at all.

I wonder if I have kids, will they grow up with these images swirling around them as they pick out their breakfast cereals or run from room to room engrossed in childhood games. Will the sights and sounds of this war be background noise to them? Or will it be another war that is so?

I'll end with this quote. It's taken from a poem written by Marge Piercy in 1969 in response to the television and photographic images of the Vietnam War:

Loving feels lonely in a violent world,
irrelevant to people burning like last year's weed
with bellies distended, with fish throats agape
and flesh melting down to glue.
We can no longer shut out the screaming
that leaks through the ventilation system..

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my eyes! my eyes! (or "how my day started with crotch shots")

noreply@blogger.com (Eartha Kitsch) — Sat, 17 Feb 2007 19:34:00 +0000

I woke up this morning and decided to do a little work on my Flickr account. If you haven't used Flickr, it's a site sort of like this Blogger site where people do photo blogs. The pages look like photo album pages. There are millions of users and I hate to admit that I sometimes waste infinite measures of time clicking through photos from the lives of people that I don't and will probably never know. I've always had a fascination with people's lives. I would pass up the fiction novel hit of the week any day to read an interesting biography.

So, I'm clicking through Flickr and enjoying a nice couple's photos of their little kid. Cute little rascal too. Right there sandwiched between the photos of him dressed like a flopsy, little lion was a photo of a woman cowering on the ground with a gun pointed at her head. "That's odd!" I thought and I clicked on the photo to read the comments that fellow members had added. They all bragged about what a cute photo it was. Cute!? I was further stumped and zapped off a quick e-mail to the owners of the page to let them know that they had a rather scary, violent photo mixed in with junior's zoo pictures.

Then, I went to add some photos to my slight yet growing Flickr page to find that one of my photos that used to be a photo of a biker was now a photo of some unknown person in a sheet. Huh! What in the world?

After a while, and after sending an e-mail to tech support, I went to the message board to find that one by one, more and more members were finding the same issues on their accounts. My usual time waster of looking at anonymous folk's photos had now been replaced with reading the second by second accounts of their photo account corruptions. I couldn't help but copy some of the better ones, being a collector of quotes. Here they are:

The thumbnail of my friends on their wedding day has been replaced with one of a dead pigeon!

It's a nude pic of some naked girl on the roof instead of my bowling record picture....... shit!

I have some random fat lady in one of my thumbnails.

Its supposed to be grandma yet it's replaced with a hot mama!

When one of my pictures of rocks shows up as badly pixelated porn, it just screams "hacked" to me.

One looks like maybe a Chippendale dancer & the other is maybe some northern European village.

I've got some soft porn on my pages replacing my flower and natural history photos.

Ewwwwww, i've got a picture of a fat naked guy with legs akimbo where there should be a photo of a room in an asylum with peeling paint.

I am finding pornographic photos in a group of photos I have shared with numerous members of my Congregation!

I have a man holding his c**k as my thumbnails!

My picture of a warthog landed up as a naked male!

I have pictures of my 2 month old daughter up on my gallery, and now it has freaking pictures of some pervert in his underwear.

My account has been finally upgraded to naked. GREAT. got so mad i spilled my coffee on my crotch. i think that's some what of a lawsuit going on right there.

A picture of my son splashing in the ocean turned into a woman wearing a strap-on.

I really don't enjoy having what is supposed to be a panda bear show up as some chicks in bikinis.

I was just looking thru my photos of circuit boards and PC cards and tech things like that, and then I see some soft porn in the stream, saying that its one of mine! that's kind of odd. and actually incorrect...but then I thought, hmm, someone, somewhere, is expecting to see HIS soft porn and instead is seeing some of MY circuit boards. ha! ;)

Same here. I've now got a photo of a fat woman lifting her skirt up. Jeez...

Also, I am also having this problem. There's a big-bottomed woman named "Sinnammon" where there should be a picture from my recent ice-cream social.

My daughter is NOT a cigar-smoking guy from Turkey.

If I have some crazy woman's boobs in place of a mountain goat, than could a picture of your mom end up on a porn site???

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The message boards were flooded with people from all over the world, from all walks of life who had discovered that the photo blogs that they had worked so hard on were right before our eyes becoming stag film stills and albums chock full of weirdness.

There were pastors and school teachers pulling their hair out, worried (and quite understandably) that their congregations and school kids would log on and see the corrupted pages. There were also a few cards who lamented because they didn't get any of the porno photos on their sites. My favorite was the guy who takes only photos of temples and shrines. Beautiful work. Poor guy got a topless grandma sunbathing on a roof deck. He was one of the many professional photographers who had given out their Flickr URL's to prospective clients.

People also wondered aloud that since these types of photos were ending up in G-rated photo blogs, did it mean that their missing photos of grandkids and friend's wedding receptions had ended up somewhere mixed in with the porn shots of the X-rated photo bloggers?

I could hear the sweated bullets hitting the floor.

It took several hours for Flickr to fix the problem, and we felt quite stranded by tech support who in our collective time of need sent each one of us an automatic reply e-mail message that read:

"Just a quick email from Team Flickr to let you know that
we've successfully received your recent Help by Email query
and we hope to respond within 10 days.

We'd also like to take an opportunity to remind you that
one query is sufficient and multiple queries regarding the
same issue make the Magic Donkey cry."

10 days?? The magic donkey?? No wonder we all felt so freakin' hopeless! The Generation Y bunch was in charge and the ship was sinking as they slept off last night's hangover!

Just goes to show you my friends...you never know what is going to happen - especially when it comes to the net. And, on top of that - you never know what you will wake up to find. Some days it's cat vomit on something that can't be cleaned. This morning, it was freshly fallen snow and lots and lots of money shots. Cha cha cha.

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how not to get the job of your dreams

noreply@blogger.com (Eartha Kitsch) — Fri, 09 Feb 2007 00:26:00 +0000

So, I finally got the call to interview for a job that I have wanted for a really long time.

I planned what I would say, read all of the tips by the experts on how to make an employer want you, got lots of sleep and dressed snazzy with a slight Mary Tyler Moore "I can take care of business, Mr Grant!" flip to my hair. I was early for my appointment and chatted up the receptionist about her dog (take it from a previous receptionist, this works - if we like you, we pass on the word). I was personable and straight-forward and displayed all of the correct body language. Right before I became a bumbling idiot.

Note: There were four people interviewing me at once - what I will evermore refer to as "My Psychological Gang Rape of '07".

Interviewer #1: "Tell us about a time when you went above and beyond the call of duty on a special project or task."

Me: (blank stare) (blink) (blink) (thinking "who uses the term 'call of duty' anyway?")

Interviewers #1 - 4: (waiting and returning stares) (blink) (blink)

Me: (blank stare) (starting to sweat) (gulp) (blink) (blink) (wondering if I have ever completed a "special project or task") ( I started feeling faint and aware of the silence that I must somehow fill and fast so I blurted out:

"I once looked a broker's head for ticks."

Me: (wincing) (wishing that I could suck the last 5 seconds back in before anyone noticed them)

Interviewers #1- 4: (blank looks that could have been either disgust or terror)

Interviewer #4: (condescendingly) "well, I guess that could be considered a special project..."

Me: "Yes, it was an especially bad year for deer ticks."

Yes, folks...I am one hot commodity.

the good life (in two million words or less)

noreply@blogger.com (Eartha Kitsch) — Sat, 03 Feb 2007 21:04:00 +0000

It's taken me quite some time, but I have finally organized some of the pictures from trips last year. Just as I would have them, they were all to roadside attractions. Yay! Roadside attractions make me squeal like a little kid. Sadly, a large portion of the attractions that we have left are fading fast. That said, I feel compelled to drag the boy all over the place soaking them in. I'd say that we have a pretty good time and he's an intensely good sport. If you'd like, here are some photos:

First up, Cave City, Kentucky! Hurrah!

This is Golgotha Biblical Golf.

It's been in disrepair for several years now and word is that it is about to be torn down to make room for a "haunted mine" theme park. I've loved coaxing loved ones over the hill to tromp through the tall grasses. It's so peaceful up in the trees. Nothing but astroturf and concrete martyrs. This year, it was in worse shape than in years past. Lots of the statues had been stolen or broken and there was lots of trash and junk lying around. It must have really been a beautiful place back in it's time. I would have loved to been able to sink a ball into the final hole - represented by the resurrection of Jesus, of course. Here is a photo that I took years ago of that hole - back in my "black and white is so artsy - everything has to be black and white" days (forgive me, Gods of Kodachrome, for I have sinned).:

Here are the recent photos:

I am going to miss that place.

Next up, Dinosaur World! I had always wanted to go to one of these parks where you can walk among the big fake dinosaurs and kept harrassing my friends from Michigan to take me to their dinosaur park, only to find that we have one less than two hours away.

I look tiny in this photo. I think that I am going to take a giant dinosaur everywhere that I go just for that reason.

Oh...like you wouldn't have!

(I wonder if he would be this pimp around real dinosaurs...)

Next up, Wigwam Village - also in Cave City, Kentucky. This place is near and dear to my heart, and if you have never been, I implore of you to go. It is ridiculously cool and lovely. The wigwams aren't really made for tall people...or claustrophobic people...or even neat-freaks, but once you go inside, you don't care anymore (trust me - I am a tall neat-freak.) This trip, we got there pretty late in the evening and most of the other visitors were snug inside their wigwams. We wandered around and took photos and freaked out a few of the people who did wander outside - not on purpose, mind you..it's just that we found this rope and sharp metal menacing object and we didn't think that anyone would need anything from the ice house on a late October evening...anyway, here are the photos:

This next photo makes me laugh because when we were taking it, a group of people a few doors down started snickering and one lady answered the other's question with, " I don't know....1960's, maybe??"

Somebody give that lady a prize! She was dead-on. The 1950's dress that I wanted to wear was now too tight from an extreme Cave City Taco Bell dinner the night before. Yo quero carbs! My first Taco Bell food ever!

And here are a couple of the shots that got the natives all restless (excuse the pun, it was all that I could think of):

(The couple who plays (or sets up horror movie photo stills) together, stays together - isn't that how the saying goes?

My sense of adventure ran short when we came to our next outing - The Alpine Slide. Good gravy, and some "slide" it was. You take a chair-lift up to the top of the mountain and then you lie down on these plastic widow-makers and barrel down the mountain at the speed of sound. The boy wanted to do it and my role in the whole thing was to talk him out of it...

Here you will see as he consults with the young lady at the booth on the prices and what degree of terror you can get for your money:

Hey, let's zoom in closer on that photo taped to the ticket booth, shall we?:

There it was, in full color photos - proof that you could lose some flesh on this thing. Finally, after some hemming and hawing (is that a Southern saying? will readers from other domains know what that saying means?), the boy just decided to take the chairlift up and down the mountain (to my delight). I, on the other hand, decided that I was too nervous to even do the chairlift (hey, I might own stock in Neosporin but that is due to my inherent clumsiness and not due to chosen death defying feats and amusement rides. Color me the delightful yellowish brown color of chicken shit.I don't care. It matches my eyes.)

So, here he is as he comes back down the mountain - looking dizzy and a little disappointed that he decided to take the made-for-grannies-and-sissies-but-still-too-treacherous-for-my
-wet-blanket-of-a-girlfriend chairlift. He reported that those alpine slides looked like they could really mess you up. He also reported that he is going to do it next time. In this picture, doesn't it look like he is thinking, "She has killed my soul...."?

This next shot is of some kids as they took the ride down the mountain. Click on the photo and zoom in to see their looks of nausea and terror. I wonder if it was the chairlift that did it to them - or did someone up top in Alpine Land explain to them that this slow-as-Christmas, rusty chairlift was a metaphor for their upcoming adult life? I guess we will never know. What I do know is that these little kids have what we in the 1980's nostalgia business call "The Eye of the Tiger".

Next up, we went to Mammoth Cave. The boy had never been on a cave tour and was really excited. It did my heart proud...thus, I let him choose the cave tour du jour. He chose the two hour tour and off we went!

Behind this guy:

What a delightful fellow! Okay, I'm lying...he had some anger issues. We hoped that the dark, claustrophobic, cold cave would somehow soothe him. We also hoped that we didn't piss him off as we have a tendency to piss people off with our sometimes overflowing giddiness (and one of the guy's patches said, "It's a beautiful day. Now watch some bastard F**k it up". We walked for hours behind the biker gent and I whispered in near-silence to the boy why people hate Jane Fonda (I left out the part about the workout videos. It may be my lot in life to school him on all of the delicious pop culture that he missed as a lad who lived in a family that only watched British TV shows...but I think that he is still too young and green to know about those workout videos yet.)

On our last night in Cave City, fortune was with us and we happened upon a little festival and talent show. As always, there were funnel cakes (a tiresome staple to our boy vegetarian as I sweep him from festival to festival full of greasy polish sausages and salty pork rinds):

(Yeah, that's masked glee that you see.)

At the talent show, we sat in the 4th row. It seemed like a good idea at the time but as the show wore on, we realized that it was impossible to make wide eyed expressions of "did you see THAT?" at each other when we were that close to the friends and families of the competitors. First there was this little girl who wore more makeup than I have ever owned. Okay, and her legs are hotter than mine:

The crowd swooned and cooed as she strutted around and sang a grown-up Shania Twain song with lyrics that went, "Any man of mine better walk the line. He better show me a teasin', squeezin', feel good kind of time...."

(feeling of uncomfortable anxiety in stomach as verse after verse was laid out)

(keep in mind that the boy wouldn't let us go to the Wee Little Miss Beauty Pageant held beforehand because he didn't want to see any "Jon Benet action")

There was also this little girl who sang a Shirley Temple song called, "I Want A Hippopotamus for Christmas". Sweet song but just as much makeup as the little cowgirl - though, thankfully - more clothing.

Here's a close-up shot:

(that's funnel cake that you hear churning in the boy's guts)

(my eyes are open in a non-blinking "I have stumbled upon wonder" stare)

The show was wrapped up by this group of teenagers:

Yes. Teenagers.

There were also a few adult competitors as well but the only one that I can remember was the guy who sang a song that he wrote himself which contained these lyrics motivated by a sexy day at the rock quarry:

"Meet me behind the rock pile baby, where I get a little boulder..."

Ha! A rock pun!

And now for a few Cave City photos that I can't think of a way to segway into:

This one is of the swankiest men's urinal ever (the boy took this one - I promise - after running out of the restroom shrieking, "OH MY GOD! GIVE ME YOUR CAMERA!"):

(all that they had in the ladies room was a registration box to win a free above ground pool)

This next photo is of a statue that I have seen in Cave City for years at this one concrete yard. Oh, how I want her - and I almost had her once but found to my dismay that she was full of chiggers. (like the life lesson earlier on the chairlift, this could be a metaphor for dating)

At the same concrete yard, you will find these:

(insert your own dating metaphor jokes here)

There's still more Cave City on deck. Next stop is the Mammoth Cave Wax Museum. Yes! It's dark and dank and there are more cave crickets than you can shake a shakey stick at, but I love this place. The owner is so nice and their postcards are awesome. We'll start the tour with the nice vignettes as a quick review of the photos shows that this is going to end distastefully:

The Last Supper scene is really pretty. This one is of Jesus getting an earful from one of the disciples.

Jesus: "Back off, man. I'm the one having to pay for YOUR sins..."

And here is Dolly Parton. The recording at her figure was really out of date and lauded her recent #1 hit with "Love Is Like A Butterfly. In the back of my mind, as I imagine the wax figures coming to life (as I always do), I imagine that Dolly could bring the most terror with those long, spiky fingernails of hers.

Here is one of George and Martha Washington. She freaks me the crap out. I never can figure out why she scares me. It's either because she is the most realistic of the figures or because I think that she is one of the former male figures now in petticoat drag.

Here is one of the vignettes where they put a bunch of characters together as if sitting for a formal photograph. Pictured here (because the recording said so) are Coretta Scott King, one of the Kennedys, Billy Graham and a pope whose name, rank and serial number I can't recall:

The next photo is a poor photo, but I am including it as I am from the South:

That is a nicotine bearded Robert E. Lee behind me. Behind him as if he is about to stab Mr. Lee in the back, is Abe Lincoln. For some reason we are all in a horse stable with a large plastic horse. Similarly, this resembles a dream that I sometimes have when I mix NyQuil and Tylenol PM. That said, and since that particular dream usually leaves me a stinky sweat, we will move on...

to the guest book. You will notice that lots of the visitors who come to the wax museum like to leave comments in the guest book. In this photo, you will see that visitors come from all over and leave comments such as, "nice" or "good" or "interesting". You will also notice that a visitor from Virginia wrote, "HOMOEROTIC".

Whaaa?

After revisiting my photos, I think I might see the common thread that holds this visitor's comment together. Let's look, shall we?

First, let's go back to that photo with Billy Graham and the Pope sitting side by side:

What's that there?....let's zoom in a little on the legs:

I kid you not - the Pope is playing footsy with Billy Graham!

(I shudder to think about how many web hits I will get with that one phrase.)

The only other vignette that I could find that might have fueled the commenter's fire is this one of Wild Bill Hickok and Buffalo Bill Cody:

sigh.

sigh.

Now, maybe we ought to move onto something safe like superheroes?

Here we are now in the town of Metropolis, Illinois:

Here is a blurb stolen from my favorite website, RoadsideAmerica.com:

"In 1972, the town had plans to build a thousand-acre, $50 million "Amazing World of Superman" theme park, with a 200-foot-tall statue. Cars would drive between Superman's legs to enter the park. Then the Arabs shut off the oil and the bankers shut down Metropolis's dream.

The town took over a decade to recover. Then, very cautiously, Metropolis scraped together a thousand bucks in 1986 and put up a seven-foot fiberglass Superman in the town square. It quickly became a target for literal-minded vandals who wanted to see if the Man of Steel was stronger than a speeding bullet. He wasn't, and once again Metropolis's efforts to celebrate their hero were thwarted. What could a small town like Metropolis do?

In 1993, they did quite a bit. The perforated Superman vanished and was replaced by a 15-foot-tall, two-ton, projectile-proof bronze Superman, funded (officially) with engraved bricks purchased by citizens for 35 bucks apiece. That's a lot of bricks for a town of 7,200, considering that the new statue cost $120,000."

Sweeeeeeeet! Here's the boy at the statue:

And since you can make a fool out of yourself when you are in a town where you don't know anyone, here's me as Superman (if you squint really hard):

Here's a few other photos:

And here is a giant grocery bagger that we also found in Metropolis. I'm in love!

But, there's no time for love! It's time to move on to Wright City, Missouri - home to the Elvis Is Alive Museum!

We were soooo disappointed when we arrived at the museum as it was closed up tight without a soul around! We could only poke around outside and peek in the windows. We vow to go back and get inside and meet Bill Beeny in person. He's got Elvis Presley's DNA, for pete's sake! Word has it that the museum is also a real estate office (sounds cooler than any real estate office that I have ever worked in!) Here's what we could get photos of:

First off, the sign explains why we may never get inside:

Also, on the window you will find posted "Ten Reasons Why I Believe That Elvis Is Alive!":

Here you can almost get a view of the mock-up of Elvis' funeral complete with fake Elvis inside:

Now it's time to head back down South a bit to Cullman, Alabama to see the Ave Maria Grotto. Here's the description from the Grotto website:

"The builder of the miniatures at the Ave Maria Grotto was a Benedictine Monk--Brother Joseph Zoettl, O.S.B. Born in Landshut, Bavaria in 1878, he was maimed in an accident that gave him a hunchback, but luckily it did not hurt his ability to bend over and build the miniatures. He came to Saint Bernard Abbey in 1892. After becoming a Brother in the Benedictine Order, he was appointed to the power plant for the Abbey, and while there he developed his hobby of building miniature shrines. The first replicas were erected on the monastery recreation grounds, but because of the large number of visitors, a new site was selected and on May 17, 1934 the Ave Maria Grotto was dedicated. Brother Joseph continued his work for over 40 years, using materials sent from all over the world. He built his last model, the Basilica in Lourdes, at the age of 80, in 1958.

The Ave Maria Grotto, located on the grounds of Alabama's first and only Benedictine Abbey, consists of over 125 miniatures, reproductions of famous churches, shrines and buildings. Encompassing an area of over three acres, this miniature fairyland sees visitors from all over the world.

Brother Joseph who died in 1961 is buried in the Abbey cemetery a short distance from the Grotto gift shop."

Here is Brother Joseph from the postcard photo:

Here are some photos that we took:

It was such a beautiful and amazing place that is hard to convey in photos. It is mind boggling to think that this one man made all of these detailed little buildings and villages out of concrete and found items like broken cold creme jars and marbles. It was so beautiful that both the boy and I restrained ourselves from pretending like we were Godzilla and Mothra amongst the tiny little towns. And if you know us, you know that means that we were awestruck.

On to the next stop, just down the road a bit we landed in Hanceville, Alabama to see The Shrine of the Most Blessed Sacrament at Our Lady of the Angels Monastery.

(try saying that one 3 times fast)

From the shrine website:

"In Bogotá, a Salesian priest - Father Juan Pablo Rodriguez - brought Mother Angelica and the nuns to the Sanctuary of the Divine Infant Jesus to attend Mass. After Mass, Father Juan Pablo took them into a small Shrine which housed the miraculous statue of the Child Jesus. Mother Angelica stood praying at the side of the statue when suddenly the miraculous image came alive and turned towards her. Then the Child Jesus spoke with the voice of a young boy: "Build Me a Temple and I will help those who help you." Thus began a great adventure that would eventually result in the Shrine of the Most Blessed Sacrament, a Temple dedicated to the Divine Child Jesus, a place of refuge for all."

And, they did it. According to the literature, the sisters raised the money for the entire temple, shrine and grounds on their own. It's a very peaceful and solitary place. To be honest with you, at first, I didn't really know what to do there. It is a place of meditation and a religious pilgrimage site. I'm from a Baptist/Methodist background. Bible belters don't make pilgrimages...

So, I did as the lost and confused souls do - I headed for the gift shop!

I know! It looks like a castle! I was sad to find though that it was closed. So, with no trinkets in tow, we went back to meditation and self reflection. We went into a little dark chapel that contained a diorama of the birth of Jesus:

I love this little guy:

The chapel was really lovely.

We ended our tour with the life-size replica of the crucifixion of Jesus. I have to tell you, I had never seen a replica quite as realistic as this. We stood amazed.

And that looks like a good place to end the 2006 tour....

If you made it this far (and we are both still alive from the longest journal entry known to blogger), pat yourself on the back and make yourself a sandwich. I am sure that 2007 will hold some more great trip opportunities (hopefully, you will take some trips too and let me know about them). Here's a little peek at our first 2007 roadtrip:

That's right - worlds of fun, creepy as hell taxidermy animals and more vegetarian meals.... it's a good start, I'd say.

*

tease

noreply@blogger.com (Eartha Kitsch) — Mon, 22 Jan 2007 01:59:00 +0000

I swear to you (does anyone read this?) that I am actually working on a journal entry. Here's a little tease. It's going to be on my happy little travels last year. Probably a photo journey. Here's a few photos to keep you guessing:

There will be intrigue:

and scientific wonders:

red hot sexy, sexy:

and even some spills and chills:

Stay tuned. 2007 has been named "My Year to Stop Freakin' Procrastinating"!

(Hey, it's got to go better than "2006 - My Year to Stop Binge Eating Bread.")

Until then...

tis the season

noreply@blogger.com (Eartha Kitsch) — Fri, 15 Dec 2006 23:27:00 +0000

A while back, I was driving downtown and saw a huge, black stretch limo with banners on the side proclaiming, "THE REDNECK REVOLUTION IS COMING". I later found out that these were advertisements for a new Gretchen Wilson album. Though, this calmed my fears (except for the fact that there was about to be a new Gretchen Wilson album), I had no idea that the banners were more based in truth than I thought.

Today, I read in the local paper:

FROM NASCAR TO NUTCRACKER: Darrell Waltrip will make his first appearance in the Nashville Ballet's Nutcracker as "Mother Ginger". Waltrip will don a dress and maneuver across the stage at the Tennessee Performing Arts Center at 7 p.m. Friday. Once onstage, eight children magically appear from his voluminous skirts, dancing for joy.

For once, I have nothing to add. And to all a good night.

all my life

noreply@blogger.com (Eartha Kitsch) — Sun, 03 Dec 2006 00:31:00 +0000

In my line of work, I see lots of paperwork. I practically live in an ever shifting sea of paperwork. I see paperwork about people being assaulted and sexually harrassed. I see people claiming discrimination and mistreatment. But not of them hit home with me quite like this one. She didn't check any boxes or answer any of the questions, only:

brr

noreply@blogger.com (Eartha Kitsch) — Sun, 12 Nov 2006 18:44:00 +0000

Things have been mostly dark and colder-than-Fall cold here in Tennessee as of late. The magnolia tree out front shivered off her final few leaves last night and as can be seen here, Mr. Kitty and I constantly duke it out for possession of the heating vents:

(He's winning.)

We managed our way through Halloween and only scared off one group of small children (apparantly kids in the new neighborhood have never heard a musical saw before - the kids in the old neighborhood wouldn't hit the ground even if they heard gunfire). We carved some pretty nice pumpkins and the boy was able to spend some quality time (which I forced upon him) with our "son", Jack Lemmon:

(the tall one is "the boy" and the shorter one is Jack Lemmon)

(Some people call Jack Lemmon a "dummy" but I think that is mean. I think he is just a little slow.)

As the boy and Jack scooped the guts out of the pumpkins, I stayed inside in the warm house and watched them from the window. I also had fun imagining what our new neighbors must be saying as they probably were also watching from their windows.

So, now that Halloween has passed and the fake decapitated horse head has been firmly placed back in storage, we are now preparing for the tofurkey and for the subsequent Christmas holiday. I am sure that it will be a busy time, but I will be checking back in.

Take care until then....

falling

noreply@blogger.com (Eartha Kitsch) — Sat, 28 Oct 2006 00:13:00 +0000

Finally, Fall has crept over the South. Things are finally starting to come back to normal around the house without a name. Lots of people look at the seasons as metaphors for change, and I guess being the sap that I am means that I sometimes do too.

It was really quite a hard Summer. We moved, we renovated, I lost my kitty, Boo to the most tragic death that I had never imagined. The shadows shift and the grass turns to brown and I wonder what I will put on her grave now that the last Summer flower has died. I wonder if next Summer will feel more vibrant and if I can take back over the chore of mowing the back yard again without a lump choking me like a vine chokes a tree as I pass back and forth and back and forth past her grave.

Those who say things that others repeat say that "time heals all wounds" and I can only hope that it is true. It has been three months and I still can't talk about what happened to Boo. All I can do is miss her and feel like a fool as I come in the back door and expect to see her there only to realize that she isn't there at all. For nine years, she was my constant companion. Nine years of such seasons changing. The warmth of her coal black fur in the Summer as I tried to coax her away from the shifting sunbeams in the hall. The warmth still again as I fell asleep at night and felt her on the pillow beside me with one little white paw reached out and laid on my hand. The warmth of her beside me as we put up our little aluminum Christmas tree, as she looked at me as if to say, "I am going to eat that" before chasing an ornament around the rug. Every year, the tree was placed higher and higher but I was never a match for her determination.

I miss the way that she hopped like a little rabbit and how she stayed so small, just small enough to curl up in my arms to make little biscuits in the air, nursing my arm for I was the only mother that she had ever known. I miss having her sitting on the toilet lid each morning, her grassy green eyes watching my every move as I got ready for work. I sang to her and talked to her but somehow felt that she was dumbing herself down for me. She was an old soul and I wished that she could tell me her stories but had to be satisfied in that she listened to mine.

From now on, I am going to judge relationships against how Boo made me feel. She made me feel gloriously happy and lucky and overwhelmingly responsible. Responsible to make her feel the way that she made me feel. I hope that her time was a happy time. A gloriously happy time. And I apologize that it had to end so soon.

I'll always miss you, Boo.

be it ever so humble...

noreply@blogger.com (Eartha Kitsch) — Mon, 23 Oct 2006 00:26:00 +0000

Oh, but yes.. I haven't done a journal entry in a very long time - three months! Thought I'd check in and leave some photos of what we've been up to around the house that still doesn't have a name.

There are some side-by-side before and after shots and then a few shots of some of the decorating so far. I'll be back soon....

Here's the linky link... (the upstairs is still in a bit of an unfortunate 1980's country geese infested time warp, so no photos of that...no sir...)

new house photos

Love to all...

prom madness

noreply@blogger.com (Eartha Kitsch) — Fri, 14 Jul 2006 22:37:00 +0000

I thought for a few minutes before doing this entry. I wondered if I would appear catty or mean...or if it would appear obvious that I have never been to the prom and am terribly bitter..but then I realized that sometimes you are just handed something in life and well, you'd be a real dumb ass not to run with it.

And that's exactly what happened when I viewed our local paper's section devoted to this year's prom photos. I swear to you (and I could hardly believe it myself) but these were all from my little neck of the woods.

How to start it off....how about this one?

Here is the text sent in with the photo:

"This is a pic of my son, Josh and his girlfriend, Stephanie. Her dress was custom-made by Josh's grandmother. They both enjoy hunting and 4-wheeling, so it only fit that her dress was "Mossy Oak" camo ... definitely a one-of-a-kind at the prom!"

Well, I'll say!

I instantly thought that the camoflage dress was going to be the winner in the "Oh My Dear God, please redeem my Southern heritage before I have to explain this to people" category. But THEN, I saw this:

The corresponding text:

"This is my daughter Karly and her boyfriend Ben. Karly's dress was made from a rebel flag, which she designed herself."

You don't say!

I'll bet you'd like to see a full length shot of this one, right? You got it:

So, then I said to myself, "Well, it doesn't get any more redneck than that mess..." and THEN I kept going:

According to the text, that's Kayce with her brothers and sisters.

Note: You owe it to yourself to click on this photo to see it even larger.

(and you thought that bare midriffs and sub sandwiches were out for men this year)

But, I'll move on before we get bogged down in....something...that we can't get out of...

Up next:

The text with this one reads:

"John, Joey, Lauren and Katie make a face like they mean it."

(I'm not hip to the lingo, but whatever "it" is must be something else!)

Another snapshot of the young lovebirds:

(Okay, there is nothing particularly hilarious about this one except for the tragic framing of the shot...))

And another one:

The text:

"Two of the High School's Drama Department, Lisa and Eric, celebrate Prom '06 in true dramatic style."

Blows my mind! Could you EVER have guessed that these kids are in the DRAMA DEPARTMENT?

And now for something a little bit spicier:

Wow. No text needed. (except perhaps that my mama would have kicked my butt all over the deep South and beat me black and blue with the buckle of the bible belt if I had worn this dress)

Another:

"Carolyn and Mario before the 'Midnight Masquerade' prom"

(Yes...I WAS going to make some snide comment about the drama department but I was amiss..)

Text: "Carolyn is a little taken aback by Mario's suddenly 'getting into character'!"

Let's keep going..(we just have to)

I have nothing to say about this one, I just kind of thought it was sweet.

(hey, even hardened pros like me have a soft side!)

(I would like to add however that this photo would only be made better if it were superimposed over a photo of a brandy snifter and edged in a soft white haze..)

This one is next:

All together now: "SPRAY TAN!!"

And doesn't this cat just seem to have a look on his face that says, "I have no freakin' idea how I landed this HOT girl, but I am sooo the man!"

That's it for now kids... May all of your dreams have a little bit of taffeta and a lot of that bulk-buy silver star confetti in them. And may the band always play something by Journey so that you may get terribly lucky.

dust is a flyin'!

noreply@blogger.com (Eartha Kitsch) — Tue, 06 Jun 2006 03:21:00 +0000

The renovation is in full swing!

Doesn't the Bible warn of things like fire, flood, pestilence, famine and wallpaper removal?

If you've never tried wallpaper removal, try pushing an enormous boulder up a hill with your nose for comparison....while someone is greasing you AND the boulder down with Crisco shortening.

(this was when I had my near nervous breakdown and started binge eating the ho ho's)

or was it sheet rock dust...the finest of all the dusts... (oh! don't be silly! who needs lungs?!?)(or drop cloths?)

Other harrowing scenes from the renovation include:

Cave Crickets!:

No matter what my pal, Lisa says....cave crickets (aka "Jumping spiders" - because they are blind and upon sensing you, become defensive and jump AT YOU instead of AWAY from you as you try to kill them), are not harmless and of no concern. I once talked my mom into wallpapering the INSIDE of a tiny, dark closet for me just to keep these nasty S.O.B.'s out.

Paint that in no way matches the paint swatches!:

Yikes! But there's more!:

(I'll let YOU guess which one we went with...)

(AND how much money we've wasted on useless quarts of paint that only a blind cave cricket could love)

and more!:

(I like the tiny blue blob on the right hand side as if to say, "I give up!!"

and finally....

Fork through the knee!:

Believe it or not, this wasn't during a drunken paint-color-picking frenzy, but instead while trying to remove staples from hardwood flooring with a dinner fork (after boasting and bragging all night about how cool I was for having thought of this ingenious staple removing method). You haven't felt the pride of home ownership until you've felt sharp metal on knee bone!

But, alas! I think that the worst is behind us. We've zeroed in on a lovely shade of blue for the dining room, the HAZMAT team has gone, and we've got our shrine set up in the basement.

Stay tuned....

just home, ya'll

noreply@blogger.com (Eartha Kitsch) — Sun, 07 May 2006 01:25:00 +0000

So, tonight...I was poking through some of my old blogger posts. First, I realized that I used to write A LOT. Then I realized that I was a much better writer then than I am now (the "stroke"?) (stress?) (old age?) (lack of focus?)...

Then, I read a post from two years ago and got all crazy teary eyed and realized that I have felt terribly, terribly displaced living alone, in apartments owned by other people. Like at any minute, the other shoe could fall and I would be out on my ear - moving again. I think it has been a cause of a lot of unrest for me. It could be the reason that I have kept scaling down and getting rid of things and constantly scheming of ways to get money so that I wouldn't have to scheme and scale down quite so much. Always trying to think of a way to feel that I am at rest.

When I moved out of my home, "The Sideways House" with all of it's pretty trappings an insane yet nurturing adopted brother...and it's memories...and it's all night music marathons, things changed. I think I lost a foot-hold - and have been fighting to get it back ever since. I just can't explain to anyone how happy I am that I am about to have a "home" again. A home that nobody can take away from me. A home where we can paint things any color we damn well please. A home where music can be played loud and I can dance and fall into things and act like I meant to. A place where I'll feel loved and will feel the eyes from the paintings of strangers following me everywhere that I go. A place where there will be too many cats for comfort and too many dishes to wash. A place where I will feel creative and be surrounded by creativity again. A place to make me feel such a love for home that I felt when I wrote this one back in 2004:

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Times: they are a changin'.

I'm making preparations to leave the Sideways House - the place that I have come home to for the past 5 years. I'm saying goodbye to the soaring ceiling that was created for music to wrap around and the cozy loft where I have looked down like a queen over court - over laughter and arguments, over snow falling on patio pine backlit like a glorious stage, over an ever-changing color scheme and cast of characters. The funky rug and the hi-fi and even that green deco chair that I swear is cursed. My kitchen the size of a shoebox and my tangerine glow bedroom complete with mood lighting built as a father-daughter project one weekend when I was trying to reclaim my space after a just-snuffed love left smoke in the air. My hammock below starry skies with labrador under. My retro gliding porch furniture with chameleon peeling paint. My crooked vintage album wall of art - that will be gone too. Corridors of memories and windows lit with fewer tomorrows stare back at me as I for the first time consider terms such as "curb appeal" and "resale value" and count the days.

53 days. That's how many.

My mind won't give up claim to the place. I wonder if the new people will paint over all of my happy colors with some color called "Magnolia" or "Buff". I wonder if they will stand on my checkerboard kitchen floor, shake their heads and put that on the top of their list of things to cover up.

Will they get it?

Will they gut it?

There have been times in the past little while that I have felt like doing an all out, glorified impersonation of Scarlett for her Tara. Face it. I'm not ready to leave. I love it here. I thrive here. I smile here. This is my home. My first real home in forever.

There have been other days when I must have envisioned myself living in a Judy Garland/Mickey Rooney movie - I kept waiting on a truck to pull up loaded with friends who'd yell, "Hey kids! Let put on a show! We'll show them! We'll save the Sideways House!!"

But, it's time for reality.

Maybe it is time to leave. Comfort breeds boredom - or that's what that fortune cookie slip on my refrigerator says anyway.

No doubt, I am probably going to be moody and sad for the next few months. No doubt, I will find a new place in the world and in time this one will only be a memory to me. That still doesn't mean that I can't mourn the passing. That I can't ask people to repeat themselves because I was staring off into space or into a well-lit room perfect for much more living in. I realize in theory that this is just a place. A place full of things. I try to repeat that to myself over and over these days. Each day when I pull out of my driveway, I try to imagine that it is my last time. I haven't been able to do it yet without at least a little lump in my throat.

Someone said to me, "It's not a house that makes a home. It's what you do there that makes it a home. The minute you leave, it is no longer your home."

Uh uh...see...they don't get it. Your home really is where your heart is.

My heart is here. Here in this drafty old house put together with left-over pieces from bigger and better houses. Here in the swirl of the surround-sound issuing Sam Cooke like a medical prescription. Here in the glow of that red paper lamp that sits in the front window beside black and white tuxedo cat with an eye on the world. Here on the stairwell where Summer dresses gave way to Winter wool again and again and this time for the last time. Here in that bathtub where I spent a Valentine's day with Jack Daniels and a fist full of melting valentine's candy. Here is where my heart is. Here and there. There against the front door that was slammed to punctuate points and where sweet goodnight kisses took place behind sleepy, electric eyelids. There where the Christmas tree stood and came crashing down shattered glass to wood under the weight of an enthusiastic, yuletide tabby cat. There where my foot marks smudge the wall from languid long-distance phone conversations. There in that skylight window where I watched the waxing moon, lying on my back as time passed like a hearse. There is where my heart is. There and here.

Here is where my heart is."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I can just feel how much my heart was breaking then. Excuse me for being a little wrapped up, but I have to feel that my heart is equally healing now. I can't wait. I'm going home again. And once again, I am going to sit under the dark night sky and let out a sigh. And begin again.

wooden boys!! (compromise part 2)

noreply@blogger.com (Eartha Kitsch) — Sun, 07 May 2006 00:09:00 +0000

Yes, I do realize that there was a time when I'd think about things and write long, rambling musings on this and that. Yes, I do realize that all I do lately is post photos. I think I barely have time to think hard enough these days to write long, long posts. So, that said....back to your regularly scheduled dose of photos (okay...with some of my rambling musings mixed in):

In a previous post, I showed the evil, soul sucking puppets that my boy is selling so that I can actually live inside of the house that we are buying. That said, every compromise has it's second side, and here goes mine. I'm going to getting rid of one of MY prize possessions that yes, creeps the boy out. (I'll take time to get creeped out later when I reflect on the fact that 3 out of 4 of my last posts have been about freaky dolls). So...

Meet Geraldine and Ricky:

Ahh...yes...one of the best albums of all times. "Evangelist E.J. Daniels... (that's this guy:)...

Presents Geraldine and Ricky" (that's these guys:)

So, by now (if you are still with me), and aren't saying, "Which one is made out of wood?", you might be saying to yourself, "There has GOT TO BE some fascinating story behind this Geraldine and this Ricky!!"

You would be right. According the the album jacket, "When Geraldine was converted at the age of 13, she began to pray to God to use her as a person to honor Him. At age 14, God gave her, overnight, the talent of ventriloquism. She began immediately to appear before church groups, and civic clubs. Her talents continued to develop until her fame was known throughout her native state of Louisiana. She entertained even in the governor's mansion!"

(Of course, me being the scientific person that I am, have to wonder how one wakes up to discover that they have been given the talent of ventriloquism...)

But wait...it gets even better!

"Disneyland offered her $375.00 per day - which is over $100,000 per year - to perform for them. Because she could not talk about her LORD, and had to work on Sundays she turned down this offer. She felt that her talent was God-given, and should be used solely to glorify Christ. It takes real dedication for a young lady to turn down fortune and fame to serve her LORD."

$100,000 a year!! Disneyland!! She turned down that haven of heathen-filled thrill rides AND the wad of cash!! But then what did she do?

The text goes on to say that Evangelist Daniels' crusades grew in attendance by 20% to 35% because Geraldine and Ricky joined their team!

(though I still have to wonder it it wasn't something to do with this stone cold foxy organist:)

That's John Bos (I think that the term "boss" as in "Dude, that is TOTALLY BOSS!!" came from this guy. I mean, the way that the lights hits his hair is beyond description, isn't it?) God, he's sweeet.

The write-up ends with "On this record, you will hear one of the world's greatest ventriloquists, and her wooden-headed companion. Accompanying them at the instrument is John Bos, who is recognized as being, perhaps, the greatest of all Hammond organists."

Geraldine has a couple of paragraphs too. My favorite line from her is, "I have had the blessing of meeting and working with so many, wonderful "full-time" Christians."

What in the world does Geri mean by that "full-time (in quotations, mind you) Christians" remark?

I don't know what happened to this faith driven beauty and her "wooden-headed companion", but I can only hope the best for them. Okay, actually...I hope that Geraldine married John Bos, the organist and that they have shared many, many years and many, many cans of Final Net hairspray together. I also hope that Ricky is locked away somewhere so that his long, flutter-by eyelashes don't decay. And I hope that everytime Geraldine and John ride past DisneyLand, she doesn't wonder about what could have been.

Umm..

noreply@blogger.com (Eartha Kitsch) — Sat, 06 May 2006 23:36:00 +0000

Definitely, the strangest thing that I have seen at the flea market lately (click on the photo to see her up close):

that thing about the apple not falling far from the tree

noreply@blogger.com (Eartha Kitsch) — Sat, 06 May 2006 02:53:00 +0000

My dad cracks me up. He sent me this photo where he is trying to recreate the now famous mug shot of Nick Nolte. I knew that retirement was going to leave him with lots of time on his hands, but THIS takes the cake:

So, here's my dad:

Nick Nolte:

My dad again:

Well, it cracks ME up. And it's made even better by the fact that my dad is wearing a "Weiner Dog Racing" shirt.

puppets!! (compromise part 1")

noreply@blogger.com (Eartha Kitsch) — Sat, 06 May 2006 02:41:00 +0000

One good thing about the move is that we are getting rid of things. A compromise of sorts. A merging of two households where tastes are...well...different.

The best compromise that has come out of it so far is that the boy is getting rid of these Indonesian rod puppets. They have always creeped me out. I've got a little edge when it comes to puppets. Not sure why.

He gets rid of the rod puppets and I get rid of....the cold sweats that these things give me as they stare at me with their little wooden eyes and taunt me with their little wooden praying mantis arms as if to say, "We will gnaw your tongue right out of your mouth and your eyes right out of their sockets!! We will!!! We will!! We'll gobble them up like candies!!"