Maybe She's Part Heinz?

I have this granddaughter. Cutie by nickname.

This weekend Cutie came in with her dad for a visit. And while Cutie was here, Nana got to take her out to the local pancake house for brunch. You can see a photo of Cutie enjoying her meal above. Needless to say, we had us some fun.

At 2-1/2 years old, Cutie has a good appetite. I ordered her the kiddie pancakes, scrambled eggs and bacon. The Girl was there with us, and laughed out loud when Cutie's food came. Apparently she was hungry, because she took one of the small pancakes on her plate and shoved the whole thing into her mouth at the same time.

It warms the cockles of my heart to see how much she takes after her father in that regard. Truly, it does.

Her cheeks bulging with pancake, she reached for another. I stopped her just before the next one was snatched and cut up all of her pancakes and eggs into small bites. So she went for the bacon strip. And before I knew it, the bacon, he was history.

Between drinks of "chock-it milk" the eggs were the next to meet their demise. But before they were quite finished, she spied something on the table. Something a good friend of mine once called "the elixir of the suburban." Her favorite condiment in the world.

Ketchup.

Now, bear in mind there was no syrup on her pancakes. She'd been eating them with no complaint completely plain. So when she asked very politely if she could have some ketchup, please, The Girl thought it would be a hoot to oblige her. After all, she reasoned, after her first taste of ketchup on pancakes she would surely give it up.

The Girl misjudged Cutie's love for the elixir of the suburban in a very big way.

From then on, each and every piece of pancake that went into Cutie's mouth was ceremoniously dipped into the red stuff first. And if that wasn't enough, she then ran her fingers over the plate to make sure she got every last drop. It was a good thing we were stocked with baby wipes.

No, she didn't finish the whole plateful of food. But she ate almost all of it, a lot for someone her age.

And 75% of it was covered in ketchup.

I No Longer Look Like An Auburn Skunk, And I Smell Pretty Good, Too

Today was a day to rest.

I actually took a nap for the first time in I don't know when. I didn't worry about when to be where and what had to be done when and who was expecting what or anything else. I got up late, took The Girl and Cutie out to brunch, came home and put Cutie down for a nap, cleaned a bit (just), did a load or two of laundry, watched a movie for the 132nd time with Cutie when she got up, and sent her off with Son.

Hubster took The Girl halfway to the lake to meet up with a friend of hers. She'll be spending the rest of the holiday weekend there. The Boy will be with a friend of his. Mom gets out of the hospital tomorrow, but that's tomorrow. I'll worry about it then.

For today, I rested.

Oh, and I dyed my hair. Something that has been sorely needed these past TWO MONTHS. My Most Excellent Hairdresser would point out the "sparklies" every time I got it cut. I would just notice the white streak down my part. And the fact that my Medium Ash Brown had faded to Auburn With A White Streak. Not at all becoming. And since I part my hair on the left side, I somewhat resembled a lopsided, strangely-colored skunk.

With glasses.

And given the fact that I did not shower today until I dyed my hair at 10:45 p.m. (YES, I SAID TEN FORTY-FIVE, BECAUSE I HAD A *NAP* TODAY, PEOPLE!), I smell pretty good, too.

You may admire me at will.

The Job Is A Go(o)d Thing

Thank God for my job.

Not only have they bent over backwards to be kind and understanding during the hell that has been Mom's illness, but they've done more than that. They've supported and prayed for me. And that's meant the world.

Today I found out Mom had a heart attack on Monday. They thought it was just irritation of her esophagus at first from throwing up so much blood, but numbers don't lie. According to the doctor it's her second. The first was during the stroke.

I must've had a glazed look in my eye, because so far two different people have talked with me and prayed with me about it. People who care. Not only about Mom, but about me.

And that makes this job a very Go(o)d thing indeed.

I'm Not Liking The Whole Hospital Thing

Posting may be light for a bit, folks.

Mom's back in the hospital.

And we get to wear those little bootie things, and the paper gowns, and the latex gloves whenever we go in to see her. It's almost like we're real doctors. We keep using abbreviations like "STAT!" and "PRN!" and other things to make us sound more pseudo-doctor-like.

It would be fun, only, it's...you know...not.

Text Mess With A Side Of Guacamole

Almost two years ago we added The Girl to our cell phone plan and got her a cell phone of her own.

It was for our convenience more than anything else, really. She was involved in sports and church and other things that necessitated calls for chauffeuring service. If she went out with friends, we wanted to be able to find out what the plans were, when she was going to be home, who was going. As she got older and started driving herself it was more of a safety issue. We wanted her to be able to call for help, and we wanted to be able to reach her if she missed curfew to tell her she'd be locked out of the house until morning.

Oh, I kid.

Knowing how people of today like to text message instead of actually TALK, we also added 400 text messages per month to her part of the plan. And she watched her time and her messages faithfully and never went over on either.

And then...

Her old phone bit the dust. The hinge broke on it, and it couldn't be repaired. She was due for a new free phone upgrade, so we went ahead and got the new phone. At the same time she asked us to upgrade the texting to unlimited and she promised to pay the additional cost.

She's been faithful to pay, I'll give her that. Sometimes we have to ask more than once, but she knows she has to pay for it and she does. She certainly ought to, because she's certainly getting her money's worth out of it.

She's gone from 400 texts a month to over 4,000. Yes, I said four THOUSAND. And because she doesn't have to watch how many texts she's using, she conveniently forgot to keep an eye on how many minutes she was using.

This past month, on our 700-minutes-per-month plan, including her free minutes, nights and weekends, she racked up 965 minutes. That's NINE HUNDRED SIXTY FIVE MINUTES, FOLKS. IN ADDITION TO OVER FOUR THOUSAND TEXT MESSAGES.

So this little bird has just had her wings clipped. And not just trimmed, but shorn.

T-Mobile, our service, has a new Family Allowance service. For $2 a month the person in charge of the account (me) can decide how many minutes anyone else (The Girl) on the account is allowed to use for the month. After those minutes are used up, the only people that can be called are those who are listed by the person in charge of the account (me). And in this case that will be 911, her father, or me.

Period.

Let's see how she likes THAT guacamole.

I Don't Know You Unless You Have Money

The Boy is playing football this year. I may have mentioned that.

He's 5'5" tall and weighs in at a whopping 120 pounds. He can't eat enough to gain weight. You can see his hip bones through his skin, and his pants just hang down low naturally because he's so skinny and they don't make pants long enough for his waist size.

And yet he's playing football.

He's gonna get creamed.

That being said, The Boy has decided he wants me to be no part of his football experience other than to fund it. I found this out when I was picking him up from practice the other day and happened to strike up a conversation with one of the other mothers. She asked if I was coming to the Mother's Scrimmage the following Saturday.

Uh, no. Since I don't believe I was told about it, I don't believe I'll be there. And since my idea of physical activity is getting up from the computer desk to go to the bathroom, I'll have to admit I'm not really thrilled with the prospect.

"Oh, it will be fun! They were handing out flyers to all the players after practice yesterday. Your son should have given you one. You'll have to ask him about it. All the moms are going to play their son's positions, then we're all going out to lunch. It'll be a blast! We're supposed to be here at 7 a.m."

7 a.m.? IN THE MORNING? To RUN? Yeah, that ain't gonna happen. Sorry, Chickie. But The Boy is gonna get an earful about the lack of communication on his part. You can bet on that.

When I queried The Boy as to what might have happened to the invitation, he first said he didn't get one. Upon further torture and threat of grounding, he admitted he had thrown said invite away as soon as he read it. Why? Because he didn't want his mom cavorting around on the field embarrassing him in front of all the other players.

And by the way, would I please not talk to any of the other parents when I came to pick him up? That was embarrassing him as well. Could I just stay in the car and pretend I was anti-social? Or better yet, that I was a servant of his very rich parents who had just come to chauffeur him home to the manse?

Yeah, sure Son.

The topper came a couple of nights ago when he brought home a booklet with a sign-up sheet attached. It was from the football booster club. They wanted parents to sign up to decorate lockers, provide meals to the team on game days, provide bus take-away meals for away games, create banners, help out with the concession stand, etc. As I looked at the booklet trying to decide how I could help out, The Boy looked at me and said, "You aren't REALLY going to sign up for anything, ARE YOU???" When I asked him why I shouldn't, he said it would be too embarrassing. Apparently I'm allowed to only go to the games, and then only if I sit quietly in my seat and contain my hooting, yelling, screaming, shouting, nose-picking and butt scratching. Otherwise I'll be banned.

Of course, last night he was quick to try to sell me a ticket to the first scrimmage of the season. He wasn't too embarrassed for that. Just like he wasn't too embarrassed to have us pay for the fee it cost to have him play football in the first place, or for the cleats, or the physical, or the contact lenses, or the football camp, or the weight lifting camp.

I will be so glad when he grows out of this stage....

The Greased Pig And I Resemble Each Other A Lot, But I'm More Relaxed

Oh. My. Gosh.

I am, at this very moment, so very ready for bed.

I just wanted to take a moment to tell you that the massage?

IT ROCKED.

Get it? Hot rock massage? Rocked?

Anyone?

Yeah, well.

Like I said, I'm going to bed now.

Gee, Mom! Will You HURRY UP???

High School, Day 1, 2008.

The Girl, a Junior. The Boy, a Freshman. The Mom, barely awake enough to aim the camera at zero dawn thirty before they left for school.

You know, they gripe and moan and complain and try to hurry me up every stinkin' year when we do this, but they will EVENTUALLY learn that this is the first day of school drill. Heck, I may even follow them to college if they don't watch out.

You think I'm kidding?

Heheheheheheheheh....

Stay Tuned...

Tomorrow is the first day of school.

It's also the first time that my youngest child will officially be going to HIGH SCHOOL.

I'm thinking of re-growing my uterus so that I can procreate again and not go through the Last Child In School syndrome for a while. With any luck, I could keep it up until I croak before the last child enters high school.

Sounds like a plan to me.

At any rate, tune in tomorrow. There will be pictures. And cake.

Well, pictures anyway.

Well, THAT Was Refreshing, So Now Here's The Rub

The crying jag over, I've been looking for something else to do.

What I am in favor of at this moment in time is a couple of days alone in the country. Anyone got a cabin in the woods they wanna loan me? Of course, it will have to have indoor plumbing, air conditioning, no rodents or slithery beasts, and a nice porch swing wouldn't hurt.

Not that I would ever look a gift horse in the mouth or anything.

And speaking of gift horses, let me just say this...

A Very Dear Friend of mine decided to gift me in a very big way today. She knows the stress rocket I've been riding the past couple of months has been in danger of exploding more than once or fifty times. She's been on the receiving end of phone calls and emails when I've been at my worst. And my worst has been pretty doggone bad.

And believe it or not, she's still my friend.

And this wonderful, kind, loving, generous friend of mine FORCED me to accept (OK, so there was very little forcing, just lots of crying and kissing of feet on my part) a one-hour, all expenses paid, hot stone massage at a local place she's been to when she's been under stress. We met there after coffee this morning, and I now have an appointment for Tuesday night at 7 p.m. to become a quivering mass of liquid Jello right before I go to bed.

I can't wait.

Somehow, just knowing All The Massaging is waiting for me just makes life a little better...a little easier to handle. Knowing I don't have to think about anything at all but whatever music is playing, whatever candles are lit, whatever tension is released and how in the world I'm going to drive home without falling asleep is a gift in and of itself.

I may not even need to have the actual massage.

And if you believe that, I've got some swampland in Arizona I'd like to talk with you about...

So, once again, from the bottom of my heart, THANK YOU Dear, Dear Friend.

I promise to use your gift ever so well!

Today Is "Feel Sorry For Me Day"

And what a day it's been.

Yesterday there were a few upheavals having to do with Mom that left me dreaming about Donny Osmond in a purple double-knit suit, pastoring a church that I attended wearing only a bra and slacks while counseling one of the pastor's wives about having to raise her daughter's premature infant son.

Yeah, I slept REALLY well. Not.

Then around 6:30 a.m. I got a phone call from Hubster. His vehicle had broken down and he needed me to drive the car out to where he was and to have The Girl follow me. I dropped the car off, then had The Girl take me over to Mom's house so I could use her car to go to work. Thankfully, my cousins, who are staying there for a few days, were up and had coffee on. I sat there in my unshowered, unkempt state and talked until I was late for work, then headed home to shower.

Arriving at work late, I went to my desk and decided that since everyone on the floor was gone on vacation except me, I was going to have a good cry.

And cry I did.

For two and a half solid hours.

I'd just get over one bout, and then I'd think of something else to cry about, so I'd start up again. I cried about anything and everything imaginable. I cried because I needed to. I cried because of All The Stress. I cried because of Lack of Funds. I cried because of Transmissions That Go Out In The Night. I cried because of Mom and Doctors. I cried because of License Plates. I cried because I felt bad. I cried because I am hopeless when it comes to cleaning my house. I cried because I am so very tired of living my life the way I have to now. I cried because I can see no end to any of the day-to-day stuff I have to deal with.

And after I was done crying, I gave it all to God once again and I stopped.

Tomorrow is another day. It's another chance to start over. Another chance to try again.

And "Feel Sorry For Me Day" doesn't come around for another month.

Nostalgia Is A Wonderful Thing

And because it is, and because I know my friend Cindabel reads this blog upon occasion, I will post this little remembrance of our childhood which I'm sure she will think of fondly.



Just remember the All Purpose Room...the Big Show...

And I DARE you to leave a comment!

Because The Weekend, It Was A Busy Time

This was the weekend of The Entire Family And Then Some.

Son and his family came in town late Thursday night. I met them Friday after work at the rehab center long enough to say hello and give Cutie a hug before I went to my part-time job.

Saturday I got to sleep in, then got to work cleaning house. By the time Cutie got here to spend the night, I was about a quarter of the way through a job that would take an army of thirty another week to finish if they worked rotating shifts for twenty-four hours a day.

Suffice it to say the house was and still is a mess.

However, I managed to shovel out the greater part of the mess so that we could have the entire family over for a cookout on Sunday to celebrate Hubster's birthday. But not before I enjoyed watching Shrek for the 132nd time with my granddaughter, feeding her the favorite meal of mac and cheese (and ice cream), and settling down to bed with her for the night.

What I didn't know was that she would turn sideways in the bed and kick me in the back all night long. But that was a small price to pay for the gift of having her here. A small price indeed. Even Grandpa loved it when he came in from work early in the morning and found her on his side of the bed. When he tried to move her, she just settled in a little further over. Still on his pillow, but a little further over. He just smiled and stared at her. I finally picked her up and moved her onto my pillow, feet facing the right direction this time.

She's a slow one to wake up. She likes to take her time, taking in her surroundings, not bothering to talk until she's ready. She likes to snuggle when she first wakes up, but she's not much on smiling. That's fine with me. I'm the same way.

So the two of us woke up slowly together before going downstairs to face the day. After Cheerios for her and coffee for me, Shrek got another play as I got down to business and got things ready for the meal at noon. Nine adults, two teenagers, and three grandchildren showed up...the first time we've had the entire family together at our house since I can remember.

We had hamburgers and brats. There were baked beans, potato salad, deviled eggs, potato chips, fresh tomatoes and a relish tray full of all kinds of pickles, olives, and beets. Everyone ate until they could eat no more.

And then we had cake.

Everyone went home except my mother-in-law. She decided to stay a few days. Which, of course, is fine. Because my cousin from Texarkana and his wife and my cousin from Alabama and his wife came in Sunday evening to spend a few days as well.

But not before I collapsed in the bed with a migraine.

Because nothing says "party" like a migraine.

Lo! How The Mighty Have Fallen....Asleep

Last night Hubster kept me awake for a good part of the night with All The Coughing.

He's had this head cold/sinus thing/epizude/plague for going on three weeks now. I've been after him to go to the doctor, but being the MAN he is, he wouldn't go.

"It'll go away," he says.

"It's not that bad," he says.

And I went along with him until last night. Last night, when he woke me up at 2:58 a.m. coughing his head off. And bless that little pointed head anyway, rather than get up and go downstairs to try to sleep in the recliner, he allowed me the pleasure of enjoying All The Coughing.

Bless him.

And then, because he has to leave for work at 3:30 a.m., his radio started going off at ten minute intervals to complement the serenade of All The Coughing.

It was truly magnificent in its glory. All of it.

And so it was that I got up to use the bathroom, picked up my pillow, and socked him one with it. After all, a girl can only take so much. And this girl needs her beauty sleep. ALL SHE CAN GET. And she gets cranky beyond belief without it.

Which is why I asked him to leave for work early, so that I could get some semblance of rest before I had to get up. Being the darling man he is, he complied. He even turned off the mother of all alarm clocks that was set to go off after all the radio alarms went off for an hour at ten minute intervals.

Because he's sweet that way.

So to be sweet to him in return, I made a doctor's appointment for him today as soon as I got to work. What's more, he went. And he got liberally dosed with medications that I had to pick up on my way home from work tonight.

So since I was picking up his meds, I decided to pick up a refill of my sleeping pills. I got all the meds, drove home, and put them on the counter.

Long about 10 p.m. Hubster went in like the dutiful man he is to take his medicine before he went to bed. A few minutes later he came into the room where I was and asked what was in the pill bottle with my name on it. I asked why, and he said it was because he'd just taken one by mistake instead of taking one of the antibiotics.

And yea verily, I did indeed laugh. Hubster had taken one of my sleeping pills. A generic Ambien, to be exact. And at this moment he is sleeping like a rock upstairs in our bed. It's probably exactly what he needs.

The only problem is going to be getting him up in time for work tomorrow morning. That one could be a little tricky, especially since the pill is supposed to last eight hours and he only has a little over five hours to sleep.

And after the night I had last night, ain't no way THIS girl's waking up for nuthin'!

Because She Turns Into A Pumpkin At Midnight

The Girl and I had a bit of a disagreement last night.

Being as she's sixteen and all, she's gotten it into her head that she gets to be the boss of her life now. After all, she has a car. And a job. And besides, it's summer, so she should be able to stay out as late as she wants, right?

Yeah. Think again.

We've been much more lenient with her than we were with the first three because, let's face it, we're old. We don't want to sit up nights waiting until she gets in to make sure she makes curfew. We don't want to monitor where she goes, what she does, and who she does it with. We don't want to lose sleep, worry, or tell her when she has to be home.

But guess what? We do.

Last night she came rolling in at 11:45 p.m. to tell me she thought a lady at the tennis courts who was in her cups had called the police on her because one of the boys she was driving around with called her a name. We talked about it for a minute or so, I got her calmed down, told her to take the boys home and get home by her curfew of midnight.

At 12:15 a.m. I called her cell phone.

She was at the International House of Pancakes with the boys. She thought I had gone on to bed and she'd pull a fast one on me. What she didn't realize is that I've been there and done that, and the t-shirt dates back thirty some odd years.

I ordered her to take the boys home immediately and to get her behind home. And I waited up for her, on a night when I had to be at work the next day, until 12:45 a.m.

Her excuse for not at least calling to say that she'd be late, when our rule is that you always, ALWAYS, ALWAYS call if you're going to be late?

"I didn't want to wake Dad..."

Sheyeah, right. You didn't want to be CAUGHT, more like. Like I said, I have this t-shirt...

Suffice it to say I was not a happy camper when all was said and done. Suffice it also to say that neither was she, but she now understands the rules PERFECTLY. With the help of a "reminder." And another lecture from her father when he found out what she'd done this morning.

I thnk the Princess has turned into the Pea for a while.

Happy Birthday, Hunkster!

We're nothing if not party people here in this household.

Today is no exception. Today is Hubster's birthday, and we're pulling out all the stops.

We actually went out to eat tonight at a place other than McDonald's or Subway. And that's saying SOMETHING here, folks.

Of course, the Birthday Boy is suffering from The Everlasting Headcold, and didn't feel much like painting the town red, so it was a short but sweet night out.

And so ends yet another dazzling night of party life.

Yawn.

In Which I Come Out Smelling Like The Proverbial Rose No Matter What Son Says

I walked in the door tonight and announced we were headed back to SuperCuts.

The Boy moaned.

He groaned.

And then I said his sister was going with him, and SHE would make the decision about how to cut his hair so that he would resemble something other than a child whose finger should be stuck in a dike. And I threatened that if I sat down I was not getting back up.

For anything.

And so we left, but not before The Girl had a chance to print out a photo of the movie star she wanted her brother to resemble when all was said and done. Of course, when all was said and done her brother looked nothing like the movie star, but that's neither here nor there.

I was off the hook. And that's all that matters.

The Boy actually THANKED ME for screwing up his hair in the first place. Not that it was ever my fault to begin with, mind you. (See previous post) His hair is now short, spikey, messy, above his ears, stylin', and if he were a girl I'd say it was SASSY. It's better to play football in 100 degree plus heat, dries faster, has style instead of just hanging there, and makes him look about seven inches taller.

And he REALLY likes it.

And because it was a misunderstanding with the "stylist" we had, the newer, better version we got tonight apologized all over herself for the poor job that was done the first time and cut The Boy's hair for free.

And I REALLY liked that.

So all is good here. No matter what Cutie's dad has to say about it. :P

In Which I Once Again Win The Mother Of The Year Award Without Really Trying

Yesterday it was time to get The Boy a haircut.

I knew it was time to get The Boy a haircut not because the hair was hanging down below his eyeballs, which it was, but because The Boy himself TOLD me it was time to get him a haircut.

So off to SuperCuts we went.

Because I called all the other places, and sweet potato pie on a stick! They want a house with ACREAGE to give a fourteen-year-old a few snips with the scissors nowadays. Honestly!

The Boy hopped into the chair and told the gal who was to be his stylist that he wanted an inch off of his hair all over. Because I kid you not when I tell you that he and Samson were in a contest to see who could grow the longest locks until I put a halt to that nonsense. So the "stylist" began to cut. And snip. And style.

And during all the cutting I decided it would be wise to make sure that the sheepdog I call my son could actually SEE out of the orbs he calls eyes when all was said and done. I walked up to where he and the "stylist" were and said only this:

"Would you please make sure his hair is cut above his eyebrows? Thanks so much."

Honestly. That's ALL I said. And then I sat down.

Fifteen minutes later I looked up from the magazine I was reading to see The Boy walking toward me with an expression on his face that had no equal. And I immediately knew why.

The "stylist" had cut his bangs a full inch and a half above his eyebrows.

He looked like the little Dutch boy. And he was about to cry. And so was I.

In a daze, I brushed hair off of his shoulders and began the first of a million apologies for the day. I paid the "stylist" and we left. I apologized again and again. He just sat there, covering his forehead with his hand so no one would see what a "dork" he looked like. The worst part about it is that he has Freshman photos to take in two weeks.

Oh yeah, I felt like sludge.

So tomorrow we're going to get him another haircut. Shorter, but stylish. One that has room to grow back out to the shag cut he had before. And we'll pray really hard that it looks really good.

Because I really would like for my son to like me again.

300 Is Only A Very Large Number

I have an awesome responsibility today.

I've actually been putting it off for a while, because really, I just don't know if I'm up to it.

I mean, when one reaches their 300th POST, great and powerful words are supposed to come flowing from the keyboard in celebration, with inspiration, edification, and just some plain good ol' humorfication thrown in for good measure.

Me? I got nuthin'.

And I'm not about to do one of those "300 Things You Wish You Didn't Have To Read That You Didn't Know About Me And Didn't Really Care About To Begin With" posts. For one thing, there aren't that many things to tell about me without repeating about 257 of them, and (B), it's 12:28 a.m. in the MORNING for goodness sake. I'd be up all night long doing one of those things, wasting perfectly good sleeping time.

So? Get real.

I suppose I could post 300 photos of my grandchildren, that is IF I was a GOOD grandmother and actually HAD 300 photos of my grandchildren. Which I don't. Because, hello? They live with their parents. And when they're here, they RUN. Or crawl. Or I'm holding them. Or wiping them up or changing their diapers or feeding them or playing with them or answering the question "Why?" over and over and over again, so really? Who has time to take pictures?

So.

I could post one photo showing the at least 300 gray hairs I haven't had a chance to color yet that keep popping up in my perfectly good brown hair, but there again? Ain't gonna happen. My roots are private, TYVM. At least the gray ones.

Or.

I could give you 300 reasons I love my family, my job, my church, my God, my home, food, and any number of other things. Or I could give you 300 reasons I don't love my weight, the way I keep house, the economy, politics, mean people, bills, and the fact that there is not an ever-flowing fountain of Starbucks nonfat iced mocha w/whipped coming from a faucet in my house.

Seeing as none of the above is going to happen, I have decided to celebrate in my own way. And my own way is to make a simple request. Should you happen to happen upon this post, please de-lurk yourself and leave a comment, no matter how small, letting me know where you're from.

That's all.

Humor me, please. I only turn 300 once.

Whining About The Wine

I think I've mentioned before that I'm enamoured of a certain beverage by the name of Sangria.

Yup.

That and the Japanese plum wine are about the only fermented-type beverages I enjoy. And I don't do those very often because of the fact that some chemical in the red wine tends to set off the migraine switch if I drink too much too often.

So.

I was at the grocery store the other day and just happened to be in the liquor department minding my own business, when I saw a sight that took me back thirty-some-odd years. It was a bottle of Boone's Farm Sangria.

Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill. The wine that tasted like soda pop. How well I remember that from my high school days! Not that *I* ever drank any, of course. Because, of course, I was under age. But I remember stories of OTHER people drinking it. Of course.

Ahem.

So when I saw the bottle of Boone's Farm Sangria in the store for the bargain price of $2.94 I knew I had to get it. After all, it had to be quality stuff, right? I mean, all the kids in high school thought so, and if they recommended it there could be no doubt it was a good brand, right?

Wrong. Oh, so very please-get-me-a-bucket-so-I-can-spit-this-stuff-out-RIGHT-NOW wrong.

It is obvious that I was a teenager of discerning taste. Just not in the area of wine.

You just can't get a good $2.94 wine anymore these days.

What is this world coming to?