There’s A Song About It
Summer really isn’t my bag.
I don’t like being hot, July always makes me a bit crabby due to the sweat factor and I have to shave my legs so much that they itch because I like wearing shorts. No one wants to see a soul patch on anyone’s ankles, I assure you.
With the addition of being one of the gainfully unemployed in an area that has zero jobs up for the taking, I’ve been a bit bored and detached from the real world this week. Yesterday, I just turned my phone off because, quite frankly, I didn’t have much to say.
I was found eventually (I need to learn how to hide better) and was told if I didn’t get my ample butt out of the house, there was going to be trouble. Yes, people, my friends take absolutely no crap from me. So Mabel and I headed out for a bit.
I have sort of been a bit under the weather emotionally so it probably was a good idea.
I ended running into Mr. Joe, Dirk Diggler and his son, Dirk Diggler Jr. who will have another name as soon as I can come up with one. (It was discovered that Mr. Joe’s dog was named Black Dog. The mystery has been solved by one of the members of the Scooby Doo gang that I hang with named KK.)
The conversation headed into old country music with the Digglers and our appreciation of older country music stars. Dirk Jr., I discovered, is a huge fan of Conway Twitty and John Conlee. Dirk Sr. likes Vern Gosdin and I, of course, love a little bit of everything from the Beastie Boys to Willie Nelson and I might have to cut you if you ever diss Don Williams’ song “Good Ole Boys Like Me” because that song is great.
Dirk Jr., is really a delightful kid although he’s about a 20 foot tall college dude. He’s like his dad to a large degree because they can both weave a great tale. As you know, I’m fond of listening to people tell stories.
Mabel was busy following folks into the bathroom as the door tends to remain open which amused me to no end. I guess she was campaigning in there where potential voters couldn’t escape her gubernatorial rhetoric. One never knows.
It’s always funny to me that at the Fellowship of the Church of the Bar, that music is a great way to learn about folks and it binds us together. When we find a singer or music that impacts us, I guess we are telling our story through the songs we discuss. If you suffered heartbreak, there is a song that will explain how you feel if you don’t know how to express it. Feel like telling the world to go screw itself, well there is a song out there for you to do that as well.
You get my drift.
And it’s the music of our past that sort of defines who we are now which includes myself.
Anyway, here is a picture of Zombie Mabel because there appears to be something very evil going on with her eyes as she is trying to get votes in these early days of July, which I also like to call hellfire and sweat month.
Another fine pic for my Mable collection.
That’s the kind of Governor I want in Nashvegas.
Look at that tenacity. That’s one of those “don’t give me no shit because I don’t take any” looks I love to see on a leader’s mug.
Mable Mable Mable!!!!
There’s a lot I can’t do anything about, but the shaving itch? Maybe. For me the best part of shaving my face is slathering it with aloe after (pure gel, not those lotions that have a teensy bit of aloe). Aaaah.
Coma,
I hate shaving and I am a dead ringer for Sasquatch from the knees down. I cannot recommend olive oil enough! Generously oil your legs from stem to stern the night before you shave and then very lightly after. Buy the Kroger brand, it is usually cheap enough. Extra Virgin,of course… cheap thrill there, eh? Seriously, though, your skin will thank you for such a nutritious treat.
Well, hello fuzzy. Thank you, just thankyewverymuch. I now have to clean my monitor AND my desk because I was happily sipping some Diet Dr. Pepper when I read “…soul patch on anyone’s ankles…” and I proceeded to spew out everything in my mouth with raucous laughter. Sheesh.
However, I commiserate. I’ve never been a happy sweat-er in the heat nor have I been someone who likes to humidify completely with a layer of condensation just walking to the mailbox and back. I like to save my moisture times for…er… nebbermind. You can’t get naked enough to be cool and still legal on Main Street.
But…I will say that as I’m aging, cold doesn’t suit me either. Wait…I’m sensing a trend. Nothing suits me. Does that mean *GASP* I’m turning into a cranky old heifer? Don’t like hot and don’t like cold? Sigh.
Fine, fine. Don’t mind me. I’ll be sitting in the corner contemplating soul patches on other parts of my legs–just below the knee, maybe on the top of a foot–and griping, “Just who do I have to sleep with to get a refill on my Diet Dr. Pepper? And do I have to shave my legs completely?”
Bring me Mabel. I will pet her just behind the ears and shine her eyes in anyone’s direction to intimidate them. She’ll match up fine with my car–a Mercury Sable that I named Mable. Yeah, spelling’s wrong but there’s only so much poetic license I can work with here.