Hell's Broke Loose in Texas

Well it’s been a while since I plopped my butt down in front of this old computer and by old, I’m pretty sure this one was one of Bill Gate’s prototypes he used in his garage. Anyway, the main reason I haven’t been working my sweaty little fingers over the keyboard, and the key-word here is sweaty, is because it’s been TOO DAMN HOT. It’s too hot to trot and too hot to type.




You know when the weather people say, “Today’s high is 101 but it feels like it’s a 108?” What the heck is that about? And what good is that anyway? Do they want to make us feel worse or hotter than we’re already feeling? Like 101 wasn’t hot enough? Give me a break…or at least give me a cold beer.

I’m sure it’s cause that dip-stick weather man we have on our local TV station is bored and feeling a bit neglected since there aren’t any “wicked winds” blowing or it’s not “raining cats and dogs” so he likes to goose us with the heat index to feel more important. If this wasn’t the Bible belt, he could just say, “Ladies and Gentlemen: It’s hotter than Hell today,” and we’d have an idea of what he means. Hell can’t be any hotter than Texas.

 Then I got to thinking. I would like to see Dip-Stick Dan, the weather-guy slither on down to hell and give his weather report from there. Ever time he used that, “The temperature this afternoon is a fiery 532 degrees here in hell but it feels like a miserable, evil 666,” the devil would poke him in the backside with a pitchfork and put a shovel of brimstone down his pants. Now that would be a heat-index worth watching.

If I was lying on some Caribbean beach sipping a pina-colada, I couldn’t care less how hot it was, but I’m not. I’m landlocked in Big Thicket with an AC that is on its last breath and my sweat glands are the hardest working organ in my body.

Okay, the sweat is starting to run into the keyboard and I feel a cold margarita calling from the kitchen. Maybe I’ll just stand in front of the refrigerator with the door open while I drink and hope for brain freeze.

Stay cool and let’s dream of snowflakes, snow cones, snow men, and a long winter.

Happy Independence Day!

Image via Wikipedia

Since fireworks have been banned in the state of Texas we are all going to have to do our part to celebrate without them.   

Fourth of July and fireworks always bring to mind my slutty sister, IdaHo – the best bang in town, but that's another kind of celebration.

Here are a few ideas to get you started or my big bang theory of how to celebrate without gunpowder.

Ø      Shoot off your mouth

Ø      Pop off about things you know nothing about

Ø      Wear all your sparkler jewelry at one time (Ahem, I won’t be wearing that cubic zirconium number I received from my ex.  He told me it was real. Well, he told me a lot of things, but I digress.  Now we know why he is my ex.)

Ø      The only permissible bottle rocket is the firewater in your beer bottle or pop-a-top on enough beers that you no longer care what day it is.

Fireworks have been banned.  It’s too hot for a parade or a picnic.

I am going to celebrate my independence by parading around in my underwear until I plop my lily white derriere into a bathtub full of ice cubes, Drink an All-American Red Strawberry Margarita till I turn blue!

Happy Independence Day!

Hugs,

Sum Sum Summertime Sucks Already

Sum sum sum summertime.  It ain’t officially summertime here until the 21th of June but I am already ready for sum sum sum relief.

I live in Big Thicket, which should be called Big Skillet where we fry up our eggs on the sidewalk from late May until October.   Why?  Just because we can.

 Now I don’t want to sound bitchy but I am.  If you have little delicate sensibilities, you might want to skip this post.

Summer time is supposed to be slow and carefree; a time when you pull off your shoes and dangle your shapely ankles in the clear water of the lake or your backyard pool.  You sip lemonade that appears mysteriously out of nowhere and smile sweetly from under your straw hat.

That is not how it is coming down here at my house.  I’m slow moving, sure, but carefree packed its suitcases and moved to Canada without so much as a kiss goodbye.  My shapely ankles are swollen to water balloon size by lunchtime when the lemonade and sandwich fairy should deliver the goods, but evidently she has moved on as well. 

I know I should be grateful.  I have a roof over my head.  There are terrible disasters everywhere, but I am just a hot self-centered woman trying to escape ridiculously high energy bills and I am not running my air conditioner and that very fact is running my life.

Sweaty Hugs,

Ida Clare

From the “What were you thinking department?” or “So this is how you tweet your wiener, Mr Weiner?”

Anthony Weiner’s wiener is, in fact, the wiener in the wiener picture of the Weiner scandal.  Weiner gate is alive and well in Washington. 

Once the cell phone was invented that could take a photo, a phenomenon began to occur.  Women from the get go, started taking photos of their kids, their friends, the food they are about to have for dinner, their engagement rings, rugs that might match the furniture in the den, art they might want to buy, flowers, puppies, kittens, shoes their best friend needs to buy to match the dress she is wearing to her daughter’s wedding, rock stars at concerts, celebrities at charity events, their neighbor’s horrible yard ornaments, copies of valuable documents, t-ball and soccer games, a beautiful sunset, the kid’s recital, the tomatoes growing in the garden, and events like weddings, graduation, and family reunions.

Men take photos of their wieners..

Anthony (Mr. Bulgy Underpants) Weiner, you have nothing more important to do as a United States Congressman than to be the focus of your own photo session?  Are you smarter than a fifth grader?  Get the hell out of the House of Representatives and go to your house and tweet your wiener all day long if you want to, but not on company time.

Hugs,
Ida Clare

The Rapture Revisited

I know that millions of dollars and millions of words have been spent on last weeks rapture that wasn’t, but I’m not quiet finished with my two cents.

I have had lots of dates in my time and been stood up my fair share, but really…stood up by Jesus?

That goober, Harold Camping being Jesus’ self-appointed spokes man really had my hopes up that some of the most self-righteous people I know where going to go off to their just reward and leave the sinners like me the hell alone.

I’ve got this neighbor who professes to have the inside scoop similar to Brother Camping, and she has zeroed in on me since I am new to the neighborhood.  She spent the good part of an hour hinting around that I was going to be left behind if I didn’t change my wicked ways.

Sister Holy-Roller just assumed that she and I were on the same page of the Bible.  Her page reads like a punishing judgmental critique of the human race not the page that is more about love and acceptance and forgiveness. 

I tried to remember my manners.  She was, after all in my house, drinking my iced tea when she asked me if I was saved.  I told her that I was saved from bankruptcy, a lying husband and jail time when this house appeared out of nowhere and she was free to interpret that any she wanted. 

What I really wanted to say was, “Obviously, I have not been saved from nosy neighbors like you,” but I refrained. 

I’m ever more hopeful that Harold Camping had his wires crossed last weekend and his October re-launch date will beam Sister Holy Roller up to Jesus’ Stairway to Heaven on the twenty-first.

Please Jesus, don’t be a no-show.

Hugs,

Truth In Advertising

Maybe it's just me, but in my forty some odd years on the planet  I have heard many more lies than I have truths. I have had husbands lie to me, supposed good friends, the clergy, politicians, teachers, elders, family members and assorted other acquaintances. Hey I would be lying if I said I never told a lie.

Sorry George, but I didn't believe you either.

or that other George, but that's pretty much a given.


I know that it takes a certain amount of lying to navigate this world.  Little white lies as they are called, are mandatory if you actually want to have any sort of social life. So we cruise along on this journey, mixing just enough of the truth so we can feel good about ourselves and telling a little white one here and there to make our friends feel good about themselves.

What brought about this discussion of truth telling is a video that I came across. It's refreshing...Drink Up...  

Hugs and Kisses Ya'll

Squirrely In Big Thicket

It’s a great day in the neighborhood here in Big Thicket.  No gunfire and the head of the Humidity dept must have taken the day off so I have spent most of the morning simply gazing out the window.  I find it much more entertaining than gazing at the TV.

Right after I first moved here, I took an old bird cage and turned it into a bird feeder.  I just took the door off and hung it right outside the window of my office where I sit and peck at the keyboard while I watch the birds peck at their food and each other.

 Today the birds had a visitor show up for a place at the table. Rocky (isn’t that what you call all squirrels), decided he would break bread with his fellow neighbors.  I didn’t see Bullwinkle lurking around but he would have had a field day chewing on my un-mowed yard.

 When Rocky’s little brother showed up, the birds decided they would grab a bite somewhere else and left the pickings to Rocky and his friend.

After a while Rocky told his buddy to take a hike and he ate until his heart was content and his little tummy was full.

He gave me one last look and said he needed to go check his nuts.  I do have a number of pecan trees in the yard, so I’m assuming he was referring to a stash somewhere.

Well that’s my story and we have come to the end.

 The moral of this story is that some days you feel like a nut and some days you feel like bird seed.

Hugs,