Pep Talk from Kid President

Thanks Kid President.  I needed that!

Hugs,

Sheeeeeee's Back!

I declare, I was tempted to lie to you, Dear Reader.

“You, Ida?  We’d find that hard to believe.”

Well, can you believe there hasn’t been a blog post since the heat wave of 2011 killed the ambitions of thousands of bloggers in Bloglandia?

“Oh, we hadn’t noticed.”

I’ll ignore that last comment. 

What you might have said is, “Where have you been, Darling Ida, and what has kept you away so long?  We’ve missed you.”

“Then we would be tempted to lie; but, let’s hear your lame excuse anyway.”
 
Look, I’ve been making up excuses since I told my mother that the daily bubble gum stuck on the bed post was put there nightly by the tooth fairy who was only practicing dental hygiene.  It is tempting to make up some long-winded heartfelt reason why I haven’t been front and center on the little bloggie, but you’ve heard them all before:

The EXCUSE: I gave birth to twins.  

The TRUTH: I drink twin margaritas every day about the time I get the urge to write something.



 

Wanna play doctor?

The EXCUSE : I ran off with Leo Di Caprio George Clooney.  

The TRUTH:  I’ve been watching old reruns of ER.

The EXCUSE : I’ve been sick.  The TRUTH:  I’ve been sick of blogging.

The same mother that told me that the tooth fairy didn’t chew gum accused me of “lying when the truth would serve me better,” but the truth was if I didn’t get rid of that bubble gum before I fell asleep, it wound up embedded in my unruly hair and if rubbing it with peanut butter didn’t get it out, the scissors would. 

I had dreams of being Rapunzel one day.  Alas the more my hair grew, the tighter it curled.  Eventually, I resorted to wearing a tattered sheet torn in strips that flowed Rapunzel-like down my back secured by two bobby pins; not rooted strong enough for any Prince Charming to grab hold.

So Dear Reader, I will not insult you with lame excuses; I’m back.  If what I write here gets stuck somewhere you don’t want it to, just remember the peanut butter.

Hugs, 

Put A Little Happy In Your Life

Hey Everyone,

If you been feeling a little down because of the heat, the lack of rain, the economy, creepy politicians in Washington or the state of your personal finances, here is video that will pick you up and make you smile.

Enjoy.
xoxo, Ida Clare

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