https://positivelyappealing.wordpress.com/2017/08/01/themed-tongue-twisters-for-august/
Check this out— It’s a challenge where you write a tongue-twister using a specific prompt.
Click the above link to get the details.
The prompt for the month of August is ‘cooking/baking’.
Here’s what I came up with:
Old Mom (looking very serious -like she was about to teach her young teen a lesson in life): Jill what is the largest denomination of money?
Young Teen (looking concerned): uhhhh?… $100.00 (looking like -duuuhhhh)
Old Mom (looking a bit disappointed): I didn’t learn that until I was grown- probably about 10 years ago. I actually thought there were five hundred dollar bills and thousand dollar bills.
Young Teen (looking concerned): Mom this isn’t Monopoly
I saw a post earlier this evening in which Christine over at I’m Sick and So Are You talked about people who live in clean houses. Her post brought some things to mind and in my usual humorous and always sarcastic manner I decided to share my thoughts about this subject so here goes:
My house is now, and always will be, clean enough to be healthy but dirty enough to be happy! It will also always be full of love and laughter… It’s not just our living space it’s “Our Lived-in Place”. It’s where we go at the end of the day to hang out together, where putting your feet on the couch is cool and so is eating dinner in the den. The floors are clean enough to walk on — heck that’s what they’re there for right? The walls are painted with semi-gloss paint that can quite easily be wiped clean; after all, how long can little hands resist the urge to touch shiny surfaces? Beds are made at random which is great because they double as trampolines at night and in the cold winter months when playing outside is a no no. The bathrooms? Oh, they are kept spotless…well maybe not spotless, but definitely clean… ok, ok… maybe just tidy, but definitely germ free. As for the kitchen, I don’t allow bags of any type in the fridge and more than 3 takeout boxes in there at the same time is strictly prohibited. Dirty dishes are never left over night… Of the few things not allowed in our place, night crawlers top the list.
Moral of this story: if you’re ever in the neighborhood stop by. Don’t worry about taking your shoes off cause we don’t eat off the floor. If you can’t deal with the idea of eating in the den (off of clean plates… maybe paper, but definitely clean), you may want to go into the kitchen. If you happen to bring your own food and need to refrigerate it be sure and remove any bags first and if there are already three go boxes in the fridge yours will have to wait in line for the next available opportunity. Oh, and we have napkins so please don’t mess up the smeared spaghetti or the pudding that you’ll find throughout the house all over the walls. Also, napping could be hazardous to your health if either of the girls are in a jumping mood (warning: the smallest one often uses my body as an elevated surface to dive from so beware). And lastly, if you sprinkle when you tinkle, please… you know the rest.
Thanks for stopping by ———-
2 a.m. feeding
It’s 2 a.m. and she’s wide awake.
These days it doesn’t take much to wake her, but it takes a whole lot to get her back down. It seems that not too long ago, she slept more and tossed and turned less. When and why did the pendulum swing? Even gone are the nights when she drifts off peacefully and wakes in the mornings all bright eyed and eager to go. Is this all happening because she’s getting older? But what’s age or aging got to do with it? Sleep is not reserved for newborns nor is it old person- only specific. Maybe she’s afraid she’ll miss something. But what could she miss at this late hour? The sound the air freshener dispenser makes as it’s battery slowly dies leaving it to dispense sporadically rather than regularly? Or the sound the a/c unit makes as it kicks off and on throughout the night trying to beat the hot and humid summer nights? Since neither of those sound likely, it’s got to be something else…
Surely she can’t be awake listening for the sweet, melodic sounds of her babies resting peacefully in bed beside her…
…. oh, but yes, she can. Her sound slumber is forever a thing of the past. She hears, feels and senses all movements – no matter how slight. Try as she might, her sandman manages to stay just out of reach for hours once she wakes. They are there- within her reach – her breath, her wind, her lifelines… the food to her soul.
Thank you for my 2 a.m. feeding Baby Jesus.
The moment I opened my eyes I felt that urge. It was the same urge I’d felt last night, standing like a hidden object in the shadows of my mind. For more than a month, my mind had been plagued with its ever so present being. I couldn’t shake it nor would I force myself to face it. Opening and closing my eyes, I put forth a valiant effort to send it back into the recesses of my subconscious. To my dismay, this seemed to cause an increase in the intensity making it apparent that it was more determined than ever to be fulfilled. Wait, could an urge be “determined” or was I overthinking this? Was I taking this yearning and giving it life or did it already have a life and existence of its own? I was certain that at the very least it had an existence and a very powerful one. Lately, I’d had so many middle of the night awakenings that I was beginning to see dark circles under my eyes. My excessive pride and the floor to ceiling mirrored walls in my bedroom told me that I had to find a way to satisfy this urge without completely giving in to it.
I had to work fast, and my proclivity to lose myself in puzzles and riddles, paired with my extreme delight in doing so, would certainly come in handy as I faced this daunting task. I would have solicited the assistance of one of my roommates, but I feared neither of them would have the patience nor the courage to do so. I was undoubtedly about to delve into something bigger than my roomies and I combined. That thought alone shook me to my core, which was a completely new sensation to and for me. Fear had never been an emotion I allowed myself to submit to.
I inhaled long and deep – allowing my lungs to inflate to full capacity. As I exhaled, I closed my eyes and felt my mind coming to rest at a blank, black wall. My breathing became slow and rhythmic, as if keeping time with the seconds that ticked away loudly on my wrist. I stood motionless. I gradually opened my eyes and surveyed my surroundings, and I let my eyes adjust to the light. As the room came into focus, I spotted it… that tall, slender double decker that taunted me in my dreams.
There was no more holding back. I’d fought as long and hard as the next person. There was no question as to whether or not I would give in- the real question was, to what degree?
As I pondered, I found myself reaching out-
Before I could stop myself, I’d opened the door, removed the box and cut a huge hunk right out of the center of that decadent chocolate cheesecake.
I didn’t eat it right out of the pan, so I didn’t completely give in —
Second Issue: Why, just why, are elevators placed at the top of really high places (like parking garages) only to have “OUT OF ORDER” signs posted on them? And why on earth would anyone think that a damn arrow pointing in the direction of a flight of stairs would be of any consequence at that moment? The only “flight” people are interested in at this stage in the game is the one they’re about to miss. Could I blame this too on Expedia? Not fair… let’s place blame where blame is due. The same smart ass who has the prestigious position of riding around on that damn golf cart counting open parking spaces and putting that on the scroll bar at the foot of the garage could have added “you’ll have to walk a country mile while carrying your luggage, pushing a baby in a stroller and following a chain smoker to get to a working elevator if you park at the top”. How hard is that?
Note to self- contact Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport (MSY) ref: no warning signs about warning signs, directional arrows or chain smokers (with hacking coughs) that would be encountered if traveling on Friday, July 21, 2017, at 6:10 a.m.
We finally made it into the airport, after very likely contracting some type of incurable airborne smoker’s disease. We checked-in, checked our bags, got our boarding passes and headed to security- with a few minutes to spare.
Tori, Jill and I jumped out of bed, got dressed, packed the car and headed off to the airport. Yep, we were finally going to see “our Rayne” who lives in Astoria, New York.
Issue Number 1: Who would have thought the New Orleans airport parking would be overcrowded on the only day of the year that we decided to fly? Looks like Expedia would have had red flags flashing and blinking all over their site the day I made the reservations.
Note to self- contact Expedia ref: no red warning signs about the horrendous parking situation that would occur on Friday, July 21, 2017, at 6:00 a.m.
Even though there were signs posting which levels had open spaces, Tori and I were a bit confused, so we wound up going round and round and round – following some other lost soul until we could see daylight. No, I hadn’t planned to park in the uncovered section of the covered parking garage, but we had to catch a flight – so whatever!
Several months ago my R registered to compete in a “Tough Mudder” event. She asked me to join her but I declined. Well, this past weekend Baby T and Baby L and I flew into NY to attend the run and to cheer R on. Shortly after arriving at the venue we were informed that it was a 10 mile run with 20 obstacles. Although R and most of her friends/teammates were nervous they ran, climbed, jumped, splashed and crawled their way through every mile and, much to my surprise, through every obstacle. I have never been so proud in my life. I am the runner, jumper, climber in our family. R has never participated in anything that even resembled a run through mud. She and her sisters have always been my pride and joy and once again she has amazed me with her effort, her enthusiasm and her perseverance.
I’ve worn a Kevlar Vest for so many years I’ve lost count. I still remember the first time I put one on. The person holding the tape measure was far more comfortable than I. I was as nervous wreck. I’d never felt the need to wear one before, mine had been a straight forward, by the book kind of life. Yes, there were some days that were more trying than others, but I’d always been in total control of any and all situations. I always played close to the edge, but never intentionally and never with any conscious desire to cross it.
On that day, so, so, many years ago I found myself in unfamiliar territory. Was I sure I could handle this? I mean, this was a responsibility that I was sure many dreamed of, but few indulged in. An elite crowd, a closed group… the chosen few… but if they were chosen, who was doing the choosing? From where I stood, it wasn’t a choice, there were no check yes or no boxes. No matter how long or how hard you danced around it, knowingly or unknowingly, and no matter who the dance instructor was, you would eventually trip and stumble, and fate would be standing in the shadows waiting to catch you when you fell.
Little did I realize, measuring me was a mere formality. My vest was ready long before I arrived at this day. The maker, not the measurer, knew me. The maker also knew the challenges I would face once I accepted that unwritten invitation, the one that had been stamped on my heart since the moment I was conceived. They would be more than I could handle alone— and that would never be allowed.
Things are not going as well as expected with the little girl and her family. An anonymous source tells us that the little girl’s grand-godmother and her four-legged son were spotted leaving the house earlier today. The source went on to say that he overheard the grand-godmother say “baby, you’re too smart to continually potty on yourself like that”. She then closed the door behind her and walked away laughing and shaking her head.
Silly News 3 contacted the grand-godmother and her son at their residence, and although they refused to comment on the matter, they provided these photos of the little girl’s treasure box.
Dear Younger Self,
I feel that it is my obligation, as your senior, to fill you in on a few things. I intend to speak in such a way that you should have no problem comprehending; however, in an effort to eliminate any misunderstanding, I will also use colloquialism most familiar to you.
I am in charge now and I will be sure and remain apprised of all important issues, including but not limited to, annual dental exams. (I run this. I’m the shot caller and you can trust and believe I’m gone stay woke on everything I need to, including keeping my grill tight). In the event that I go out, I will decide when I am to return home and I will not party until the wee hours of the morning. (I bail when I say so and I won’t be turnt when the lights come on.) As a responsible adult, I return all phone calls promptly, I socialize with people in my age group and I dress and behave accordingly. (I’m grown. I hit ‘em back on the celly when I can, I hang with my squad, my gear is always on fleek and I slay every time I hit these streets). Please understand that I enjoy a low key and private style of life where I make every effort to mind my own business. (I’m basic, not boujee at all, and I always stay in my lane). In the run of a day, I make no effort to belittle others – I’m not overbearing, loud or outwardly aggressive, and I never go to the extreme. (I don’t throw shade and I’m never extra.)
Also, I can honestly say that although I drink, I do not have my deceased father’s penchant for libations. (Ion stay lit). My dear younger self, through this letter, you should gain comfort in knowing that I am perfectly fine with where I am. You, on the other hand, are out of control. (Look bae, this letter should give you life. By the way you know you have zero chill, right?) So now, without further ado, I would greatly appreciate it if you would sit quietly in the memories of my subconscious and allow me to take it from here. (now that’s a wrap, bye Felecia!)
Yours Truly,
(Deuces,)
Your Older Self
Runaway Nuns and Leprechauns 