Tag Archives: relationships

The Spotlight’s On You! Vol 1:7

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As part of “2013 Means Bigger Better Things”, I promised to showcase a blog posting from one reader every week.  (And I broke that promise because I’m working on my book which will be released soon.  But let’s get back on track.)

Here’s how YOU can be featured:

  • Subscribe to my blog
  • Follow @MamaBreadBaker on Twitter
  • Like Mama Bread Baker on Facebook
  • Leave a comment on any of my blog postings

Spotlight

The blog I chose for this week was posted by Opinionated Man over at Harsh Reality where the tag line reads “My goal with this blog is to offend everyone in the world at least once with my words…so no one has a reason to have a heightened sense of themselves.  We are all ignorant, we are all found wanting, we are all bad people sometimes.”

The blog I chose is titled “Women are Crazy.”  I was drawn to the title because, well let’s just be honest here, if you’ve read my blog you know I chose this title because I AM crazy.  Enjoy the read!  

Women are Crazy (The way to lose your female readers)

This is not a relationship blog, but occasionally I will write about and share some revolutionary facts that I discover in my life. Here is one fact that I would love to write about (but not discuss) women are crazy. I would go so far as to say “most” women are crazy and the funny part is they make sense to each other. That really is the kicker, because women can understand the craziness in one another, they then do not consider themselves crazy. Impeccable logic to be sure, it is hard to debate evidence so sound.

Women pick arguments on purpose. The only time men pick arguments on purpose is if we do not like someone, we are drunk, there is a Raider’s fan in the room, or we decide to act macho in front of our woman. Men do not often argue just to argue, do you know why ladies? We are lazy and it is hard to watch Sportscenter AND drink a beer while you argue.  Click here to continue reading…

Everything You Didn’t Know About Me Before and Wish You Didn’t Know Now

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I love games.  Board games, baseball games, bedroom games, and blogging games.  I like the letter “B” too.  Kind of reminds me of my body shape if you look at me from the side.  I’m still struggling with that whole BMI thing.  (That’s shorthand for “Body Marshmallow Index” for those not up on the medical terminology.”

Anyway, my favorite Fifty Four And A Half friend, Elyse, tagged me for this game.

The Rules:

1. Post these rules. (CHECK)
2. Post a photo of yourself and eleven random facts about you. (CHECK)
3. Answer the questions given to you in the tagger’s post.  (CHECK)
4. Create eleven new questions and tag new people to answer them. (CHECK)
5. Go to their blog/twitter and let them know they have been tagged. (Be there shortly)

Here’s a picture when I was having a really good day.  You don’t want to see what I look like on days the Crumbsnatchers are driving me insane.

Mama Bread Baker

Now for the eleven facts you didn’t know before and will soon wish you didn’t know now.

  1. I have a huge writer’s crush on author Graham Brown.
  2. I haven’t read any of Graham Brown’s books…yet.
  3. I once stared at Graham Brown for an entire hour at the Killer Nashville Conference.
  4. I was sad to see The Oprah Show end because my dream of sitting on her couch talking about my best-selling novel died with her show.
  5. I was happy to learn Oprah owns her own television network, reviving my dream of sitting on her couch talking about my best-selling novel…maybe with Graham Brown?
  6. I’ll probably suggest “Graham” as a suitable name for my future grandchildren…both male and female.
  7. I occasionally eat graham crackers even though I’m gluten-intolerant.
  8. I use a brown font at my other blog – www.Highway310.com.
  9. Chief Money Maker has banned Teddy Graham’s from our house because I talk to them and pretend they are Graham Brown.
  10.  I follow Graham Brown on Facebook but I’m too shy to “talk” to him.
  11. Chief Money Maker hates Graham Brown.

Here are my answers to Elyse’s questions.

Were you closer to Mom or Dad (if you were spawned by aliens, please explain)  I believe I was standing closer to Mom when the gunshots were fired.  Oh wait…you meant emotionally.  Ummmm, probably Dad since Mom was the one shooting the gun.

There are moments in history that everyone alive at that time remember (for me it was the Kennedy assassination).  What was your first?  Hands down, the first time I licked the creamy center of an Oreo.  I’m sorry, I misunderstood again.  I thought you asked what my first memory was.  So…a moment in history after 1968 that everyone alive at the time remembers.  Hands down, that would have been 1974 when Oreo’s Double Stuff was introduced.

Favorite pet ever  What a timely question.  The Siamese Fighting Fish I got yesterday is my favorite pet ever.  He let me sleep in this morning! 

Funniest quote  “I can’t help but wonder if I’d drowned the crumbsnatchers at birth if I’d be out of prison by now.” – Mama Bread Baker

Best insult you ever delivered and why the recipient deserved it.  “You’re ugly and your Mama dresses you funny,” said to the grout cleaner per instructions to agitate.  It didn’t work very well.

First memory  Obviously that gunshot thing I mentioned in the first question.

What do you dislike most about blogging?  Probably the word “blogging.”  Couldn’t they have come up with something more appealing like “ego-stroking,” or “random strings of words put together after two and half bottles of wine”?

Do your friends/family members read your blog?  Just when they want to eat.  The pantry lock code won’t open unless a blog post is read first.

How would you be using your time right now if you weren’t answering my stupid questions  Easiest one yet…answering the Crumbsnatchers stupid questions.

Your dream job.  Professional wine Judge.

What you expect to be reincarnated as in your next life?  Professional wine Judge.

Eleven Questions My Blogging Friends Will Most Likely Ignore

  1. Do you have a crush on Graham Brown?
  2. Would you go on the Dr. Phil show to discuss an embarrassing family matter?
  3. Do you get the whole Twitter thing?
  4. How often do you Google yourself?
  5. Have you ever gone to jail?  (Please don’t reveal felonies here.  I don’t want to know you that well!)
  6. How often do you look at your crumbsnatchers (or any family member) and wonder if they were somehow switched at birth?
  7. What would you do if you found hordes of cash tucked in coffee cans of an old home you just purchased?
  8. Are you flat-footed?
  9. What’s your Body Marshmallow Index?
  10. Would you tell your best friend you saw his/her mother in a clandestine setting with someone other than his/her father?
  11. How many exercise videos do you own?

Now I’m tagging these folks.  Feel free to play along, but if you don’t it’s okay, because then I think I win although I’m not sure how the winner is determined in this game!

Liz from The Flip Side

Cathy from 5 Minutes for the Frazzled Mom

Karla from Telega Tales

Christie from Outlaw Mama

Ben from Ben’s Bitter Blog

 

 

Chief Money Maker’s Response to Post Valentine’s Day Analysis

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I knew when I gave Chief Money Maker his post Valentine’s Day analysis, he would have to respond.  He always has to get the last word when I give him the opportunity to speak…or in this case, write.  I’ve included the original Commandments to which he is responding, but you can click here to read the entire letter.

Dear Mama Bread Baker,

While we had a wonderful Valentines Day this 2013 year, I was almost enlightened by your posting last week.  Upon deep personal reflection, I would like to share what I learned on that wonderful day which is forever etched in my memory as “VD 2013.”  

Anthropomorphic Valentine, circa 1950–1960

Still Crazy About You! (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

5 Valentine’s Day Shalt Not’s

Thou Shalt Not greet your bride, early in the morning, wearing a sparkly red Speedo while shouting “Happy VD Day, Honey!”

My Dearest Valentine, I must admit that a potbelly belongs on a wood burning stove, not a middle-aged man wearing a sparkly red Speedo!  For this, I must deeply apologize for any future nightmares you experience! I will also gladly fund your psychiatrist, or the number of cases of wine it will require, to erase that vision from your memory!  Hypnosis is also an option.

Thou Shalt Not claim the full glass of wine as yours, when your bride says it’s hers.

Yes Snookums, upon reading our marriage certificate’s fine print, I found the marital eminent domain section designating bride’s right to claim husband’s glass of wine any time she desires (Note to self:  Always ensure a spare bottle of wine is readily available when my bride’s wine glass is emptied misplaced, or any other time my bride deems it necessary to confiscate my glass).  

Thou Shalt Not refuse your bride’s offer of hot gummy lips –the candy you weirdo’s—by saying your recently pulled tooth makes it difficult to chew.

Sweetie, besides being the weirdo you married, I cannot refuse your Hot Lips!  I confess that it was not the candy that I desired, but a delicious kiss from the woman who has put me on a pedestal as the immortal Chief Money Maker.  *Editor’s Note:  Sucking up will do you no good! 

Thou Shalt Not tell the waiter your  wine choice was inspired by your bride while circling the air around your ear with your pointer finger no matter how funny you think it is.

Oh Sillyhead, I was not speaking to your lunacy but was simply conveying to the new waiter that I wanted “The Smoking Loon” wine.  You know that any mental instability you possess is a direct result of the Crumbsnatchers.  (Note to Self:  Hopefully she doesn’t catch on that I informed the new waiter that if he didn’t get us the wine soon, my wife’s reaction will make Charles Manson look like a choir boy).

Thou Shalt Not argue with your bride when she says the first twenty-seven holes of putt-putt were warm-up and declares herself Champion after winning the back nine.

Pumpkin, I must remember that you possess an extremely competitive nature.  It matters not that you preempted the game with a statement, “Prepare to have your butt handed to you!”.  Thankfully, this was a loving game of Putt-Putt and I was delighted to see that you enjoyed the last nine holes of the game, kind of. . . .

5 Valentine’s Day Shalt’s

Thou Shalt feel free to punch the waiter for calling your bride “fat” by asking, “And now for you, sir?” after she ordered three sushi rolls for the both of you.

My little Chunky Monkey, that poor waiter was obviously new and mentally walking through the waiter-for-dummies checklist: “Water? Drinks? Appetizers? For you ma’am? and for you Sir?” Personally, I think he wanted to get my order before I spotted the All-You-Can Eat Sushi special that night!

Thou Shalt remember to bring earplugs for your bride in the event a dear old great-great-grandmother, perhaps even one of the original Wizard of Oz flying monkeys, decides to sing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”….extremely off-key.

Oh, Lovebug, I did consider a drastic measure to help you forget about her performance, but it would have required me singing, which would resulted in the place emptying out, or all the patrons emptying their dinners onto the floor. Thus, I thought it best to remain firmly planted on my backside wishing that I could pull two pair of desired ear plugs from my pocket.

Thou Shalt support me in the future when I tell the Crumbsnatchers that I am not talking dirty after yelling, “Stop exacerbating my ill mood!” instead of calling me a “Potty Mouth” in front of them.

Unfortunately, Pooh Bear, today’s school systems are yielding a generation of kids who assume any multi-syllable word not associated with a rap singer must be a “dirty word”. Perhaps we need to take our governmental approach and dumb down our verbiage for this F-generation?  May I recommend the following response next time, “Stop pissing me off or I’ll pop a cap in your knee!”?   

Thou Shalt make mental note that, “Money’s tight, don’t worry about getting me a gift,” really means don’t worry about getting me an expensive gift.

Princess, thank you for setting me straight on this hidden meaning and I will ensure you are properly gifted next time.  This definitely resonates like the last similar guidance I received when I answered “Yes” after you asked me “Does this dress make my butt look big?” (By the way ,the knot on my head is no longer visible.)

Thou Shalt let your bride win the first twenty-seven holes of putt-putt so you don’t have to argue with her when she tells you they were warm-up while declaring herself Champion after winning the back nine.

Angel, I did try this tactic once when we were playing pool at which time it was clearly evident that I was “exacerbating” your foul mood and poor pool playing that evening.  Fortunately, none of the Crumbsnatchers were around as they would have definitely heard some “Potty Mouth” when you labelled me with a myriad of colorful names for allowing you to win. This was also the night that I hid the cast iron skillet when we got home as a precautionary measure.

Thank you for such a memorable Valentines 2013 along with a plethora lessons that I can take through our next Valentines Day. 

Love Always (except perhaps on the Putt-Putt fields)

Chief Money Maker 

OXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX 

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Adam & Eve – The First Argument

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I don’t know why I’m a perfectionist.  Possibly because I’m the first-born? Maybe because I’m a woman? It could even be a DNA type thing—that obviously didn’t mutate to my teenage crumbsnatchers.  Whatever the reason, somewhere inside lives an evil voice that is never happy with anything I do.

I sometimes wonder if Eve was a perfectionist.  Do you think conversations like this could be overheard in the Garden of Eden?

Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden

Chatting with God after dinner. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

*************************************************************

Adam (In from a hard day’s work):  Hey honey, I’m home!

Eve:  Don’t track your feet through the beach sand!  I spent all day combing it with palm leaves!

Adam (Scratching his head as he sets his briefcase down):  Are we having company?

Eve:  Adam!  I reminded you this morning before we rolled out of the lush green meadow that God was coming over for dinner tonight!

Adam:  Oh yeah.  I forgot.  That explains why you’re all stressed out.

Eve:  <through gritted teeth>  What did you say?  I’m—not—stressed.  I just want everything to be perfect when He gets here.

Adam:  We live in the Garden of Eden, honey.  I think that is the definition of perfection.  Well, except for that one apple that we can’t have.

Eve:  That’s right, Adam.  We do live in the Garden of Eden and who put us here?  Huh, huh?  Who gave us this?  Huh?

Adam:  There you go throwing that up in my face again.  You don’t think I work hard all day having dominion over all this stuff?  You don’t think that’s some pressure?  Just once I’d like to come home to a peaceful house.

Eve (crying):  sniff…sniff…It’s never enough for you.  I keep myself fit running with the cheetahs every day.  I take care of the meadow, sometimes hand-separating each flowing blade of grass.  I make sure you have fresh coconut milk waiting for you after work, and not once…well there was that time when I had a headache…do I deny you the pleasures of my body.

Adam:  Please don’t cry…you’re right honey.  I know, I know.  You are a perfect woman.  I mean, let’s be honest here.  God made me first.  I was just a test model and when He got the kinks all out, He made the beautiful, perfect woman who you are.

Eve:  Thank you for acknowledging that fact.  (Hugging Adam) And I guess it could be worse.  I could have to deal with a mother-in-law!

******************************************************

I’m sure that dinner party went well after Adam & Eve made up.  Until the next week when Eve made Apple Cobbler for desert.

I am Eve! (Not really, I’m Cheri.) I am Woman! (That parts true.)  And I make my own Garden of Eden where everything is perfectly imperfect.

© 2013 CThacker

Karma and Making Your Husband Pay

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“Whooaaaa!  What was that?” the Eldest and Sweet Pea said in unison when my knee made a loud “POP” a few nights ago.

“Just my knee.”

Sweet Pea huffed, “Oh my gosh Mom!  Why don’t you go to bed and get off your knee?”

“Yeah,” agreed The Eldest.  “You know something always happens when Chief is out of town!”

I couldn’t argue.  It’s true.  Catastrophe befalls this household every time he leaves on business.  This time, however, the catastrophe was that I didn’t go with him.

But first, some back story.  January, 2011; I’d had two bunion surgeries in four months, subsequently spending a lot of time working from home with Chief.  One day, I interrupted his incessant pen-clicking with the statement, “Geez!  Isn’t it about time that you go out of town?”

I didn’t realize the strength of my own powers.  He was gone six of the next eight weeks.  I didn’t really want him gone that long.  I’ve since learned to harness the magic.

But in the witchcraft world—which I know nothing about—I imagine that the perpetual “good vs. evil” battle organically balances itself.  That would explain the backlash of my spell; something goes horribly wrong every time Chief travels.

  • The microwave blew up like a nuclear reactor plant.
  • The air conditioning blew during record-breaking heat.
  • Emergency trip to doggie hospital.
  • I blew my knee out.

So after listening to Chief brag about Alabama’s recent umpteenth National Championship—like there wasn’t a person on this planet who didn’t know Alabama would win—I used my “abilities” to send Chief on a quick business jaunt.

Within a few days, Chief got word he was going to California.  (There’s that whole organic balancing thing again.  Yes, I wanted him to go away but not to SUNNY CALIFORNIA in the middle of freaking winter!)

But this time, because I incessantly bugged him about it, Chief found a round-trip flight to California for $301.00 for me.  “We can probably swing that,” he said.  While Sweat Pea and I were out running errands, I was mentally packing my suitcase and working up my “elevator pitch” for a book I’m writing in case I ran into an agent.

Then I got a text.  “It’s going to be too hectic.  Next time.”

Jerk.

I’ve been looking for dishes for the last two years.  I know it seems irrelevant, but stick with me.  I hadn’t been able to find any that I liked…until that day.  Standing in Kroger.  Reading Chief’s text.

$306.00 later—Booyah!  I’ve got a new set of dishes, platters, serving bowls, and place mats.  How’s that for some organic balancing?

Aren't they cute?

Aren’t they cute?

But the Universe wasn’t done messing around with me.  During his trip, Chief texted that he was having drinks at the hotel bar where he just so happened to be chatting up an independent film producer and her husband.  Are you kidding me?

When he called me later that night to insist that Karma was once again on his side, I said.  “Not so fast buddy.  That could have been ME pitching my book idea to her which she would love and, in turn, make into an independent film that would win the Sundance Award!”

Silence.

“Betcha dinner off those new dishes will taste a little different now, huh?”

Subscribe to Crumbsnatcher Tales by entering your email in the box on the right, comment on this blog posting, like it on Facebook, or Follow @MamaBreadBaker on Twitter and you will be qualified for a chance to have your blog showcased Sunday in Mama Bread Baker’s “The Spotlight’s on You!”

© 2013 CThacker

HEADLINE: Mismatched Socks Bring Teens & Parents Together

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The Weekly Crumb Snatcher Herald 

Monday October 22, 2012

My Life Section

Page 3M

Mismatched Socks Bring Teens and Parents Together

by Cheri Thacker

A Tennessee mother-daughter duo recently discovered the secret to communication between generations.  This mother, fondly called Mama Bread Baker by the hordes of teenagers that gather at her home, accidentally stumbled upon the key to eliminating teenage conflict, but admits she couldn’t have done it without the suggestion of her seventeen-year-old daughter, Sweet Pea.

“I didn’t do anything special,” Sweet Pea modestly stated when I caught up with her and her mother in their outdoor swing.  “I just told her to try it.”

Mama Bread Baker, 44, already helped two older crumb snatchers navigate their path to adulthood.  Her biggest regret is that she’d been unable to unlock this secret earlier.  “I feel so guilty.  They both tried to tell me, but it seemed too simplistic and yet, at the same time, too difficult to try.”

It’s not too late for Wolfy, also 17, and the newest household member of teenagedom, 13-year-old G-Bear.  They were scarfing a plate of warm-from-the-oven brownies when I asked their thoughts on this breakthrough.

Wolfy expressed his wishes for his father, Chief Money Maker.  “I just hope my Dad gets on board.  Life would be better all around.” G-Bear, for once, agreed with his older brother.  Mama Bread Baker wasn’t so optimistic.  “Chief isn’t one to go for all these new-fangled ideas.  He’s pretty traditional.  I think this concept is just too out there for him to accept.”

Chief Money Maker refused to comment, taking his turkey sandwich and 32 ounce Miller Genuine Draft to another room.  Before leaving he said, “It’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard and I’m not doing it!”

Psychologist Linden Ere, Ph.D. is hopeful about the discovery.  “It’s possible this phenomenon is unique to this family.  However, I wouldn’t suggest dismissing this method without further clinical studies and trials.  I’d be willing to implement with my parentally-challenged patients, and strife-ridden parent-child relationships.”

The method starts with a simple action, yet opens the floodgates of communication.  “I just didn’t know it could be this simple.  I wasn’t allowed this type of freedom, nor were my parents, or their parents.  What I’m suggesting goes against every fiber of our being all the way back to the 8th century.”

Mama Bread Baker’s experiment began one afternoon when Sweet Pea was folding laundry.  At the bottom of the basket, she randomly placed socks together regardless of color, pattern, brand, or style.  “I couldn’t believe what she was doing.  I know teenagers push the limits…but unmatched socks?”  That’s when Sweet Pea said, “Don’t knock it ‘til you try it, Mom.”

Mama admits she was right.  “It was hard not to match that first batch of socks.  Even harder to wear the first unmatched pair,” Mama Bread said.  “But once I did, my mind just opened up to all kinds of possibilities.  I was able to relate to our teen crumb snatchers on a totally different level.  It was freeing!”

Mama Bread Baker is working on her book “Mismatched Socks and Unmade Beds-The Lies We’ve Been Told for Ages.”  She stresses, “I draw the line at clean underwear, though.  Teenagers still need boundaries.”

© 2012 CThacker

Photo courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/hm-photo/4246465261/

Married With the Option of Widowhood

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When Chief Money Maker asked me to wed, I warned him widowhood was the only way out.  My stance on “til death do us part” remains firm after hearing these two dating stories from single friends.

A couple of 14-carat gold wedding rings. Pictu...

With this ring, I thee wed. I won’t divorce you, but I can kill you dead. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Let’s call the first one Natasha because it’s the closest I’ll even come to writing Russian literature, and because my friend said she’d kill me if I used her real name.  Natasha’s story could be titled, “How to Break-Up Like an Adult.” Then halfway through the story you’d have to add, “And Not Wake Up With Rug Burns.”

Natasha had been dating Vitaly—I like the Russian theme—for about ten months when the Love Goggles defogged.  She knew “The Talk” would happen soon.  She arrived at his house for a date.  Looking for a little love before they met friends, she made a move.  Vitaly slammed on the brakes and suddenly it was time for “The Talk” and a few adult beverages.

Then Natasha went from sober to Otis—that lovable drunk from the Andy Griffith show—in no time flat.  One minute they were promising to remain friends and the next she was face-down on Vitaly’s bathroom floor swearing that she was in his kitchen.  He finally conceded that all Russian kitchens have toilets.

Vitaly checked in on Natasha between the movie he watched, the cigar he smoked, and the baklava he made in the real kitchen.  Eventually, Natasha crawled from the bathroom then face-planted on a tempurpedic mattress—also called “hallway carpet” by sober people.

The next morning, Natasha and Vitaly said good-bye.  She arrived home and looked in the mirror at a mascara-smeared face and a rug-burned upper lip.  That was the last image Vitaly had of Natasha.

Meanwhile, my other friend Christie—I can use her real name because she wants the police to have a trail if she’s murdered—tells me how she broke off her three-week relationship with Dude.

She went to Dude’s house where the plan was to watch a movie.  She’d brought along some home-cooked dinner.  Dude mentioned that he didn’t normally eat food prepared by women because it could contain arsenic. At this point, the only reason Christie stayed is because the pool of working men isn’t very large where she lives.

Then Dude told her he’d lost his job that day.  Dude’s plan was to draw unemployment and disappear in the woods.  She’d see him when she’d see him.  At this point, the only reason Christie stayed is because the pool of non-working men with all their teeth isn’t very large where she lives.

The following morning, Dude took care of smelly biological functions…twice…with the bathroom door open while Christie lay in bed.  At this point, the only reason Christie stayed is because the pool of non-working men with all their teeth that promised to disappear isn’t very large where she lives.

But when Dude accused her of lacing his food with arsenic, she had to draw the line. Nobody disses her dishes.  She wondered how large the pool of working women with all their teeth that would appreciate a home-cooked meal was where she lives.

I’m reminded once again how good it is to be married with the option of widowhood.

© 2012 CThacker

“My, What Red Hair You Have,” Said Grandma

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I lost my grandmother’s whereabouts for almost a  year.  Then my sister, Aunt Neicee, found her–but that’s a blog for another day.  So, Aunt Neicee wanted me to appease her by joining her on a road trip to visit Grandma Pearl.

She planned to go the same day I have tickets for my very first ever regular season professional football game where my favoritest team of all time, the Pittsburgh Steelers, will play the Tennessee Titans in Nashville, TN in a televised Thursday night game where our seats are close enough to clearly see the now fairly compensated referees flag James Harrison for making scary faces at Titans players.

Whew!  I know “favoritest” isn’t a word, but that’s how giddy the thought of this game makes me.

I grew up in a family so dysfunctional we’d make the Griffins of “The Family Guy” look like the Cleavers of “Leave it to Beaver.”  The last time I saw Grandma Pearl was 1991 when The Eldest was 18-months-old.  During that visit, we hugged, kissed, and pinched baby cheeks before sitting down for about an hour’s visit. We laughed and caught up on the years gone by, and then sat picking our nails for the next fifty-eight minutes.  Periodically, Grandma Pearl would remark how much The Eldest looked like her friend Ethel’s grandson.  My father finally said, “Well, go get a picture and show her!”

Grandma Pearl toddled back with an open photo album.  She held it before me and declared, “See?”  The resemblance was uncanny—mostly because it was a picture of The Eldest that I had sent her a month before.

“Grandma Pearl, that is The Eldest.”

She turned the album, looked the picture over and said, “No wonder he looks so much like Ethel’s grandson.”

Great-Grandma Cholewa

Not Grandma Pearl looking at baby Not The Eldest who remarkably also looks a lot like Ethel’s grandson. Great-Grandma Cholewa (Photo credit: rachelsbabies)

So given Grandma Pearl’s current age and the twenty years it’d been since I’d seen her, there was only one answer I could give Aunt Neicee.

“Sorry, can’t go.”  I can’t appease everyone.

Now hold up before you call me the antichrist.   I told The Eldest he and I would make the trip. “We’ve got to go see Grandma Pearl before the game.  I’d never forgive myself if she permanently logged out of LifeBook while we were busy throwing back overpriced stadium beers and hugging strangers to celebrate Steelers touchdowns.”

So we visited Grandma Pearl in her nursing home.  We hugged, kissed, and pinched bearded man cheeks before sitting down for about an hour’s visit. We laughed and caught up on the years gone by, and then sat playing with our smart phones for the next fifty-eight minutes.

Grandma Pearl, in what can only be described as a “Twilight Zone” déja vu, started in again with how much The Eldest looked like Ethel’s grandson.  She opened a drawer in her bedside table and pulled out a photograph.  “See?” she declared again.  The resemblance this time really was uncanny—mostly because it was a picture of The Eldest from my wedding that I had sent her a month before.

“Grandma Pearl, that is—” I said with a pause “—amazing how much he looks like Ethel’s grandson.”

Sometimes you just have to appease family.

© 2012 CThacker

My Husband Lost The Little Piggy That Had Roast Beef & Pointer the Index Finger

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“Hey B-Bop…count Chief Money Maker’s toes.”  The four-year old child of friend jumped on the task and began counting down Chief’s toes as they peeked out of his sandals.

“…seven………….eight……………..nine???”  Then he stood there staring down at Chief’s feet, I assume wondering if he had somehow miscounted.  “How many is he supposed to have?” I asked.

“TEN!”

I love messing with kids’ minds.

Chief lost a middle toe due to a construction accident back in his college days.  The next time B-Bop comes over he can count Chief’s fingers.  He lost one this morning due to an error in judgment.

He drew this with his index finger on our dining room table.

© 2012 CThacker

HEADLINE: Humor Blogger Goes Rogue and Gets Serious–Video at Nine

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Attention Blog Readers

We interrupt your regularly scheduled blog program for this serious announcement.  

No, the presidential candidates did NOT suddenly stop their mud-slinging. Get real. Yes, yes, Lindsay Lohan DID get in trouble again with the law but that’s nothing new.

Stop guessing. I’m trying to be serious here. Okay, NOW stop laughing. I really AM trying to be serious.

Yes, I am aware that I’m a humor columnist. What’s that you ask? Yes, I understand that all my blogs were tagged in the humor category. That doesn’t mean I can’t be serious sometimes. Don’t pigeon-hole me. No, really…don’t. I don’t like it. Birds have disgusting habits. You know, eating the worms and all.

Yes, I WILL get back to the announcement.

My short story–”The Butterfly Wish”–is published in Mused-BellaOnline Literary review.

 ”The Butterfly Wish” is a modern day story of star-crossed lovers.  Set in East Texas, Angel and John announce they want to marry.  Can their families move beyond the tragic past that’s linked them together for over 170 years?  Or have the roots of prejudice and hatred grown too deep? 

I would be honored if you would take a few moments to read my first published short story. I would be further honored if you would share your thoughts below.

Click here to go directly to “The Butterfly Wish”

I love the perks of publication.  This was the scene on my kitchen counter when I woke up this morning.  Chief even used my special “Cherry” coffee cup.  Now I’m going to sit back and read the Fall edition of Mused. 

Perks of the Published. Waking to find the paper retrieved and coffee ready to brew!

© 2012 CThacker

The Guttural Melodies of the Snore-a-Luffagus

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The clock screamed 6:15 a.m. as I tried to decide if I should use the pillow to cover my ears to drown out the sound I’d dealt with all night, or use it to permanently eliminate the source of the sound.  Chief Money Maker is thrilled—and coincidentally still alive—because I chose the first option.  Yet, the future of our marriage hangs by a delicate thread that could be sucked easily down his windpipe on his next snoring intake, along with the popcorn ceiling that I’ve wanted to scrape anyway.

I did a little research on how this snoring issue could affect our relationship.  The prognosis is grim.  First, we’ll each be sleep-deprived leading to annoyed, resentful behavior such as mixing a double dose of 5 Hour Energy drink into the snorer’s dinner gravy.

All-Purpose Gravy

All-Purpose Gravy and sleep aid!(Photo credit: Kelvin Beecroft)

Then when the 10:00 p.m. news is over, you stretch with a yawn and announce you’re heading to bed.  The snorer claims to be wide awake “for some strange reason.”  You empathetically sympathize then suggest they make quality use of the time by cleaning out the refrigerator.  Not that I’ve done this.

If left unresolved, we may be resigned to sleeping in separate rooms resulting in a loss of intimacy and the inability to recognize each other when passing in the halls.  Then again, I don’t recognize half the people I pass in the halls of my home.  The snorer, once banished to the basement or attic to sleep, will huddle in a corner feeling rejected over a problem he can’t control.  Soon he’ll stop showering, start calling off work, and spend hours watching a future stripper snap her fingers, bob her head and say “A dollah makes me hollah”—otherwise known as “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo,” a TLC reality series.

If we don’t tackle this problem now, eventually we’ll become totally homicidal.  That wouldn’t be so bad as long as we could focus those homicidal tendencies on the first crumb snatcher that asks for money, but there is a chance we could actually turn on each other.  We don’t even have a will yet because we can’t agree on how to spread the debt among the crumb snatchers when we croak.

With the dark forecast for our marriage, I decided to take some steps to solve this issue.  It was suggested that the snorer tie a tennis ball to his back to encourage sleeping on his side.  The genius that suggested this obviously didn’t have a Jack Russell Terrier.  Although, the hour of exercise Chief logged while he was chased by Jumper the Dog did wear him out and he didn’t snore as loud.  It was also recommended that the snorer refrain from alcohol consumption prior to bed.  I, on the other hand, can imbibe all I wish.  Somebody pass the Franzia Blush, please?

No one said marriage was easy.  No one was wrong and obviously didn’t live with a spouse that snores!  Yet, in all my research there seemed one obvious solution that was never mentioned.  OSHA approved ear plugs.  Love may be blind, but trust me, it ain’t deaf.

Day 94: Earplugs

They’re squishy and fun to use! (Photo credit: quinn.anya)

Cheri Thacker is a Bartlett mom and freelance writer.  She loves reader mail and can be reached at mamabreadbaker at comcost dot net.  Send her your crumb snatcher and relationship stories!

© 2012 CThacker

Cousin Troublemaker Gets Assignment From Grand Potn’tate

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I recently attended the Killer Nashville Conference.

Before you get your Stay-Fresh-Zipper-Lock all off track, it wasn’t a conference on killing people.  Not technically.  It’s a mystery writers conference and every time I leave town I have my own mysteries to solve.

This time it was a missing Crockpot.  Chief started by texting me:

                “I can’t find the Crockpot.”

                “Have you looked in the medicine cabinet?”

                “Let me check…..Not there.”

                “Try under our bed.”

                “Ok…..Not there either.”

                “Hmmmmm, how about that wicker basket that holds your Home Decorating magazines?”

                “I ordered those for YOU.  And it’s not there either.”

                “Well, try the kitchen, bottom cabinet to the left of the stove, top shelf.”

                “Oh, there it is!”

                “Really?  I was just tossin’ a penny in the fountain with that guess!”

Learning to solve missing kitchen appliance mysteries wasn’t the only thing I got from the conference. They also threw in my writer crush—Graham Brown.

Ain’t he purty?!

Chief wasn’t thrilled so he sent this email to Cousin Troublemaker who lives in the Nashville area.

Hey Cuz, 

I should let ya know that you were a topic of a discussion today, just in case the authorities come visitin’.   

You see, it all started when my wife became this high–pollutin’–artsy–fartsy–writer–type.  

  • She first started as a “Free”lance writer for newspapers (I emphasize the free ‘cause these papers don’t pay her near enough to buy my beer.) 
  • She then got her blog article cherry-picked for Freshly Pressed. I went to the dry cleaner, but didn’t see her blog anywhere so I’m not sure what got pressed!
  • Then she got news that her short story will be published in the world’s largest woman’s magazine next month.  I guarontee that I will be buying a lot of those National Enquirer’s so she has plenty of copies to send her friends. 

Now she’s at some sort of writer’s convention.  Sounds scandalous to me, but she says it’s “enhancin’ her career”, and that it ain’t no communist get-together or Democratic political convention.  But she’s all amiss over some Teddy Graham Cracker fella who is lecturin’.  I think she got the vapors just thinking about being in the same room with him!  

So, like a good husband, I checked in on her. She told me this Teddy Graham Cracker fella was: 

“sittin two rows behind me right now.  I think he’s following me after I went to his session”

So I sent her my plan of action:

‘Zzchk….Come in Cuz Trublmaker, this here is the Grand Potn’tate…’ 

‘Zzchk…go ahead Potn’tate… ‘ 

‘Zzchk…yer target is two rows behind mah wife.  You got a green light for dah killin of that thar womanizer…over. . . ‘ 

KABOOOM! 

‘Zzchk…MISSION ACCOMPLISHED…headed home 4 a beer…CUZ TRUBLMAKER OVER N OUT…. ‘

Then I told her:

                “There, there honey.  He won’t be afollowin’ you no more.”

Grand Potn’tate

Oddly, I never saw Graham again.  Maybe I should check with his agent and while I’m at it, pitch my idea for a new mystery series:

“Redneck Ray”

One coon dog’s mission to hunt down Tennessee’s toothless killers

Beautiful Bassett Hound

I smell Poli-Grip!

© 2012 CThacker

How We Make Our Marriage Last Longer Than Kim Kardashian’s

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Like peace in the Middle East, I wasn’t sure making it to our one year wedding anniversary was possible.  But Chief Money Maker and I did it against all possible odds—and I’m richer today for it.  No really, I am.  I just cashed in my bet with the Tunica bookies.  I always bet the long shot.  Let’s get real.  Who would have thought that two Leos, both previously married, living in a house with five crumb snatchers and three dogs would have a marriage that lasted longer than Kim Kardashian’s? 

Kim Kardashian Fragrance Launch, Glendale, CA ...

I vow to love, honor, and make lots of money off our wedding.

A few of you reading this might have laid down some bets on our marriage too.  Don’t pretend like it doesn’t happen.  We’ve all been there.  The violinist is softly playing, the usher lights the candles, the groom walks in looking like a man taking a death row walk, and the bridal march begins to play.  As she reaches the alter, the bride and groom gaze lovingly into each other’s eyes and you lean over to the person next to you and say, “I give it six months.”

You might ask what is the key to our long-lasting marital bliss?  Well, it’s a combination of things: good communication, unconditional love, and the threat of making good on the life insurance policy.  When Chief Money Maker asked for my hand in marriage, I said yes (obviously) but I gave him this full disclosure.  With love brimming over from the depths of my soul, I looked deep into his eyes and said, “I will marry you, but remember this.  I won’t be divorced again.  I don’t mind being a widow, but I won’t be divorced.”  He’s either the bravest man on this planet, or his driveway doesn’t go all the way to the street, if ya know what I mean.

Our anniversary was ushered in without much fanfare, and we closed the night while sipping champagne on our patio.  We reflected on the events of the last year.  Another key to a successful marriage is to always examine where you’ve been and where you would like to go.  He talked about his career success over the past year, how he’d learned what it means to have a daughter, and how he felt he could improve as a husband.  I told him I wanted to go to Hawaii.  I love champagne. 

A picture taken, of Champagne.

The bubbles make me giggly!

I also love my anniversary gift.  The anniversary gift tradition goes back hundreds, maybe even millions of years.  Once upon a time, some poor cavehusband screwed up big time.  He stormed out of the cave and sat at the tavern drinking all night with his cavebuddies.  After listening to them complain about how their cavewives never swept the dirt floors, never picked the nits out of the cavekids hair, and couldn’t fry a dinosaur egg on a rock, he decided he didn’t have it so bad.  He went out and found a shiny gold rock in the creek bed and brought it home for his wife as an apology.  It just happened to coincide with their wedding date, so the wedding anniversary gift tradition was born.  I don’t really know if that’s true, but it certainly sounds plausible.

Caveman stick figure.

I've asked you three times to take out the rotting sabertooth tiger carcass!

Anyway, the traditional first anniversary gift is paper.  Because Chief Money Maker loves me—and because he fears gettin’ dead—he gave me a signed contract for a swimming pool in our backyard.  My paper gift to him?  A signed check for the deposit—from his account, of course.  Ahhh, love is bliss. 

I will leave you today with one of Chief Money Maker’s favorite toasts—which Wolfy delivered perfectly at our wedding.  “May the best memories of the past be the worst memories of your future.” 

And with mine.  “May we be friends until we are old and senile—then we’ll be new friends.”

© 2012 CThacker