It's just a truck. It does not have feelings. It is not a living thing.

 We decommissioned my pickup truck.  We retired it.  We parked it in front of my dad's shop, pulled all the funny pins out of the headliner, took off the plates, and walked away.  It's over.  And I'm sad, dammit.

You know how ever since I started writing this blog, ten years ago, I've been driving the same truck?  The behemoth formerly known as the Mothertrucker, then affectionately renamed The HONEYBADGER.

1989 GMC Sierra.  Burgundy and silver, extended cab, long box.  Extra leaf springs on the back, supposedly to make it capable of carrying more weight, but most of the time just made it look extra badass.  I put fancy taillights on it and had my husband take my picture leaning on the tailgate, looking all sneaky.  People recognized this ridiculous rolling display of overcompensation.  They'd see the red GMC logo coming at them from between the squinty square headlights and they'd wave.  There goes Heidi.

summer 2015 - the most badass truck ever.  A little too badass actually.  

The rougher and uglier it got over the years, the more fun it was.  There is something gloriously liberating about driving a vehicle that just does not give a crap anymore. After the paint job when we first got the truck, I swear I physically felt every little scratch and poke and dent, but eventually the fear fades.  I mean, obviously you don't want to get hit, but I'm just saying, dirt roads aren't cause for anxiety because what's a coating of dust going to do?  A trip through the pasture to load up some good three year old compost out of the pile?  No problem.  Even though I carried a can of wet wipes and spent a lot of toonies on vacuuming -- I'm still a GIRL after all, geez -- I just did not worry about the wear and tear of life.  Heck, this truck got hit a lot while we owned it.  Once, we got a different door, painted it silver, and kept going.  Another time, my son got rear-ended at low speed on his way home from school, by another, newer and shinier truck.  The other guy straightened out his front license plate, they both shrugged, exchanged info, and kept going.

Things would sometimes fall off my truck, but if it was anything important I'd just throw it in the box and head on my way.  Things would sometimes stop working.  Occasionally if I left it long enough, things would sort of fix themselves up.  Yeah, I don't know either.  I carried so much stuff in this truck.  In the box, and in the cab.  Dirty things in the box.  Dog and kids and groceries in the cab.

Dobby's last truck ride.  

The sagging headliner was held up by buttons from my childhood collection.  As if that wasn't enough of an indication of a borderline hoarding problem, I also stashed little pieces of other vehicles in it… the chrome trim piece from a Pontiac Beaumont (Canadian version of Chevy Chevelle) which wasn't worth anything to my ol' man's flea market stuff because it's broken and now only says BEAUMO.  I hid that in the cubby hole.  And the window crank from the same car found its way into the door pocket of my truck before the car itself went to the scrap yard.  It's like I'm still twelve, scavenging in the long grass.  I found an unlucky rabbit's tail a few years ago.  That rode around in the dash cubby with my insurance and ownership slips as well as an extra pen.  I covered the front seat with a rag rug, complete with carefully stitched holes for the seat belts.

My truck was an environmental disaster.  There is no reason for any vehicle to suck down that much fuel, especially in return for so little relative power, in this day and age.  It's a dinosaur.  It's way too much truck for a small woman.  But it's AWESOME.  I sit way up there, seeing everything around me.  I've got big side mirrors, enabling me to see all the way to the back bumper.  So what if it's too damn long to drive into a parking spot between two cars?  Backing in is so sweet and easy!  Even though we all had to train ourselves to think ahead in town, as in, if I drive into this parking lot, can I get back out again?  I mean, that just builds character, right?

I have loved this truck so much.   I feel good in my truck.  I feel right.  I feel like myself.  My dad is famous for his 60 year old green Ford truck.  As a teenager, I got to drive it to school a few times, and of course, got the farmer wave (hand raised, first two fingers up) from most of the fellas on the road.  They didn't look to see him; they didn't need to. In the last few years, I've been getting that wave.  We recognize each other by our trucks.  Guys with dairy herds and barns and garages stick a hand up as we pass on the road.  They know my truck.  They know me.  This must mean I belong, right?  It's like the truck is an extension of my exterior.

I have a ridiculous and irrational love for my truck.

It's 26 years old, we paid $1600 for it, and we have squeezed eleven years out of it.

But it's over.

I feel like I'm saying goodbye to an old friend.

So many adventures.

Bucky chose to drive the Honeybadger to school, first day of his last year.  

I'm not sure why.  For LOLS.  I guess.  

Selina moving out of her college apartment.

Leaving college with a truck load of worldly possessions.  

Dobby holding down the front seat like a boss.  Like a farm dog.  Like a farm pug.  

Dump run.  "Honeybadger" became a verb.  "Just gotta honeybadger this crap to the dump this afternoon."

Bus run.  Waiting to pick up the kids.

Scrap run.

Hay run.  

Magnificent beast, happily not blending in.  

Up until about six months ago, I was still considering what kind of paint we'd get to fix it up, and how exactly we'd solve the sagging door problem.  This was even after the taillights stopped working.  Since late winter, the truck has been playing the role of Cinderella… gotta get her home before midnight.  Specifically, before dark.  Not cool.  I should have known when the problem wasn't solved at home, and I was too cheap/broke to take it to the garage in town to get fixed, that it was as good as over for the ol' Honeybadger.  I felt so much worse than the growing embarrassment over its deteriorating condition.

Here's a list of what we couldn't do with our truck anymore:

- take it to the car wash anymore, because blasting it with high pressure water tends to make those little holes in the body bigger.
- drive it after sunset.
- roll the driver's side window down, not for the last two years actually, and this past summer I never knew if the passenger side window was coming back up again if I put it down.
-drive it without seriously considering how to get home if it quit.  It wasn't running well anymore.  My daughter was getting less and less enthused about driving it down the dirt road ten minutes to get to her job.  After we moved to our little house on the edge of town, I started worrying about the six minute drive to the farm for chores.

Basically, for the last month or so, we've been trying to get all of our truck-related jobs done before we get rid of it.  This really sucks, because when you've been a Truck Person, which I have been for much of my life, you get used to it and you get spoiled.  You even put up with being the Friend With The Truck and you don't mind doing truck jobs for people, because they'll give you gas money and sometimes pizza and DUH YOU GET TO DRIVE A PICKUP TRUCK.  It's so friggen great.  Driving a pickup truck might be a generally wasteful and egotistical thing to do if you're not filling the box every day, but damn if it doesn't feel awesome.

Until… it doesn't feel awesome anymore.  Until it just feels unsafe and financially infeasible.


As much as it feels like I'm taking a faithful old dog for a final trip to the vet, this is just a machine that has outlived its usefulness.  It's going to the scrap yard.  I'll get a few bucks just for the size and weight of it, but that's about all it's worth now.

I will still be me after it's gone.

I'll be me in a Volkswagen.  I'll get my hay delivered by a neighbour's tractor and wagon, and I know I can fit three bags of shavings and one feed bag in the little Jetta.  I know the lumber yard will deliver too.  I'm trying to rationalize how normal people get by without pickup trucks.  People do it.  I've done it for a few truck-less years.  I hope we can get another truck in the future, and it'll be a better one than this one was when we got it, and I'll get more than a decade out of it, and I'll love it, because I just believe if you're going to drive something, you should feel good about it.

We took all of the ice scrapers and seat covers and unlucky rabbit tails and emergency blankets and jugs of brake fluid out of the truck. Emergency blankets, one red mitten, somebody's undershirt.  I didn't ask.  Approximately twenty various tie-downs, bungee cords, and ratchet straps.  Tire bar, ball hitch, big red hitch pin.  The truck bat.  Because my son felt it necessary to drive around with a thing he named "the truck bat." I'll put all that stuff in the shed for the next truck.  Under the license plate.  Maybe some day a different, newer truck will wear that license plate.  Or maybe not.  I'm keeping the fancy taillights, just in case.  And… the grille, so that whenever I go get a gardening tool I can look fondly at the big intimidating red GMC logo, right at eye level where it belongs.

I was the small woman with the big ol pickup truck.

I will again be that version of me.

First day of school, with style. PICKUP TRUCK HICK STYLE!

The trunks were packed all summer, ready to move back to college, the teenager girl was excited, and the mother didn't need to cry the second time around.  All set.  Except for one big problem: The HONEYBADGER was having a difficulty.  And I'm not just talking about the driver's side window which quit working about six months ago.  (Just glad it quit in the closed position or I'd be driving a swamp.)  My truck eats exhaust systems.   I had my ol' man get a look under it and well, it turns out, there's nothing left to fix.  The crossover pipe between the engine and the catalytic is pretty much cheesecloth now.  The last patch job he did on it held up long enough that I forgot about him patching it up two years ago.  He tried the best he could, but it only made it slightly less unbearable. So we were facing an hour's drive with only one window down for air, and a rumble so loud that teeth rattle and skulls go numb.  AND twice the gas guzzling, because a vehicle with no exhaust is gutless and needs to be stomped hard to move.

Then my ol' man offered to move her there in his truck.

Well!  "Hey, you wanna have Papa take your stuff in the F100?"

"HECK YES!"

The college always has teams of students who've moved in early to help with the grunt work.  You should have seen these kids when my dad and daughter showed up.

Eager 19-yr-old dude: I'll carry everything in if you let me take that truck for a spin.

My ol' man: chuckle chuckle chuckle nahhhhh I don't think so.

Oh yeeeeeaaaahhhhhh!

Last year, backing up to the front of the residence building in the Honeybadger was one of those experiences that normal people would be embarrassed by.  The thing looks like scrap metal.  But we're weird.  We love our nasty truck.  We don't even really think of it as old.  It's only 24 years old.  My dad's truck?  That's old.  Well, most of it.  Parts of it are a variety of vintages.  Our truck is awesome in a defiant kind of way.  

Papa's truck is awesome in... well, every way, pretty much.

Besides being awesome, these two trucks have only one other thing in common: they're both packing a small block Chevy under the hood.

The family that moved in later with a perfect Chevy SS truck with low profile tires and chrome rims?  They think it's awesome.  We'll let them....

Meanwhile, Bucky was planning his own arrival at school.  It's his last year of high school, and he got his G2 licence this summer.  He had to drive himself to school today.  It's only right.  

But he opted not to drive his favourite little VW.  He's taking the truck.  

Why?  

BECAUSE IT'S AWESOME.

Faded paint, peeling off the front fender, dents, mismatched rims, rust spots, inadequate exhaust... the thing runs perfectly and stops, so what's the problem here?

Well heck.  It only takes 20 minutes to drive to his school from here.  I'm sure in that time he won't be deafened.  Or get pulled over.  Or run out of gas.  

STYLE.  That's how we do things around here.  

She won't be the first kid to get her licence in a farm truck.

Since getting her beginner's licence almost two years ago, most of Annyong's driving has been in the pickup truck.  The big Mother Trucker.  The Honey Badger. She can drive it quite well.  She's learned to use her trailer mirrors to back it into a parking spot.  She understands why it can't be driven into a spot between two cars. She can get around a right turn without jumping the curb.

It's easy.  You sit up high and can see everything; you know where the front is, you know where the rear end is.  Even if both ends of the truck are several feet away from where you're sitting, you know it's there.  You can see everything around you.  It's got lovely power steering.  I mean, maybe it takes three times as long to park the thing, and a very cool head, but it can be done.

Besides it's automatic.  Pretty simple.

But Grandma's little Pontiac Vibe doesn't make any sense to her.  And we have to decide what she'll be driving for her road test.  She won't take the Jetta because even though she has learned to drive standard shift, she's not totally smooth with it yet.  Grandma generously offered her car.  She just didn't think it would be fair to ask a kid to drive that monster for a test.  Understandably so. I can brag about how well Annyong can manage the truck but let's face it.  It's a handful.

I talked to the examiner.  I explained how Annyong is used to the big heavy slow build of acceleration in the truck, not the quick jackrabbit start of the small car, and that while driving the car, the hood is not visible.  It's opposite.  She's been putting in time in the car, borrowing it as much as possible, and yet it just doesn't feel right.

I guess I'd forgotten temporarily where I live.

There are a lot of pickup trucks around here, and many of them have farm plates.

"She should drive what's she learned in, and what she's comfortable in," the examiner said.

"Really?  I mean... you won't laugh?  It's pretty rough looking."

She shrugged.  "I've seen it all."

I leaned on the desk, pointing out the list of flaws that will get a vehicle disqualified for use in a road test. "The left signal doesn't cancel.  I thought that might be a problem."

"Does it work?"

"Yeah, you just have to turn it off after you go around the corner."

"That's fine.  As long as it works," she said, leaning back in her chair.  I started to see the kind of deep calm and nerves of steel this woman has to have to do her job.

"And the driver's side door has a sticky latch."

"Does it open and close from both inside and outside?"

"Yeah... you really gotta reef on it though..."  I really need to get that fixed, I thought. Again.

"As long as it opens and closes it's fine."

"Well okay then.  I'll vacuum all the dog hair and horse hair out of it."

"Oh that'd be nice, since I have to wear a navy uniform." She smiled a little.  I got the feeling she's been in some nasty vehicles.  Coffee spills and cigarette butts and ashes - the very worst of automotive abuses! - and it's okay because this isn't a beauty contest.  It just has to meet the safety requirements.  Which it does.  Barely, but it's safe.  It runs beautifully.  All eight cylinders!  I'll do without a stereo (sad) and without air conditioning (that's what windows are for) but the what little money I have gets spent on things like brakes and new belts and filters, and tires.  Boring things like that.

We made another appointment for a test.  Back in Grandma's car, Annyong asked me if the emergency brake works in the truck.  "I don't even know where it is," she admitted.  Well that's because I have a bad habit of not really using it much.

"Yeah, it works."  Thought about if for a second.  "I'm pretty sure it does."

A few minutes down the road it occurred to Annyong, "So... we'll probably have to put the rear view mirror back on the inside of the windshield."

Oh yeah, that!  I don't think the examiner would find the humour in our family joke.  "Yes there is a rear view mirror.  It's right there under the seat."

It's cool.  A little blob of super glue and we're off to go get a driver's licence.

The parallel parking is going to be EPIC.

My truck has officially been renamed. She is now... The Honey Badger!

This truck will always be the Mother Trucker.  But a few weeks ago we were on our way to the dump and discussing how it's both liberating and embarrassing to drive something this gnarly. That's when I said, "It's like the Honey Badger of pickup trucks.  It don't care."

Now if you aren't familiar with the nasty and incredibly hardy little critter, you have to see this video. 

WARNING:

This video contains swarms of stinging insects, snakes, a badger getting bitten by a snake, a snake being eaten by a badger, several swear words and some goofy lisping.  Some viewers may not find it funny.  Others may find increased repetitious utterances of the phrase, "Honey Badger Don't Care."

Yep, crazy nasty badass.

Just don't care.

Come at me.  

Getting stung?  Don't care.  

It's been done.  We just slept if off... got a new door... right back at it...

I was visiting my friend Bechtel the Beef Farmer one day last week.  Of course we had to talk trucks.  It's what we do.  "I gotta do something.  It's costing me hundreds of dollars in gas every month, things are starting to fall apart, and it just doesn't look very professional.  You know?  It doesn't scream, Professional Horseperson" does it?"

He looked it over and drawled, "Yeah but what it does scream at me is, Cowboy."

So there it is.  

The truck that just won't die, the nasty badass that takes a beating and comes back for more.

Y'know how I like to park beside something big and play "Who's Longer" and my truck usually wins?

GAME OVER.

I think driving a school bus could be fun.  Especially putting on the brakes and telling all the brats to siddown and shuddup I'm not yer babysitter.

I mean, c'mon.  Big ass International diesel?  Giant wheels?  Fun.

Sadly, they're all automatic now.  Remember the old Saginaw transmission in the 70s and 80s?  I watched my bus driver double-clutching that thing through the gears, with it whining and chugging all the way up.  Awesome.  He used to literally throw the shifter into gear.  

Good times.

However I am 40 years old and still having nightmares about running down the lane to catch my bus, with the north wind ripping at my flapping-open coat and all the snow drifts ending up inside my boots,  so I don't think I'll be making a career of being Bus Driver Dude.  

"I stand by my record.  14 crashes and not a single fatality!"   --Otto.

Them shiny new Ford trucks sure are pretty.

BUT I LOVE MY NASTY OL GMC!

I turn left, away from the Ford dealership with its line up of gorgeous new machines, onto the highway and blast up the hill with my arm out the window, dressed in my Receptionist Clothes, which I really had to dig for, and I think to myself what a bitchin' ride I got here.

One hubcab missing, paint flaking off the front fender, rodeo bumper stickers and all.

Step my purty high heeled shoe into the pedal.

She goes just as well, if not better, with a boot holding that pedal down.

I seriously never want to get rid of this truck.  Even when I finally do get a shiny new one or more likely a shiny "new" one, I want to keep the old Mothertrucker.  It's my farm truck.  I can easily get 35 hay bales in the box.  It used to be shiny.  Twice.  It was shiny 22 years ago when it was new, and it was seven years ago when it got a paint job.  It's just gnarly looking now.  It's been weathered.  I love it.

This is the longest I've kept a vehicle of my own.

So it's lasted this far.

I loooooooove my bitchin' nasty, paid-for, basically functional, 8 cylinder, X cab, long box, gnarly ol' truck.

Here's a weird thing about having an office job.

This week I get clean BEFORE going to work instead of needing a shower AFTER working.

Here's another weird thing: I'm getting paid to pick up the phone.  It took me until two hours into the first shift before I realized that I actually... kind of...hate picking up the phone.

But it's not calling for me and they don't want anything from me and I only have to push a few buttons to send the phone call to where it needs to go.  And they're paying me.  So it's okay.

Another weird thing: I'm answering phones while the salesmen are selling cars.  You know what?  I could do what they do.  I could sell pickup trucks.  I love trucks.  You might already know that about me.  I love all trucks.  GMC, Dodge, Ford.  All the trucks.

I could sell you an F-150.

One of the guys decided I'm his good luck charm because I referred to him as The F-150 Guy after he sold one, and then went and sold another one the next day.

See?  I'm good with trucks.

And here's one thing that I don't think is weird at all:

I am wearing platform wedge slingback black and white gingham shoes to work.

Now you might thing it's weird, because I wear boots a lot, and I feel like me when I'm in boots.  But I'm wearing high heels and I'm walking in them.  I am driving my truck in them.  I put 'em on and I leave 'em on.  Because you know what?  I COMMIT.

Also, they're GINGHAM.  What good country girl doesn't love gingham eh?

And they were only twelve bucks.  So I gotta wear them to justify that huge extravagant expense.

Well, that and we've only got a few nice days left before fall hits hard, so I'd like to be able to see my toes.  Soon it'll be woolly socks and I won't see my toes until, like, next May.

It's kind of interesting, doing this little temporary gig.  It's been about eighteen years since I had a job like this.  I do believe this could all come out in a book someday.  That's what happens with fiction writers. Everything in life becomes potential fiction fodder.

This evening I parked near a pickup truck that was EVEN GNARLIER than mine.

I am not sure if I'm relieved that mine isn't the worst looking truck in town...

...or envious because the other other one is sooooo nasty it's classic...

Twenty years ago today, I got married. Smartest thing I've ever done.

Most of it is a blur but I clearly remember my young man's face once I got to the gazebo in the park and stood there facing him.  He smiled at me.  He was happy to see me. Him so purty.

Over the years, people who didn't know us back then are shocked when I tell them we got married at 20 and 22 years old.  You know what? I would have married that guy two years earlier, but we got him through college first and I had some time to save up for the wedding.

I wanted a picture for our 20th anniversary, taken by our talented daughter.  The old dress still fits, but the jacket he wore is too small in the shoulders and the sleeves are about four inches too short.  He ain't a cute baby-faced kid anymore; he's my big hunk o'man now.  Me, I just have more wrinkles.

I just got through a very difficult month, and I still feel kinda pale and frail... but he's solid.

Can't imagine how much I'm gonna love that man in another twenty years.

I can't get the right title tonight. But I have pictures. So...yeah.

My adorable funny smart odd brilliant beautiful goofy pretty bouncy silly weird amazing talented wonderful daughter, is...

17 years old.

She can drive me places now.  Legally and everything.

She is becoming quite a great little photographer.

She makes ADD into an asset.

She's a great singer and plays, like, four instruments.  (Not often enough though, in my opinion)

 Nag mom says practice.

Notice the MUSE Tshirt.  

Her giggle brightens the whole house.

She is so good with all the animals.  

She can back the pickup truck into a parking space.

If there are empty spaces on either side.

No seriously she can do it.

She can drive standard shift too but she doesn't think she's good at it.

Nag mom says practice.

She's sitting beside me right now and wants to say something...

Okay so first off, I don't play those instruments WELL... just, ehhhh. Second, I know I can drive a standard but I don't want to kill Dad's car!! It's got a very sensitive clutch doncha know. Also I actually don't have crazy eyebrows in real life. :D

My ray of sunshine.

And oh heck it's Friday, so have a small dose of Depp.

Happy weekend, people!

The world didn't end! Great! On with previously scheduled barn chores, pirates and rock stars. As usual.

WARNING: This blog post contains regular digressions and subject changes which may be unsuitable for some.  This blog post will include pirates, legal drugs, and Beyonce.  Reader discretion is advised.



I'm feeling wretched these days due to a medication adjustment.  Why is it that the drugs meant to make one feel better can make one feel slightly better yet also not quite right, and which will certainly make one feel ABSOLUTELY AWFUL during withdrawal?  I don't want to move, just in case the persistent low grade nausea turns into something urgent  If I hold real still the dizzies won't git me.

There is one upside to this situation. I can hold real still with a Mac in my lap.  WRITING.  And this is very, very good.  I feel super guilty about the work I'm not doing.  But I can give the brain-movies more attention.  I have like, two novels and a Hick Chic Guide on the go.  ADHD anybody?

Damn anti-depressants.  Can't live with em, can't be a rational human being without em.  Oh well.

Here's something else that makes my life bearable: I have teenagers!  Man I'm telling you, teenagers can be so helpful and useful!  They can be trained (if started early enough) to do various household chores like laundry, cooking (yay!) floor sweeping, and sometimes, putting away of stuff.  They can also carry out barn chores, which is wonderful.  They can operate the big lawn mower.  Best of all, they can be taught to drive!  Yes, I have MY OWN DRIVER!

My girl Annyong (Hello!  Annyong!  Hello!) took me out on Friday evening.  We ate ice cream cones while sitting on the wheel humps in the truck box.  While talking to two teenage boys.  It was like history repeating itself and was fun but strange.  (Do othermothers eat ice cream cones in the truck box with teenage daughter and boys she goes to school with????)  Then she drove me to the movies.  Actually before that she drove me all over town, put gas in the truck, and parked it in several locations.  Good little country girl.

We had to go see our beloved Captain Jack.  See what kind of trouble he's causing now.

Oh Jack.  You ARE trouble.

So was it good?  Pffft yeah!  You know I'm not gonna hate it.  The kid and I laughed all the way through it.  We cheered when Blackbeard showed up with his beard all lit up and smoking.

We squealed when Cap'n Jack got a talking to from his ol' man!  

We whispered to each other about the awesomeness of the unstoppable Captain Barbossa.

Also I have two words for you: KILLER MERMAIDS.

Vicious eh?

So that was fun.  We stuck around for the credits like we do.  Did you know this story is loosely based on a novel of the same title by Tim Powers?  Years ago I read another of his novels called The Stress Of Her Regard.  Freaky heavy.  Blew my brain.  Let's hear if for novels.  Yaaaay!




On Saturday I totally forgot about the whole world-ending thing.  Not that I was worried.  I figure if/ when Jesus wants me he'll come get me.




When he's darn good and ready.


Not when I am.


Have I mentioned The Corral Project?   We got some rain, which drained nicely through the gravel, followed by a good solid day of sunshine to dry everything.  Sunshine has been rare this year.

Just a couple squishy spots left, but that's understandable considering the weather.  My ol' man's lived here all his 68 years and says he's never seen it this wet.

I'll be describing in great detail the whole story of this Project.  I'm thinking a whole series of posts.  Those of you who are thinking about what your horses are walking around on will want to be in on this. I hope you like dirt.  I like dirt.


For the rest of you, how about some Beyonce?

(I got these pictures from Go Fug Yourself)




The Billboard awards happened last night.  Beyonce got some kind of Best Everything Of The Millennium award, and who can argue?

I mean, she's the girl from your high school that you would have, could have, should have hated because besides being drop dead naturally gorgeous, she's also super ripped fit, she can dance, she can act, she sings like an angel, as well as sings like the devil when she needs to,

she's totally sexy without being skanky, and she's smart.  She's no dummy.  Hate her yet?

Well you can't because she's also a cool chick.  She's actually kinda nice.  But not too nice.  Just nasty enough to be fun and get the dirty jokes, but probably wouldn't tell them because she doesn't use swear words.  So you can't hate on the girl out of jealousy, because she's not using all her talent and skill to make you feel like crap in comparison.  She just IS.

Also she works her ass off so you can't even chalk it up to luck.  See?  Unhateable.


After her performance, which had something to do with women running the world,  I said, "Wow.  I feel so empowered."  Jethro said, "Yeah, I feel... something...  too."





The rest of the show was weird but we made ourselves sit through it.  Annyong and I missed the first twenty minutes, which Jethro said was the best EVER because Britney and Rhianna did a thing and apparently it was the best thing EVER on TV.

I looked up pictures today.  It looks like there was a pillow fight involved and what's with men and pillow fights? We women don't pillow fight with each other in real life.  It's just in your heads, guys.  Sorry.



Rhianna is so beautiful it's like she's not from this planet. She can even show up in an outfit like this and still look pretty.

Later Ke-dollarsign-HA did a strange and slightly disturbing thing with red-clad male dancers with horse heads and machine guns, and then a big cannon with handlebars which she rode and blew confetti out of.  Also instead of pants she was wearing hot pants and fishnets.  Why are all these young pop stars afraid of pants?  I'm getting bored with crotches.


Also boring: Black Eyed Peas.


Later will.i.am declared that many new artists are "born in the studio" but can "barely perform live" which almost made me choke.  Instead I laughed bitterly.

Let me also mention that this is the guy who, in an acceptance speech at this show, thanked technology, and programmers, computers, blippy things with cool flashy lights, etcetera, or something like that, while at home in our living room with questionable furniture left over from the house we had to sell sold, we yelled at the TV, "WHAT ABOUT THE RECORDING ENGINEERS WHO RUN ALL THE BLIPPY THINGS AND ACTUALLY MAKE YOUR DAMN NOISE INTO SOMETHING THAT CAN BE LISTENED TO IN A RECORDED FORMAT?!?!?!?"

Or something like that.  While I chuckled bitterly.

Then he introduced U2 as his friends and inspiration.

Also he was wearing one of his awful Ken-doll robot helmet-wigs.




Britney was sitting with her outlaw-looking boyfriend and looking shocked and befuddled by everything.  Eyebrows up, mouth open.  Girl, I know it.  I looked and felt the same.  I just didn't get it.

Dude, CEE LO GREEN.  Love that guy!!!!  Just love him.  The giant rhinestone cloak, the silly sparkling fake piano, which floated and flipped, and man, his voice.

Is he the best?  Yeah he's the best.

Speaking of sparkly: Taylor Swift wore something sparkly.  Again.  I still hope that kid stays real and as long as she keeps on taking the high road she can spend her entire career in sparkly evening gowns and I'm okay with it.


You could tell who was singing live by the bad notes.  Hey man.  Props for singing live.  Lady Antebellum sounded genuinely great.  Mary J Blige was excellent as always.

Nicki Minaj, who I think is absolutely adorably cute (I LOVE HER HAIR)  was live but I generally don't get rap so I have no comment.  Although Britney got trotted out again to do a thing with Nicki and sounded... just like she does on the radio!!!!  Hmmm.

Here's the thing about Britney: she can schlump around in rubber flip flops, looking like she's been on the couch eating cheesies for two months, then show up to one of these with glowing skin, flowing hair, her body all fit and slammin' and I don't know how she does it.

Maybe she doesn't either.

I hope she's okay.  She seems like such a nice girl.



OH.  Then Neil Diamond.  Yes.  I have a soft spot for the man for several reasons.

1.  My Cool Young Auntie used to looooove him so I played her Neil Diamond records at Grandma's house.

2. Aging nicely and gracefully.

3. His voice, decades later, is as rich and perfect as ever.

So what did we get?  Singalong with Neil?!?  NO kidding... there he is grooving along to a totally unenthusiastic karaoke track, doing his best to bring the energy cuz he's a PERFESHNUL while the audience waved their arms and tried to stay excited about Sweet Caroline.  Gawd.  Robot music.  Doesn't Neil deserve better?  The man used to wear sparkly jumpsuits for crying out loud!  He's an ICON!!!  Actually that's what the award was for.  For being an ICON despite him saying he wasn't quite sure exactly what that meant.


So all bummed out about Neil being so great but the robot music sucking so bad, we got ready for bed.  Watched the lightning outside, the horses being loopy in the corral, and then gaped out the windows at the SIDEWAYS RAIN.  Thinking about Bucky who was camping with the youth group.  He's got an air mattress... maybe he could float... I hope those boys escaped their tent and hung around in a trailer.   And then there was hail.  And then by the time my teeth were brushed, all was reduced to chilled out little raindrops.


And the world did not end.

We're still living with the grandparents.... still not sure if we'll have work in a few months... don't know if there will still be a music industry by then, or if it will rain all summer and nobody will want to ride horses... never know when nature will take out your whole township.... but the world didn't end.

So.  I'll be taking my fuzzy head and pukey belly out to pick up horse poops in the corral eventually today.

Yer darn right I watched that big wedding!

While I'm not a HUGE ROYALIST  (my father-in-law, "Grandpar," who left England in the 60s to get away from all these things, would be horrified...) I do like the Queen.  She just seems like a really together chick, you know?

And I hear she stomps around her country place in wellies.  (That would be British for rubber boots.)

So, there ya go.



Yay, Princes!  Aren't they adorable.  Harry looks like he's snickering and Will actually looks reasonably calm.  I cannot imagine how weird it would be to get married with half the world watching.  Like, no pressure.  Wait.  Yes, PRESSURE!

Okay, so we got the princes, who are all decked up in these incredibly ornate uniforms.

And then Kate gets out of the Bentley and she looks beautiful.  It's like she got training on how to be a royal bride. Oh yes that's right... she has gotten training.  Heck, Will's had his whole life to be trained.

Confession: I squeezed out a couple of tears.  

I LOVE WEDDINGS!  (DRINKS ALL ROUND!)

My mom got to see this before leaving for work.  "Oh and her train isn't even 40 ft long," she wept, since we had been talking about how sensible Kate seems to be.  Okay, sensible in relation to your average colossal royal wedding.

This just isn't a good year to be super flashy, what with the recessions and global lack of cash.  

Pretty!  Elegant!  

By this time, Harry is fidgeting and sweating and looking like he's more nervous than the groom.  Do we kinda love Harry?  He's done some boneheaded moves but he grins a lot.  

Will didn't get to actually watch her come down the aisle but had to stand there waiting until she got right up beside him.  Is that a thing in Britain or just for royal people?  Wow.  Self-control.  Harry turned around for a peek though, and apparently said to his brother,  "Wait till you see her."

And then, also apparently, according to those who are good at reading lips, Will said "You look beautiful."  I'm not so good at reading lips but I can read dudes, and he gave her a quick but thorough looking-over.  Oh yes.  

It was cute... they sort of whispered little things to each other like they'd just met for coffee or something.  Hello darling.  You look handsome.  Thank you honey, you're quite slamming yourself today.  Oh you rogue, my dad is standing here.  Cheeky aren't you?  Ha, you just wait.  

It was a very formal and serious ceremony.  It was an hour long.  I'm twitching and trying to keep my eyes open by then. I do know one of the men in robes stood in a little crow's nest and gave a wonderful speech/ sermon, but I sure as heck can't remember a word of it.  Luckily nobody fell asleep in church while being televised.

Know what I love about this lady?  Her crooked smile.  She always looks like she's choking down a good snicker.  I also have an instant kinship with other crooked-faced women.  Her eyebrows are different, and she's unique, and besides, symmetry is so overrated. 

Then of course the ring doesn't go on smoothly.  It never does. The groom always stands there wrestling with it while everyone else holds their breath.  

Not the Queen though.  

Always chill.

Do you think Prince Philip is a total scream in real life?  He looks kind of jokey.  He also looks pretty darn good - he's turning 90 next month!!  (His eldest son, sitting right there beside him, doesn't really look that much younger... maybe Charles has had a more stressful life...!)

Oh Will, so thoughtful and serious and oh my gosh, I AM OLD.  I remember when this guy was born.  I remember when he was a little chubby cheeked toddler with yellow hair.  And now look at him.  He's tall and his hair is thinning!  He's a MAN, man!

So yeah.  I'm old.  

Another thing I like: she wore her hair down, so she looked like herself.  

I think she's good at this thing.

Let's look at this again:  

I think she looks more comfortable than he does.  

 Notice how there seems to be a proper way to hold hands, a proper way to walk?  

But no slight little wave, the twist from the wrist.  Maybe only the Queen waves that way.  What if there's a way to wave that only the Queen gets to use?

Maybe it takes a few years of being the Queen to get it right.

Lots of waving.  

 Mother, Grandmother and Step-mother all wearing proper British lady hats and nice non-offensive pastels.  

Left to right:

 I am standing beside the Queen of England.  Well done.

I AM the Queen of England.

My hat is sideways?  Mrs Middleworth's hat is too.  Or is it Middlemore?  We look like we called each other this morning.  

Well aren't they a charming group.  I'd love to know what they're chatting about in real life.  Nice wedding.  Mm, yes.  My backside is rather numb after sitting for an hour.  Not to worry dear.  Very soon your feet will go numb from standing.  Later your face will be numb from smiling.  Buck up, ladies.  

Man she must be a tough ol lady.

You know how I suspect Prince Philip to be the life of the party?  Check him out here, putting the charm on Kate's sister.  

Oh Pippa.  Watch out for that ol feller.  

So the new Duchess walks out, looks around and we can see her going, "Oh wow."  Understatement.  There was a carpet of people in front of them.  

 Then they had to do the little peck on the lips.

And these two are so racy they kissed TWICE!  Them kids today, eh?

Well I had to go out to the barn so I didn't see the next part.  I hear William took his new wife for a drive in his dad's antique Aston Martin.  

Well, sure that's cool - you know I love cars.  I think Jethro and I did one better though.  We got driven through town in the back of a 1955 Ford F-100 pickup truck!  That rocked.  

I wonder if my wedding dress still fits.  It did on our tenth anniversary, but that was almost ten years ago.  I'm not good with numbers, but this is our twentieth anniversary coming up in the summer.  

I feel another ride in the back of a truck coming on.