i took a walk with my fame down memory lane. i never did find my way back

“i took a walk with my fame down memory lane. i never did find my way back.”

This was my morning wake up (telephone) call from Female Offspring #6: “Mom, if something catches fire, what’s the first thing we should do?”
“Call the fire company, for Pete freaking sake!”
Then I hear her yelling, “See! I told you we should have called the fire company first instead of calling her–” and bam went the receiver.  Here’s the sad part: I don’t even WANT to know.

Angie writes: “Goddess you and Mike changing homes all the time is like that movie The Holiday with Kate Winslet and Cameron Diaz.” You’re comparing my situation with South to a movie where people swap homes and find true love? You’re forgetting two important details, Angie: South  always goes somewhere to sex it up and I’m always stuck here WORKING for him.  Yeah, the similarities are mind blowing. Tea and sex with Jack Bleech, anyone?

It’s difficult for me to understand the ways of Southern people sometimes. Take this morning, for instance. I was wandering around South’s backyard for over 15 minutes trying to find his clothes line. Finally a neighbor came out and said, “Chew lookin’ for the Promised Land or wut?”
I said, “I’m looking for the clothes line so I can hang out my pricey Dollar General undergarments.”
He then told me it was “agin reg-a-layshuns” to hang clothes outside. I said, “Let me see if I have this right. You own your own property and yet you let someone else make rules that you have to follow….on your OWN property?” That is the most fucked up thing I’ve ever heard.  No damn wonder everybody was looking at me funny when I burned my trash in his back yard yesterday afternoon.

I think the hardest thing to get used to when I stay at Mike’s is the fact that his phone rings all hours of the night. And not just when there’s a “sexually related crisis” like the Sugarloaf Sweeties b.s.
I can tell he hangs with strippers because it’s nothing for one of them to call at 4 a.m. to jaw, and after 4 a.m., the phone remains silent until late afternoon. If MY phone rings past 10 p.m. I can automatically assume the coroner has just pronounced someone in my family legally dead.
Unfortunately these stripper chicks are usually drunk off their asses and incoherent. Even though it says in Romans 5:3-4 that “..tribulation produces perseverance; and perseverance, character…” I wanted to smack the stripper chick who called here early this morning and said, “Where’s Mike? I’m fixing to need some bail money.” I had a rough night with Male Offspring #8 and I was a bit cranky. But I reigned it in and said as nicely as I could, “Oh, somebody already called him about that. He’s on his way to the ATM. You just sit tight and wait for him to show.” One less “friend” calling here for me to worry about. Sometimes I make it my mission to see how many of his friends I can piss off while I’m here.

South sure has made a lot of nice improvements to his place since I was here last, but I have to say, I’ve never seen French Doors in a trailer before. Looks purdy though. And Male Offspring #8 left several spaghetti handprints on the glass. So I  wrote “Male Offspring #8 was here” in spit right above it. Looks cute. We call it “spaghetti art”.

Damn. Male Offspring #8 just pooped on South’s leath—I mean, on a stranger’s leather couch. I knew there was something I forgot to get at the store. Diapers.  Peee yew! I’m outtie.