Fried Chicken & Lentils

Everyday Life with Jodie and Susan

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Am I Getting Rich and Famous?

I saw my “blog administrator” yesterday.   When he’s not administrating our blog, he moonlights part-time as Susan’s husband.

I told him: I thought you said I’d get rich and famous if I started this blog.

He said: No, I told you that you wouldn’t get rich and famous if you started this blog.

So I said: I’m pretty sure you told me that I would.

Him: No, that’s not what I said.

Me:  I don’t mean to beat a dead horse here, but why else would I start it if I wasn’t going to get rich and famous?

Him:  There are lots of reasons. (He told me them, but I didn’t listen on purpose.)

Me:  Why would you beat a live horse?  Because that would be animal cruelty and illegal.

Him:  Nice to see you, Jodie.  I’ve got to go now.


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France, Our Second Best Friend

You know England is our best friend, but there was that one time we got in a huge fight because they were totally trying to be the boss of us, so we suddenly got a lot closer to our second best friend, who gave us a huge statue for our front yard of a lady holding an old-fashioned flashlight, but later on we settled our differences and went back to being best friends with our first best friend and all was right with the world…for a while.

Just a few years ago, a few of us around here got super mad at our second best friend because they wouldn’t “support” us when we were going through “a hard time,” and by hard time, I mean having a war with some other people who weren’t even on our friend list.  People wouldn’t drink anything from France or owned by a French company, but I was like “Great!  More for me!”

After yesterday’s post, I got to thinking what a little Francophile I was in sixth grade.  I developed a heavy crush on France during that summer because I was exposed to classes in French, which made me think I’d be parlez-vous-ing Francais in just a couple weeks, and I got to eat chocolate mousse, sealing my love of all things French forever, or until I learned  that mousse had raw egg whites in it.  There weren’t too many French citizens roaming around western Kentucky back in the 1980’s, so I was free to delight in the imaginary French experience I was having.  When I was 19, I got to fulfill my life’s dream by going to Paris, France, which I found ridiculously expensive, having just come from one of the cheapest places to live in America.  Yes, they had the Eiffel Tower and it was great, but I had to pay $4 for ice cream!

So, I was surprised to have a French experience in the American southwest a couple of years ago.  At every tourist destination, there were tons of international tourists, which was fine.  I mean, yay, come and spend your money here (see previous post).  But, at one hotel when I was eating breakfast, a French-speaking man, who could have been Canadian as my friend pointed out, told me to move out of my chair to another table “becauzzze you air one and we air four.”

As mentioned, I am from western Kentucky, which is the south, and you would no more inconvenience someone by asking them to move out of their chair than you would to ask them to hold your bomb so you could light the fuse.  In western Kentucky, ten people might hover around waiting for a single person to move from a table for ten, but they would never say something because that would be RUDE.  You can sit in front of the green light on your cel phone with a line of cars behind you all the way to the next town and no one will even so much as honk the horn to tell you to get a move on there because that would be RUDE.  So, I was taken aback by his demand that I get up in the middle of my breakfast and make way for his group.  I grumbled to myself, but I didn’t say anything to his face because that would be RUDE.  But I thought it.  And, that, my friends, is the real reason France is not our first best friend.  That and the language thing.

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The Great Christmas Question

I went to the drugstore last night to get a movie and buy some snacks.  Our thirteen-year-old daughters came with me and to our delight, we discovered it is already Christmas on our commercial landscape, which I knew mentally, but needed to be reinforced by touching all the items in the aisles.  There were chocolates shaped like strawberries, guitar ornaments that played Elvis and Johnny Cash songs, Snoopy or Princess record player ornaments, necklaces with working Christmas lights, snow globes, angels with glitter, shorts that noted the wearer was 50% naughty and 50% nice, stockings shaped like cowboy boots or with camo, and everything pretty much played music or lighted up or at least had some fake snow or glitter in it.  Needless to say, it was all beautiful beyond description.

Susan showed up with her four-year-old son and he also felt the same awe and respect that we felt in this church of consumerism.  As we shared our wonderful finds, his question, which, I think, has become the greatest question of our age, was “Mom, what can I buy?”  I was pretty proud of that boy and can only add my own answer, “Everything, once it starts to go on sale in a few weeks.”

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Gosh, I Am So Smart (to ask Dr. Google)

My fourteen-year-old friend sent me this e-mail today.
Hi Jodi,
I was wondering if you could help my with something. I’m trying to understand the phrase “primacy of the individual” as applied to Romantic period literature.
Yes, I was an English major and, yes, I earn the glorious salary and respect that goes along with that degree, but, still, my ego could be stroked by his obvious faith in my knowledge of the Romantics.  I didn’t even mind that he left the “e” off my name because I was flattered that he thought I could work up a few quick paragraphs on this topic off the top of my head.
So I got out my A Handbook to Literature, Sixth Edition, which was useless.  Then I got smart and checked my old creepy, all-in-your-private-business pal, Google.  I hit pay dirt.  I wrote that boy a short dissertation on the Romantics and e-mailed it right over.
He hasn’t written back yet.  He’s probably still reeling from my knowledge of absolutely everything.

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You’re Cool, You’re Awesome, and You May Have Some Problems With Your Joints

I love taking walks around the neighborhood with my next-door neighbor.  We stroll around and talk about just about everything in life from religion, family, politics to movies and recipes-everything!  Well, a couple weeks ago we took off walking when she turned suddenly to me and put her hand on my shoulder.

“Jodie, you’re hip,” Steph said.

I was knocked out by her kindness for minute, thinking how nice it was for her to notice how “with it” I am.  I didn’t think I was that into what’s cool nowadays, but maybe I was more up-to-date than I realized.  I was planning some return compliment about how great she was when I realized she’d actually said, “Jodie, your hip.”  As in, “It is popping so loud.  Can’t you hear it?”

Susan is always telling me on walks that my hip pops, but I can’t hear it from the outside of my ears, but I can feel it on the inside of my body sort of in my eardrums.  It’s weird because I don’t even notice it and it sounds so loud to other people, but I am used to it and it never bothers me.  Until today.  I went to Indian Fort and was creaking and groaning around going up the hill and then I knew.  There IS something wrong with my hip.  It hurts.

Is this the new forty that’s always being talked about?  I think people are trying to tell me how in-the-know I am, but they’re really telling me that I sound like firecrackers when I take a step?  What was the old forty?  Maybe I will discuss it with Stephanie on our next walk if she can hear me over the sound of my hip.

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I Am Throwing a Little Birthday Party Tonight for Susan

So I am going to look up some tips.

Looks like maybe I need to get a permit first.

Then download a checklist.

Get some celebrities, hamsters, and laser tag stuff (this is clearly a disguised ad, not tips).

Themes? Costumes?  Geez…

What I will really do is make some chicken curry, get out some games, and rent a movie and have two guests!  Last year, I worked up a surprise party for Susan-and surprise!  She doesn’t like surprise parties!  And neither do I!  So I guess I’m all set.   I used to be  a big party person, but it’s obvious that I’ve given that up.