October 31, 2006

I'd Vote for Zotz and Sweet Tea.

Zotz. Who remembers them? I loved them as a kid, and now I can buy them again. I'm filled with a mix of unadulterated joy and trepidation. Joyous because their fuckin' ZOTZ, people! The trepidation kicks in because I'm scared that I'll try them and they'll suck smelly ass. I've tried other foods that I loved as a kid, and I was severely disappointed. If I buy Zotz now, and find I don't like them...well...life as I know it could be over. I just don't know if I can handle Zotz disappointment. How would I ever get over finding out that what I thought was the holy grail of candy really wasn't? What if I found out that the only reason I liked Zotz as a kid was because they had a slightly futuristic sounding name? The blow I would suffer would be nearly unrecoverable. Do you think there's a special therapy group for those suffering from Zotz disappointment? I didn't think so. I just don't think I can risk it.

Elections. I will be so damn glad when the elections are over and done with. I'm tired of the ads, the news and the signs. THE SIGNS!! They're everywhere, and they're annoying. Why does every politician think it's necessary to use only red, white or blue on their signs? Are we really so programmed as to think that if a candidate used pink or orange, or god forbid, purple on a sign that we wouldn't vote for them, because subconsciously we'd think they were anti-American, flag-burning, non-apple-pie-eating, basement Nazis? I, for one, would vote for the first person who dared to not use the colors of Old Glory on their sign for the simple fact that they weren't like everyone else.

Unless they were a Republican.

Birthdays. My husband turned 42 Sunday, and he still has the body of an 18 year-old. An 18 year-old Greek god, at that. Except that he's not missing any important parts of his anatomy like a lot of Greek god statues are.

Another birthday meant another night with his family. Have I mentioned his family is nuts? I have to say that the highlight of the birthday soiree was when the not-quite-three year-old niece summarized her thoughts of the evening with a very distinct, "goddamn". And, while she was being chastised by the grandfather figure, I was agreeing with her summation and laughing behind Thomas' back.

Once again, my maturity reigns supreme.

Sweet Tea. I love the stuff. If I could figure out a way to be able to inject it into my veins and still be able to taste it, I would. I'd walk around with a 5-gallon bag on an IV pole, mainlining sweet tea until I was delirious and speaking in tongues.

Until I moved to the south, tea was simply either 'iced tea' or 'hot tea'. But, everyone here calls iced tea, 'sweet tea'. It's one of the very, very few Southernisms I've picked up. In fact, it may be the only one. Because, I will not tell you I'm drinking coke when we all know I'm really drinking a pop. I will never be fixin' to. I will never call you guys, y'all. I will never go down yonder, nor be back directly. And, I absolutely will not eat me a mess of grits.

And, that's a campaign promise.

Take Care,
The Bablatrice - who dressed up as a witch today, but somehow ended up looking like Alice Cooper.

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