This lady was featured on Good Morning America this morning. Her name is Clara and she is 93 years old. Her great grandson has been filming her for a couple of years now, while she makes recipes from the Great Depression Era.
I think you might love her.
When I moved to Vermont in 2001, my dad could not understand why I would want to surround myself with a bunch of Yankees. My dad also couldn’t understand why I wanted to have my babies in Vermont, because Alabama is “God’s Country.” I love the south and I love being a Southerner. I love Southern Food ( Check out SouthernPlate.com!) The North isn’t all that bad though.
I’d like to dispel the myth that all Northern places are cities, and Northerners know nothing of “country life”. This is very hard for my grandmother to grasp. She likes to say things to Ben like, “Bet you aint ever seen hay before.” The town Ben grew up in is like the size of Opryland… maybe. You will find the following things; An adorable community church, where I tied the knot; A post office inside of a general store; A Brigham Young memorial; A park, 2 lakes, Farms, and People. It’s more country than any place I’ve ever been in Alabama, Tennessee and even Mississippi. Now, I know that might be a hard thing for some of you Southerners to swallow. I know you don’t want the North being more country than you are, but it’s time to come to terms.
When I lived in Vermont, I missed the South terribly. Me, my sister-in-laws, and our friend Bekah went to see Sweet Home Alabama in the theater. I was so freaking obnoxious through out the entire movie. I am 100% certain that Jenny may have wanted to punch me in the face. When the guy said, “You can take the girl out of the Honky Tonk, but you can’t take the Honky Tonk out of the girl” I almost cried.
Ben and I argue about the correct terms of things all the time. I call blankets on the floor “a palate.” He calls blankets on the floor, “blankets on the floor.” I say things are “in the floor” and he says they’re “on the floor.” I call the metal rectangle object on the back of my car “a tag” and he calls it a “license plate.”
Ben always knows when I am talking to my family on the phone because my Super Strength Southern Accent kicks into gear, and he can’t understand a word I say. The funny thing is, my family can’t understand a lot of what I say either. Most still think I sound like a Yankee. My “Yankee Voice” is from working in a gift shop in Vermont and no one being able to understand me. So, I adapted. Now, no one understands me.
Oh, yeah… something else the South needs to know. I’m no expert, so don’t think I am getting a big head here, but Vermont is a STATE.
Car Insurance Sales Woman: “Mrs. Senecal, do you have insurance on your cars now?”
Me: “Yes, they’re insured through a company in Vermont”
Car Insurance Sales Woman: “Yes, ma’am. Where is Vermont?”
Me: “Ummmm…Right beside New York”
Car Insurance Sales Woman: “Oh OK, so it’s in New York state.”
Me: “Ummm…No. Vermont is a state beside New York state.”
Car Insurance Sales Woman: “OH! Well, that shows how smart I am.”
“Yes ma’am it does”
Now, I would have looked over that if it were an isolated incident. But it’s not.
Yesterday morning, I got the kids dressed and loaded them in the car as always. Drove across town to Aidan’s school. When I got there, no one was there except for a few cars. It slowly sank in that it was a teacher workday. I turned around and started home.
Then on the way home, my mind started questioning my decision. Was I really early? I’ve done that many times before. Driven to work, to find NO ONE there. I sat in the parking lot, dazed and confused trying to figure out what I did wrong. Was I at the right place? Did my job move? Oh, wait..It’s just 2 hours earlier than I thought it was.
Today, marks the beginning of the last 365 days of my youth. I will cling to it. I will document it. I may cry when no one is looking. I am also considering becoming mean, because when you’re old people just except that sort of behavior.
I want to be this old lady..except cuter ::crossing fingers::
For those of us on Facebook, there might be some question as to who owns our content. I guess Facebook changed their terms of service to say they own any content we upload. I tried to read the terms of service, but it seemed dizzying. To me, it seemed to say:
“Oh, you own your content. We own your content. Nah, you own your content, but really we just want you to think you own your content, but really we own your content.”
But, then again, I’m no good with legal jargon. Mostly because legal jargon is a web of lies, and only serves the purposes of being evil…kind of like Sam Walton.
Here’s a link to an article… http://www.nbcchicago.com/around_town/the_scene/You-Post-It-Facebook-Claims-It.html
I guess, the thing is….right now on Facebook are these amazingly brilliant, who wouldn’t want them, pictures…
To catch you up…
My friend, Friend Ben, and I have this sort of “picture alteration” war. He acts like a crabby crab, so I made him a crabby crab. He makes me look…well….hideous.
The Facebook founder said they wouldn’t use our content in anyway we didn’t want. But what if I DID want to have a crabby picture of Friend Ben, say, on billboards across the country…
I don’t know, maybe my dreams are coming true?
Wal-Mart is evil, and I will tell you why.
First, we drive into the parking lot. Our van will begin to turn down an isle, but then be forced to stop because someone is going to wait for a person to pull out of their parking space that is next to the handicap parking spaces. Never mind the fact that we could actually be parked, even at the very end, and have our 4 children out of the car and in the store before this person actually gets their goods in the car and pulls out of the parking space.
You think to yourself, maybe I’ll back up. No, you can’t back up because someone is behind you now, and someone is behind them now and so on. So, you just wait, while you watch all these people walk to their cars, get in them and drive away. The bozo in front of you is determined to get the first parking space, because walking is just too hard. I would feel differently if this person was a mother with children and it was pouring down rain, or maybe and elderly person. But, it’s not.
Finally, we get into a spot and walk through those sliding doors, trying to avoid the person who is asking for money. “Avoid eye contact…avoid eye contact…” I’m not trying to be selfish here, I am just skeptical of organizations I am unfamiliar with. Plus, I never carry cash.
We walk in the store and 1 of 2 things will happen. If Ben is with me, he says, “Oh, I have to go to the bathroom.” If Ben isn’t with me, one of the children will say, “I have to go to the bathroom.” Once one person goes to the bathroom, they all want to go. So, I spend a good amount of time stepping over wet toilet paper and strange puddles and trying not to have a break down because my children are obsessed with public restrooms and I cringe at the very thought of them.
Then, we go down the same isles. Pick up the same things every week. Then (as Beth mentioned,) you look up, you see someone. If you want to see this person, you go out of your way to track them down and talk to them. If you don’t want to see them, all of the sudden you feel like you can do without the rest of your grocery lists…or just leave your entire cart where it is and run like the wind out of the store. You hope that they haven’t seen you and if they have, maybe they’re avoiding you and you wont have to talk to them “Wait, what have I done to them? Why are they avoiding me?” By the time you realize you don’t want to know, you’ve been spotted and you throw on your, “Gosh I almost didn’t see you there” face.
We pile our carts full of stuff Made in China and try not to think about our crashing economy, and just hope that it will all get better over night.
People get annoyed with you because you’re standing in front of the Doritos, and you’re just trying to grab some popcorn but can’t get to it because a lady just ran into her mother’s first cousin on her dad’s side, and they are talking about Family Reunion ’85.
You see the people who feel like everyone should clear out of the way for them, and the people who have their carts crammed with the same three products: frozen chicken pot pie, canned Dr. Pepper, and fruit cups. Then you see the frazzled type, they have a cart filled with 107 jars of baby food, a pack of diapers, and beer.
By the time we make it to the end of our Wal-Mart route, Zion has gotten over tired and Aidan has decided she will walk on her knees through out the rest of the store because her feet hurt. Andrew has spotted a Thomas sippy cup on an end cap and we haven’t noticed he’s not walking with us anymore.
Ben drags Andrew from the Thomas sippy cup, I tell Aidan to get off the floor for the 60th time, and Zion is trying to eat the chapstick that is mixed in with the last minute items. The cashier trys to keep her annoyance hidden as my children try to help her load our groceries in bags, and spin the bag holder. I yell for them to stop, which is a waste of breath because spending a hour plus in Wal-Mart makes children deaf and dumb but unfortunately, not mute.
Finally, we’re approaching those sliding doors again and we start to feel like we’ve made it. But alas, those stupid gumball machines have caught the eye of my children and because my mother always gives them quarters for it when she’s with us, they wrap their arms and legs around them, protesting our horrible parenting ways. “But whhhhhyyyyyyyy can’t we have somethiiiiiiiiiiiiing?….Whhhhhhhhhhyyyyyyy?”
We make it out the doors, and once again avoid eye contact. We don’t have to wait on traffic to stop because someone is holding up all the traffic waiting for that stupid parking place. We get to our car, we put the children inside, and try to drive away without being ran over by a truck with wheels as huge as our car.
My conclusion is that Sam Walton was a evil sorcerer who put a horrible spell on us all. Why else would we spend our money on this sort of thing?
As a disclosure, I’ve never formally, in person, met Brandice. Yet, the rules of Alabama Wal-Marts dictate that you’ve probably seen everybody in the state at one time or another. Heck, you’re probably related to most people in the state, whether or not they are even at a Wal-Mart… To be honest, when my sister, Laura, first started talking about “Brandice” years ago, I thought Brandice’s parents must have gone to Brandeis University and just loved their Alma Mater. I think it’s fair to say that wasn’t the case, but Brandice can correct me.
I know Brandice has been my sister’s rock through both tough times; probably most of which have been generated through our shared genetic line. In other words, our extended family is like a cross between Fruity Pebbles and Froot-Loops. So by default, Brandice is now a friend of mine. I’ve read her posts and thought, “Thank God – I’m not alone here.” In my first-ever guest post (still tingling); I wanted to share some of the love that occurs at my house.
Screams, Wails and Fingernails
Ever wonder what is really genetic? Like, say, my favorite color is yellow. Is that genetic? One thing I can say FOR SURE is genetic is the aversion to cutting fingernails and toenails. My 4-yr old was such a sweet, happy baby…until you went after his nails. I would like to report that this is something that he outgrew, saw the childishness of, or connected with being a dreaded “baby” – but no. He still hates for anyone to come near his nails.
He came by this honestly. After investigating, his dad was apparently the same way, per my mother-in-law. These are the things they don’t tell you…
We’ve tried everything you can think of – stickers, playing godforsaken Disney Tunes tapes and candy. None of this drowns out the sounds emanating from my child. We even tried letting him hold the clippers. He wanted to clip OUR nails. Look, we love the kid, but we’re not THAT crazy…
I would like to report that the last nail clipping event last week went far better than previous times and there is that slight twinkle of light that we are assuming is the end of a tunnel somewhere far off in the distance. You see, that’s what being a parent is all about – looking for that ever-brightening light, and praying it’s not an oncoming train.
After a much thought out decision, I’m going to tell only the most serious future girlfriends about this phenomenon. Just in case it is some dominant trait that her X-chromosomes can’t filter out.
Thanks for having me – Beth from http://pleasemomdontsing.blogspot.com
Nah..Neither of my parents went to Brandeis University. My mom swears she made up “Brandice.” I’m not sure about that. She has an amazing imagination, so I suppose it’s possible. On the other hand, her imagination could be another way to say delusional. :) Love you Mamma!
Thank you Beth! More please!
Dude and Dudettes, I want you to know that I feel like crap. I want to blog but my brain will not function.
Today I took Zoe to the doctor and we sat in a overcrowded waiting room filled with a bunch of other sick people, and one guy with an iPhone reading magazines to his 18 month old daughter. He was my favorite. Everyone else was kind of grumpy.
Then I saw the doctor, and she informed me that there was no science to cold medicine and that it probably didn’t work. It might, however, have a placebo effect and that if I needed to use some that would be fine. I wasn’t aware that a “placebo effect” worked on 5 month old babies, I also never asked about cold medicine, I asked about Tylenol. But hey, it was educational.
Doctors can be really weird. I was actually in the salon a few weeks ago, and so was this doctor. It was amusing to me, to hear her talk about all the good she felt like she did in her practice. She didn’t realize that I was the mother to 4 of her patients and that she never really did us any good. I’m planning on changing doctors soon. She seems more focused on what she knows, than she is focused on the actual patient.
That doesn’t necessarily make her a bad doctor, but it makes her an annoying one. We don’t really click, is what I am trying to say. I don’t mean to sound so mean, but she’s been mean to me a few times, and obviously I’m still bitter.
My boys went to stay with their Aunt Laura this morning. I was trying to wake Andrew up to get him dressed. I tried everything from tempting him with food to a firm “get up now!” But when I said, “You have to get ready to go to Aunt Laura’s!” His popped up so fast he almost knocked me out. When he sat down at the breakfast table, I heard him say, “Aunt Laura’s house is going to be perfect.”
AND THEN he dressed himself without any complaint. AND PUT HIS SOCKS ON. It was “My Birthday Month Miracle.”
That’s right people, February is my birthday month. And yes, I celebrate all month long. This tradition has been going on since I met Mia when I was 14. See, her birthday is also this month and we insisted on making it known to the world. She doesn’t like people to know about her birthday anymore. So, I am not allowed to tell you that it’s February 23rd, the day before mine. Sorry. I’d love to be specific about it, but I can’t. She’s so secretive and all. Just remember that February 23, 1981 means nothing to you. Nothing.
The icing on the cake is that Laura’s birthday is the 26th of February, and we are celebrating all month long. February is the best month to be born in. You should all consider planning your pregnancies so that your children can be born in February, the sacred month of Brandice… and Laura and Mia and love and stuff.
