Big Willie The Catfish, Louella and Liz

Earlier this week I wrote  about my cousins, Liz and Mike, and the day we caught a monster catfish. But I didn’t tell the entire story….

We grew up in Hot Springs, Arkansas and my family had a lovely 1960s condo on Lake Hamilton.

At seven, Liz was our beautiful blond brutal dictator, I was the goofy looking six year old and Mikey was a scrawny tough ass five year old who would bow up on a bus or throw down with a bear. He was too stupid or stubborn to realize he only weighed fifty pounds. Mike thought he was Tarzan and Cold Stone Steve Austin rolled up in a taco with hot sauce.  At five he was a hard core bad ass. 

We  were young but together we were formidable and frightening, full of really bad ideas and virtually unsupervised for weeks at a time. At my house the only adult who ever attempted to keep an eye on us was Louella, our friend and maid for more than thirty years.

There was a lady who lived at the end of our boardwalk named Mrs. Williams. Every day at four she would lovingly feed all her “pet” fish in Lake Hamilton. She tossed out hand fulls of corn and bread then watched as schools of fish appeared. There was one massive, elephant sized catfish who showed up every afternoon, named Big Willie.  He was nearly as long as a baseball bat and as fat as a foot ball. This guy was beautiful. And Mrs. Williams loved him.

Liz, Mike and I were not allowed to fish anywhere near her end of the boardwalk but one day…Mrs Williams went on vacation.

Brown and barefooted, wearing nothing but groovy swimsuits, we hauled our fishing gear to the end of the boardwalk ten minutes after Mrs. Williams backed out of her parking spot.

Mikey bounced up and down on his skinny little legs as we watched the fish circling under the dark water.  We threw in a hand full of corn and the fish went crazy. Lake Hamilton boiled with fishy action.

Liz packed a piece of hot dog and a bread ball onto a hook and dropped  the line in. Mikey and I  were lying on our bellies, staring at the fish. Then it happened. The line went taunt and Liz sarted saying, “Holy crap, holy crap.”  Reeling hard, Liz leaned back and Mike and I jumped to our feet.  Instantly,we realized she had hooked Big Willie on the first try.  It was unbelievable  She cranked on the reel and we saw the massive gray fish rise to the surface then pull back on the line. The reel screamed. We were no match with out K-Mart Rod and Reel. Big Willie pulled line like a yo-yo. Liz screamed at Mike, “get the net, Michael Clark get the damn net!”

The net was taller than Mike, but he snatched it up then stared into the water, waiting for his chance to scoop up Big Willie. Liz made an executive decision, we couldn’t wait any longer. She shoved five year old Mikey into the lake and started screaming at him.  “Scoop him up,  Mike. Catch him.”

I helped her hold the rod as the fish tried to get away from Mike, his net and kicking legs.  There was fishing line, splashing, screaming and then suddenly Mike yelled, “He’s in!”

Tiny Mike tried to hold the net up as he treaded water but the fish weighed too much.  Liz dropped the pole and stretched out on the boardwalk to grab the net.  She pulled the net and the gigantic fish onto the hot wooden planks while I helped 50 pound Mike out of the water.

Liz had Big Willie, flopping furiously in the net. His catfish mouth gaped open, he looked so angry and slimy.  His whiskers were at least three inches long and we had no idea what to do with the monster.  The hook poked though his cheek and the bread ball was still on the hook in his mouth. His eyes rolled in our direction and we all stepped back.

Liz pushed Mike. “Get the hook out.”

“Hell no. He’ll get me .”

“You get the hook out,” I said to Liz.  She looked at me as thought I was made of cat poop and stupid. Then she picked up the net, we had to help her. And we walked toward my condo as Big Willie flopped.

Finally, we got Willie back to the condo.  Liz looked at me. “We can put him in the bathtub right? He’ll be ok.”

I nodded stupidly.

Then we smuggled Big Willie into the condo, we made it upstairs to the bathroom.  I filled the bathtub with cold water and Mike leaned against the door so Louella couldnt’ push it open  Finally, it was full. Mikey held the net as Liz and I raised the fishing pole Big Willie was still attached to. 

We got him out of the net into the gleaming white tub. And for a little while, we all held the pole and watched him swim slowly around the tub. The hook was poking out of his face and he was tethered to our pole but he didnt seem to mind

Ginally Mike stepped into the bathtub and started laughing as the big fish swam past his leg.  Liz and I got in too and we giggled like maniacs as Big Willie swam between and past our legs.  Liz had the reel, then let line out, we picked up our feet so the line wouldn’t get tangled. We laughed so hard Mike started peeing in the tub.  The we laughed even harder…until Louella walked in.

It was terrible. She screamed until my Mom arrived. We had to take Willie to the lake, cut the line and let him go. Then I got a spanking and I’m pretty sure I could hear Liz and Mike laughing in the next room.

It was a great day



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When I was little my best friends were Louella, Liz and Mike, my cousins. Actually they were my only friends. When Liz was seven, I was six and Mike was five we caught a giant catfish named Big Willie. We didn’t know what to do with him so we dragged him back to my condo and put the bastard  in the bathtub. We let that 10 pound monster swim between ournaked legs until Louella, our friend and maid, walked in and started screaming. Then we all got spanked.

I was jealous because Liz and Mike had a pet pig named Charlie Brown. he was a really big pig, not one of these hot dog size pygmie things. Liz would climb on board the 300 pound beast, Mike would pull his tail and off they would go. Both Liz and Charlie Brown screaming across the pasture.

Mike was a tiny kid who looked like a redneck made man in the mafia. And we would fight, I mean really fight, like midget wrestlers, all the time. Once, when were were five and six, we climbed the tree in front of Mike’s house. Then we started arguing. What could we argue about in a tree? I don’t remember but something got us going.

Eventually, we started throwing punches and trying to choke each other, on a branch… in a tree. We were screaming and our teenaged brothers, Ricky, Bimbo, Granger and Jack came out to see what we were doing.

They started laughing at the Arkansas spider monkeys fighting in a tree. Then Mike threw a haymaker and we both fell, ten or twelve fee,t onto our backs. The fall knocked the wind out of us both and we lay there, under the tree, thinking we would die. Gasping, flopping and clutching our bony chests. Of course that only made the brothers laugh harder. (I’m pretty sure there was beer involved)

Cousins, we all grew up in the same, insane universe. We understood everything about each other without speaking, because we were all born and cut from the same rough, misshapen fabric. We were family. We had the same blood and nothing is more profound. Time and history doen’t matter if you are cousins because you share the same DNA and history, they are woven together, like an Indian braid, inseparable and unbreakable.

Twenty or thirty years passed and I hadn’t seen or spoken to Mikey and Lizzy but the moment we were together again, the moment our voices touched, we were bonded, thick as thieves, intertwined by a blood line so powerful and unique no one else could understand or interfere. If Mikey or Liz called me today and asked me to drive 3,000 miles to pick them up in a truck stop there is nothing that could stop me. Because it’s been so long I might not recognize them when I got there but we would find each other and do what needed to be done.

 We are family and together we will walk to the magnificent , golden gates of Heaven or the torterous  fiery gates of Hell… together. Our past is the same and our future will be too. Because we are family, we are  cousins and we will always be together. Always.



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Rude, Texting, Teens…Our Country Is Lost


Teenagers, they are rude and selfish, withdrawn and distant. That’s what adults think all the time. It seems kids  have lost the ability to carry on a conversation. Or, maybe they can, but they just don’t want to make the effort. So they text and hide behind long swoopy hair when surrounded by adults.

This makes us think they are dysfunctional and possibly stupid. Futhermore, we become worried about the future of our country.  If our children can’t speak intelligently what will happen to America? Will incoherent skate board punks fill the Senate?

First, you have to remember, every generation of teenagers has  been seen as troublesome, dangerous and rude.  I can still see my brother, with his long swoopy hair and shredded jeans as he headed off to Woodstock. Why would he want to talk to adults, they were so old.

I was trying to explain this situation to my 15 year old, Lexie, (who is actually very good at talking to almost anyone with ears) when I realized, most teenagers are actually pretty decent creatures. They simply don’t know what to say to adults who are not part of their world. They can’t talk to them about music or school or most movies.

After “how are you?” kids are at a loss, things get quiet and awkward so they start looking at the cell phones. A fourteen year old boy can’t say so a fifty year old man, “How’s your wife? How are the kids, has your 401K tanked yet?” So, what’s he supposed to do?

If a kid or teenager is stuck at a table or in an office with an adult, I came up with three questions they can ask and the old person will think they are wonderful, insightful and smart.

1. “So, what profession are you in?”  “What do you do for a living?”  Ask about work.

2.”Oh, you’re a teacher(cop, architect, ditch digger) “What’s your favorite part of being a….(dentist,  rodeo clown, CPA, hair band lead singer)?

3. “What did you do before you were a …..(porn star, lawyer, boogie board champion)?

Three questions, that’s all they have to remember and adults will think they are brilliant and destined for greatness. 

And guess what? Lex tried my system with a 45 year old man I introduced her to at a non-profit event and discovered he was an interesting guy!

He was just really really old.

*comment or email me at, or you can text me if you feel the need 501 545-8372. Thanks!



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Piggly Wiggly and the 4th Louella Story

                                                                              In 1968 I was a scrawny little girl, with buck teeth and big ears. But my family had a lovely two story condo on the lake in Hot Springs, AR. We had money.
     My grandmother, Bubba, had an elegant colonial house in town. Louella worked for Bubba, along with another black lady, Iolla, for years and years. But when I was born, my mother’s 3r,d child Louella came to work for us, full time. Thank God.
       Every afternoon when I got off the bus with my Monkees lunch box, Louella was there, waiting and smiling, in her crisp white dress and white hose. Because she was a very dark woman, almost black, the contrast was beautiful to me.
       Loulla always had a peeled apple and a vanilla cupcake on the kitchen counter waiting for me as a snack when I got home. I would eat happily, while she took her lunch and watched Let’s Make a Deal with Bob Barker. Then I would put my head in her lap. She was a large soft woman, and I would take a little nap with my head on her thigh. She had wonderful soft skin, except for her hands and they were like leather and always smelled of bleach. Louella would sa,, “Miss Pooh, I think I’m just your pillow”.

  Years later I realized she was my cushion.

   I was a squirrely, funny looking little girl and didn’t have many friends. But Louella was always there for me and we had a grand time singing and cracking jokes. There were a few jobs Luella really hated, like cleaning the kitty little pan. She would pay me a nickel a week to do that for her.
    When I was six years old I started riding the bus to the Piggly Wiggly with Louella on Wednesday afternoons. Sometimes, if it was raining, she would call a cab. Once in the store, I would happily trot behind her or hold her callused hand, jabbering away. If I behaved she would let me spend my nickel so I could get something from the gumball machine.
   One day I was stunned to find a magnificent shiny new machine that didn’t take nickels. It required a quarter and in return I would get some beautiful jewelry or the biggest bouncy ball I’d ever seen. I asked Louella for a different coin but she said “no”, spending that kind of money on a gum ball machine was wasteful.

    I pouted all the way home and that made her laugh.

    But I had a plan. My 13 year old brother collected coins, all kinds of coins and he kept the in special books. I didn’t have a quarter but I figured I could get one, or something kind of like a quarter, out of one of those books.
   Generally, when Louella vacuumed I went along with her and pushed the vacuum on my hands and knees just for fun but that Monday I waited until Louella was downstairs vacuuming then I snuck into Jack’s room and snatched a coin I was sure would work in the wonderful new gum ball machine.

    Well the plan did not go well. Louella and I went to Piggly Wiggly the next week and the coin, which turned out to be a very rare 100 year old coin, got stuck in the machine, jammed it up. I lost the rare coin, and I did not get my giant bouncy ball. So once again I pouted all the way home.

    Before we opened the front door I could hear my brother, Jack, screaming. “She’s such a little thief Mom. She took that coin and you know it Do you know how much I paid for that? Do you remember how long it took me to find one.”
    Louella looked down at me. I was frozen in fear. “Go on Miss Pooh, open the door.”
   I shook my head.

   “Baby girl, you gotta go on in, might as well open the door”. I knew she was right.
I pushed the door open and could smell the anger in the house. My mother was sitting on the couch smoking a cigarette. She was mad. “Diana Ross McDaniel, get down here.”

   I remember taking tiny little steps. She exhaled and smoke swirled around her head. “Did you steal Jack’s coin?”

   I couldn’t speak. Tears rolled down my cheeks and I started shaking. I had to pea. I heard Louella in the kitchen putting away groceries.

   “Did you?” She yelled.

   Finally, I was able to nod my head.

   “Where is it?”

“At the store?”

   “What store damn it?” she roared

   “I tried to use it in the new gumball machine at Piggly Wiggle.”

   “Oh hells bells, you lost a 30 dollar coin in a God damn gumball machine?”
She yelled at me for what seemed like hours, then stopped suddenly, “Louella go up stairs and get me a brush.”

   “Why?” I said pathetically. “Does my hair need brushing?”

   “Never mind Louella, Pooh, you go get me my brush, right now.”

   “Yes ma’am” I whispered then set off upstairs. I took my time, hoping mom would forget. Jack glared at me then slammed his bed room door.

   When I appeared in the living room again with the tortoise shell brush she said, “Get over here right now, lean over this couch.” Her eyes look hot and black.

   “Momma, can you make Louella come out of the kitchen? Please.”

   “Why?” she barked as she stubbed out her cigarette in a heavy glass ashtray.

   “Cause she won’t let you beat me to death.”
   So poor Louella stood in the living room, tears rolling down her dark cheeks, while I got ten licks with the hair brush. Then she walked me back upstairs and washed my face. My but felt as though it had been scalded. She sat down on the edge of my bed and without saying a word I put my head in her lap. And she stayed there until fell asleep.

*What are you thinking?  Leave a comment and let me know or email to


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Kill The Romantic!…Men Are Doomed

A couple of months ago I saved a friend from making a deadly romantic mistake. The fool really liked a nurse he’d been dating and wanted to send her flowers…at work! NOOOO! You can’t do that! She’ll run away.

The poor man is over 45 so he didn’t understand the new rules. Romance is now the kiss of death.  The wonderful sweeping  gestures men used to make are taboo.  If you send her flowers you’ll seem desperate rather than romantic. If you call her and leave a sweet message or a note you are pathetic or worse  a stalker.

Men with any sense of theater or romance are doomed in this culture. A few weeks ago my daughter, Lexie wrote a blog about the cop who couldn’t stop thinking about a woman he ticketed. He left her a harmless and sweet note…so she’s suiing him.What’s the matter with you?

Good Lord woman, you are probably the same B*%ch who complaines about men and their lack or romance, at  Outback  on Martini Mondays. If a man is interested in anything more than texting a bootie call at 3am you think he’s a stalker.

Romance takes guts and imagination. Still, we slam the guy who has the nerve to send us flowers.

Twenty years ago my husband, Alex, asked me out a couple of times.  I said no, even though I liked him.  He was a handsome young chef with pretty eyes.  One night I was on a date with a landscape architect and we ended up eating at Alex’s restaurant.  When my date went to the bathroom, Alex came to the table and said, “Why are you out with him, I saw you first.”  He was so immature, sincere and romantic. He had me.

Then he had the audacity so suggest to my hapless date  he should take me for an after dinner drink at another establishment.  They shook hands like buddies. Of course, 45 minutes latter, when we arrived at the next bar, Alex was already there, waiting for us.  I was blown away by his audacity.  The clueless landscape architect didn’t stand a chance.

If a guy did this kind of stuff today, some women would not only label him a stalker but get a restraining order.

Women, stop beating up the romantic in your life. You should be thrilled anyone likes you enough to try and win your affections. Appreciate their efforts.  Every time a man does something romantic he’s so vulnerable.  Romantics put them selves out there, in the middle of the road, for us. Stop running over them.

*tell me your story, leave a comment or you can always email to Thanks, DH



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I Can’t Hold A Grudge Anymore…What a Wuss

I’ve lost my touch. Years ago I didn’t just “hold a grudge”, I fed it and rocked it to sleep. If I got mad at someone, I was absolutely brutal and didn’t have any problem cutting them out of my life with a scalpel.

I was never ugly, I didn’t speak poorly of folks I was mad at or who hurt me. I simply acted as though they didn’t exsist. They became invisible to me.

Before you start lecturing me on forgiveness let my assure you I know how damning and detrimental  anger can be . I know WAY BETER THAN ANYONE ELSE that I was hurting myself and punishing myself with this absurd behaviour. I KNOW so please don’t  tell me about the importance of forgiveness.  You think I don’t know that? Hell yeah,  I know holding a grudge and not forgiving people makes you sick inside and out, it eats at you….etc… I’m stubborn and petty but I’m not stupid.

But I’ve lost the touch. I’m such a wimp now I can’t stay mad at people anymore, even if they really really hurt me. Even when I’m mad I know I still love them. And eventually, I relent, say, “what the hell” and drop the grudge. I realized this the other day when I caught myself smiling while thinking about someone who hurt me. I was smiling and that felt good so all of a sudden I decided I wasn’t going to be pissed off any more.  Suddenly, the tilted table, the see-saw, the scale, they all felt balanced and I felt really good.

I think part of the problem has to do with cell phones. Fifteen years ago it was so easy to avoid the offender who hurt your feelings. They couldn’t reach out to me when I was in the car or working out. All I had to do was refuse to pick up the phone at home and they were out of my life.

Now, because of cell phones, you can call me and text me all the time (I have a ancient cell phone so I can’t block numbers). You can send me a text that just says, “I really miss you”. That tells me your thinking about me and my hard heart starts to thaw.

I’m kind of disappointed in myself but I’m also relieved  Holding a grudge and dropping people like dirty socks takes a lot of effort.  Yeah, I still get mad, I get crazy smokin’ hot mad. And like everyone on the planet, I get my feelings hurt when you say or do something mean.  But if I get mad at you, just a wait a couple of weeks and chance are I’ll  get over it or,  I’ll miss you so much that I will decide to keep you in my life even though you are an ass.

And hopefully, when I really tick you off and make you made you will do the same.

*if you have a hot temper let me know, if you think I’m an idiot, please let me know. Send me an email at, leave a comment, hit the rss button at the bottom. Anything so I know you’re out there. Thanks, DH



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Zombie Puke..the Greatest Christmas Gift

My boys, Sandor (age 9) and his buddy, Sam(age 8), are sitting on the floor making a fresh batch of Zombie Puke. They are utterly engrossed, reading directions, measuring powders and liquids. They dare each other to taste their creations then laugh and pretend to gag and throw up

Doctor Dreadful Zombie Lab might be the greatest Christmas gift in history. Every time Sandor has a friend  over they want to make Bubbling Brains or Zombie Skin. It all tastes like candy and looks DISGUSTING. But little boys love making it.

They read directions and measure stuff as though working on on a nuclear bomb but the end result is a revolting green lumpy sludge they want to drink.

I bought the kit in March when all the left over toys were on sale at JCPenney.  I think I ended up paying 11 dollars.  And it has been one of the most loved and requested toys in our house.  We don’t have video games or play stations but Doctor Dreadful usually beats out our  4 wheeler, the trampoline,BB guns and Nerf Guns. 

Because it’s so popular I’ve made Sandor work pretty hard to keep all the pieces together. So when little boys do come over and say, “Can we make some Zombie Brains?” we have everything they need.

Even though they use pretty crass language when they are cooking up their concoctions, I’m pretty happy, because I can refuse to help.  That means they have to read and measure and then they get to lick, slurp and chug the revolting green results. It’s a win win situation.

When Sandor goes to hang out with other boys he’s so excited to play MW3 on a PS2, or Madden Football games. Those things are really cool for him because we don’t have them. We have the Zombie Lab, a pool table, a trampoline, a basket ball goal and Legos. And all the little kids beg to come over and play. We really play.

The important thing after a night of revolting Zombie sludge… make sure everyone brushes their teeth before going to bed.  There’s nothing worse than Zombie Breath in the morning.

I’d love for you to leave a comment if not, tell me what you think Write to me at And if you get the chance please take a moment, just a second, to send this blog link to a friend. Thanks. DH



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Dirty Deeds Make Me Cry

I was lifting weights when I heard the song and started crying. Half way through my third set of bench presses  I heard the opening power cords of AC/DCs Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap. I instantly started tearing up.

 I took a deep breath. That smoking hot ridiculoulsly sleazy rock and roll anthem makes me cry every time.

Nine years ago I was pregnant with Sandor. In the middle of the work day I felt funny, went to the doctor and he said, “Holy Cow, there’s about to be a baby.”

“Can I  get my purse out of the car.”

“No you may not, call you husband and get him up here.”  My handsome young doctor grinned at me.

It was a C-Section and Alex barely made it to the hospital fast enough. We were in the operating room  holding hands.  He looked so cute in his baby blue scrubs. My body was completely numb but my head was still wide awake, so we were chatting away with the nurses.

The doctor was working away on me. Alex squeezed my hand in both of his.  I was grinning like a goof ball. Then the handsome doctor said, “Would you like some music right about now? We’re almost there.”

I was extatic and nervous and scared and I remember my mouth was really dry. The surgical lights were blinding. I nodded my head, “That would be great.”

The doctor nodded to the nurse who fumbled with a CD player and then, just as the doctor pulled Sandor from my body, my magnificent and beautiful baby boy took his first breath, and we all heard  Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap slamming through the speakers. My child was literally loosing brain cells before they cut the cord.  I was expecing some high faluting classical music, not Angus in his stupid little shorts prancing around. Where was smy Mozart? My Bach? I got freakin’ Diry Deads, what was next, Highway to Hell or Blue Balls?

Every one started laughing, Alex and were crying and laughing and for some reason no one thought to turn off the CD player for at least 45 seconds. “If you’re having trouble with the high school head…..” You know the rest

The first sounds my magical  son heard, our first seconds together in this world, included AC/DC and Angus Young

So I start crying, just a little, every time I hear that rock monster.  I’m right back there in the operating room, holding my husband’s hand and looking at my beautiful baby boy for the first time.

Go on, listen to it now, I know you want to.

Hey, I have a new request. I know there are a lot of you who don’t like leaving comments so I’m asking you “non-comment folk” to share my blog with someone you know. That’s right, you have a homework assingnment. Send a link to a blog you like to someone else  Thanks for the help. If you’d rather leave a comment, I’d love that or you can e-mail me at



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My Kid Did What? Oh, He’ll Outgrow That….I Hope

Kids  change and outgrow habits and problems.  Sometimes, they even outgrow the horrible, annoying habits that make you want to  poke yourself in the face with a fork.

I realized today I’ve been raising kids for 24 years. I’m not very good at it, but I’ve got some experience and lots of stories.

When Sandor was five or six his face did all kinds of stupid, annoying, wacky stuff. His eyes would get big then squinty, his eyebrows rolled around like a ocean waves. It was all a mess. And he obviously didn’t know he was doing anything. He had a tick and I was horrified. When the boy’s face started going crazy in the middle of a conversation it was so hard not to say,”Sandor, make you face behave”. 

So, we went to his doctor. I explained the situation to her in the hall-way, then she visited with my son and watched his face move around like a lava lamp on crack  He talked like a normal little boy but his face looked like it was made out of play-dough and it was being squished by coyotes.

As I recall she explained to me he apparently had some version of turrets. Then she added he might very well out grow the syndrome soon. Lots of kids did.  She told me should just “watch and see”.

 And she reminded me at least three times not to mention it to him or make him aware of his facial roller coaster.

Guess what?…the kid out grew his turrets. Within a year he was just a normal weirdo 6 year old who made fart jokes and thought running into walls was funny. He outgrew his turrets.

Today, I was talking to a friend who told me her son used to steal stuff when he was little. Well, he didn’t actually steal, but when he went to friend’s houses he “accidentally” took toys home that were not his. Ok, the kid was a thief. But today I would let this 12 year old boy live in my house while I was on vacation. He’s got great character and is totally trustworthy.

When Mary was little she hated brushing her hair. She would lie, cry and run away to avoid a brush. Knots the size of Key West grew in her hair, but she covered the furry nightmare knots with a few strands of brushed hair. Now Mary is georgous and has beautiful hair and I’m pretty sure she brushes it, on her own, at least once a day. She changed.

Today a little boy hung out at our house to play with Sandor. He’s only 9 years old but over and over he asked me for stuff, begged for things. He said, “please please please Miss Diana,can we go to Sonic?”

 “Please, please, please Miss Diana can we get the Planet of the Apes movie?”

 “Please, please, please Miss Diana can I have a Red Bull?”

“No buddy, you can’t”.

“Pleeeeeease, please, please, can I have a Red Bull?”

“No, Buddy, they aren’t good for you.”

“Pleeese, I drink them all the time at home”

I have faith this little guy will out grow the begging. So, in the mean time, I have to keep myself from yelling at him and it’s important I take the time to explain  why begging is not a productive practice, especially when he’s a guest.

Unfortunately, kids also grow out of things we love. Mary used to love holding two of my fingers when we walked together They all grow out of exploding with excitement and love every time you come home from work. When a three year old sees you come home it’s as though you’ve done something miraculous, something they’d been waiting for all day.  And that makes everything worth while.

When I explained to our begging buddy, he nodded, as though he understood.  And he waited for at least an hour before he said, “Can I have another Twinkie Ms Diana, please, please, please?”

*Please, write to me, or leave a comment, that makes me happy and I want to know what you think. hampoland@gmailcom


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I Don’t Want To Look Better than Average, Tell Me I’m Smokin’ Hot!

This Is Not Me...I'm just pretending

Yesterday I had to edit pictures of my husband and me, standing next to each other, smiling in the sunshine. In disgust, I finally just cropped myself out of the picture. He looked really good but I looked….well…you know.

When I told Alex what I had done he was annoyed. We have very few pictures of us together. Then he said two typical “man things.”

1. “You look just like you.” Aaahhh that’s the problem. My face. I can almost-kind-of control what my body looks like with enough running, weight lifting and martial arts. But my face does what ever the hell gravity wants it too do.

 Alex is Hungarian and the creep has great skin. Is it a good thing he’s aging so well? The man smokes a pack a day, but he doesn’t have any crows feet. What’s fair about that? And he never uses sun screen.

Then he said the words I’ve warned him about over and over, “You look fine.”

Fine!!!??? I look fine? Guys, when a woman hears “you look fine”, that’s like saying “Hey, on a scale of 1-10 you are a solid 5.” Fine is not a good thing, unless you use your Berry White voice and say, “Baby, you look sooo fine.”

In girl land “Fine” is ok, average, generally acceptable.  When I ask how I look?” lie to me if you must! Tell me I look beautiful, magnificent, hot, ravishing. Your night will improve dramatically, I promise.

When I told my friend Amelia about Alex’s response she said, “Yeah, after five years of marriage husbands turn into cousins and  brothers. They say all the wrong stuff most of the time and think it’s kind of funny when we get upset.”

Women, if you have a husband who still says nice stuff to you, who doesn’t say you look “above average” when you get all dressed up. If you have a husband or boy friend who can lie convincingly, you better love on that man. He’s a keeper.

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