Fleeting

We all know Spring is fleeting. Sometimes, though, Spring leaves us before we're ready.

One day, branches are heavy and fragrant with fluffy, sweet-smelling blossoms. Before we know it, the blossoms wilt and fly with the wind. They're still recognizable, they're still beautiful--lining the sidewalks, carpeting the ground, dotting the grass--but their days are numbered.

Sweet Tea is going on a little hiatus. Drink up every bit of Spring you can.

Y'all be good and take it easy on yourselves.

HEY, GUUUURRRRRLLLL!

Heyyyyyyy, Alfred!

Hey, Bryyyyyyyyyyyaaaannnnn!!!

Alllllllllisonnnnnnnnn!!! Haaaaaaayyyyy!

Hey, Pamelaaaaaaaaaa!!!

HEY, GURL!!!

Come on. Why else would people just put their names on their license plates? The next time you see one, be sure to say, "Heeeeeyyyyyyy!!!"

(By the way, the label "Crackpipes and Sewing" comes from the above video at 2:03. Heeeeeyyyyy!)

Cathy & Gramma Betty: Shots Fired

Regal kittens--

Whether the idea of Britain's royal family infuriates you because they've never known a single day of real work and they live in unimaginable wealth, or you are so awed by them that you woke up at 3am to watch Diana's funeral procession even though you were taking an honors courseload that was so heavy you had to have the dean's approval  and Will and Catherine's wedding just to see what she'd wear, even though it meant you would be dead at work the next day and it would be the only thing on TV the next three days, can we all agree that, at the very least, the royals are interesting to watch?

That said, I thought I'd do a super-fun Cathy (aka Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge, ugh) vs. Gramma Betty (aka, Her Royal Highness, Queen Elizabeth of Fucking England, bitches) comparison, just to make sure we all know what's what and just to reiterate the fact that--sometimes--Grammy's little princess needs to be reminded who's queen.

Colors

Ah, Cathy, don't you look so appropriate in your lovely, knee-length navy blue dress and your shiny hair and your....snoooooooore. Oh, I'm sorry--must've fallen asleep. Thank GAWD I awoke just in time to see the lovely Easter Egg vision with the gazilion gilded buttons and the See If I Give A Fuck, Commoners Ruby Red lipstick. (Should I even mention Camilla? Ol' girl don't stand a chance...)

Shoes

If they could talk, Cathy's shoes would say, "Dearie me. Prancing down the aisle of the church has left me quite tired indeed. Are you quite certain we must walk through at least 100 commoners to the waiting Rolls?"

Gramma Betty's shoes say, "Diamond Jubilee, bitches! That's 60 years I've been on THIS throne, muthafuckas! Park that car in the garage, Jeeves--Gramma Betty's about to work this fuckin' crowd in her sensible, beat-up kicks! Hide 'n' watch, bitches!"

(Also, another win for Gramma Betty in the color department! AND: Seriously, how adorable is this picture??)

Rack

Holy shit. Take it off, Betty! Set those beautiful mammaries free! No comparison necessary.

Photobomb

Bitch knows how to photobomb. The future queen. On her wedding day. AHAHAHAHAAA!!!

Do we even need to tally the score? Bitch would mop up a barroom floor with any trick's ass without even needing to straighten her pink and purple hat. Then she'd down a straight shot of scotch and be the hell on her way.

Bow down, peasants!!!

WWJD: What Would Jesus Drive?

Reflective kittens--

If you're sick of getting your worship on behind the closed doors of a church and you'd like a more public forum to demonstrate your religious humility, then look no further than the ass end of your car!

Jesus, take the wheel!

Can we agree that you're just begging to be made an example of when you combine a dick parking job and a dick rhetorical license plate question?

Before anyone sends me hate mail, know that I'm not making fun of religion or being religious. Far from it. Actually, I'm making an argument for the sanctity of religion and being religious: as far as I'm concerned, even if your convictions are pure and strong, it kind of cheapens them as soon as they're stuck out there on the hind end of your vehicle, stopped at the Taco Bell drive-thru.

Is this really the place that you want to share your private, innermost, dearest convictions with the world? And how do those convictions look when the driver in front of you cuts you off and you give him the ol' one-fingered DC-area howdy? Is this where you want to be driving a license plate asking What Would Jesus Do To You?

Thinly Veiled Bullshit

Kittens!

Are you ever out and about, mindin' your own, and you smell the unmistakable stench of bullshit in the air? Even if you look around and see all evidence to the contrary, your bullshit-smellin' nose don't lie, amirite?

The bullshit: "Joe Paterno: More than a man. More than a coach. You touched our lives and our souls."

The thin veil: "Joe Paterno: Less of a man--or even human--than we ever imagined. Nothing more than an over-glorified football coach. You looked the other way while a grown man touched little lives and souls for no other reason than...being an over-glorified football coach. Hope they serve Denny's in hell. Or warm applesauce. Or warm milk. Or whatever."

The bullshit: Two of three people using phones. At the table. In a restaurant. One's the mom; one's the kid.

The thin veil: My husband and I are soooo busy, y'all. Sooo important. Save your judgment, because what looks like rudeness on my part, indifference on my husband's, and rude indifference on our kid's is just our way of teaching him to multi-task. Manners? That's what school is for, bitches. But, hey, look--at least we all wear St. Patrick's Day green together! Yay for family time!

The bullshit: KFC. A #1-rated Zagat restaurant.

The thin veil: "...within the mega-chain category..." Still. I call shenanigans.

Y'all have a great weekend, take it easy, and I'll see you back here on Monday.

VPL

Stylish kittens--

Do you give an eff about clothes or fashion? Most women seem to think it matters, and then a funny thing happens: they start thinking that what they think matters to everyone else.

News flash, bitches: it doesn't. Ain't nobody give a damn.

Still, they go on. One fashion "sin" that seems to get a lot of attention is VPL: Visible Panty Lines.

Here's what one proclaimer has to say:

VPL has been a fashion faux pas since time immemorial, unlike what people sporting it might think. VPL generally happens if the bottoms are too tight or the panty is of a size smaller than required or both. Smaller size panties do not make your ass look tighter. It wounds up making you a subject of laughter behind your back.

"Since time immemorial"? Nice, real nice. Way to keep perspective, bitch.

And another:

For many fashionistas, VPL scores at the top of the worst fashion blunders. To avoid this fashion calamity, opt for seamless nude underwear or thongs.

Yeah. A thong. That'll fix things. In addition to being nasty conduits to infection, the panty lines they create say, "Form a line, boys. No pushing."

The problem with all the clothes above isn't the panties--it's the clothes.

It's like this: I don't wear big ol' granny panties and I don't wear skank-tight clothes. BUT. If I happen to bend over or the wind blows or you catch me at the right angle, there's a chance you may see a VPL. And there's a reason: I'm wearing panties, dick! Don't like it? Quit lookin' at my ass!

Who loves ya, male bleaders?

(As you may have guessed, these are just some of the outtakes from my recent moonlighting gig...try not to judge too harshly.)

Spring

Spring chickens--

Today is the first day of Spring. If poets, spiritualists, and lowly English majors are to be believed, then Spring is the season of life. And if Spring is indeed the season of life, then God is the greatest poet ever:

You know how some folks say that everything happens for a reason? I just can't believe that. Period. As far as I'm concerned, some stuff just happens. I'll spare you the details, but I'm convinced of it.

That said, I don't think that it's any accident that God gave my mom to the world on the this day, the first day of the season of life.

How lovely and fitting that her birthday falls on this day as a reminder of opportunity, of hope, and of new beginnings. This is a season to enjoy the freshness of life, the sweetness of flowers, and the awakening of the earth, because Spring is short. It will be over in a breath.

"To Spring" by William Blake

O thou with dewy locks, who lookest down
Thro' the clear windows of the morning, turn
Thine angel eyes upon our western isle,
Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!

The hills tell each other, and the listening
Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turned
Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth,
And let thy holy feet visit our clime.

Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds
Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us taste
Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls
Upon our love-sick land that mourns for thee.

O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour
Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put
Thy golden crown upon her languished head,
Whose modest tresses were bound up for thee.

Happy Spring, dear bleaders--we have only so many Springs in our lives, and I hope you and I have many together.

You Leavin' The House Like That?

Fun-loving, frolicking little kittens--

Won't you join me in some post-St. Patrick's Day making fun of dumbasses? Relax. Don't feel guilty. These, uh, ladies and gentlemen wouldn't dress this way if they didn't want you to look at and judge them.

Let's get on with the pointing and laughing, shall we?

So. Guys like hot girls, right? But on St. Patrick's Day, I actually saw two girls (and, by the way they were dressed and carrying themselves, I'm pretty sure they'd convinced themselves that they were indeed hot) who were dressed so St.-Patrick's-Day-trampy that a couple of guys said, "Look. It must be Skank Patrick's Day." Tragic.

For all you ladies over 40...and 30...hell, over 25...you're old enough that you don't have to succumb to any kind of pressure whatsofuckingever to don a bunch of stupid green shit on St. Patrick's Day. So...don't. Please.

Boys. Please don't. Please notice the fact that, despite this man's "I'm the guy" t-shirt ("I'm Irish: wanna see my leprechaun?"), there are no women around him. Anywhere. Except for me. Taking his douchey picture.

And because I think bad pictures are funny and I have no pride, here's a non-St. Pat's pic for you. It's what I wore to take out my trash tonight. It didn't occur to me what a classy ensemble it was until I ran into my neighbor. Never walk out of the house like this, kids.

Sweatshirt with week-old cake batter stain. Sweatpants. Big, fuzzy, stripey socks (my feet stay cold). Shoes...

Lucy! Out of the way, sweetie...

Leather ballet flats. Sexaaaaayyyyy.

Kittens, are you willing to send me pics of your embarrassing outfits? You can cut out your faces...

Or, as always, keep those cameras at the ready for the people that you meet when you're walkin' down the street!

Translation

My delicate little tulips,

Do you not have your Dickhead Decoder Ring on today? Poor, unfortunate you. 

Allow me to translate the message being conveyed by this here vehicle operator:

What up, suckas? I'm noticin' you noticin' me in this here sports car with a handicapped hang-tag rollin' dick-on-wheels, and I reckon that squeeze in your froat is from the douche fumes coming out of my exhaust sheer awesomeness of this overpriced German engineering and this bad-ass muthafucken parking job. Bow down, bitches.

In case you ain't noticed, I park how I wanna park when I roll into the mall to scout for high school chicks who wouldn't notice me even if I shit hundred dollar bills. This parking job says, "What up, hataz? You best speed on before you get peed on. Your parking spot's clear on the other side of Sears, about three football fields out. What now, bitch?"

Wanna know my secret? It's like this: I know a guy. We'll call him Buddy. Known each other since college when we could barely even get the ugliest, bitchiest, skankiest girls to bang us. Somehow, his dumb ass got into medical school and now he writes me bullshit excuses for the holy grail of parking passes: the handicap tag.

And--in case you were wondering--YEAH. Yeah, I saw that Vietnam vet with a plastic hip, glass eye, and permanent limp who parked his Toyota Corolla out in BFE throw me a hard side-eye as I slid into this parking spot on two wheels and then hopped right the hell out and skipped into the mall, happy as a schoolgirl hopped up on helium.

And for all you shit-talkin', piece-o-crap bloggers out there, thanks for the shout-out to my little FUCK-YOU license plate. You like that, don'tcha?

Produce Section Peepaw

Tender kittens--

Your faithful Sweet Tea has a bit of a spotty romantic past. Try as I might, I always seem to end up with Mr. Wrong.

You wouldn't think this would be the case. I mean--relatively speaking, of course--I'm smart, sweet, funny, an awesome cookie-baker, and totally humble about it all. Also, I earn a respectable living by moonlighting as a model. Here are some candid pics of me (sorry for not being too photogenic and having fat days):

(To my male bleadership: you're welcome.)

And, yes, the hinges on my revolving door stay hot. Did you even need to ask?

Sometimes, though, I'd really like to meet someone who gets me, you know?

Hey--wanna hear a story? Of someone who most assuredly did not get me?

So there I was. Like, five years ago. Blind date (eff you, match.com). Ol' boy was really nice, if a bit showy-offy and kind of pretentious. But really funny. And totally a gentleman (aka, he didn't hump my leg when he took me home). I had a really fun time and laughed like crazy.

The next day, I had lunch with a dear friend of mine. Told her all about it. The following words actually came out of my mouth: "It may have been my best first date ever."

Later that evening (the day after our first date), he called to say hi. Turned out, we were in the same neighborhood. He asked if I felt like meeting for dinner. Even though it was impromptu, it felt really sweet and casual and sincere, so I said yes.

I got to the restaurant and...where was the guy from last night? This guy was all over me. Holding my hand and licking my face and rubbing my arms all hot and heavy. Doing this creepy staring-into-my-eyes-three-inches-away thing. I was creeped out. People were staring. The waiter was uncomfortable.

The waiter, obviously OVER IT, asked if we wanted to order something. Can you believe that DICK TRIED TO ORDER FOR ME?!?! When the waiter asked me if that was what I preferred, I said I'd like to make a slight adjustment to my order. Dick said, "Whatever. Bring my future wife anything she wants." Second date, kids.

Shall I bore you with the details of the one-knee proposal or his declaration of love that followed as I practically ran away (no kidding, kittens), or will you trust me when I tell you that ol' boy did not, ahem, get me?

Not really sure where I'm going with all this, except to say that sometimes, when you see what you want, you just gotta grab a net and catch that beautiful butterfly! Also, I need an excuse to post these crazy-hot pics.

Check out this beautiful butterfly I spotted fluttering around the produce section at the Wegman's. Suit jacket. Beat-up t-shirt. Cargo shorts. BLACK TIGHTS. Brown suede shoes.

There are times when a free-with-contract phone simply fails to capture the presence, the magnificence, the sex-on-fire magnitude of a peepaw in the produce section who won't be bound by the sartorial confines of these repressive times we're living in.

Please accept my apologies for failing to get the elusive full-frontal, but this hot bitch was as fleeting as a unicorn.

************************

Hey, kittens--I'm taking a long weekend, so y'all be good and take it easy, and I'll see you back here on Monday for more jolly good fuckery good times.