I am an Auburn fan. I graduated from Auburn in 2000, my brother graduated in 1994, and my dad graduated in 1964. My husband graduated from Auburn in 1999. I bleed orange and blue.
I went to the first Auburn/Alabama game in Auburn in 1989. I cried when we won the National Championship against Oregon in 2010. I cried more when we beat Bama last year in the Iron bowl in the final second of the game. We must have listened to Rod Bramblett’s commentary of that play 30 times on the drive home.
We spend our Saturdays from late August until the end of November yelling at the TV, offering helpful advice that the coaches and players can’t seem to hear. Our neighbors from other parts of the country are amused by our devotion.
I love it when we win.
But what is almost as sweet as an Auburn win, is a Bama loss.
Anyone that can appreciate a rivalry will understand that sentiment. But the Auburn/Alabama rivalry is the king of rivalries. At least in the world of college football.
Let’s make something clear, it’s the fan base that drives this rivalry. Bama fans are some of the worst around. And the most obnoxious fans have never been enrolled in a single class at the University of Alabama.
Phyllis from Mulga, I’m talking to you.
And Harvey Updyke, may irony befall you if an oak tree falls on your trailer. How you have 6,814 followers on Twitter is reflective of the Bama fandom.
January 1 was a day for the ages. Sadly, Auburn lost their bowl game against Wisconsin in OT. We played a good game, but not good enough. No big shocker as that was loss #5 for the Tigers this year.
But FSU got absolutely smoked by Oregon at the same place where they dashed our dream of another Auburn National Title last year. There was some satisfaction in that. Especially since Jameis Winston has really shown his ass this year and Jimbo is forever defending him.
But the greatest satisfaction of the day was to watch Alabama lose to Ohio State in New Orleans. That was essentially a home game for the Tide, and they were heavily favored to win.
And if you live where I do, they weren’t just favored, it was assumed they’d win. I know many a fan that where debating whether to go to New Orleans or just wait and go to Texas in a week.
You know what they say about assumptions….
This is the mindset of a Bammer. It’s not if they’ll win, it’s when they’ll win. And if the score isn’t 65-0, they’re pissed. Even Saban has gotten ticked off at the fans for bitching about a win that wasn’t a blowout.
But, this rivalry would be no fun if Alabama was mediocre. For the Tide to forever be stuck in a Dubose/Franchione/Shula era would be boring for both sides of the state. They have to be good for this to work. And Auburn will always have to be pitted as the underdog.
But I do love it when they lose. Because the fan-meltdown is so sweet. Tune in to the Paul Finebaum show this week to watch the fireworks.
For now, I’ll leave you with this little gem…
I’m not a fan of Christmas. That sounds awful. Let me clarify. I love the Christ story; the Son of God being born to a virgin in a stable with all of the animals surrounding him is beautiful. Tears well up every time I read Luke 2. It’s all the other stuff that I don’t care for.
The tree. The bows. The garland. The glitter, ohhh the glitter! They really are the herpes of crafting supplies. The red and green everything. Why are there monogrammed socks on my mantle? Santa, reindeers, the Elf on the Shelf. The general disruption to my regular household decorations/furniture arrangement really grinds my gears.
The relentless perfume commercials. The relentless everything commercials. Who gives a Lexus with a big red bow on it as a Christmas gift?! The traffic. We have the Internet! Amazon will bring your stuff in two days! And you don’t have to even leave the house! I thought this was common knowledge.
4 months of activity packed into 25 days. Don’t ask me to do anything. My calendar’s full. All of this forced merriment is exhausting!
These really are princess problems. I’m rereading this thinking, “People in other parts of the world would think I’m utterly spoiled to be complaining about this.” They’re right. I truly can’t see the forest for the [Christmas] trees.
However, I’ve had an epiphany, of sorts. Colored lights. I really like colored lights. I know, some people think they’re tacky. But I really love them. My neighborhood is awash in classy white lights and tasteful decorations. But I’ve chosen colored lights.
I stopped sending Christmas cards years ago. Too much work. I order all my gifts online. I put up fewer decorations this year than I have ever before. And what I do have up has colored lights on it. And I’m happy. I think I have found the sweet spot in a holiday that normally puts me in a stressed-out funk.
Simplicity. And colored lights.
Your mom did it. You probably do it. But why? Why do we take pictures of our dining room table? Do we look back at these photos and think, “Yes! Thanksgiving 1996! The table looked spectacular! Remember that centerpiece? And those napkin rings! Really top notch! We should frame that picture!”
My mom would waste precious film from our 110 Instamatic camera to take two, maybe three pictures of her table. If you’re younger than 25, you will have no idea what I’m talking about.
But if you’re not, think about it; if you have 24 exposures on your film, and you take three photos of your table, that’s 13% of your exposures. 13% of your exposures devoted to photos you will never frame. Photos with no people in it. Why?
I did it today…
One day I’m going to replace all the framed photos of my kids with photos of all my dining room tables throughout the years. Easter 2004 was a big year, if I remember correctly. Leg of lamb was served. Maybe I’ll blow it up to and 8×10….
We have a routine. After my husband and I put our kids to bed, we sit. For almost two hours, we sit. We watch T.V., talk, and play on our iPads. We drink wine. We have come up with a creative name for this time.
My husband named it, and he has admitted he is creatively challenged. Bless his heart.
We can’t go to sleep until some amount of Sitting Time has been achieved.
We also have some feline friends that join us in our Sitting Time. They only sit with me, despite my husband’s pleading. I guess I am the Chosen One.
More likely, they are aware that I’m the one that feeds them. What they fail to realize is that my husband is the one that funds the feeding. I blame their walnut-sized brain for this oversight.
This happens every night…
So, we sit. And apparently take pictures of our cats sitting with us. Surely I’m not the only one that does this! Am I?
I’m not on Facebook. I was. Twice. And I’ve quit twice. I deleted my account over a year ago, and it was liberating. Do I really need to know about all the fun runs, 5K’s, half marathons, color runs, marathons, everyone participates in?
If it wasn’t for social media, would folks still be doing all this running? I’m not running anywhere unless I’m being chased by a bear.
I don’t need to know what your selling. I’m sure you feel strongly about your product, but don’t friend me when you really just want to solicit me. We’re all onto your game.
I don’t need to know when you check into the gym, a restaurant, the airport, church, Target, etc. I don’t need a picture of your child doing something I’m sure you think is “totes adorbs” every. single. day. And for the love, I don’t need a daily selfie.
But it wasn’t all of the over-sharing that drove me off Facebook. It was Facebook that drove me off Facebook.
When I got on the first time, I had a four year old and a two year. I felt housebound and isolated. So, I friended everyone I’ve ever known. Ever. That’s a huge mistake, especially when you try to un-friend them.
“Ohhh, that’s the reason I haven’t talked to Suzy for 12 years! She’s crazy!”
Turns out Suzy and I have 268 mutual friends, and I’m stuck with her, because if I unfriend her she’s going to notice. And then she’s going to start running off at the mouth about me.
Because remember, Suzy’s crazy.
I got off for a few months to purge and start over. This next time was better. I was much more careful who I friended. And then Facebook threw me a curve-ball.
There was this little sidebar that showed when someone, anyone, would comment or like a friend’s post. All you had to do was click on that notification and you could see the whole thread. Now Suzy can see when I like or comment on one of our 268 mutual friends posts, even though I’m not friends with Suzy anymore.
That was it! I took my toys and went home.
Well, not home. Just Twitter.
Overall, it has been a good decision. However, I do have some friends and acquaintances that I only talked to via Facebook. They’re good people. Some of them are old friends that don’t live in the same city as me anymore. Some are just friends that for whatever reason, we have drifted into different circles. I’ve lost touch with them.
Some people that I was FB friends with are church friends, but our church is about 30 minutes away. Our kids don’t go to the same school. We don’t live in the same neighborhood. I don’t see them at Publix. Our paths only cross on Sunday mornings and special occasions. Facebook helped me stay connected to these people.
This is the baby. But there is an awful lot of bathwater that I was more than happy to get rid of.
But I really do miss the baby.
I love Waffle House. I love bacon and egg’s served to me by a snaggle-toothed waitress that calls me “Hun.” I don’t mind drinking coffee off a still- wet table that smells of Clorox and old syrup. I like the cacophony of sounds of fresh dishes being unloaded from the steaming dishwasher while orders are shouted to the cook.
It doesn’t bother me that the construction workers at the next booth reek of cigarette smoke. They don’t converse with one another while they eat. They’re focused. Their bellies are getting full at a nominal price.
I love it all!
Folks are always making fun of Wah-Ho. It’s dirty, they say. The clientele is unsavory, they say. The food is revolting, they say. They’re not necessarily wrong. They just don’t know the rules.
Not all Waffle Houses are the same, except after 11p.m. on a Saturday night. Then, they are all exactly alike. Do go then. Unless you’re drunk.
Don’t go to the ones on the scary side of town. But this logic is the same for McDonalds, Taco Bell, Popeye’s, and all gas stations. Use your head, people!
Be nice to the waitresses. Like, your-pastor-is-in-the-next-booth nice. This woman is raising 6 kids, two of which are her grandkids, all by herself. She has unfortunate teeth. She hasn’t got time for your bitching and moaning about the alleged “hair in your eggs.” Pick it out and move on. It’s probably your own hair anyway.
Don’t go to the bathroom. They haven’t had time to clean the vomit off the floor from some lush that can’t hold his liquor. These are waitresses, not janitors. And custodial duties don’t tip. Just hold your pee-pee until you get home.
Don’t special-order anything. They are cranking out waffles at a rate 72-per-hour. They don’t have time for your egg white omelette and turkey bacon.
Accept it for what it is. And enjoy it!
Waffle House is a working-people’s place. Full of people that have to work for their money, serving people who have to work for their money. These people don’t have an image they are trying to maintain. They have their families they’re trying to maintain. Means-to-an-end. Why else would they put up with it?!
And if you do it right, it’s really not that bad!
Every year it’s the same thing. Spooky ghosts and ghouls are displayed on porches alongside carved pumpkins. Little kids run around neighborhoods dressed up as super heroes and princesses, pillowcases in hand, all jacked up on sugar. Then the next day, Ho, Ho, Ho, Santa Claus is coming to town! And Mattress King is having a 25% off sale to celebrate!
Wait! Remember Thanksgiving?!
Thanksgiving was a big deal when I was a kid. We celebrated it in school. We were taught that the pilgrims fled England in pursuit of religious freedom. That had it not been for the help of the Indians, all of the pilgrims would have died. We were taught to be thankful for their perseverance and their faithfulness. And we were taught to be thankful for what we have.
And we didn’t do this with a decorated Christmas tree in the background!
The problem with Thanksgiving is that it’s not a marketable holiday. You need a turkey, but they’re not terribly expensive. And one healthy bird can feed about 15 people.
And you can reuse your Halloween pumpkins for decoration, provided it didn’t already collapse from a heat-stroke on your front porch. And if you need to replace it, again, not that spendy.
Poor Thanksgiving. It’s been squeezed out by the man in red. We know it hasn’t been squeezed out by Jesus. Apparently we aren’t supposed to talk about Him anymore. I know this because I keep seeing ads for “holiday gifts” and “holiday cards” and “holiday decorations.”
I don’t think I’ve ever received a holiday gift. Nor have I ever given one.
Therefore, in order to preserve Thanksgiving, I move that we reschedule it to the first Tuesday in March. Nothing happens in March. It’s wide open. Thanksgiving will get the full glory it deserves!
Because we can’t seem to squeeze in time on a Thursday in November to stop buying things and be thankful for what we have.
Ahhh, salt pork! What a delight! I had no idea what this was until I was about 20. I was a student at Auburn University, and I had a hankering for some turnip greens. More likely, my boyfriend (now husband) had a hankering for some turnip greens.
An elderly woman at the Kroger saw my turnips spilling every which-a-way out of my cart. She proceeded to inform me of the finer points of cooking greens.
Salt pork is key. If you don’t know what it is, it’s like the first cousin of bacon. The smaller, fatter cousin that everyone ignores. What a shame!
Salt pork and copious amounts of chicken bouillon. That’s it! Not bacon, not ham hocks, not ham shanks. It must be salt pork. And no sugar. That’s a sacrilege!
Use pepper sauce if you want when they’re done. And cornbread. To sop up all the greens/salt pork goodness.
Use the same method to cook black eyed peas, lima beans, green beans, butter beans, field peas, speckled butter beans. Really, for all of your slow-simmered legume needs.
A hearty salute to the old lady at Kroger. Thanks for helping me cook with soul for the last 17 years!
I told my daughters this morning that they’d need to take a sack lunch to school tomorrow, and they laughed at me. I wasn’t expecting them to laugh.
It took me a moment to realize why they thought sack lunch was funny. When I was their age (around 35 years ago), sack lunch wasn’t funny. I carried a sack lunch to school every day, and nobody laughed. I think I even called it a sack lunch. Everybody called it that. But somewhere along the way, kids picked up on the word sack, and a new source of humor was created.
Now I can’t say sack in front of my daughters; I have to say “brown paper bag.” If I had two sons, maybe it wouldn’t matter much. But…
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