Hmm … Either Make Moonshine Or Force A Cactus To Bloom

As I may have alluded earlier this week, I've been feeling under the weather. My point here is not to elicit sympathy, but to explain the circumstances that led me to spend several hours trying to force my Christmas cactus to bloom.

For the past several days, I've been feeling terrible but maintained a "suck it up, Nancy" mindset. Which was fine until Wednesday morning when my eyeballs felt hot. It was at this point that I decided to cancel everything and dedicate the entire day to getting over being sick.

Eyeballs afire will do that to a person.

I settled onto the couch, remote in one hand and a jumbo box of Kleenex in the other. I stayed in this position long enough to develop an intense adoration for the boys on Moonshiners (caught a marathon on Discovery Channel).

Deciding that watching more Moonshiners would only lead me to believe that I could build my own still and make a hundred grand selling jugs of white lightening in a single season, I shut off the TV and went in search of a more productive use of my time that would still, technically, not be illegal or strenuous enough to make my illness linger any longer.

Enter the Christmas cactus.

I've had this cactus for several years and I love her.

(Yes, it's most definitely a her. She clearly gives off a feminine vibe, which means she's either a girl or Richard Simmons in cactus form.)

My cactus is still very green and healthy looking, but I've realized that it has been a few years since she's bloomed. To be fair, the last time she bloomed was at Easter, not at Christmas. I think homegirl has some issues. But. This is going to be her year. I decreed 2012 as the Year of the Blooming Cactus.

Except that I don't know how to make a cactus bloom. Good thing Google knows.

As it turns out, it doesn't take much to make a cactus bloom. It mostly involves indirect sunlight and several hours of darkness every day. I think I can handle that. Of course, I might not be the best judge of what I can handle considering I spent several hours watching a grown man named Tickle make and run hootch all over southwestern Virginia.

Pretty sure at some point in his life, Tickle has felt like his eyeballs were on fire too.

The good news is that today I feel better and I'm ninety percent sure that (after just one day) my Christmas cactus has buds on it.

Not gonna lie, I kinda want to celebrate this occasion with a dirty mason jar of moonshine.

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And That's Why I Love Klondike Bars

Yesterday, one of the worst possible things that could happen to me occurred: I lost my voice.

Gasp! Shock! Outrage! No!

Tis true, my homies. Tis true. I had no voice.

In fact, the only audio I could utter sounded suspiciously like an amorous bullfrog.

(Yes, I really do know what an amorous bullfrog sounds like. I live an interesting and colorful life filled with weird country noises. Visit me sometime.)

My family was less than sympathetic with my despair over being voiceless. They weren't devastated. They didn't offer words of support or encouragement. Instead, they rejoiced.

That's right. My family was thrilled that I couldn't speak.

They may have even danced a happy jig in the living room. Then, they decided to mess with me a bit.

Dinner in our house is usually a lively affair with stories of everyone's day and casual conversation sprinkled with lots of laughter. I love it.

Last night was different. Very, very different. My family decided to be silent. As in they didn't speak.

At all.

Not even bullfrog noises.

Last night you could have heard a mouse fart half a mile away.

(I'm pretty sure one did.)

The silence was painful. It made me crazy because I like a noisy chatter during mealtime.

At one point I started whacking my fork against my plate just to have the utter stillness go away.

After twenty frustrating and silent minutes, I managed to croak out "There are Klondike bars in the freezer for dessert". An involuntary "woo hoo!" escaped from my oldest's mouth. It simultaneously broke the silence and restored my faith in my family.

God love those good folks at the Klondike bar factory.


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Black Friday Ain't For The Weak

Generally speaking, I am a person of peace. A proud member of the "Can't we all just get along?" club. I like life safely here in the neutral zone, located on the other end of town from the openly hostile and aggressive zone.

Occasionally situations arise in which the peaceful people have to abandon sitting around the campfire, holding hands and singing Kumbaya, to get our aggression on. You know, take a stand. Aside from attacks on my family members (which is a given), this aggressive stand occurs about once a year.

For me, it usually involves some type of sale.

On Black Friday.

Ah … Black Friday. The day in which the sales are on and there are bargains to be found. I love hunting bargains with my friends in the wee hours of the morning. I kinda dig the long lines waiting for the sales to start and the camaraderie of fellow shoppers in those lines with me. We forge strong bonds while we wait just by chatting about our shopping lists, the bargains we are after, and comparing how much we overate at Thanksgiving.

These bonds (and a little something called karma) are what helped me earn my Total Bad Ass badge this Black Friday.

(Pretty sure the Girl Scouts don't really have a Total Bad Ass badge. The Girl Scouts probably don't offer any badges with the word "ass" in them. I'm sure it goes against Girl Scout policy.)

The scene was an extremely crowded big box store. There were cardboard shelves throughout the main aisles of the store, each unit housing a special "door buster" priced item. Each cardboard unit was wrapped in clear plastic so you could see the items, but you couldn't purchase them until the sale officially started and the store employees cut through the plastic wrap.

The shelves containing the item that I desired had a small group of people standing beside it. I was the fourth person in the group. For forty minutes the group and I chatted.

We laughed.

We cried.

We bonded.

We're practically besties.

Then, with fifteen minutes left to go before the sale began, a twenty-something girl arrived. Within five seconds she had shoved a totally unsuspecting and peace loving me out of the way.

This punk had stolen my place in line.

Oh no she didn't.

But she did. And she was muscling her way up to the front of the line.

With two minutes to go before the sale started, the Punk was moving in for the kill. She had her eye on being the first in line and claiming every copy of the game we were all in line to score. She started crowding in on the two women in front of her. She used her shopping cart in a way that I'm sure shopping carts weren't meant to be used.

One minute left.

The line leaders realized what the Punk was doing and they devised a plan: use the Punk's shopping cart against her.

It was brilliant in its simplicity.

Five seconds to go time.

Line leader suddenly whipped around and pushed the Punk's cart into her stomach while the second person in line grabbed two copies of the hotly desired game: one for her and one for the line leader/cart weapon wielder.

After that, the line disintegrated and a massive wall of people surged forward. I was momentarily caught off guard by the onslaught of sweaty human bodies.

(Most reeked of turkey and booze. It wasn't pretty, but then again, war is never pretty.)

I made a split second decision. While all the shoppers were leaping over people to get to the games, I would go under the people. I'm short. I'm used to being close to the floor.

I threw myself to my knees like a volleyball player digging a ball and slid, honest-to-God slid, under the crowd of stinky people to arrive at the cardboard shelving unit. With the Punk right behind me.

She started to leap on top of me to reach the remaining games first. I raised my elbow up to protect my face and someway, somehow, my elbow connected with the Punk.

Specifically, her left boob.

Exploiting her momentary shock, I grabbed the remaining four copies of the highly sought after game, kept one for myself and doled out the others to my new homies who had stood in line for an hour with me.

The Punk actually sneered at me as I smugly waltzed past her. Before I could stop myself, I yelled "Karma's a bitch!" to the Punk.

It was a defining moment in my Black Friday shopping career.

I was reliving my moment later that morning with T and Banana over cheeseburgers and fries at Steak N Shake when it hit me.

I'm a total bad ass. Even T, the self-appointed Commissioner of Bad Ass-ness (Indiana division) had to agree.

I think I need to embroider myself a badge.


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Just Some Of The Things I Am Thankful For

Just some of the things I am thankful for on Thanksgiving … well, every day for that matter (emphasis on some 'cause I'm thankful for a whole lotta other stuff, too):

My husband

Okay. My husband AND my kids

Breyer's all natural vanilla ice cream

My caped Wonder Woman socks

My Grandmother … and her rather large, stolen zucchini

My homies

And John Hughes. Because he's awesome.

Amen.

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I Gots Mad Skillz

My skills set is pretty limited. Shocking, but true.

I'm okay at lots of different things and I survive day-to-day living just fine, but I'm not outstanding at any one thing. I'm not known for being/making/doing anything impressive.

The culinary arts elude me. The mechanical arts befuddle me. The creative arts escape me. The athletic arts … well, I tripped over them.

But. This weekend I discovered that there is an art form in which I excel. Oh yes. I am amazing at … Connect 4.

You know, the kid's game.

People, I am a Connect 4 savant.

I don't know what came over me this weekend, but I was channeling some serious Connect 4 juju. It was amazing. Not only was I winning every game, but I was trapping my opponent. It didn't matter where she plunked her black coin in an effort to block me, I had different options of places to go for a win.

Different. Options. For. The. Win.

Of the twenty or so games I played, I only lost two. My two losses had less to do with the skill level of my opponent and more to do with the distracting background music playing on the stereo (dang you, Kenny Rogers. I cannot resist your voice of velvet or your storytelling song writing style).

When my husband arrived home later Sunday afternoon, I was still riding high on the wave of multiple Connect 4 victories and the new found knowledge that this was my calling. Excitedly I began to regale him with details from all of my wins.

He looked impressed at first, then kinda puzzled. Finally, he started to laugh.

Laughter wasn't the response I thought I would receive. Kudos and accolades? Yes. Perhaps even a small, tasteful trophy. But laughter? No.

I asked him what the crap was so funny. His response? "Before you go joining a competitive Connect 4 league, you do realize that you played and won against a ten year old, right?"

What a buzzkill.

In my defense, my opponent was a ten and a half year old who displayed surprising amounts of skill.

When she wasn't distracted by me flipping pieces of homemade Chex Mix at her.

More importantly, there is a Connect 4 league? I have got to look into this. Connect 4 is my calling.

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Today Is Going To Be Spectacular

Today is going to be spectacular. Yes, I know it's Monday, but still. Today is going to be spectacular.

I know today is going to be great because this was the view out my backdoor.

It's simply not possible to have a terrible day after viewing this sunrise.

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A Sure Sign That Summer Is Dead

This morning there was a heavy frost outside. The sun was up and it made the frost look very sparkly. I like sparkly stuff, so I grabbed my camera and dashed outside to snap a few photos.

No. Not really. I don't really dash anywhere in the morning … especially cold mornings.

Even though it was cold outside, the frost was pretty snazzy and my mood lifted. In fact, I was almost enjoying myself.

Almost.

I turned around in the yard and spotted something awful. Something dreadful. Something that made my good mood evaporate.

There, in the yard, was a sure sign that summer is dead: frost on a dandelion.

This is just dang depressing.

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And That's Why I Shouldn't Wander Around Looking For A Restroom

While in search of a restroom on the Chocolate Walk, I wandered down a side street and into an interesting niche shop. Not exactly my niche, but kinda cool nonetheless.

The name of the shop is what sucked me inside.

House. Of. Jerky.

To be honest, I've never been a fan of dried foods, be them meats, fruits, or veggies. I blame two separate reasons.

Reason 1: The fact that I worked at McDonald's while in high school.

With the exception of the Quarter Pounder, McDonald's burgers used reconstituted onions. Reconstituted onions were formerly dried onions, but rehyrdrated with water. Totally turned me off of dried foods. I don't even like raisins. I much prefer them in their undried state as grapes.

Reason 2: For at least a dozen years, my husband and I (along with several friends) attended the Jimmy Buffett concert every summer. Upon one occasion, I imbibed one too many margaritas and wasn't feeling well in the car on the ride home. In his infinite wisdom, my husband pulled into a convenience store to buy himself some teriyaki beef jerky as a snack. Teriyaki beef jerky has it's own particular odor, one that I don't find to be pleasing. My stomach threatened to revolt all over the interior of the car if he didn't immediately throw the jerky out the window.

Long story short, instead of throwing the offending teriyaki beef jerky out of the speeding car, my husband ate the entire bag as quickly as possible, making himself positively reek of the stuff the entire way home. I wasn't amused and didn't forgive him for days.

Thus my aversion to any and all dried foods.

But a store named House of Jerky demands an investigation, especially when they sold turkey jerky. I don't want to eat it, but turkey jerky is dang fun to say. Plus, the House of Jerky advertised kangaroo jerky. Kangaroo jerky isn't something one finds every day in Indiana and I just had to lay eyes upon it.

Sadly, the House of Jerky was sold out of kangaroo jerky. Apparently several Chocolate Walkers needed a salty snack to offset all the sweet treats they had enjoyed and the stash of kangaroo jerky was raided. It was the first of many jerky casualties of the day: the gator, goose, and wild boar were also sold out.

However, there was a surprising amount of teriyaki beef jerky left.

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The Chocolate Walk: Kinda Like Mardi Gras But With Less Boobs and Beads

This being November (the month of thankfulness and all) I'd like to say a massive thank you to a couple of folks. I have to give a big shout out to the Aztec people (my new homies) for giving us the deliciousness called "xocoatl" and to Hernado Cortes and crew for adding sweeteners to it, thus giving the world chocolate.

(Mmm … chocolate)

And many, many thanks to the Brown County Humane Society for hosting a Chocolate Walk.

(Mmm … chocolate walk)

Let me explain the concept of the Chocolate Walk. For a nominal donation to the Humane Society, my friend Gayle and I were given classy hot pink buttons that we were to safety pin onto our person somewhere. Mine originally went on my jacket, then my shirt, then my jacket again, and back to my shirt before I finally ripped a page out of the Gayle Chocolate Walk handbook and pinned the dang thing to my purse strap.

That Gayle. She's a genius.

We stopped along a trail of thirty-two shops, flashed our buttons and each shop gave us a tasty chocolate treat. Kinda like Mardi Gras with less boobs and beads.

Treats ranged from hot chocolate and brownies to fudge and toffee. All of it delicious.

All. Of. It.

Not that I ate all thirty-two pieces of chocolate while on the walk. Seriously. Thirty-two chocolatey treats is a lot, even for a seasoned veteran chocolate eater such as myself.

About seven treats in, I threatened to hurt someone if I didn't get some french fries or other salty snack to offset all the sweets. Fortunately I had Gayle to wrangle me and she found a sandwich shop serving salty fries.

That Gayle. She's a genius.

Not many of the stops on the Chocolate Walk were candy or sweet shops. Most were shops in which artisans sold their goods. I was constantly amazed by the incredible furniture, pottery, glass, jewelry, and other arts that were for sale.

All of it beautiful. Some of it quirky. I, of course, was drawn to the quirky. And I might have made a purchase.

Why hello there

Okay. I did make a purchase.

How can a person be expected to pass on purchasing a basset hound made of a spark plug? I mean seriously. Basset hound. Spark plug. They go together like macaroni and cheese.

The artist that made this basset hound called him a "bark plug". I think that is a ridiculously cheesy name and I'm not calling him "bark plug". Corny humor is like, so beneath me.

I've chosen a much more sophisticated name: Sparky.

Sparky is a Christmas gift to myself and after December 25, he will join my Darth Vader bobble head, red Swingline stapler from Office Space, and Wonder Woman mini lego figurine as a permanent resident in my Room O' Funk.

Sparky is looking forward to it.

Art wasn't the only thing that I bought on the Chocolate Walk. Oh no. I may have sampled some chocolate peanut butter fudge at Stop #32 (the Nashville Candy Store) and immediately gone inside to buy a quarter of a pound.

I may or may not have shoved Gayle out of my way.

And it might have been half a pound of fudge. Geesh. Get off my case. If I want to buy half a pound of fudge, it's my business.

Okay, okay. It was three quarters of a pound of fudge, but not all of it was chocolate peanut butter fudge. Just half a pound was. The other quarter of a pound was a delicious dark chocolate caramel fudge with sea salt sprinkled on top.

A more sound purchase could not have been made.

Sadly, not all of my purchases were as lovely as the fudge. At one point during the day, we passed by a candy store selling a piece of bubble gum that measured three feet long.

Sign. Me. Up.

I didn't just buy a yard of gum. Oh no. I bought two yards of gum, one for each of my children. Few things say "Mom loves you, but she ate all the fudge" quite like a yard of gum.

You know what the downside to buying two yards of bubble gum? Carrying two yards of bubble gum for five hours on an incredibly narrow, incredibly busy sidewalk.

It turns out that two yards of bubble gum isn't as easy to control as one might think. I found myself apologizing profusely for accidentally whacking people with my gum on more than one occasion.

And it turns out that repeated accidental whackings will distort the shape of a yard of gum. What started off as a nice, straight piece of bubble gum had become a curved piece of gum with a couple of smashed kinks in it.

How depressing. Good thing I had a pound of fudge to cheer me up.

That's right. It was a pound. I had no self control in the fudge shop. Don't judge me. It was too dang tasty.

About twenty-four hours after the walk was over, I texted Gayle (who also purchased a pound of fudge) and asked her if she'd ripped into her fudge yet.

Her response? About five minutes after she got home.

That is exactly why we are friends.

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Too Much Testosterone For One Room. That's Why I Didn't Purchase The Mr. T Bobble Head

I have an affinity for crap. It's true. Well, you know. You've seen my Room O' Funk.

There are few things in life I love more than poking around consignments shops, second hand stores, or  a Goodwill store. It's not necessarily the purchasing of items that makes my skirt fly up. It's the thrill of the hunt and the fact that you just never know what treasures await you.

Exhibit A: A Bobby Sherman cereal box album

For those of you not in the know, music used to be played via a record on a record player.

(It's true. Look it up.)

Also for those of you not in the know, apparently Bobby Sherman was some kind of singer.

And my aunt's first crush, which I totally get. Those eyes coupled with the dimples? Please. The snazzy unbuttoned denim shirt/striped trouser combo? Winning.

She used to probably still thinks he's a total fox.

(Note the use of the term "fox")

For $2.50 plus the cost of framing, I think I have a killer Christmas gift on my hands. A bargain at twice the price, no?

Exhibit B: Kitchen art in the form of a troll trivet

This spoke to me. I don't know if it's the blue troll hair or the fact that it's a glass kitchen trivet (aka functional art), but this almost ended up in my cart.

Almost.

I'm not much of a baseball fan. Had this been a gymnast troll or a troll doing the luge, I'd have immediately placed him in my cart right next to Bobby Sherman, but he's a ball player. It's better to place him back on the shelf until just the right troll loving baseball fan walks through the door.

Exhibit C: A kickin' Mission style rocking chair

I truly love this style of furniture, but (more importantly) I enjoy parking myself on a comfy chair while I read great literature. Written works of art. Sitting in this rocker will allow me to contemplate the deeper meaning behind the greatest stories ever written.

No. Not really.

I read books that scare me silly and require me to have a fireplace poker next to me for protection. I need to be able to defend myself if one of the evil people I read about in my scary books ever springs to life right in front of me.

A girl has got to be prepared.

I bought the rocking chair and it is currently sitting right next to the fireplace. The poker is within easy reach. So is the puffer thing that fans the fire, but frankly I don't think that will be much help defensively.

Exhibit D: A Mr. T bobble head

It's been twenty-four hours and I still can't believe that I found a Mr. T bobble head. And that I didn't buy it. Mr. T was kinda pricey, which was to be expected since he is one of the finest actors of our generation, but it wasn't cost that prohibited me from purchasing Mr. T.

Nope, I was worried about Darth Vader's reaction.

A few months ago, I purchased a Darth Vader bobble head on clearance for a mere five bucks. He currently resides on the desk in my Room O' Funk, right between my stoplight lens bowl and my red swing line stapler from Office Space.

The problem? I think having Mr. T and Darth in the same room is just asking for trouble. They are both way too testosterony to have any semblance of peace in my Room. Think about it. Mr. T will be all "I pity the fool" and Darth will whip out his light saber and that will (sadly) be the end of Mr. T.

How tragic.

Nope. Tis better to leave Mr. T on the shelf.

It's better this way.

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The Donger Need Food

Over the weekend I did something that I haven't done in a long time. Haven't done this thing since … 1984? '85 maybe? I don't know. My memory is fuzzy.

I don't have a good excuse as to why I haven't done this thing in years. Seriously. No excuse. It's more fun than putting a monkey in a wetsuit, but still. It's been at least twenty-five years since I've hosted a slumber party with both Tata and Banana.

That's right. I had my homettes over for a slumber party.

And it was awesome.

Of course, it would be hard to not have an awesome time when your day began by adding cheap Halloween candy and booze to your slumber party shopping cart at 9 a.m.

Oh, and a bag of avocados. 'Cause we're all about being healthy around here.

No. Not really. T and I just love guacamole. We're kinda fanatics about it.

Food (and booze) aside, the slumber party went almost exactly like the sleepovers of my youth. Which is to say that we watched John Hughes movies and Banana fell asleep somewhere around 9:15.

In Banana's defense, she'd been up since 4:30 that morning and had suffered through her second grade class' Fall party for an hour and a half. Homegirl was tired. She begged us to quit bugging her so she could take a twenty minute power nap.

We obliged.

After twenty minutes had passed, we woke up our beloved Banana by squirting her with icy cold water from a spray bottle.

T and I thought it was hilarious, but Banana was (shockingly) quite annoyed. She stayed annoyed for approximately thirty minutes before she fell asleep again.

That girl is a party animal.

We had a great time reliving the slumber parties of our youth, one party in particular: the first time all of us watched the John Hughes classic Sixteen Candles at Banana's house.

Her dad rented the VHS tape and settled into his recliner to watch it with us. The girls and I found the movie both educational (hmm … this is what high school will be like) and hysterical, but Banana's Dad wasn't what I would call a super fan.

The most memorable part about watching that movie (and the part we recreate at every opportunity) are the uncomfortable grunting noises that Banana's Dad made during the Caroline Mumford in the shower scene. He followed his uncomfortable noise fest by demanding "What's this rated?" in a completely outraged voice.

Us 6th Graders found this hilarious. Us thirty-nine and forty year olds still find this hilarious.

'Cause we're mature that way.

Our maturity followed us to the breakfast table the next morning where we greeted my husband with a Long Duk Dong inspired "What's happenin' hot stuff?". And we may have smacked our hands on the table and yelled out "The Donger needs food!" until breakfast was served.

In other words, we were the very definition of maturity.

Just like we were in school.

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I'm Bringing Foxy Back

For those of you not on Facebook or Twitter and who live without TV and radio, today is Election Day. Today is the day to cast your vote on who is elected to office, from our next President down to local School Board members.

On my way to vote this morning, I popped into McDonald's for a biscuit and a Diet Coke. I believe in breakfast being the most important meal of the day and I've got to have a full belly in which to function properly. Especially when the fate of the country hangs in the balance of my vote.

My purse of choice lately has been my rhinestone studded '68 Comeback Special Elvis bag. I break it out every Fall. I'm not sure why I determined this to be my Autumn purse but it probably has something to do with Black Friday shopping and whacking unruly people in line with my ginormo handbag.

I strolled into McDonald's with my Elvis purse and found myself first in line. The person working the counter was an older lady and she about lost her crap when she spotted my purse.

Her face flushed and she had a difficult time breathing. There may have been some vigorous face fanning as well.

The term hot and bothered springs to mind.

Seeing my purse immediately turned this woman into a giggly school girl. She could hardly take my order. Homegirl was seriously tongue tied. She could barely articulate her love of Elvis and comment on his extreme "foxiness" without going all goof ball on me.

She used the term "foxy". It was awesome.

She must have thought the Elvis on my purse was, in fact, Elvis in the flesh. Admittedly, I'd have lost my crap too if the real live Elvis appeared in front of me at a McDonald's, so I'm not judging her. But still. Her reaction was comical.

But that's probably due to her term of "foxy" more than anything. It's become my term of choice when describing anything I find remotely attractive.

"Wow! You look foxy in those new blingy butt jeans!"

"We need a new mailbox. Bet we can find a foxy looking one at Home Depot!"

"Look at all those political signs at the voting center. They are super foxy looking!"

I made several decisions this morning at the voting center, including my decision to spend the next few days bringing the term foxy back.

You're welcome America.


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I Think I'm Gonna Like This 'Geist.

Last week I blogged about the fact that my house has a poltergeist. The poltergeist was obvious to everyone except my husband, who had a logical (pfft, whatever) explanation for both of the strange happenings at my house.

I ended the post with the observation that these types of occurrences come in threes and (so far) I'd only noticed two weird things. I've spent the last week on edge, just waiting for the third poltergeist activity to show itself.

Thursday night, the poltergeist returned.

How do I know this bit of information? The TV was tuned into the Game Show Network. Paranormal activity is the only logical explanation I can find as to why my husband suddenly found himself watching The Newlywed Game on the Game Show Network.

He doesn't hold game shows of any kind in the high regard that I do. Simply put, I love game shows as much as I love Breyer's all natural vanilla ice cream, Diet Coke, and Elvis.

(I love game shows.)

(A lot.)

And few things take me back to my childhood like The Newlywed Game hosted by a long side burn/mutton chop sporting Bob Eubanks. He used to work the phrase "make whoopee" into every episode. The studio audience would giggle nervously at Bob's risqué term while the bride or groom blushed on stage and stammered through an answer.

It was classic television gold.

Imagine hearing the phrase "make whoopee" daily via Bob Eubanks on TV and then going to the store with your mom and seeing an impressive selection of whoopee pies in the snack food aisle.

Childhood was a very confusing time for me.

Once The Newlywed Game was on last night, I couldn't watch enough. It was the latest version hosted by a Miss Sherry Shepard and (to my immense relief) she never once uttered the phrase "make whoopee".

My husband asked me several times to change the channel, but I declined by pointing out that changing the channel to say … NOVA (his choice) … might anger the poltergeist whose taste in TV shows are clearly more aligned with mine.

Poltergeist/Jen = 1
Husband/NOVA = 0

A game show loving poltergeist? Heck ya!

I think I'm gonna like this 'geist.

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