I have loved magazines as long as I can remember. Until I die, I will have subscriptions to Vanity Fair and Southern Living (by the way, when Bubba’s house was featured in Southern Living a little over a year ago, I tried to explain to him that as far as my girlfriends and I were concerned, he would never achieve anything more meaningful in his whole life ever, but I don’t think he understood how deeply I meant it. Girls, do chime in on the significance of such an honor). And while reading VF inevitably raises my blood pressure because there’s a good bit of political content that opposes my own views, the articles are long, well-written, and require some degree of thinking on my part. Thinking is good.

I decided at the beginning of this year that I was going to give up all my weekly magazines: Us, InTouch, People. Now, I did fall off the wagon last weekend because I was out of town and nothing says “RELAXING TREAT” to me like going into Walgreens and loading up on magazines, but surprisingly, I wasn’t as interested as I anticipated – I found that I had little patience for Katie Holmes’ ever-expanding belly and Ben Affleck’s ever-present Starbucks cup.

I realized when David and I were having 2006 “budget discussions” that I had spent approximately $500 on magazines over the course of 2005. $500. It made me sick to my stomach. It’s not as indulgent as it sounds…figure $10/week, more or less, over the course of a year, and there you have it. But once I had the cold hard figure in front of me, I told David that I was going to give them up – we could be doing so much more with that money, like putting it toward “gambling” or “pyramid schemes.”

KIDDING.

Seriously, I was tired of Paris’ outrageous outfits, tired of seeing Britney waste her life with that ne’er-do-well she married, tired of seeing the Olsen twins cover themselves with seven layers of clothing in the middle of summer (it’s called “FAT,” Mary Kate and Ashley, and it insulates your body – you should try it. Really. Completely eliminates the need to wear scarves in July).

I guess last weekend I thought that since it had been a couple of months since I’d read Us or InTouch, I would spend hours catching up on all the latest celebrity gossip. Instead, here is what I learned:

• Jessica and Nick are still separated (and her daddy, in my humble opinion, is still creepy)
• Brad and Angelina are still together, she’s still pregnant, and they’re still in a different country each week
• Nicole Richie still needs a cheeseburger or nine – and fast
• Tom Cruise still doesn’t get that people really aren’t interested in Scientology (voodoo!) and really do think he’s just a teensy bit insane
• Lindsay Lohan is still having “accidents” that “aren’t related” to “alcohol”
• Nicole Kidman still isn’t admitting she’s engaged to Keith Urban (Sister, would you like to clarify?)
• Jennifer Aniston is still dating Vince Vaughn, and “sources close to her” are still worried that she’s on the rebound
• Paris Hilton is still famous for no discernable reason

Consider yourself up-to-speed on all the latest celebrity news, my friends. I just saved you $10.

• Members of our household who went to church this AM: 1
• Members of our household who have a messy cold: 1
• Age of said cold sufferer: 2
• “Blue’s Clues” episodes watched by cold sufferer: 4
• Pounds of cheese grated for Thursday’s meals: 8 (homemade pimento and cheese and homemade potato soup are two of the dishes at lunch; homemade macaroni and cheese is one of the sides at supper, and we all wonder: “Will Chris Tomlin‘s digestive tract ever recover?”)
• Old-fashioned cheese graters used: 0
• Times Lord was thanked and praised for food processor grater attachment: 96
• Pounds of pork tenderloin in my refrigerator: 15
• Members of household currently asleep on couch: 1 (the church-goer)
• Dogs fed Cheetos by two year-old: 2
• Minutes until two year-old’s nap: 26
• Mama who will be very, very happy in 26 minutes: 1

Update: 2:05 pm

• Minutes actually slept during “nap”: 18
• Coughs during 18 minutes: 582 (approximately)

Thanks, Bulldogs. We needed that.

Mississippi State – 84
Mississippi – 55

More game info here.

Y’all may have noticed some remarks from Bubba in the comments. Those of you who know him were no doubt shocked and amazed that he actually 1) turned on the computer 2) took the time to click on a link to this page and 3) commented after reading a post. Technology, as they say, just ain’t his thing, so I am very proud of his recent bloggy progress.

Bubba and I have been friends for almost twenty years, as hard as that is to believe – and we have laughed at just about every step along the way. Now that he’s a Terribly Successful Businessman and travels to all sorts of far-flung places, we don’t get to talk as much, but I know deep in my soul that if I called him tomorrow and said, “I need you here RIGHT NOW,” he would drop everything, find a flight, rent a car, and I was about to say “take a bus,” but then I giggled at the mental image, for he would never, ever Go Greyhound, and that’s part of the reason our friendship has lasted for this long, so let’s just say that he would secure clean, comfortable transportation and do whatever he could to help ANYONE in my family, and that extends to my husband, my child, my parents, my siblings and their spouses. He loves us, and we love him.

Anyway, Bubba reminded me today of a funny from our college days.

Our sophomore year Bubba shared an apartment with three other guys: Brian, Bryan, and John. They were a funny mix, those four: Brian was the serious architecture student, Bryan was the date king, John was the dry-witted country boy, and Bubba was the preppy frat boy. Sounds like a sitcom, right? And seriously, now that I look back on that time with a parent’s perspective, I am grateful for how nice they all were. They were polite, respectful, funny – just great guys all the way around – and Bubba and Bryan especially were really protective of me. My daddy should be grateful.

Anyway, one spring afternoon I dropped in for a visit. At the time Bubba and I loved to ride around the backroads of Oktibbeha County, where we would philosophize and laugh but mostly sing. OH we have performed many-a-musical in each other’s company, but our favorite at the time was Phantom of the Opera. I can’t sing but Bubba can, so he really had to carry the whole show because, well, my singing voice doesn’t do much of anything except summon neighborhood canines OR give some added depth to the tenor section of a choir (I was actually named Most Improved Tenor in my high school choir – I didn’t know whether to be proud or insulted).

When I got to Bubba’s apartment that afternoon, Brian was in a bit of a panic because he couldn’t find his kitten. I can’t remember how old the kitten was, but I know she was fairly young because everyone was just calling her “Kitty” until Brian came up with a suitable name. Even though I wasn’t what you would call a cat lover, I felt sorry for Brian, and since Bubba wasn’t home yet, our road company Phantom show was going to be delayed, anyway, so I had plenty of time for a little sideline animal rescue work.

Bryan with a “y” and I looked through all the bedrooms, in piles of clothes, in the bathrooms, even outside. After about 10 minutes of searching, there were no leads. We decided that Kitty would return, in typical feline fashion, when she decided it was time, and just as we were about to give up, Bryan and I heard something. At the same time. And we looked at each other, bug-eyed, like “NO. NO WAY it’s that. NO WAY that Kitty is THERE.”

By this time Brian with an “i” was in the room with us, and somehow he picked up on our telepathy, because suddenly he got the same idea that we had, and we all became very aware of The Noise, and we were very certain, at the very same time, of Kitty’s whereabouts.

We moved quickly to rescue her, for time was of the essence.

I don’t know if any of y’all have ever seen a kitten that has accidentally found its way into an electric clothes dryer, but the expression “wall-eyed” comes to mind. As soon as Brian got the door open and found Kitty in the midst of the spinning towels, he looked to make sure she was alive, and thankfully she was. But OH was she disoriented. She was also very warm, and she smelled of Bounce.

We decided that a trip to the vet was in order, as Kitty was breathing but not terribly responsive. Since Brian was beside himself with guilt and worry, and since for some reason Bryan was without a vehicle, my car was the logical (read: only) choice for transport.

At the time I was driving a 1984 Buick Regal, a fine piece of American-made machinery that was only slightly more reliable than a Yugo. In fact, I believe there were some reliability studies where the Yugo might have ranked slightly higher. In this particular season of the Regal’s life, it was wary of the entire deceleration process, and as soon as I took my foot off the accelerator the car would begin to sputter and lurch. Driving with two feet was essential if I was to make it from any given point A to any given point B.

As I drove Brian, his punch-drunk kitten, and Bryan away from the apartment, I became very conscious of the fact that my car and Kitty were on fairly equal footing in terms of making it to the vet, in that neither stood a very good chance at all. Kitty was wrapped in a towel, trying to meow but only managing something like “me” and then sort of a pre-vomit stomach gurgling, and the car, well, it was gurgling, too. As long as I had the accelerator completely mashed to the floor – which I believe is the method that law-enforcement officials encourage for in-town driving – we were fine. But if I let up on that accelerator even a centimeter, we started to jerk and lunge. It’s like the car was caught in some form of violent spitting seizure, and the kitten, well, she wasn’t much better.

Finally I figured out that if I mashed the brake with my left foot but kept the accelerator completely depressed with my right, the car would slow down enough to “stop” but wouldn’t break down altogether. The unreliability of my vehicle seemed to add to Brian’s stress, because everytime the car would lurch he would eyeball me with a look of borderline disgust and murmur, “OH, Kitty – I hope we make it,” but there was nothing I could do, as everyone in my immediate family has paid the price time and time again for my father’s blind loyalty to the American car industry. Bryan, meanwhile, was in the back seat, trying to be supportive, but every so often I’d catch a glimpse of him in the rear-view mirror, and I’m fairly certain that he was chewing the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. I mean, sick animal or no, the whole scene was pretty funny.

After what seemed like four hours but was probably more like four minutes, we got to the vet. Brian rushed the kitten to the back, where she was immediately iced down and put on fluids. Fortunately, she seemed okay, and since Brian wanted to stay with Kitty, he gave Bryan and me the okay to leave. We returned to the apartment and waited on Bubba, now at home, who very literally rolled on the floor and cried from laughter. Kitty, in the end, was no worse for the (wash and) wear, which is probably one of the worst puns I’ve ever made in my life. Bubba and I were able to ride around and sing after all.

As it turns out, Brian now lives here in the same town that we do, and while I haven’t seen him, I’ve met a lot of people who are either members of his church or part of his extended family. When his name comes up in conversation, I always mention that we knew each other in college. A couple of our mutual friends have mentioned me to him, and in both cases, he has said the same thing: “I don’t remember her.”

WHAT? HE DOESN’T REMEMBER ME? I helped him pull a cat from a clothes dryer! I drove him and said cat to the vet! In a car that would barely run! And when it did run it sputtered! And he doesn’t remember me?

It must have been such a traumatic turn of events, what with his cat nearly spinning to death, that he’s blocked all of it out. Including me.

For the last couple of days we’ve been trying to iron out plans for Alex’s birthday, which is about three weeks away. I’m always a little conflicted when it comes to planning his birthday parties…because he is an only child, I’m very mindful of making sure he knows that he is not the center of the universe. I want to make sure that he knows he is treasured and loved, of course, but I also want him to know that life is not All Alex, All The Time.

Don’t get me wrong. I think birthday parties are great, and certainly we want to celebrate Alex’s, but I have a need to keep it simple. I can’t make sense of throwing a three-year old in a room with 35 children and 60 parents and saying, “Okay, honey, we’re celebrating you!” Because it seems to me – and this is just my opinion and it oughta be yours – that when toddler birthday parties get that big, all that’s being celebrated is the parents’ ability to throw a top-tier shin-dig. And the Joneses and me – well, we don’t hang so much, as I hate, despise, and abhor the whole notion of “keeping up.” I feel very strongly about this. You might have noticed.

As a result, Alex has had birthday parties reminiscent of Ye Olde Amish celebrations, minus the horse and the buggy and, well, the Amish. His first birthday party consisted of his parents, his grandparents, and him. It was a rowdy affair, as you can imagine. For his second birthday party, we went all out. We had lunch for three (count ‘em, THREE) of Alex’s friends, his grandparents, our next door neighbors, our sweet friends NK and Michael, and my friend Pattie. There were THIRTEEN people there, y’all. Madness!

This year I initially planned to invite the same group of people, maybe even moving up to FOUR friends because I’m crazy like that. Crazy! But the place where we wanted to have his party charges $150 for, essentially, 10 juice boxes and ¼ sheet cake. No outside food. I can be cheap, as you know, and I was shocked, then plain insulted, by the price. I mean, if that’s the going rate for a child’s birthday party, then I’ll add the words “For Hire” behind the title at top of this web page, rent me a clown suit, learn how to transform balloons into animals and head out on the party circuit. For $100 an hour? I’m not proud.

Anyway, once we decided that paying $10 for a container of juice was a little too rich for our blood, we bandied about several party ideas. The park? It might rain. McDonald’s? I’m a germ-a-phobe – can’t take that many sticky little hands on playground equipment. Our house? The easiest option, for sure, but there’s been much discussion about All Our Stairs and David’s grandmother’s age and, bottom line, coming over here is a really hard trip for her. Not to mention that Alex is OBSESSED with his great-uncle Joe and talked all last night about having “Chox! And JOE!” at his birthday party.

For all these reasons, it looks like we’ll be heading to Meridian for Alex’s Big 0-3. We’ll have most of our family there, which means that 80% of Alex’s favorite people in the whole wide world will be in attendance. The more David and I have talked about it, the more we realize how perfect it will be for this stage of his life, where the coolest people in his universe are the people in his family. Better capitalize on that while it lasts.

So we’ve come full circle, it seems, for I also had my third birthday party at Mama and Daddy’s house…sitting on top of the table to blow out my candles on the 1-2-3-4 cake that Mama made from scratch.

Looks like the little man will get to do the same.

You know that I adore a funny Christian. You know that I contend we need more of ’em.

Well, here’s a blogger after my own heart. I laughed my head off. Sad thing is, given Daddy’s old album collection, some of these looked a little, um, familiar.

Enjoy, y’all.

And thanks, Sister, for the link.