tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-374131132012-01-26T21:30:14.889-07:00I'm just taking the zigs with the zags and trying not to trip over my own shoelaces.Brendahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932656254422726101noreply@blogger.comBlogger211100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37413113.post-4716134900515622552011-09-12T08:24:00.089-06:002011-09-12T13:52:37.896-06:00

Since the arrival of the Internet, I have subscribed to dozens of health-related newsletters, most of which fall into the alternative medicine category, because I think most pharmaceuticals only control symptoms but do nothing to address the root of the problem. I've also had some alarming reactions to a rather long list of drugs that doctors have pushed on me over the years, so I am fairly

Brendahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932656254422726101noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37413113.post-78727965674050643772011-06-23T13:36:00.047-06:002011-06-24T07:51:00.128-06:00

This is a letter I wrote to my aunt a couple of years ago and just re-discovered while I was cleaning out my email. I'm certain it's no coincidence that I found this today. People, places and things that we need in our lives tend to appear or re-appear at just the right moment. Dear Aunt Doris:I want to share something with you, and I hope I can explain this well enough for you to understand

Brendahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932656254422726101noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37413113.post-29069944361558700372011-05-24T10:41:00.100-06:002011-06-22T14:51:37.491-06:00

There's a scorpion in my bathtub. We lived in Tucson, AZ for eight years, and I never saw anything remotely resembling a scorpion. But, since moving to New Mexico, I have had close encounters with several of them, both inside and outside the house. And everyone in the Southwest knows the only good scorpion is a dead scorpion, in a paperweight, which proves tourists will buy anything. Bless

Brendahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932656254422726101noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37413113.post-19031927698351551362011-03-18T13:49:00.024-06:002011-03-30T11:37:12.446-06:00

When I last reported on Southern Belle Mama she was sashaying through my front door, looking spectacular after an eight-hour drive, and carrying homemade fudge. I, on the other hand, was fretting over the fact that my nails looked like I had been using them to pry open rusty paint cans, my roots were showing, the barbecued chicken in the oven was approaching jerky-status, and I forgot to wash the

Brendahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932656254422726101noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37413113.post-19424790035508394882011-03-10T10:47:00.004-07:002011-03-11T08:08:16.875-07:00

WARNING: For those of you who visit my blog for the occasional humorous or warm and fuzzy post, you should probably avert your eyes and close this page now, because this post is neither of those things. You might even call it a rant. Something I am known to do every so often, but I generally do it in the privacy of my own living room, so as not to inflict my crankiness on others. In other

Brendahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932656254422726101noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37413113.post-34371366429800987102010-12-14T10:17:00.038-07:002010-12-14T11:22:41.215-07:00

In the winter of 1986, life was good. I was a single mother with one adorable, healthy, blond-haired, blue-eyed boy; I had a good job; I had a not-so-good second job; I had a fixer-upper house; and I had one spoiled rotten Doxie dog. Norman Rockwell might not have been impressed with the broken-down white picket fence in the back yard, but I thought of my life as having “good bones.” A little

Brendahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932656254422726101noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37413113.post-91076055347363977852010-12-02T16:04:00.010-07:002010-12-02T17:22:01.269-07:00

Someone recently asked me to name the 10 most important people in my life - people who have taught me a life lesson or were the catalyst for a major change in my life. When I asked her if I could name animals, she laughed and said "of course!" because, like me, she knows animals can change your life in strange and wonderful ways. So, this is the story of one of the most important "people" in my

Brendahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932656254422726101noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37413113.post-80052314705004401362010-09-22T16:32:00.045-06:002010-09-23T05:45:24.444-06:00

I’m taking another zag this week because I recently overheard someone discussing whether or not to adopt a deaf dog. Having some experience in this area, I was shocked and saddened by some of the things that were said, and so I did my own research. Sure enough, there are actually breed-specific websites that promote putting down deaf dogs, because they say they have no value. To which I say “

Brendahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932656254422726101noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37413113.post-50611135647131406142010-08-12T08:04:00.161-06:002011-03-21T09:48:05.691-06:00

I have always had an unrequited love for wolves. I can’t pinpoint exactly when, where, or how it happened but, somewhere along the line, wolves walked right into my heart, curled up, and made themselves at home there. Even with little to no hope of ever being so lucky as to meet a wolf, much less have that love returned, my love for them has never diminished.About 10 years ago, I discovered a

Brendahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932656254422726101noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37413113.post-30352246034131201262010-06-16T13:41:00.006-06:002010-06-16T14:06:15.086-06:00

Once upon a time there was a domestic goddess who lived in a cottage with no dishwasher. Unfortunately, it was a rental cottage, so she slaved away over a steaming sink full of dishes day after day. Some days this made her quite grumpy and a bit difficult, but she reminded herself there was a time when she had lived in Italy and didn't even have hot water in her kitchen. Finally, one day

Brendahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932656254422726101noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37413113.post-33673326805269103012010-04-07T14:33:00.026-06:002010-04-08T11:49:59.742-06:00

Attention, Co-Scissor-Heads! I interrupt a regularly-scheduled blog post tentatively entitled “If It’s Not One Thing It’s Your Mother” for a public service announcement. I am hereby officially declaring this Running with Scissors Week, brought to you by certain deadhead, mooncalf, cubicle zombies a/k/a customer service representatives. Please note: This is not a general indictment of all

Brendahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932656254422726101noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37413113.post-7448971376235408172010-03-24T09:52:00.022-06:002010-03-26T16:49:45.027-06:00

I got The Call a couple of weeks ago. I knew it was coming. Yes, it’s that time of year when the snowbirds fly away home, and we are a convenient stop and watering hole for the snowbirds we happen to be related to – my mama and stepdaddy. So The Call came. The one where I am informed of the intended departure time from Snowbird Central and intended arrival time at our house a/k/a The House

Brendahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932656254422726101noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37413113.post-52270648608061358022010-02-15T18:14:00.018-07:002010-02-16T08:54:13.004-07:00

Some days I battle writer’s block. Other days, like today, my brain is like a rabbit on crack. It jumps this direction, then it leaps that direction, then it doubles back on itself, never completing the circle or finding the carrot. You know, we once had a rabbit who thought he was a dog. He slept on top of the dog house. I don’t know where he got that idea, because I don’t think he ever

Brendahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932656254422726101noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37413113.post-31015580171663904992010-02-11T14:29:00.022-07:002010-02-12T10:32:36.297-07:00

Valentine’s Day is Sunday. So, I thought a love story would be appropriate right about now. To say that my husband and I have an unusual “how we met” story is a bit of an understatement. I’m not sure you’ll even believe it, but this is how it happened.Once upon a time in a land far, far away there lived a single mom, me. I spent my days working, taking care of my son, and working on my house.

Brendahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932656254422726101noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37413113.post-45096743007602349202010-02-02T10:27:00.020-07:002010-02-04T10:25:44.780-07:00

So, it’s the Colts and the Saints in the Super Bowl. Am I allowed to write that? Don’t wanna be accused of copyright or trademark infringement or whatever. I won’t tell if you won’t. Remember, no one likes a tattletale. So here’s the thing. I am a Colts’ fan. Recently converted. I started life as a Dallas Cowboys’ fan. That’s just the way it was where I grew up. Everyone in the

Brendahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932656254422726101noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37413113.post-59339520034757436652010-01-26T10:55:00.039-07:002010-01-27T08:56:05.350-07:00

When I sat down to write this, the word “curmudgeon” sprang to mind, but I don’t know why. Is it curmudgeonly to want a little cotton-pickin’ PEACE and QUIET?!! Well, you can be the judge. I submit to you the evidence:One day after moving to this serene-looking small town situated in a valley with mountains just behind it (see picture above), there I was happily (well, maybe that’s not exactly

Brendahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932656254422726101noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37413113.post-63981977635030117572010-01-20T10:49:00.030-07:002010-01-21T10:19:32.110-07:00

Not to be a total downer, but January is Thyroid Awareness Month. FREEZE! Back away from the mouse. This is important stuff. I wish, wish, wish someone had told me 20 years ago what I’m about to tell you. Just bear with me, and I’ll try not to make this as dry as last week’s meatloaf. Full disclosure here: I’m not even an expert on my own thyroid, much less yours, but awareness is what we’

Brendahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932656254422726101noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37413113.post-83204535959106771342010-01-10T11:40:00.020-07:002010-01-10T13:54:25.466-07:00

My husband has a new hobby. Shopping. Yes, you heard me right. I said shopping. Seems he got a bee in his bonnet about a new hat. Not just any hat. A cowboy hat. He had a straw one but, apparently, straw is not appropriate after Labor Day. He wants one for winter, and the acceptable colors for winter are either black or gray.I know all that. I grew up in these parts. Practically every

Brendahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932656254422726101noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37413113.post-60983888562732420402010-01-02T09:58:00.009-07:002010-01-02T10:45:34.070-07:00

Nothing like starting a brand new year by stirring up a little trouble, huh? I’m thinking this might be my first installment of “Things That Bother Me More Than They Should.” And away we go . . . Since I've been on Twitter, I've noticed that you can't swing a dead cat or a dirty diaper, not that I have either, without hitting a mommy blogger or a mommy blog. To which I say, "Mommy bloggers?!

Brendahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932656254422726101noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37413113.post-71824721145627852982009-12-19T17:34:00.011-07:002010-04-09T09:56:40.506-06:00

In December of 1990, we were stationed at an air base in Sardinia, Italy with the unlikely name of Decimomannu. Deci (pronounced Dechee) was a barely civilized place at the time and, since it was not an American base but a NATO base, the amenities left a lot to be desired. If you’re saying to yourself, “I never heard of Sardinia! Where the devil is that?” look at your atlas or globe, and it’s

Brendahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932656254422726101noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37413113.post-47127352714638396312009-12-08T11:32:00.001-07:002010-04-09T09:55:48.114-06:00

Peer pressure. Peer pressure?!!! I thought at my age that peer pressure was a distant whiff of the past. Turns out that ain’t necessarily so. And I should know better. What good ever came out of succumbing to peer pressure? The three times I can vividly remember caving to it when I was a teenager all ended in complete and total failure, humiliation, and grounding. And, yes, there was even

Brendahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932656254422726101noreply@blogger.com8