Five minutes. Ten if they got dranks.

Today we got rejected by the Salvation Army. Being a total nerd, I expected the organization to be much like the “Save-A-Soul” mission in Guys and Dolls. However, the surly man who showed up at my door to collect used furniture was sadly not in uniform, and there was nary a bass drum in sight.

Apparently our dresser, which has survived 40 years, 10+ moves, and two different, highly impatient females slamming its drawers, is “not resalable” due to some insignificant cracks in its back cover. Of course, this in no way affects the functionality of said dresser; but perhaps people shopping at the Salvation Army have higher standards than, say, my husband and I? Anyway, while Jeremy and I ponder just how in the hell to get this gigantic piece of antiquity down the stairs and out of our house, I would like to proffer some alternative uses for a piece of 100+ pound, six-foot wide, solid oak furniture:

Ferret high-rise. Everybody knows a wacko with a ferret. Some cash-poor ferret wackos could pool their money together and watch their beloved pets/rodents enjoy communal living. We’re talking nine drawers of urban high jinx here, people!

Barricade during a gunfight. Believe me, if Bonnie and Clyde had had this sucker stashed along that fateful rural road, they’d have had another 50 years of robbing banks in front of them.

Anti-theft system. Don’t trust your deadbolt? Gather twelve of your closest friends together to push the dresser in front of your door! Ain’t nothin’ getting in now! (Note: also, nothing will be getting out. Be sure to have a fire extinguisher at the ready).

Horse coffin. Cut out the middle of this baby and you’ve got a mighty fine place for Mr. Ed to spend eternity.

See? The possibilities are endless! The real tragedy here is the Salvation Army’s lack of imagination (not to mention their lack of marching band. Really, really disappointing. Hey, we ALL know you have bells, at the very least!)

For My Mammaw

I was a little “wine weepy” back in November when I wrote about my Grandma passing—so I’ll try to keep this short and sweet. I could write for days and not cover it all, anyway.

My Mammaw was 96, and I wouldn’t have been at all shocked to see her surpass 100.

She made the best macaroni and cheese in the world.

When I was little and we’d stay with Mammaw and Pappaw for a week during the summer, dessert was always a small Corningware dish of popcorn (the old-fashioned kind, of course) or PET ice milk.

One time when I was 11 or 12 and in the throes of adolescent sarcasm, I mouthed off to my mother in my Mammaw’s presence. Big mistake. My Mom was making me do the dishes (no dishwasher at Mammaw’s and Pappaw’s…to this day), and Mom said she was letting me do the dishes “out of the goodness of her heart.” I responded with, “There IS no goodness in your heart!” And my Mammaw stood up, wagged her finger at me, and said, “Don’t you talk to her like that, she’s your Mama!” And that was all it took for me to burst into tears, run out the door and hide behind the doghouse (which, looking back, it would have been more apropos if I’d hid IN it) and cry for a half hour or so. But of course she was absolutely right. And I know she would have stuck up for me in the same way if the occasion arose.

She was sassy as hell. She once refused to go to her doctor because she was “in no mood for his cuteness.” And imagine a 96-year old referring to someone as a “butthole.”

Is it any wonder I was crazy about her?