My sister used to have a philosophy that she lived by. I don't know if she still does or not, I hope she does.

A long time ago she told me that she tries to break the law at least once a day. These aren't big, good idea laws she was talking about but rather little laws that don't always make sense- like not jaywalking if you can make it, not running a red light when no one is around or ripping that tag off your mattress. I don't know why, but that seems like a good philosophy- keeps us fresh.

It was a busy evening. I had my last french class (at least this level) and after that I went to visit my folks in their downtown apartment. My sister and her daughter are visiting from Seattle. She keeps threatening to read my blog but she can never remember the name of it. Her daughter, Gracie, wanted to say a blessing before each course of the meal. She also laid out her stuffed animals in a huge bed on the floor and did a ballet dance around them for our entertainment. At some point she noticed everyone looking at the stuffed animals and chastised us, "Focus on me, not the props" Would this story be as cute if she was 20 years old? Probably not, but she's 5 or 6 so its cute. It might have been cute if I had done it, but I'm a good dancer- not everyone can pull off ballet.

A good friend of the family was there and she had a connection in Paris with an advertising agency- this could be interesting.

If you haven't noticed this is a bit of a throw away post. I'm waiting for Sunday Scribbles to publish their prompt but I hate not having something written for the morning.

I should probably let this go but I can't. Someone visited a post I wrote about Jim Morrison's bathtub and left a comment. I'm still surprised when someone actually reads what I have written and is kind enough to say hello.

I re-read the post and couldn't help but notice that it was looking a little ragged around the edges -as though it wasn't expecting a gentleman caller. Some modifiers were misplaced, participles dangled and a sentence ended with a preposition*. Surely this is no way to answer the door. It's as though the post opened the door thinking it was a girlfriend coming over to eat Ben & Jerry's ice cream and watch Sex in the City reruns. It turned out to be handsome new neighbor wanting to borrow eggs, because he loves to bake and he isn't gay. There the post was, in a house coat,dirty slippers and a mouth full of Chunky Monkey- quickly brushing a stray lock hair behind her ear and adding a comma where there hadn't been one before. Like Blanche Dubois arranging her hair before she utters, "I've always depended upon the kindness of strangers."

Well the post has pulled it together, it looks good and, more importantly, it knows it looks good. It tells the handsome new neighbor confidently to "run on down to the corner and fetch me a lemon ice." (must be said with your best southern accent)


* This is neither here nor there but as I wrote this I was reminded of something my sister said that still makes me laugh. She was telling me a story and ended a sentence with a preposition. And it went a little something like this...


Misplaced Sister: (telling a long involved story)... where's it at? he asked me
Misplaced: (interrupting) You really shouldn't end your sentence with a preposition.
Misplaced Sister: Good point, Where's it at ...asshole.

The proof was in the logo. they've changed it since then, but back in the day it showed a hillbilly running to an outhouse while another one, for some reason, shot at him. Urine and gunplay, a srange combination to sell your product.

My sister and I were trudging up the street to our house one very hot day in August in the 70's. I would imagine that we were bored out of our minds as we sometimes were toward the end of summer. Stevie was sitting on a stoop to the street, sipping a cold Mountain Dew. We were those abused kids you knew who were never allowed sugary snacks , fast food or sodas. My sister and I stared lustfully at the sweating bottle of green goodness.

"You know how they make Mountain Dew Stevie?" asked my sister.

Stevie didn't like how this was sounding one bit and shook his head.

"Hillbillies pee in a bottle," she explained.

"No way," said Stevie, shaking her off as he took another swig of hillbilly piss but with less enthusiasm.

"It's true," she continued. "You never see us drinking it do you? Shoot if it was just normal soda we'd be drinking it all day long, we got money."

Actually we didn't but that was beside the point.

"Man, that's not right" Stevie's denial started out strong but by 'not' it softened and at 'right' the word lilted up with just a hint of doubt.

"Why do you think they have a picture of that hillbilly on the bottle running to the bathroom?" she continued.

Boom. You couldn't argue with that fact. Stevie had viwed the scene on the bottle a thousand times but he never thought about it. Why would there would be a picture of one Hillbilly shooting at another Hillbilly as he ran to an outhouse? Under the drawing were the words

"special blend of mountain waters
and flavored in the traditional hillbilly style"

"What do you think 'flavored in the traditional hillbilly style means'?" She looked at him with pity, like he was the sorriest kid on the block.

For Stevie it all began to click, Mountain... Dew.... He'd never heard of piss being called dew, but it sounded on awful lot like pees brown brother, poo.

"Man, you guys suck"

He set the bottle down with disgust, not because he had been drinking a bottle of Hillbilly piss but because he now knew it was Hillbilly piss. Stevie went home to ask his mom about it.

My sister swooped up the bottle and took a long swig.

"Sucker" she said.

She handed the bottle to me and I took a little taste. She had made a pretty good argument for it being pee and it no longer had the allure it once did. There was, after all, a picture of a hillbilly running to an outhouse on the bottle.