Two words. Brett Butler. That’s the kind of day it’s starting out to be. Lemme explain. Okay, so the morning was going great. Better than most. It’s very, very casual dress at work this week, so on went the jeans and sweatshirt. Jeans fitting a little looser today, which was no small feat given the unnatural amount of sugar & fat that have gone into my system over the past couple weeks. Feeling good so far. Miss Priss wanted to come to work with me rather than stay home with dad & Mr. Cool, who would be doing all kinds of greasy, nasty guy things. We’re driving along, singing along with the radio — again, no small feat, as Mr. Cool does NOT allow singing along with the radio if he’s in the car — and having a great time. No traffic. Zipping along. So we’re listening to the radio, and this really cheesy 80’s song came on, so I proceeded to instruct Miss Priss, who wasn’t born until ’94, long after the horror that 80’s music was, as to how really, really bad pop music can get. You know, you have to teach your children. It’s your responsibility as a parent. The deejay comes on and says that was Song No. 1 in the contest — which, we found out yesterday, is a contest in which they play three songs and one lucky winner guesses how they are connected. Song No. 2 came on, and in a minute, because I am the pop culture QUEEN, I immediately made the connection. Without even hearing the third song. Miss Priss starts telling me to call, because (1) she thinks I’m the smartest person alive (aren’t kids adorable?), (2) she wants to hear my voice on the radio, and (3) she wants us to win one of many fabulous prizes. I start envisioning cash prizes, dinner at P.F. Chang’s, something of that nature. Okay, okay, for you, Miss Priss, I’ll try to call — although don’t be disappointed if I don’t get through. The rest is history, I suppose. I got through, I was correct, and they were, quite frankly, impressed that I did it before the third song came on. Then I sat on hold, waiting to hear what my major award was going to be. (Sorry, we watched “A Christmas Story” this Christmas. A lot.) Miss Priss and I sat through another song, the traffic report, and a request for the inebriated to please remember to call Tipsy Taxi this holiday season. Then we heard ME on the radio. Dear, dear Lord. I didn’t know I could sound so ridiculous. Humbling, I tell ya, truly humbling. Then, they took me off hold. . . and then. . . and THEN. . .
All of a sudden I felt like Ralphie in the bathroom, trying to use the secret decoder before Randy broke down the door. (I told y’all, we watched the movie a LOT.) Be. . .sure. . .to. . .drink. . .your. . . Ovaltine????? What? My major award was. . . tickets to see Brett Butler? Yep, she said, in her perfect little radio voice. Not the cutie that used to play for the Atlanta Braves. Nope. Grace Under Fire herself, most recently seen on “My Name is Earl” as the supposedly crippled ex-mother-in-law with a gambling problem. Sigh. How much do you think they’ll go for on eBay?

See you tomorrow, and be sure to drink your Ovaltine. Dammit.

P.S. This just made it all worth it. The very, very intelligent Blogger spellcheck wants me to replace “Ovaltine” with “Ovulation.” It’s gonna be a good day after all.


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