There are some sayings that I run across that stick in my head. One that has been banging around in there for weeks now is the lovely exclamation, “Well butter my butt and call me biscuit!” I don’t know where I recently heard it, but now when weird things happen I think, “Well butter my butt and call me biscuit!” Thank goodness I don’t say it out loud – I only think it – that is bad enough.
Every single time I think of the saying I have a flash of an image of myself in overalls in a Green Acres type of scene…it is mildly disturbing. Not that I don’t like overalls – I love how comfortable they are. I remember many decades ago going through a phase where I wore overalls all the time…until I realized how patently unflattering they were to my figure. Short girls with junk in the trunk can’t really pull off that one piece look in the back well.
Ah, but I digress. This saying – “Well butter my butt and call me biscuit!” – increasingly seems to be moving toward becoming an audible utterance. My fear is that once I utter it the phrase will integrate itself fully into my vocabulary and I will be but a hop, skip and a jump from those overalls again. The next thing you know I will have friends that are farm animals and I’ll be driving a tractor – and no one in rural America wants that…they do have standards to uphold after all and I am hardly rugged.
I cannot allow that phrase to infiltrate my vocabulary as we have already established that overalls are not flattering on me and I’d be dangerous on a tractor. So, no matter what comes out of my mouth know that you can call me biscuit, but stay away from me with that darn butter!
Day five hundred and forty-eight of the new forty – obla di obla da