It's dark in here

Quiet too.

"Sometimes they come back"

Name the book that the title comes from, and win a prize. Hint - it's creepy (the book, not the prize).
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In a fit of energy, I'm posting on weekend.

Wait. That's kind of a lie.

It's not energy that's brought me here, but rather an unwillingness to get off the bed and start whatever it is I have to do today that will keep me occupied up until such time as I can commence to drinking.

Heh. It's 5 o'clock somewhere, isn't it?

Sadly, not today though, because there's a sleepover at my house tonight, and I need to stay sober and responsible!

Dammit. :>

-----------------------------

Over at the WVSR there are some verrrry interesting comments. From time to time Jeff's cast of regulars will take over and provide ample entertainments in the comments when Jeff doesn't post. The recent iteration is a fair sample of porn stories.

Real life porn stories, not some Penthouse Variations variety.

You know, just in case you're interested.

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I'm awaiting the shipment of a new CD soon; my first Dave Matthews Band CD. Can't wait.

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I've decided to put off moving into my new house for a little while. The nice people (damn them!) at the apartment complex office said that they won't let me skate on the last month of my three-month contract (there's a 60-day notification period), so I'm on the hook until the end of June for that. The first mortgage payment on the new house isn't until July 1, so at least I'm not doubling up on rent and mortgage, which is a relief. I wasn't looking forward to pulling 800 bucks out of my nether bits to cover payments a deux.

So, the result is that there's no rush to move. I can take all the time I need (well, 2 MONTHS of time) to spruce up the house, do minor repairs, get the kitchen and bathroom floor replaced or refinished, paint, tinker, hang out, and create the hippie haven I've always always wanted. I'm thinking gazing balls, quirky yard art, a hammock, and a gigantic hookah (:>). Plus wind chimes. And hundreds of tiny white lights on the deck railings. And a basketball hoop. And a porch swing.

But first, I think I need tools.

Hammers, screwdrivers, wrenches, oh my. I have a foggy idea of what should be in my tool kit, bit I'm sure my list is not comprehensive. Do I really NEED pipe clamps? What about needle-nose pliers? Is a set of flathead screwdrivers necessary, or will a kitchen knife work just fine?

It's clear I need help. What's in YOUR set of essential tools that I might not think of? And where's the best place to go to get good tools, anyhow?

Why the heck NOT?

As we used to do every week around there parts, I present to you:

THE HEADLINES FROM YAHOO! (and my responses)

Iraqis welcome U.S. Congress vote but fear vacuum

Must be a Dyson.

Workers in short supply for U.S. nuclear power

Soilent Green is people!

(Think about it.....)

Schools banning iPods to beat cheaters

FIRST they took away the tunes, and NOW they're planning on breaking out the paddles. What is this, the 60's?

McGreevey, wife meet in divorce court

In a strange twist, the former politico from New Jersey has fallen in love with, and hastily married, an apparently female baliff named Pat while divorce proceedings were being held for the dissolution of his previous marriage. McGreevey, famously gay and out, told reporters "I wasn't expecting to flip-flop like this, but her mullet and tattoos just blew me away."

Cheney draws protests even at BYU

Unable to concentrate for even a MOMENT on the business at hand, Veep Cheney was once again seen wielding sketchbook and pastels, sketching scenes of civil disobedience while surrounded by a rally of the eager youth of Mormondom. Asked later about his recent obsession with capturing scenes of unrest in Thomas Kinkade-like color and light, Cheney offered that he was "drawn to art as a means of expressiing my inner turmoil and sensitive nature," after which he snicked rather unpleasantly and made jabbing motions with his index fingers.

Hawking flies weightless aboard jet

Sorry y'all - I'm not even going to bother snarking the headline. I would rather take this time to point out that he wasn't actually WEIGHTLESS, because even a tiny guy like the SMARTEST DUDE ON EARTH still has weight, even in zero G. One doesn't suddenly LOSE WEIGHT just because one escapes the clutch of gravity. Gah! Stupid headline! Make my brain hurt!

Destructive mite threatens Hawaii bees

In what can only be dscribed as a scene straight out of a John Waters movie, a wee little man has been seen throwing bricks and other construction debris at apiaries and bee hives throughout Maui. Locals say that the three-foot-tall man shouts menagingly while hurling his weapons of destruction, and has been heard to say "you so much as TOUCH me, sucka, and I'll cut you! Ka-POW!!"

Report: Tainted hogs enter food supply

I though ALL hogs had taints.

Hugh Grant arrested over "baked beans attack"

Apparently the one-cheek sneak attack on Kate Beckinsdale during a love scene didn't go over all that well. She called it an assulat on her person and senses, and had him hauled off to the pokey so he could "get it out of his system."

He's expected back on the set tomrrow morning, right after coffee.

=======================

There you go y'all. A return to days of yore, and about time too!

Happy Friday.

Practicing my stealth moooooves

As a budding ninja, I have been told that I must select a quest to spend the rest of my life pursuing.

To that end, I have spent the better part of today pondering the large issues that are still present in this world, and particularly on this internet.

I have decided that there are far too many giraffes loitering around. They are a real threat and nuisance. They tangle their horns in the wires, trip over the cables, eat the paychecks, and, as a result of their mottled skin, blend into the wallpaper and frighten us by jumping out suddenly and bleating loudly while we're on our way to coffee.

Obviously, they need to go.

Therefore, I have begun a quest to rid the internet of giraffes.

More reports as events warrant.

Listen!

As I was blow-drying my hair this morning (for the first time in ages), I got to thinking about what to wear, because I've found that wearing clothing to work generally helps with 1) maintaining a proper body temperature, 2) avoiding unnecessary embarrassment for myself and coworkers, 3) keeping my butt from sticking to my chair, and 4) affording me a place to put my lunch money.

I perused the offerings on hand, and realized something about my wardrobe for the first time ever.

My fashion choices are all solidly in the "quiet clothing" category.

To wit: I have only ONE pair of shoes that click if I walk on a hard surface. I have NO lined pants. I have NO control-top pantyhose (ladies, you KNOW what I'm talking about). I have NO "hard" cotton shirts (ie - the stiff kind that need to be ironed). I have NO lace, crepe, satin, taffeta, leather, or other noisy fabric in my closet or dresser.

My clothing, in other words, is silent.

No squeaking belts. No tapppng shoes. No zip or swish or whoosh or crinkle accompanies my each and every movement.

This can mean only one thing.

I'm turning into a ninja.

==========================
I take this as wonderful news, because I have it on good authority that ninja are not ticklish.

I, on the other hand, am horrendously ticklish. All over.

Feet? Check.
Knees? Heck yes - to an alarming degree.
Waist? If you want a lesson in how hard I can punch, just sneak up behind me and poke me in the ribs. I bet you don't try THAT again.

Other bits of me are ticklish that most people would not suspect could be, like my shins, neck, lower back, shoulderblades, and wrists. It's insane.

I used to be really hypersensitive about people touching me, because the tickling would be almost painful if allowed to go on too long. Strike that up to my latent autism, I guess, because most autistic people do NOT like to be touched all that much - the touch is too much to bear, and they have to be conditioned to accept it and deal with it over time.

That ticklish/too muchedness is a strong presence in my life, and as such has led me to a life of quiet clothing that doesn't poke, prod, crinkle, itch, or announce itself.

The quiet clothing allows me to move silently through the world. Ninja are silent. They are also not ticklish. This would be a strong motivator to pursue the transformation.

Yup - expect me to start wearing all black and carrying nunchux any day now.

Ninja Tiff is on the way.

Sneaking one in

Yeah, I'm uh-pposed to be working. Yeah, there's someone waiting for me to finish what I said I'd finish by the time I said I'd finish it, but you know what? They can wait.

I have to finish my tattoo story, and then tell you about how gross and scabby-awful my new tat looks now.

You'll have to wait a mo for that though. Sorry, I know the suspense must be killing you.

SO, where were we in the Tiff Gits a Tat story? Ah yes, I was deciding on a piece of flash.

On the walls of tattoo parlors are poster-sized display thinigies that you can leaf/rifle/scan through that have multiple pieces of standard-issue art on them. At this shop, there were pages and pages of kanji characters (OUT!), pages and pages of skulls and drippy blood things (OUUUUT!), pages and pages of crucifixes and Marys and Jebuses (and even though I don't MIND all that, I'm not decorating myself with in in case I have some late-life conversion to FSM-ism or something, so OUT!), and pages and pages of tribal tatware that I can't go into because, well, I LIKE that stuff but don't want to look like I'm just following along with the crowd, so that was OUT too.

Sigh.

That left me butterflies, Celtic knotwork, and lizards.

I almost got a lizard. Lizards are cute. And colorful! Yay! But hard to explain, so, moving on.

I already HAVE a knotwork tat, so didn't want to go all "theme-y" on my bod by getting another one. I almost got a butterfly one that looked a little not-like a butterfly and more like a briar patch with a hint of wings, but opted out of that too as being too "college girl."

I wanted something more fierce, yet still girly. Something bold, yet delicate. Something that seemed "right" for me.

Do you know how hard it is to pick out a tattoo? It's almost impossible to know if you're doing it right! It takes TIME, y'all!

I went back and forth over getting some ankle work done to go with my other tat, or getting a one that would stand on its own. I toyed with ones that made musical references, to hearts entwined with stylized barbed wire, to simple curlicues and whatnots, before deciding on the one that I ultimately had imprinted on my back forever and ever amen. I thought it was pretty, Oldfriend gave the nod, and the counter dude made up the template.

While he was copying the art, we started chatting with a heavily tattooed young guy. He was really nice, and cute as a button, even with two almost-full sleeves, 1-inch diameter holes in his earlobes, and knuckle tattoos. Actually, it was the knuckle tats that caught my eye, because they were barely readable and actually a shade LIGHTER than his skin. I asked if they were done in glow-in-the-dark ink (because there is such a thing), but he said nope, that they were done in white ink.

At that point something went "Bing!" in my head, and I started getting the notion of getting MY work done in something other than black. I asked Oldfriend what color it should be, and she pointed to my shirt and said "that color. Teal." We asked Mr Tat Man if that was possible, and he yelled to the back of the store "Hey Nelson, she wants it done in teal!" and that was that.

Teal it would be. Apparently they get a lot of that. Who knew?

This next bit is where the pain comes in. If you're squeamish, please skip it and go get yourself a candy bar or something.

OK, not this bit here - this bit is about putting on the template and realizing I'd have to take my shirt off, because I'd decided that I wanted it on my upper back, which meant that to put on the template and ink me I'd have to take off my shirt.

In a tattoo parlor.

Full of men.

Sigh.

All's I could do was hope that the back cleavage wasn't too sickening, and strip.

My back was swabbed with alcohol and dried, the template was applied, I approved the positioning, and assumed the position, which wound up to be straddling a chair with my shirt pulled over my head, trying to look nonchalant.

Nelson mixed me up a pretty teal color, adding a little yellow to the standard-issue ink to give it a little "pop," and after I approved the hue I turned back around, grabbed my own hands, and he set to work.

For 45 minutes he worked, first outlining, then "filling in." I quickly learned which quadrants were no big deal and which (1) was a very big deal indeed. See, most of the time the tattooing process either didn't feel like anything (I shit you not!) or it felt mildly annoying, like a sunburn. HOWEVER, the lower-right quadrant must still have some nerve left, because once that needle started in on me in that spot, I knew it with a capital KNEW!

Ouch. Ouch, Ouch. Holy crap, that hurt. Hurt bad enough for me to focus on the tremulous buzzing of the tattoo gun as Nelson raked it through my skin. Hurt enough to make me practice deep cleansing breaths. Hurt enough to almost want to stop, but if I pinched my own fingers hard enough hand chanted "ow, ow, ow" under my breath I could make it through a few minutes of necessary work.

Y'all, it hurt. I'm not going to kid you. However, if you get a good artist working on you, they'll stop, do something else, let your nerves settle down, and then come back to that spot.

Nelson is good.

And I didn't stop.

Before too long I was the proud owner of a shiny new tattoo, and could not be happier.

I admired it in the mirror, he greased me up and sealed off the new art with saran wrap and surgical tape, gave me a lecture about how to care for it, I handed him his tip, and I was done.

You might ask: what does one do after getting a tattoo? Well, if one is me, on a visit to a great friend, one gets taken for a pedicure and shoe shopping after getting a tattoo, during which time one might leak a little teal dye and blood onto the back of one's shirt so that all the nice Vietnamese nail ladies look at one a little strangely, but one would not care because one has a fierce and awesome new piece of body art on one and they do not.

Then one goes back to the friend's house, washes up the shirt, takes off the saran wrap, washes and dries the tat, lubes it up again, and eats pizza and drinks bourbon until 1 a.m.

Because that makes perfect sense, and is the BEST way to spend time, even IF one did not have a cool new tattoo.

Really - shoe shopping AND a pedicure? Be still my heart.

======================

So, now the tattoo is healing, and it's getting a little crunchy. Bet you didn't know they did that, did you? Yup - the excess ink is forced out by your body and the injuries heaped on your skin have to heal, and so for a week or so the tat is in a state of disrepair. I won't know what it REALLY looks like until this weekend.

Can NOT wait, because right now? That sucker itches.

There you go! My tattoo story, in 8000 words. Verbose much?

The Great Tramp Stamp Experience

Let me just put this right out on the table so that everyone can get a good look at it, point, and laugh:

I'm not terribly hip.

That being said, I won't apologize for being one of the only people on the planet still getting tattoo'ed.

SO not hip. Thie first time, I was that middle-aged large-ish white woman trundling into the tat store (parlor? den? haven? what the heck are those places CALLED?) clutching a piece of paper in her hand on which is printed the tat of her dreams, the one that took her 4 YEARS to find as "just right," the one that will tell the world that she is a little bit crazy of a person who thinks the having an ink-filled needle shoved into her skin multiple thousands of times is a pretty darned good idea.

That was 2 years ago.

I purposely waited to get tatttoo'ed until the in crowd of tribally-adorned youngsters was clearing out of the various houses of pain, waving their indistinguishable fashiontats at one another, high-fiving themselves and all their clonally-decorated buddies on their edginess and bravery. Yup, that was my moment. THAT'S when I went in.

I think the word to describe me at the time would have been "anxious." Or "determined." Certainly not "hip."

That first time, I (and Oldfriend) were the canvases for a Guamian dude named Nelson at Red Dragon tattoo in Richmond. He was nice, patient, considered, and fun. He'd stop piercing our flesh with the vibrating needle of tatdom if it seemed like we were in pain, told stories about his worst experiences, asked us about ourselves, and generally made what could have been a nerve-wracking experience into something that was, actually, kind of fun.

Put it this way - the instant we walked out of the shop, we were ready for more. What a high.

Soooo, as luck and a certain amount of determination would have it, we recently once again found ourselves a-thinking of tattoos, and made tentative plans to go get one this past weekend, when I was a-visiting. Previously, I had identified a graphic that I really wanted to get, and after much interwebs searching we came up with it once again - a representation of a Frank Lloyd Wright stained glass window, as such:



Pretty, right?

Oldfriend found herself something too that she liked, because she was gonna get inked too. Her "something" was also a FLW stained glass piece, which was a very cool thing to find out about her, what with the liking of the genius artist/architect and all.

I was so pleased to have found something I really liked, and that she was going to get done too, and was excited to get the work done.

I was pleased and excited UNTIL, that is, the guys behind the desk at Red Dragon started looking at me kinda funny, and taking to one another in the back rooms. I gots me a baaaad feeling about their conversations, I'll tell you that much right now. I thought maybe they were mocking me, or laughing about how the old lady wants a stupid tattoo, or something other horrid thing.

Instead, they were discussing the relative merits and demerits of the proposed design, and trying to figure out a nice way to tell me that the massive number of straight lines in the graphic PLUS the not-so-straight lines of my particular human body (read: fulla swoopy bits and not so much with the straight lines) would make this tat not only BIGGER than I wanted it (if it was going to work out at all), but would make it prolly not look nice and straight, especially since I was going to put it on my right butt cheek.

Le sigh. Le moan. Le instant of indecision. Le walk over to the wall o' flash to pick out something just "pretty," and not necessarily "special."

Because I was going OUT of there with a tat, of that much I was certain.

+++++++++++++++++++++

Good grief this is getting long! I'll finish tomorrow, with tales of glowing and oozing and pain to entertain you.

Feel free to talk amongst yourselves in the comments if you're so inclined.

So, how was YOUR weekend?

It's a little rough yet - needs to heal completely.

And no, my neck isn't that short (I was looking down).

Plus which, my toenails are now blue from my first-ever pedicure (yes, I wanted them that color), I have a new appreciation for the term "porch party," I now know that white wine is NOT my friend, have seen a metal Arthur Ashe menacing children with a tennis racket, have tasted my first goat, been to a Bland college for the sake of music, and eaten what were quite possibly the world's best sesame peanut noodles (with shrimp!).

All in all, a week's worth of weekend. Much fun. Oldfriend, you know how to show a girl a good time. A big ol' MWUAH coming your way!

So glad you asked

Come on in Rennratt, I'm ready for my interview.

Would you like something to drink? An Evian maybe? A cup of green tea?

I have canpaes and twizzlers; would you like some of those? No? OK then, let's get started. I'm ready. I was BORN ready. Hee hee! We used to say that in marching band, and it still gives me a little shiver to hear it in my head. I played the mellophone. Isn't that a weird name? Mellow-phone, dude. Like, totally.

What? You need to get started? You have to be someplace else? Pedicure appointment? OK, I guess we'd better get to it. Sorry about that.

You only have 5 questions? Really? I thought there would be more. Huh. Well then, this won't take long....

1. What do corned beef, a pocket full of skittles and a sailboat mean to you?

All at once, or taken individually? Oh, nevermind, I'll answer both ways, because I want you to know so much more about me than 5 simple questions can relate.

Taken individually, they mean as follows: St. Patrick's Day, a problem on laundry day, and drinking before noon. Taken together, they mean party party party party, puke a rainbow on the bay. (an aside: Sailing while hungover is NEVER a good idea. I did that once as a young woman, and won't ever look at a cuddy cabin the same way again. Hot, stuffy, and no head. Eesh!)

2. If you could only have FIVE words in your vocabulary, what would they be?

More. Faster. Goodnight. Please. Knockwurst.

3. You have created a new religion in your honor. What are the basic tenets, and how do you recruit people?

Oooooh! What a good questions! I've actually thought about this before, so how cool is it that you've asked me this question?

Really cool, that's what.

The rules are as follows: 1) no fighting, ever. 2) take care of the least among us, and realize that from time to time everyone will be the least. 3) a daily drink and 15-minute contemplation time. 4) puppies for everyone. 5) a required shoulder-massaging circle every worship time. 6) a weekly "make up your own anthem" competition, and 7) affirmation that the Earth and those in it are to be celebrated everyday, not just once a week.

I'd recruit people with the puppy thing. Who doesn't like puppies? Nobody, that's who.

4. If you had a one eyed tree frog for a pet, what would its name be?

Mort.

Why do you ask? Is this a trick question? Did I answer it right? You looked all squinchy there for a sec; I hope I didn't just remind you of something unpleasant. I do that sometimes, just blurt out something without thinking that maybe it might remind someone of a bad childhood memory. Did YOU have a pet one-eyed treefrog named Mort? No? Then why'd you look all squinchy? Isn't that a good name? Should I pick another one?

Wait - Don't print that. I don't like to look indecisive or overly-accommodating. It clashes with my public personna of tough biker chick with a heart of molten lava.

Do I get to approve the article before it's published? What do MEAN it's being published now? It's getting transcribed in real time? You're doing this LIVE? Ohmygosh, I didn't put on any makeup or tie my sandals! There's dog hair everywhere! Let me put a BRA on at least!

Oh, heh, right. Nobody can see me. Whew! Carry on then.

Is there another question? Oh, yay! There is! Give it to me!

5. If eggplants could talk, what would you talk to them about?

The vastness of the cosmos, what its favorite color is, how to polish a newt, and why biscuits are breakfast food in the United States and an after-tea treat in the United Kingdom. I might also want to know about its family, and which one of them left sneaker prints on my new rug.

That was fun! Are we all done? Really?

Gosh, that didn't take long. I'd really like to ask YOU some questions. I can? I can ask anybody questions if they ask me too? Now THAT'S cool.

How do I do that? Ooooo, there are RULES?

Hey, let me read them out loud so they get live-transcribed. I can't WAIT to see who wants me to ask THEM questions! Hooray for the internets!

Ahem. Here are the rules! Listen to me well, all y'all out there in internetlandia! (hee!) If you want me to interview YOU, here's what you DO:

1. Leave me a comment saying, "Interview me."
2 I will respond by asking you five questions. I get to pick the questions.
3. You will update your weblog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

It's all mine and YOU can't have it

I can kiss you butt if you kiss mine.

I can nominate you if you nominate me.

I can vote for you if you vote for me.

I can tell people about you if you tell them about me.

I can put a link to your blog if you put a link on your blog to me.

I can tell Jeremy that you think he's cute if you tell Adam that I think he's awesome.

Check Yes or No if you like-like me.

Bah!

There are legions of blog awards circling about like lost satelliets in the vast scope of the interwebs.

"Best of the Blogs"

"The Bloggies"

"The Blog Awards"

"Please Someone Love Me"

I made that last one up.

For all of these awards (except, of course, the last one), there are award sites. On the sites there are opportunities to vote for your favorites. On these sites there are blogs nominated in categories that range from funniest to best cat blog to best photo blog to best celebrity blog to freakiest blog to best sports blog to best personal blog to best corporate blog to best blog about the lint in your mother's clothes dryer and how it matches perfectly with the dream you had about the Magdalene and how she gave you her robe one cold afternoon and it was made of the same color cloth as the dryer lint from yesterday's load of towels which is really really freaky in a scary kinda awesome way.

I am shocked and saddened to report that this humble blog was not been nominated for any of the major awards, nor most of the minor ones either.

Not. A.One.

In fact, very very many of the blogs I read on a regular basis have not been nominated for any award at all EITHER.

This is an outrage of tremendous proportion, for the blogs I read are, naturally, the bestest ol' blogs in the whole darn world and are interesting and insightful and honest and humorous and snarky and tewwific in a fanstasticalgreat way. I MEAN it, y'all! You rock - and if you don't know who "you" are, or would like to know if you're a you, check out the sidebar or the comments sections of your own blogs. If you're there, or I am, then you're a "you." Make sense?

Then, after reading some of the really great stuff that's out on the interwebs, go take a look at some of the kee-RAP that's being nominated for an award at some of the blog award websites, and TELL ME that your stuff isn't at LEAST as good as what's out there being recognized as the "best of."

With approxiamtely a bajillion blogs out there from which to choose, HOW can this be fair? Did some team of crack blog-evaluators scan the globe for how each and every blog fit into each an every category, sifting through the filters and code words until all of our blogs were slotted into some category(ies) or another, at which point a second crack team of blog reviewers came through and READ each blog and RATED each blog and gave their considered opinion on each blog?

I submit that this is NOT what happened.

Instead, I subscribe the notion that Jane nominated Sally who had promised to nominate Jim if Jane would vote for him, which allowed Cassandra to vote for Joel because unless Sally was nominated she couldn't say a word because Alexander was mad as Jenny for not nominating him LAST year, and ohmygosh look at your shoes they're adorable. Totally!

Check Yes or No if you like-like me.

Y'all, just because YOU weren't nominated for any of these here really cool awards does NOT mean that I don't love and respect you. It does NOT mean that you mean any less to me that you don't have a zillion fans. In fact, it means MORE that you don't, because you keep on keepin on for the love of the thing, for the wee little societies we build or for the interests we have, or for the glee with which you write about things I'd never dream of in ways I couldn't think to begin to express them.

So, today I begin a new movement.

If ever I am nominated for a prestigious blog award, I will not accept. If pressed into accepting a nomination to be voted on, I will not vote, nor will I beg you to vote for me. If I DO vote (by some twist of Jim Beam that finds me lonely and crying over a lost opportunity for fame), I promise to vote again for someone famous so as to cancel out my vote for me. If I do happen to WIN, I promise to be sufficiently sheepish on the dais while accepting my award, for which I'll be wearing a gorgeous bias-cut silk gown that shows off my cleavage and hints at some totally smoking curves, because even if I didn't WANT the award, why show up looking like a schlub?

I promise all these things, for you.

Will YOU, for me?

Check yes or no.

You can't call me that

Gloria waited on the edge of the tub for the knock on the door she knew would come exactly 1 minute and 23 seconds after she'd locked the door behind her.

It was the amount of time he'd calculated she needed to "do her business" and get back to being a good girl.

She didn't have business to do right then, except the usual of trying to figure how to kill him so that nobody would suspect she'd done it. Not that they would anyway. She was nondescript, the beauty she possessed just few years ago had been blunted and dunned to plainness by his obsession over her.

She had been beautiful, a star, smooth and moist, and he'd taken her by storm, telling her of unbelievable love in an instant. She'd been enthralled, captivated by his attentions, pleased at the spot she had taken at the center of his world.

Over a short time they'd moved in together, betrothed, and her promise to him sunk like a cement block into her heart every time she refused him the sex he wanted on a seemingly endless basis or when she didn't cook his dinner the way he wanted, or when she committed a thousand other slights that caused his eyes to narrow and his demands for her affirmations of love for him to increase in occasion and volume.

The constant strain of proving her love for him took their toll, and soon her bright eyes hollowed while her gentle curves took on larger dimensions from the strain of holding up his happiness and her guilt. There was no pleasing him, as long as she looked the way she did and as long as she couldn't understand how to make him happy.

She disappeared into the nothing of the center of her mind, maneuvering against him in malicious heat as he berated her for not making the eggs moist enough or not loving him the way he needed or not taking care of him the way a wife should if she loved her husband and truly wanted him to be happy. In her brain the first small tendrils of hate grew, sending dark hairy roots into the place that used to be filled with sunny optimism and a dangerous smile.

She started seeking the bathroom, first for the pills and later for the peace it afforded. In the beginning he allowed her 5 minutes of her time, then 4, then less and less and her visits grew closer and closer together through the long nights of oppression and obligation. She would run the sink and say she was peeing. She would wad up a bunch of toilet paper, wet it, and throw it in the toilet, saying she had to poop.

He started asking to see the paper she wiped herself with.

At that point she invented a female complaint.

Then she started cutting herself to soak the tampons with blood, so that her new disease would fill the wastebasket with her sickness.

Now, perched on the edge of the tub, she was making herself prepare to vomit, the next step in her plan of illness that just might make him leave her alone long enough so she could finally decide how she should kill him. Tonight she planned to tell him she had cancer; that should stop him from sticking his filthy hands in places that they never belonged. She had cancer, right, and needed to throw up to have cancer.

One finger down, then two. No food in there to puke. She hadn't eaten in days. No cancer tonight.

She'd have to use the knife then, which was under the mattress already. It was there in case he didn't believe she was sick, in case he made her strip for him like he'd done last night, in case he rammed his way into her, tearing at her skin while grunting like a pig the way he did every night and most mornings since she made the stupid mistake of saying she loved him too.

There was no other way.

1 minute and 8 seconds later, there was a rapping at the bathroom door. Time shortened again, 15 seconds lost to him.

The last straw gone, she opened the door and said "let's go to bed."

Fit to be Tried

Dudes, I totally need your help. Like, totally.

As some of y'all know (because I bray about it from time to time here in NAY), I have been fitfully engaged in a quest to either "bring skinny back" or "to at least not jiggle like a bowlful of jelly when I make even the slightest movement."

Some of these efforts have NOT been in vain, for I have lost 16 pounds since the middle of January and am seeing certain gratifying results, like being able to wear pants with zippers and waistbands and having jeans that used to be literal side-splitters turn into comfortable road trip wear. I am getting excited to drop the other 20 that I bet Biff Spiffy I'd lose before he does (or at the very least, by July 4th).

I'm SO excited that I signed up for a "spring into fitness" thing at work, in which I now need to exercise 30-50 minutes a day so that my team can meet OUR goal so we can get prezzies and cool stuff.

An aside - One wonders why I cannot channel this excitement into things like WORK and CLEANING, so as to save myself the public humiliation when the inevitable struggle to meet that fitness goal arrives. I have no answers......

No matter, the deed is done, and I now must shake the pasty ol' tailfeather to the tune of a half an hour OR MORE a day (I'm branded for 250 minutes a week, y'all!) so as not to let my teammates down.

These teammates, it should be noted, include a person that has run a marathon, someone who's skinny as a rail, and another person who possesses abs of something stronger than steel because I've seen him work out and steel would melt under the kind of strain he puts on those suckers. No pressure from THOSE dudes. None.At.All.

Why, with people like THAT on my team I envision that they'll agree to make up my time for me to get the team to goal, because, really, what's another 15 minutes of workout them THEM? A pittance, a trifle, a mere shadow of a thought! Why, they could pump out another 100 crunches and throw them in MY tally pile! They could give a little extra effort and run a mile for me, saving me the effort and allowing me to pursue a REAL goal, like getting to level 12 on speed Chuzzle.

They COULD.

I expect they WON'T.

Cheapskates. Misers. Penurious stinkwads.

Sigh.

The bottom line of this exercise (hee!) means that I won't be able to skip the stairs at work, or to rest on my current weight loss laurels and lose the rest by hoping, or morph back into a cheeto-eatin, beer-swillin, nap-takin, stress-lovin, sweat-avoindin' office drone of a certain age who simply doesn't CARE anymore.

Because I DO care. A lot. My heart cares. My lungs care. My butt, for all its alabaster beauty, cares very deeply. Therefore, I care. Oh, sure, my BRAIN can try to play tricks on me and rationalize like a crazed dervish on a cocaine bender, but the body knows the real score. The body is happy about the pants that now zip. The body is happy about the new waistline. The body loves that people notice it's losing weight, and so, for now, the body WINS.

Three cheers for the body!! Go, go, GO!

Ahem.

So, here's the deal. I need y'all to give me some hints about what you do to get your daily recommended intake of work-out-i-tude. Difficulty points: has to be something I can do in short bursts, doesn't require a honkin' pile of equipment, and can be done by someone with kinda crappy coordination and balance. I'm looking for something fun and new to add to a routine of walking, stair-stepping, and weight lifting. Something maybe that can be done in my office, that doesn't require a change of clothes, that I can do to bolster my minutes of exercise, etc etc etc.

Got anything like that hanging around?

Well, do ya??

In which it becomes patently obvious that I am, indeed, one of the world's great idiots.

Here in the county of my residence, they (the public school system) have a little something called " year-round school." Year-round school is pretty cool, and a good idea for those school systems that are overburdened with too many scholars and not enough dollars to build shiny new schools for them so that they're not squeezed into classrooms with a zillions other kiddos and one poor beleaguered teacher who isn't getting paid enough anyhow to deal with the precious darlins.

The deal is that there are 4 groups of students assigned to "tracks" 1 through 4. Each track represents approximately one-quarter of the student population. Each track goes to school for 9 weeks, then gets approximately 3 weeks off. So, for example, track 1 goes to school for 9 weeks starting the week after July 4th (which EVERYONE has off), then they get 3 weeks off. Track 2 starts back in three weeks after track one, track 3 starts 3 weeks after track 2 (having gone to school for a few weeks while track one was out, then taking THEIR vacation before starting back in again), and so on.

See? Take a look at the trackout schedule for yourself and figger it out:



The upshot of this is that there is always ONE track out on break while the other three tracks are in school, thereby allowing approximately 25% MORE students to utilize the school building than if everyone went to school on the same schedule. It's a pretty cool idea, and works great for kids and parents alike because vacations can be taken at more random times during the year, there are no super-long school breaks to survive during which a third of what was learned the previous year is forgotten, and the routine of school is never really broken.

All in all, not a bad system. It works really well for most parents, particularly for those kinds of parents who are right on top of the kids' schedules and rotations into and out of school on their trackouts.

Those kinds of parents don't include me.

See, uh, the Things have been out of school for OVER three weeks. I counted! Today was the day they tracked back in! Routine, blessed routine was to arrive again at last - no more hanging out at home with them trying to work while they play endless PS2, no more feeling guilty about not enriching their minds while I try to work, no more wishing for a quiet office and the company of friends at work while I'm spending this quality time with my wonderful children, no more bickering to listen to, because, YIPPEE! they were going back to school!! I felt like the guy in the old Office Depot commercial (or was it Staples?), riding on my shopping cart while "it's the most wonderful time of the year" plays happily in the background.

Yup - today, Monday the 16th, was the day they went back to school and I went back to work, and the pendulum could swing back into "all is as it SHOULD be" territory.

Except somebody was holding onto the counterweight.

Until THURSDAY.

Oh yes, early this morning I got the Things up, showered, brushed, the snacks packed, the lunch money doled out, we were all freshly scrubbed and dressed and in the carpool lines in plenty of time. All was right with the world, I purchased a lovely Mexican Latte as a treat after a successfull deployment maneuver and was headed for work when the phone rang. It was from an unfamiliar, yet local, number.

"Ms Tiff? (not my real name) This is Mrs X, Thing 2's teacher. We don't track in until Thursday."

"Oh no."

"I've got Thing 2 settled down with some hugs, and he's in the office waiting for you to come get him. I was here for a teacher workday, and am glad I got him."

"Oh no."

"You might want to call the middle school and tell them you're coming to get Thing 1."

"Oh no. I don't know their number."

"Just a sec, I'll get it for you."

"Oh, thanks."

Yup. I'm THAT parent. The one that doesn't check the calendar, the one that drops their child off at random intervals at school just to see if anybody will take them, the one that is so obtuse that she doesn't even know when her kids are supposed to be in school.

In my defense, I did count. They WERE out for three weeks. Who the heck starts back to school on a THURSDAY?

So, call the middle school, swing back to the elementary school to pick up the tear-stained Thing 2 (bless his tender heart) who told me that all the OTHER kids in the office (of which there were 5) were other kids who were also in Track 4 and whose parents dropped them off also thinking that today was the BIG DAY at last, then ride around to the middle school to collect the breezy and unflappable Thing 1, who was nothing short of giddy that he didn't HAVE to do school today, and head back home.

Where, for three more days I get to enjoy the sounds of Lego Star Wars on PS2 and background noise and working on my laptop in my bedroom and getting to avoid the 90 minutes of commute. I can deal with it. The eyebrow twitch isn't really THAT bothersome, and the teeth I'm grinding needed a little smoothing down anyhow.

It's the least I can do to overcome the shame of being "that" parent.

A double shot of righteous ire, please

Mmmkay. It's Sunday night. I'm back from my road trip. Hooray! It was fun!!

It started to rain early this morning. JUST the kind of weather one loves to drive in, doesn't one? Yes?

No.

...........Moving on then.

The clouds parted, FINALLY, right as I got home (5+ hours later), and by "parted" I mean that it stopped RAINING at last and so I thought it was time to do a little laundry, just because I wanted to be "on top of things" and "prepared for school to start tomorrow."

FYI - The laundry room at this apartment complex is four buildings away.

Three guesses as to when it started to POUR puppy dogs and angry concierges.

First two don't count.

If you're particularly dense, or just don't care to play along, I'll give you a little hint.

It started to rain TWO SECONDS after I walked out of the laundry room.

Ahem. Mother Nature? So very not funny ha-ha.

A half an hour later, as my clean clothes are spinning to a gentle halt in the loving embrace of The Agitator (a wonderful honorific if ever there was one), it is coming down in buckets and bowlsful. Bowls the size of troughs, or bathtubs. I am going to get wuh-wuh-wuh-wet on my way over the collect my newly clean washing.

Newsflash: I am NOT drying it. What's the point?

Perhaps my smoking-hot irritation will keep me dry as I trudge over there to collect my Spingtime Scented togs. Though, from the sound of it, I'm guessing that only a tarp would keep me anywhere near dry. It's really coming down out thar!

I've just decided: I'm DRIVING to the laundry room; three-dollar-a-gallon gas prices be jiggered. You hear that, Mother Nature? Huh? Just TRY to get me now!

Mwuahahahahaaaaaa!!!

434

In case you were keeping count, that's how many posts I've done here at NAY.

434.

It also happens to be the prefix of two phone numbers I've had. Well, probably more like 6 phone numbers I've had, but in two places.

Because that makes total sense.

If I thought long enough, I probably could remember most, if not all, of those phone numbers. The area codes have changed since I had 'em though, so they probably wouldn't dial correctly. Or, they would. What do I know? I'd like to get SOMEBODY on the line, just to prove I was there once.

Because that also makes total sense.

When I was a kid I used to think that phone numbers went with houses. Back when I was a kid, they likely did (when dinosaurs roamed the earth, that is. Because there were phones back then. Made of stone. Powered by sunlight and protomammals on treadmills). Now, of course, in these enlightened times, phone numbers are portable things, tradeable, switchable, untrackable (mostly).

How times do change.

No more rotary phones, no more satisfying "clickety click" of the dial as it rebounded through the numbers back to the resting place. No more cool word prefixes, which is the only way my Mom can remember the phone number of the house I grew up in (which, coincidentally, she ALSO lived in. imagine!).

I used to have a head for phone numbers. Now, with three of my own (phone numbers, that is, not heads), and an equivalent number for just about everyone I know, I rely on the "contact" feature in my cell phone to tell me what to dial and to whom I am speaking (snort!). No more pressing all those numbers and making up little remembering songs to go with their tones, it's one button and you're off and dialing.

In high school, our home phone number ended in 9090. Kind of like Mork's "nah-noo nah-noo,"' which is how my friends remembered it and was a current cultural reference we all thought was mighty funny. Ah, a time of innocence. I can still remember the tone tune for that phone number.....singing it in my head as I dialed would confirm that I'd gotten the right number, a handy thing for those midnight calls home to the parental units to tell them I was still OK, even though sometimes the OK translated directly into "had a belly full of beer." If I hit the numbers right and kept the conversation short, nobody would be the wiser and I had two hours to sober up and find some mints before heading home.

Not that I ever did that. Of course. Much.

I recently go a new cell phone, and for a period of about a month I could NOT remember what my new number was. It made no sense, has no pattern or rhythm at all. The area code is a given, but after that I got a little muzzy. However, you'll be pleased to know that I now KNOW it, and can rattle it off with almost nary a thought.

No, I'm not telling you what it is.

Everyones ELSE'S number is in the phone. If I ever lose that, I'm sunk.

The new phone also takes pictures. Amazing! It's beyond anything that my little kid-brain could have fathomed. A phone that takes pictures? And records SOUNDS? And plays music? And has GAMES? And a CALCULATOR? What kind of crazy talk IS that? Is this the future?

It is.

Ain't it COOL?

============================

It's a gorgeous spring day here in Ye Olde Wake Forest-ey, and I've got a road trip to take this afternoon. Terrific weather for driving. If you're on my way to and from (read: routes 85 and 95 north to DC), I'll wave atcha! Lemme know at which exit I should raise the happy hand of greeting, and you'll be put on the list.

IT'S MINE!!!

THE COTTAGE IS MINE!

Mine!

Whee!

It's my house now!!

Woo-hoo!!

Happy happy!!!!

Inspections next week. Closings two weeks after that.

MINE!!!

Y'all are invited to the housewarming party. Bring bourbon.

Squeeee!!!!!!!!!!!

It's trying to kill me

(That's the house, right there!)

7:50 a.m., the call from the realtor.

"Well, Alice didn't get to present the offers until later in the afternoon yesterday, and by the time we heard back from the clients I thought it might be too late to call you.

The offers were nearly identical, and both y'all wanted to close at the end of May. The owners were hoping to close by the end of this month or May 5th at the latest, and they were asking to get about 1500 dollars more for that house than you offered. What do you think of that?"

"I think that's fine, I figured they'd counter my offer. I can do the money and the speedy closing."

"All right then, I'll just need to update the offer and have you come by the office to initial the changes. Can you come in sometime today?"

(Keep in mind here that I'm already at work, 45 minutes away. I LIVE 5 minutes from his office. The humor of that geographic situation didn't escape me, because I'd came into work EARLY today, when on most days would still have been at HOME)

"Shoot Jimmy, I'm at work, when do we need to have this done?"

"Well, I can tell the owners that you're OK with the changes, and as long as we have a signed original by this afternoon to present to them that will be fine."

(heart pounds, I want to run out the door to drive to the office to sign the papers to get the house for sure and all, but let discretion and discipline rule)

"All right - I can be there by 5. Is that going to be OK?"

"Sure thing - we'll get everything fixed up for you and see you then."

So, there you go. No house yet.

If all goes well, I can close in three weeks.

Gulp.

==============================

Burger King coffee rules. I've downed a large, and am spinning on all eight cylinders.

Woohooo!!!

Also, I slept for 11 hours last night, so am just about ready to levitate. SO full of energy.

Remember how, when you were a kid, you legs seems to be made of springs? That's how I feel right now. I feel like I'm about 8 years old, and ready to run full-speed down the sledding hill through woods and over roots, ducking branches in the dappled shade while my friends chase after me. I was always really good at running in the woods - I could spot obstacles a mile off that a lot of kids would twist an ankle on or run into. The demands of always being on the lookout gave me a certain kind of wild energy that fed on itself, and I would wind up at the bottom of the hill out of breath and completely exhilarated.

That's what I'd like to do right now. Run down a steep wooded hill, moving at high speed, feeling like a kid again.

Thanks BK and sleep; I haven't felt like this is a long long time.

Here's a question for ya: What did y'all used to do as a kid that made you feel like the ruler of the world? Jump off swings at the high point in the arc? Ride your bike heedlessly? Spin in circles until you got dizzy?

Everybody has something, why not tell us alllll about it?

A slick sense of timing

I've recently moved, due a big ol' life change, and found myself some temporary digs. It's fine, but not someplace I'd like to be for a long haul. No yard for the kids, though there ARE lots of kids around for them to play with; and the neighbors upstairs, even though they TRY to be quiet, can't help the 20+-year-old construction from creaking. Plus which, I've never been a big fan of knowing exactly when someone I don't know is over my head cranking out a deposit to the sewer bank, if you know what I mean.

If you'll remember, a while back I posed the question to y'all of "should I get the cottage or apartment?" and you rang in loud and clear with the COTTAGE answer.

Today, finally, I put in an offer on the cottage.

At the same time someone else did.

Procrastination strikes with its cold talons of "I told you so" once again.

If I'd sent in the offer LAST week, I'd have the house by now, but NoooOOOOooo, I waited. Almost maybe Ihopenot too late. Carp it all to Henry - why did I wait????? What if their offer is better than mine? What if they offered full price? Will the agent let me know, or will the big door of opportunity slam in my face with a raspy HA! of scorn? Will I be reduced to driving past "my" cottage while someone else's children play in "my" backyard?

Oh, I can see it now. Mr and Mrs Happy trundling from their car into "my" house with the grocery bags while around them their happy children squeal with joy over the new puppy they've just brought home and birds sing in glorious harmony over their scene of domestic tranquility, while I sulk in my car, wringing my hands over my own stupidity.

(That almost rhymed.)

Gah! I hate this waiting. Mr Happy Real Estate man told me that by midday today there should be an answer to the "who wins?" question. It's 11:30 my time.

When IS midday, anyhow?

More details as events warrant. Keep those fingers crossed, please.

==========================

UPDATE:

These is no update. It's after 2. No word at all. This is the kind of excitement I do NOT need. Winning the lottery? I could do that. Discovering a new form of life under my front porch? That would be kind of exciting. Being asked to go to Paris as George Clooney's guest (heck, as PeeWee Herman's guest!)? Totally there.

But.....this....waiting.....is.....killing......me.

In search of the forward-walking crab.

I'm Marlin Perky, welcome to Mutual of Ornaha's Wild Fiefdom!!

Today we are traveling to the dark edge of our vast and fearsome Fiefery to search for a rare creature, the forward-walking crab. Once thought to be a thing of legend, it has recently been sighted as a filling in fried dumplings at a food stall in Whakamolia. What a shame.

Ghim, our man in the field, has travelled to the Outer Regions to find a live specimen of this most unusual creature. The more we know about the forward-waling crab, the better will be our understanding of its part in nature and how we can exploit its tender flesh for our feasting tables come Harshentide Eve.

Oh wait, strike that last bit - the Gaffer was having a touch of fun with me. We really and truly only want to find the crab in order to understand its part in nature, at the edge of the Great Puddle of Morash.

"This is Ghim, at long last arrived in Whakamolia, where I've been talking with the locals about the FWC, which is what all the BrosinDahood call it around here. Not wanting to stick out as a tourist, I've adopted their colorful terminology and styles of dress, which, as you can see, appears to be little more than a painted gourd and some braided hay. No matter, Whakamolia is a hot desert-y place, full of nasty great Rabboids and many other creatures strange and poisonous. I've been told the gourd repels most fanged creatures (except for the bands of roaming Vampyria, who go for the jugular instead of the, uh, unjugular, which the gourd covers), and the braided hay can be used as a whip, rope, or emergency torniquet should we come across any irritable wildlife that can't be vanquished with one stroke of a Felreth midget's can of walrus breath.

My native guides have brought me to the edge of the Great Puddle, in hopes of catching a dozen or two FWCs. Ah! What's that? A shape in the gloom rises from the surface of the Puddle! A pair of red eyes! Could it be? Oh! It's a Puddlegator! Look at it, terrible and fearsome in its hunt for prey.

Wait just a minrite, it's looking at us.

That can't be good. Marlin, it's coming toward us.

Oh dear. Where's that hayrope? Please Camtreck in Heaven, someone help me!

Whats that? Shouting attracts the Puddlegator? OK, I'll pipe down."

Ghim? Everything all right?

"Yes Marlin. We're in a Tata tree now, observing the Puddlegator while snacking on the deeeelighcious fruits that hang pendulously from the tree's smooth branches.

Notice how the puddlegator is now stalking a Snog, one of the many types of giant gourami that live in the Puddle.

The puddlegator waits, mouth wide, tails gently swaying, until its prey is nearly to the other side of its homelair before striking out with its pronged tongue, delivering the dose of phytotoxin that wil surely incapacitate the Snog with one blow.

THERE IT GOES! Oh! A thing of quickness and beauty! Oh! The Snog is down! I say the Snog is DOWN! As you can see, the Snog is slowly dissolving from the injection of Puddlgator saliva, and soon will be nothing but a mucusy mass that the Puddlegator will suck through its tubular appendage. Nature, in her majesty, is truly at work here.

Ouch!

What the Henry was THAT?

Marlin, some creature has just bit me near the gourd.

I'm going to grab it and try to identify it for you.

Yes, I think it is! Oh, YES! It IS! It's a FWC! I didn't know they could climb trees! This is amazing! Our first sighting! Magic day! What a glorious thing!

Ouch! There's another one! They come in pairs! How astounding! Two FWCs! Happy happy day!

Marlin, just as a point of information, they have very sharp pincers, and seem to be able to tear off small chunks of flesh before I notice anything is wrong, but what a find! I'm bleeding, and also happy. Can you see this Marlin? Isn't it wonderful?"

You might want to put some Attar root on that, Ghim, it looks like you're bleeding pretty badly there.

"Oh, helms, no.

Oh Camtreck, they're everywhere.

Marlin, I'm surrounded by them. They're marching up the tree in swarms. Thousands of them.

The guides are gone, and I smell blood.

Where's that frilling midget with the walrus breath, for Gorfeth's sake?"

Well, it seems like it's time for a commerical break while Ghim gets that situation in order. Come on back in 2 and 2 and we'll have the exciting conclusion of "The Search for the Forward Walking Crab," right here on Mutual of Ornaha's Wild Fiefdom!

Blue men and angry eyebrows

So, HI!

I've been rather taciturn lately, haven't I? That's because there isn't much to say.

I'm come up into my first dry spell o' blogging, and I don't care much for it. Not at all. I just kind of lost the will to do it last week, and so, didn't.

Y'all, tell me all about how WEIRD that is. Me? Not blog? Why, the Earth might stop rotating in an easterly direction, and we'd all go careening off terra firma and straight intospace, waving our arms and legs all willy-nilly as our heads explode in the vast black vacuum of spaaaaace if I don't blog!

Right?

Uh, no.

Apparently NOT. My head is still in once piece, there's still as much gravity as there was last week (and thank goodness for that, because if there wasn't we'd all be wondering where the satellites went), and no great ruckus was raised while I took a short breather.

So, fine. I didn't write, because I didn't want to write. Oh, well, yeah, I did WRITE, but not BLOG. And no, I'm not telling you what I wrote. It might be turning into something, and I can't be spillin' the beanies all over the information superhighway only to have them get turned to dip by a stampeding herd of plagiarists. That will not DO.

Today, however, I feel the need to write something to those out there who might still be coming here, those hardy few who have not yet given up the ghost of NAY and check back in here periodically to see if I've raised my head above my self-made mire to gasp out a few words before sinking once again into the morass of confusion and lethargy that is my brain.

So, for today, here are things I like, because 1) I just thought of them, 2) they make me happy, 3) I can sing "My favorite things" from the Sound of Music in my head and pretend to be a novitate nun about to fall in deep true love with a handsome widower, and 4) because it's all I've got to go on right now:

Stupid gif animations
Interactive fountains
Baos
City skylines
Irish accents
Children's laughter
Beer
Hugs
Wine tastings
Clean sheets
Fresh breath
Cheesecake
Cooking
Comfy pants

Oh, I could go on and on. Once you start thinking of the things that make you happy, or, at the very least, carry a connotation of happiness or satisfaction, it gets very easy to keep on a-goin'. There's a lot of be happy about in this world, of that there is no doubt. We should grab those bits of happiness as often as we can.

This ain't no rehearsal y'all, so enjoy it while you've got it, you know?

Eh - I'm out for now. More tomorrow, and maybe it will even be funny! Stranger things have happened.

Well versed

There have been times
it's become clear to me
that my brain is a strange and
wonderful place to be

When, for example,
it's clearly evident
that I sometimes say stuff
I didn't know I meant

When I dream of tornados
and skating on socks
and race-morphing bloggers
and tumbling rocks

When I mention that pi
is twice half its integer
and laugh to myself
at all the clever

When I say the word "tidings"
and it's not about laundry
but pronounce it like "tiddings"
because I think it's funny

When I do these strange things
some quirky, some odd
there are those who react
like a rigored cold cod

As strange as it sounds
and it sounds mighty strange
there are those who don't "get" me
who think I'm deranged

There are people out there
who might view me as curious
an anomaly or brain sprite
who's never quite serious

That's all fine by me
for I'm happy out here
in my field, all alone
outstanding and weird.

Let them look let them point
let them shoot me odd glances
I'll simply imagine those tight prigs
without shirtses or pantses.

And therefore,
I
win.

Hey Stranger!

Looks like somebody's back in town.

Yippee!!

More later. Grindstone calls. Or is it millstone? One wonders.

=======================
UPDATE:
Funny body part names:

acetabulum
sphincter
phalanges
salpingopharyngeus
fallopian tube
medulla oblongata
nares
gastrocnemius
diverticulum
and, of course, uvula

========================

If you could change one of your physical apsects, what would it be?

I waffle between getting my chestal appendages hoisted or getting my middle-aged face hoisted. EIther way, it appears as though gravity is indeed an unstoppable force.

O' course, I COULD go for some lipo. Or a blepharoplasty, now that it appears as though I'm always tired, even when I'm not. Or I could get a neck lift! A brachioplasty! A jejunectomy!

Wait, not that last one.

So many things could change. I can see myself now, looking like I'm facing into a headwind when there's not even a breeze, my unnaturally perky thorax appendages immobile, my eyebrows raised in perpetual surprise, the haughty smirk on my lips the result of being stretched too tightly far too many times.

But, nah. That's going a littlelottabit too far, and, quite frankly, if I can't raise an eyebrow in disdain or amusement because I've been Botoxed to immobility, I don't want to go on living.

What's YOUR personal fixer-upper area?

Making money on my back

For the past week I've been working at home while the Things hang out and watch way too much teevee and get way too little exercise.

For purposes of illustration and explanation, you need to know that my computer, my lifeline, is in my bedroom.

In that bedroom I have a wooden kitchen chair to sit on, or my bed. I switch between the chair and the bed and the chair and the bed with frequency while working on said 'pyooter, but I'll tell y'all right now that the MOST comfy position to work in is FLAT ON MY BACK, with the computer propped up on my legs.

Even so, I still have to switch positions from time to time. I didn't think there would be a day when I could say "it's possible to get sore from lying down," or even that "I'm making my living on my back," but I guess that day has come.

I'm sure I'll miss it tomorrow when I'm back in the office and the Things are getting ready to vacation with their Dad. Slumping in my office chair simply does not lend itself to salacious witticisms, or the possible development of decubitus ulcers, the way the whole bed thing does.

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Overheard in the living room:

Thing 2: Gah! My throat is all cloggy! It feels like I've got a slug in it!

Thing 1: Well, drink some water. Or eat some SALT!

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I'm fixin' to commence to gettin' back on the fitness trail. I wandered off it for a little while, but I think I see where I left it and can pick up the scent just fine. (Smells like sweat, maybe).

It's time to get back in the pool, or on the treadmill, or something, ANYTHING. Life is equilibrating again, and it's time to take the time for me, because how am I going to grow up to be a crabby old lady if I don't stay healthy long enough to be a curmudgeonly pain in everyone else's ass?

It's a fair question, y'all.

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Jigsaw puzzles? Happy hobby or work of the devil?

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Short one today, folks. I've got to get back to the grindstone. There's still a little nose left.