Tuesday, July 31, 2007

Put this in the "oh good lord" category

This just in from the Yahoo "odd news" desk: A growing number of vegans are shunning sex with meat-eaters because meat-eaters are viewed as a "graveyard for animals."

Yeah, whatever.

Listen folks - I was a vegataranian for a few years, and by and large still don't eat a lot of meat, so I'm not all about the vegeratarian-hating here. I happen to think it's a healthy lifestyle, and if I didn't like BURGERS so daggone much I'd go ahead and make the switch back to an all-veg diet. Really, it's not that hard to be vegetarian anymore, what with the Boca Burgers and the Tofu Pups and the TVP by the pound and the MEXICAN FOOD and the yummy yummy other ethnic foods (Ethiopian anyone? Indian? A little dab-a sushi, y'all?), so don't go saying that "oh I'd be one too but it's so difficult to find things to eat!" because I will not believe you.

However, VEGANS are another thing entirely. They're the left-wing liberal vegetarians. They're HARD CORE, folks, no mistake about it. The only ones more hardcore veggie than the vegans are the "raw food" propenents, and I can't even wrap my walnut-sized brain around what spurs someone on to THOSE gustatory heights. THAT shit shounds hard to do.

So, what is a vegan, and why would they want to shun the "animal graveyard" meat-eaters?

Let's find out.

This is from Vegan Action's website: a vegan (pronounced VEE-gun) is someone who, for various reasons, chooses to avoid using or consuming animal products. While vegetarians choose not to use flesh foods, vegans also avoid dairy and eggs, as well as fur, leather, wool, down, and cosmetics or chemical products tested on animals.

Wait a sec! Wait just a darn minute! There's a distinct admonition in the pronounciation guide that we are to say "vegan" word with "GUN" as the second syllable. Might I suggest that this is a subliminal move to clothe violence in the guise of "cruelty free" living? Why GUN, for goodness sake? Why not "GAN" or "GIN" (with a soft g)? Vee-GUN, say it correctly, and ponder on the hidden criminal intent in that one small syllable....

It's important to remember though, that guns don't kill people, people kill people. OK, so maybe the VeeGUNS aren't wanting to kill people so much. Maybe that's a good thing. The NRA and the VeeGUNS agree on that, I'm sure. Killing people is bad, no matter what.

Moving on then, to the real meat of the matter (hee! see what I just did there?): the vegan eschewment of all things animal. I have a problem with this, in that not only do they not utilize the milk and eggs that flow from the rich farmland of our country, but they turn up their noses at USING the products from the vast undulating herds of domesticated livestock for which our forebears sacrificed so much!

It's clear from their snubbing of all things animal that the Vegans hate animals and want to killthem off by rendering them useless hulks of grass-chomping methane producers. They're undermining a part of our history, those wily vegans are, and they're slowly undercutting the needs for these animals to exist. The vegans are acting as an agent of extinction, right under our noses!

Can we allow this to occur? Can we allow the murderous vegans to cause the disappearance of one of the pillars of our national economy while simultaneously pointing the flames of hatespeak against those of us who are doing their part to keep the ranching economy on a firm foundation and the existence of our herds of livestock in good standing by utilizing them as GOD INTENDED?

Can we? People, CAN WE?

I would submit that we cannot.

At the very least, we should make every attempt possible to at least have sex with vegans. They should get to know what it's like to be close to the animal population that they're causing to dwindle into a tiny pinprick on the horizon of history. Why, it's practially a moral duty to shag a vegan today! Go on, get to it!

Then tell me how it was....I'm totally dying to know.


No animals were harmed in the making of this post. No vegans were consulted in the writing of this post. No actual people were interviewed, no facts were checked, and also no leather was worn. As a matter of fact, I haven't even had breakfast yet, so I'm a vegan by default today! It stands to reason then that I now have to go have sex with myself. Again. If I can figure out how to explain the paradox to myself I should be both a pissed-off vegan and a very happy camper when it's all over.......

Monday, July 30, 2007

You will NOT be disappointed

The stories are coming in to the July Wordsmiths challenge, and they're a bunch of doozies, if I do say so myself. On Wednesday the list of tales will be posted, but you should always feel free to go to the Wordsmiths homepage and troll through the comments to pop over to a writer's page. You won't be disappointed - there's quite the crop of talented folks out there making their 500 words work for them.

And BTW - There's still time to write your story, you know.


My house tried to eat me a few days ago.

Let's just say that one glass front door, one weakly functioning pneumatic door-propper-opener thingie, and the heel of one bare foot can combine in flesh-rippingly painful ways. The vicious impact was at once stunning and only a harbinger of the pain that pulsated for a full ten minutes, and it was all I coud do to not spout a stream of bad-wordage in front of my Mom and kids immediately after the blow and for the full pain experience. I entertained myself by watching the blood well from the deep gash, which seemed to dampen the pain experience somewhat, if only to replace it with nausea.

In addition, while mowing the lawn yesterday with my electrical mower (it is NOT a toy, no matter what you might think), I had to move the cord, as you can imagine takes place with grating regularity. I bent, I heard a snappy wet rip in my lower back, and, because I was alone in the back yard, I DID let loose with a torrent of bad-wordage while trying to use my hands against my thighs to force myself into an upright position.

At that pont, what do you think I did? That's right, I proceeded to try to continue with the mowing, because I wouldn't like my neighbors to think me a lazy slob of a woman who intends to leave her yard to overgrow in an exhuberant flow of snakegrass and wild violet, but I was soon unable to place one foot comfortably in front of the other and abandoned the mower and 150 feet of extension cord (that bastard!) in the middle of yard in order to go inside and sink awkwardly into a kitchen chair, from which spot I doubted I would be able to arise again unless pressed and pressed HARD.

It was my bladder that pressed hard enough, eventually, to make me rise and wince at the full realization of how badly it hurt to stand. Then I realized, dearlord, that I still had to take the Things to WalMart for back to school shopping, and I have to say that it's at that point that I started to get a little upset. How the hell was I going to do THAT when I couldn't even stand long enough without pain to go PEE? Tears may have been shed, and there may have been a tiny portion of pouting and "poor me-ing," which is understandable but would not get the shopping done.

Well, with 800 mg of ibuprofen in me and by grinding 5 years of wear and tear off my teeth, I managed not only to GET to Wlly WOrld, but to endure the shopp-age. It was not handled terribly gracefully, however. At one point I actually stopped in the office supplies aisle and cried.

I'm sure this will not scar my children for life. No, not at ALL. Riiiight. I can hear the story being retold 20 years from now: "remember how much Mom used to HATE going back to school shopping? Man, she'd cry in the WalMart in the binder aisle, and damn if that didn't just turn me right off of school altogether and onto a life of crime. Sure am glad you're in the pen with me bro, or it'd be a much lonlier place."

So, there's that. I've scarred my kids for life. Well, if not life, then for 8 to 10 with time off for good behavior. Sure hope they come see me in the convalescent hospital on their stints between terms. I'll be the one unable to stand without crying, just for old times' sake.


While at the WalMart yesterday a little kid passed out while waiting to check out.

Daggone showboater.

There was much shouting and excitement, which at first I thought were irate shoppers cussing out a line-cutter, but which soon were recognizeable as pure panic hollerin' with liberal use of "call 911!" thrown in. Oh, it was a heady scene, with concerned citizens manning the cell phones in compliance with the panicked orders, with a crowd a-gatherin', with helpful suggestions like "get a bag of ice!", with me patently IGNORNING the scene, surrounded in my own misery and unable to take interest or twisted pleasure in the derailing of someone else's day.

Yes, the pain was that bad. I did, however, have the Things report to me on the activity that was happening over my left shoulder as I hunched over the cart, using it for support of fully half my body weight (for to stand up on my own was to risk snapping half by that point. The 30-minute wait in line was slowly killing me with all the standing).

I am pleased to announce that there was no blood, the kid could move after a few minutes of lying stone-cold quiet on the floor, and that EMS came and hauled him off on a guerney, with his Mom and several nervous siblings (or maybe cousins) in tow. Thing One was shooting out theory after theory about what might have happened, and by the time we were passing the EMS van out front he was working on a fairly solid premise of hunger leading to fainting which resulted in concussion, unconsciousness, and subsequent shock. My little "House"; I am so proud of his budding diagnostic skills.

Anybody ever seen anything like that happen in a public place? This was a first for me, and can remain the last. I don't need that kind of excitement at the WalMart.

That's all for today y'all. I've got to go prepare to hobble to the ladies room. This might take a while.

Sunday, July 29, 2007

Wordsmiths July Story

Written for Wordsmithunlimited. There's still time to write YOUR story, should you be so inclined.

"Playing God"

Some may think me insane for caring so deeply about these small spheres, and I’ve been told by my family and friends that I should find a new hobby, but how could anyone, once fully aware of their powers, turn away from the great calling to create? My art is all-consuming, my passion a deeply entrenched fire. I have formed these worlds from plain clay, worked life into them with every motion of my hands, impregnated them with the creatures of my imagination, then set them to spin in their cradles, side by side with their brothers and sisters. They are my family. My children.

They’re all so beautiful. They’re all so precious, almost unique. They’re been the work of a lifetime, a conscious effort. My dedication to them has been entire, and I have lost much because of them. There was no choice to make, for when one is a god one must first and foremost care for the tangible proof of one’s omnipotence.

A life’s work. A long life of dedication to the creation and care of these shining gems of my imagination. It has been satisfying. However, I sense that something isn’t right somewhere. There is imbalance. There is a wobble of sorts; the regular shimmer of my pretty box of worlds is flaring in an unpleasant heartskip of irregularity.

Which one is it that is causing the decay and confusion? Which of the innumerable number laid out before me is behaving in a manner unfit for a work of my hands? Which one? If I can find it, then there is a chance I can either fix it or create another to take its place, a glistening new testament to my loving care.

I suspect that it’s one of the water worlds. They tend to be the most unbalanced of all of the types I’ve made, and require the most looking after. I have thought once or twice about getting rid of all of them, but they’re such a gorgeous blue, and the notes they hum as they spin add something that the others cannot. The last time one set to wobbling I came upon an ingenious solution that, while harsh, restored order in the array within a week - I flooded it. With the surface uniformly covered, the spin inconsistency was eliminated. A genius move, I think. I know I did the right thing, because now the beat of its heart is regular and pleasing, its glow is pure, it is stable. A happy balanced universe is a good thing.

This time I suspect that it’s Earth that’s slipping out of place. I think a flood would fix the problem, but this time I’ll let a few special creatures survive, just to see what happens. Unicorns and jackalopes and griffins for sure. Maybe even People; they have such potential for greatness. I am god, I am in control, let it be so.

Friday, July 27, 2007

Sickos only need apply


This is my kind of game.

Took me two tries to get past level 1. I'm on to whatever levels of gore await!

We interrupt this program for Breaking News!

(earnest music begins suddenly) Da-da-duh-da-dit-dun-dunnnn!!!

(insert sounds of telex machines and whirring computer tapes and generally busy people who are pounding on IBM Selectrics (and who are, no doubt, smoking, but you can't HEAR that, now can you? No, you cannot))

Ladies and gentlemen, we interrupt your regularly scheduled programming for Breaking News You Must Know, with Grant McManly!

Good evening, I'm Grant McManly, and now for the top news stories that couldn't wait until 6:30 becase we're self-important pricks who don't care if you see who wins the "Showcase Showdown"....

Food in botulism recall still being sold

"I remember being taken off the shelf at the Kroger on a fine Saturday morning" reminsces a can of green beans. "It was in the glory days before anyone KNEW we were coated with a poisinous bacterial ooze, and were potantially dangerous."

Friends, it's this kind of renegade veg that you need to be wary of. You can identify them by their bulging tops and straining can seams, much like the pickings at a college bar at 1:59 a.m.

Taliban negotiate for Korean hostages

Come Mr Taliban, tally up me hostages, jihad come and dey wanna go home, six bombs, seven bombs, eight boms OH! Jihad come and dey wanna go hooooome. Dey-oh!

Giant prehistoric tusks found in Greece

The rest of the great huge nasty rabbit was packed in oil

Marijuana may increase psychosis risk

It's called paranoia,folks, and even now your sons and daughters and neighbors may be suffering from it. Why not go to them and pelt them with questions about their red eyes, their hacking cough, their Cheeto-stained fingers as a sign you show you CARE, and care deeply, and think perhaps they should go get something to drink because, honestly, they sound like they could use a swig-a something and don't you know that's a sign of maybe having some kind of really really bad disease and it's probably the guys outside their house who are polluting their tap water? People who smoke the dope need your help to keep out of these dangerous mental waters.

Now pass the chips, dude, I've got wicked-ass cottonmouth.

Group to issue surgery fires guidelines

In a shocking development, I have no idea what this headline means. None at all.

This can only mean that either there's anarchy in the newroom, or Charlie in taglines is three sheets gone again. I think sometimes he does this to me because of how I got this job, but it's not my fault the new director thought I was more suited for the job, is it? Is it MY fault that it was me and not Charlie that looks good in a tailored suit? Is it MY fault that my Dad is golfing buddies with the station owner? IS it MY fault that I'm younger and look better on the television that Charlie does?

I mean really, what difference does it make that DUMPY OLD Charlie has 20 years of news experience and a smoker's hack that would make Edward R Murrow jealous? Who cares that he's got connections in the White House and the Kremlin? What does it matter that he once knocked back shots of bourbon with Churchill and beat Stalin in a marathon game of strip poker? Does it really matter? You won't beat ME, Charlie Oldfart, becaues I'm young and the ladies like ME, so our ratings are up! I'm getting paid assloads of money while you're stuck in the back room pounding out MY HEADLINES!

Ahahahaaaaa!!!! I win, Charlie! I FREAKING WIN!!!!!!




(Voiceover) - This has been Breaking News with Grant McManly.

Tune in at 6:30 for Headline News with Charlie Hunter, substituting tonight for Mr. McManly, who is, as of two minutes ago, "on assignment."

Have a great weekend y'all; no matter what your "assignments" may be. I'm out!

Thursday, July 26, 2007

But is it any GOOD?

From time to time it's useful to undergo a fresh look at things that are considered to be classic. Classic movies are a fine way to start, because it is undeniably true that the passage of time changes our perceptions of art and entertainment, even when we believe our opinions of them are firmly cemented in past experience.

For example: Who among us has NOT detected the streak of mean that exists in Mary Poppins when we view her magickal antics from the adult perspective? The "oh wow" factor of all her spit-spotting and job's-a-game that we had as children will likely change into "oh good Lord" when we, as adults with a goodly portion of living behind us, see her neat-freaky rigidity and prissiness for what it really is; except, notably, for when she's in a colorful cartoon world populated by dancing penguins and eerily evocatively-similar-to-their-rider merry-go-round horses, at which time she does lift a skirt and flirt with Bert in a coquettish fling of technicolor. Where's the spit-spot THEN, Mary, hmmm?

What kind of example is THAT for our children? Is real life not enough for this woman? Is real life meant for tuppences to be wrested out of unwilling hands and placed in the creaky died-up bones of a good-old-boys financial institution, and only in your imagination (and, it should be noted, with the help of some colorful powdered substances) can you feed the birds (ostensibly only the flightless Artic sort that also speak and know how to tap dance) like you truly want to?

I submit that it is not, but only on revisiting this classic child's movie as grown-ups can we delve deeper into the true meaning of Mary P, her garish world of entertainment, and her jiggy chimneysweep back-up dancers. How odd that she should only be able to get her groove on with a bunch of dirty athletic boys, no? Think on it, and be amazed at what the metaphor implies......

Leaving M. Po alone for now, what really started this jag of revisionistic cogitation was a quote of poetry that accompanied the "word a day" e-mail that was waiting for me in my inbox this fine July morning (and it IS fine too, BTW. This is one day that I'm glad my office does not have a window. Sitting here in my little cave I can imagine that it's horible outside and that it's better that I'm here at work, doing, uh, work (after posting! I promise!)).

Here are the few lines of poetry that got me to thinking on what makes a classic:

If I can stop one Heart from breaking / I shall not live in vain / If I can ease one Life the Aching / Or cool one Pain / Or help one fainting Robin / Unto his Nest again / I shall not live in Vain.

Oh-Kay! How nice! It's lovely that by helping ONE fainting Robin (capilatized, no doubt, to underscore the importance of the beleaguered creature in question) one's life shall not be lived in vain.

But really....fainting Robin? FAINTING? How do you know? Does it throw one weak little wing over its tiny gray head and wearily chirp "I've got a case of the vapors"? Does it stagger for a moment, do you see its shiny eyes turn glassy before they roll, are you able to detect pinpoint-sized beads of sweat on it's feathered brow before it keels over?

Fainting Robin indeed. What a noble aim. And just ONE! Help one fainiting robin and one's life will not be in vain. Gads, this sound like the kind of thing I would have scribbled down in a lined notebook in bright pink ink when I was an overwrought 13-year-old girl in the throes of yet another boy crush or metaphysical argument with myself over the nature of God and Life.

Also, apparently it's just BOY Robins (must remember the capitaliization) that are to be helped if one's life is not to be in vain. What utter nonsense. What about the fainting GIRL Robins? Don't THEY need help (or, is the reason they DON'T that they're smart enough to KNOW where the nest is because they have directions)?

In addition, the aching and breaking of lives and hearts in the first few lines is an obvious reach for rhyme, and when coupled with the impertinence of making the cessation of such activities the hallmark by which one achieves significance for one's own life serve only to illustrate to me the self-centeredness of the author's small existence. Where are the sweeping gestures? Where are the big dreams? Where are the grand hopes? Why is ONE thing sufficient?

And why does the rhyming rhythym completely fall apart at the end? That last line just comes at the reader like a lead brick, thumping down the tail end of a yet another gust of self-importance.

My question then is this: Why is this classic? WHY? Who the heck WROTE this piece of drivel? They must have been pretty daggone famous to have a hackeneyed mess of words like this be considered classic literature. It's the dangerous trap that fame brings, in that once fame is achieved, the remainder of the output of the person who has achieved it is automatically considered to be as worthwhile and well-crafted as that which brought them fame to begin with.

My feeling is that fame is not a single hurdle to be surmounted, with the remainder of life's race laid out in a wide plain of easy going (much like riding a cartoon carousel horse across the verdant Englsih countryside). Rather, I would suggest that comtinued high-quality output should be neccesary to continually reach higher. Coasting along on early success should be disallowed, like doping in the Tour de France, like brass knuckles in a boxing match, like taking the rubber tip off an epee during a fencing match.

Obviously I KNOW who wrote the offending bit of "classic" literature above. Do you? If you know who wrote it, comment thusly. Googling is allowed.

Once you know the answer, feel free to construct a poem of 5 lines or less that speaks to the miracle of life and its value to you as a person. Put it in the comments, where we will all congratulate you on your sheer insightfulness and tremendous talent for wordsmithery. I'll just bet that 5 minutes of effort on your part will result in something better than the re-nesting of staggering Robins.


Speaking of wordsmithery, if you haven't checked lately, the July Wordsmiths challenge is ready for you to write. You get 500 words to play with, which should be plenty of room in which you can stun the interwebs with your extraordinary creativity.

Wednesday, July 25, 2007

Pedal Extremity in Oral Cavity, SCHTAT!

Here is one reason why I would never ever go back to high school: I didn't know that I had a terrible social disease.

Yes, you heard me, a social disease.

(Which makes me think of Officer Krupke (deeeeear kindly sergeant Krupke!) which makes me thinkof "Maria", which makes me think of cute Riff, which makes me think of Hawaii Five-Oh, which makes me think of hair gel, which makes me think of Elvis, which makes me think of peanut butter bacon and banana samliches, which makes me think I'm hungry. Welcome to the wonder that is my brain, and may help explain the pain that I endured becuase of it when yet a callow youth.)

(By the way - callow is a fabulous word. It means NOTHING like you probably think it does, which, if you're me, you think it means "mean" or "harsh." I'm here to tell you that it does NOT mean those things, but rather it in fact means "lacking in maurity," which describes ME correctly up until the age of, oh, say....NOW)

Getting back to the point, I had a social disease as a young person - yes, I suffered from the shame of "foot in mouth" disease. The special horror of it was that nobody could really TELL I had it until I opened my big mouth and all sorts of awful things came pouring out. Why, if the results of my social disease were visible instead of merely emotional, I'd have been followed by a trail of ugly things, awkward pauses (which in my head right now look something like gigantic gangly puppy feet (get it? "Pawses"?)), and slumpling nuggets of bilious vitriol coated in a hard candy shell.

(Don't eat the last one - it looks pretty but is bitter beyond anything you'd ever experienced before.)

Unfortunately, there were no visible signs of my social disease, oh no. I looked fine, much like any other fresh-faced American girl, and truly WAS fine in most cases, until I started to want to be witty, or until the barely-existent filters clicked to the "off" position due to a surge of hormones or some other physiologic anomaly that would make me say really stupid, really mean, really ill-advised things.

I won't go into exact quotes here, but if you use your imagination, filling it with snippets of that socially maladjusted kid who often barked out inappropriate things at the most wrong time, then you've got a good idea of how my social disease worked for me.

Let me say for the record that as I think back on those times of my life, it's really and truly very little wonder that I didn't date. Not only did I have a social disease, but when I wasn't suffering from a full-on flush of foot in mouth, I was busy practicing sarcasm and cynicism. Those are not the types of things that 15 year old boys really KNOW how to deal with, unless they're practicing to be gay or something, because, as an aside, I've found that the boys I knew back in high school who later turned out to be gay understood me PERFECTLY back then and rather relished the acid-coated tongue. God, we were such bitches, and it was hilarious. I only wish that everyone else thought so.

Oh yes, imagine it. Very tall girl with really weird self-esteem issues sports sharp tongue that, working in concert with a faultily-wired brain, results in verbal blurtage of the most church-farty variety. It hurts to even think about it now.....the dead silences after some "witty" proclamation, the hurt looks of my victims, the burning flush in my cheeks, the angry embarrassment, the salf-castigation, oh I was a fine mess for a number of years.

Until I learned to 1) self edit, and 2) use humor appropriately. Number 1 is far more important than number 2. See, I still have a brain that blurts, and to be party to the mental activity that happens on a nearly constant basis in now simply amusing. I've learned that just because I THINK it doesn't mean I have to SAY it, and even if I DO think it's funny or nicely cutting I should guage the audience before I say something I should only say in front of a room full of drag queens and/or Dorothy Parker enthusiasts. Those folks, they understand.

One good thing about my social disease is that it can't be cured, but it can be used, with a proper amount of self-control. I sure wish I'd known that before I suffered a spell of "pedal extremity to the oral orifice" in front of that cute boy from Woodson I was trying to impress 30 years ago.....

Eh, he probably was a bad kisser anyhow, and I'll bet he would have tripped rounding second (Ha ha! Get it?), because have you seen how shaky his hands get and the way he -

Oh, you say you're his cousin?

Sorry. I'll shut up now.

Monday, July 23, 2007


Such an easy post, just open, stir, sautee, and serve.

Oh, BTW - you're it.

Nope - just a place on a map of Ireland.!


Sunday, when I drove away from the airport after one of the best weekends of my life.


As long as it's Times New Roman font size 12. I haven't really written anything by hand (except checks and credit card receipt signatures) in so long it's scary..


Peanut butter.


2 - one for each hand. Woulda had more, but lost the time, interest, energy, and money. Mostly money. Also, my varicose veins were getting varicose veins, and that stuff hurts.


Casual acquaintances probably. I can be kind of overpoweringly aloof and schizo. I've heard that this type of thing is a little offputting, but don't really care.


Not anymore. I got my quota in as a younger person. I now prefer snark. Helloooo Oscar Wilde!




Yes, from 5 feet, while doing airpushups over a bed of foam.

Actually, I would. No lie.


anything granola.


nope, not even the ones that buckle.








titian or fuschia? Cardinal or dog-ear? I need details here people!


So lazy it hurts..


My dad.


Um, I don't really see any need, but thanks for asking Mindy!


Black and black! Surprise!.


manicotti, grilled veggies, and a roll so dense you could kill a man at 40 paces by throwing it in a soft lob at his head. MmmMMMM!.


Greta - the Serving wench who lives in my head. She's blissing out Ornel, who apparently didn't shut the dream trap last night and some of the crazy leaked out of my head, This explains why there were flocks of starlings around my house this morning, and why the dog barks at midnight.

Also my tinnitus. .


flesh, because we are all one under that color, or so "they" would have us believe.

Oh wait - do they have plaid? I'd be that one..


cut grass. wet cement. baking cookies. the neck of someone you love. freshly-wahsed laundry.




OMG - yes!!!


The paint drying elmination trials.


rrrrrrrrrrred! Oh yeah.


blue, with a yellow ring around the pupil. Really. Yellow. Ask anyone who knows me.






Happy Endings. Mostly. Sometimes thought LIKE to have the bejeebers scared right outta me. Then I like to curl up with an axe and file my teeth with some poison frogs.


can't remember. I kinda don't do movies anymore. How sad is THAT?




oh sure, like it's a choice. Hell, meet hell.

Unless of course you're talking North Carolina winter, in which case I'll take three helpings of that to any one NC summer.


Hugs - with most people. Kisses, with very very few people, and you know who you are.






God, though I do expect at least a blanket e-mail reply from Metatron




don't gots no. I use the little nipple deely in the middle of the laptop keyboard.


Didn't. And I pay for cable too. The shame.


wind in trees.






all talents are special. I can whistle pretty well, and used to sing, but now am not overtly identifiable in any one area.


Amityville New York


47 questions, ya'll, and only half are lies. How does she DO it?

Eks Oh, T


Had the day off Friday, and, as is so unlike me, I forgot to post. My God, will the gold star under my name on the "big blackboard of diligent bloggers" be removed? The horror.

I blame the day off and the subsequent busy for the lapse.

The forgetting occurred to me last night as I was watching the sun go down while drinking a nice cuple fingers of Knob Creek and thinking back over my weekend, which included the following:

  • Installing two ceiling fans. Started out ot be ONE ceiling fan, but the first one was too big (read: LONG) for the living room and so it was put in the kitchen above the table (where nobody will bonk their head on it) and another shorter one was put in the living room. Both are gorgeous, and why did I wait to put them in anyhow? Oh yeah, because I need help, which I had this weekend. Yay for help!
  • Many trips to Home Depot for ceiling fans. Also porch light fixtures, and drill drivers, and drill bits, and electrical outlet testers, a really cool new lawn sprinker that shoots out jets of water in many and decorative spinny patterns and that I'd ohsolove to run through right about now, and um, other stuff that wound up to be very and highly important and most of which I can't remember right now. Wire nuts, I think. Also switchplates.
  • A trip to Falls Lake for a Sunday afternoon swim.
  • Two dinners out, other dinners in, and many hamburgers consumed in the meantime. Cow was high on the list of edibles. As a friend said "if we weren't supposed to eat them, then why'd God make them so tasty?" Not much to counter with for THAT statement, now is there?
  • Flying lessons. Really! Notebooks were levitated! So.Much.Fun!
  • Doggie care, complete with beanbag evisceration.
  • A minor "holy crap" work moment, during which I, as the one taking the day off during the "crap" part, decided to let the chips fall where they may, then quietly obsessed over the fallout for another day. I do so hate it when my days off are marred by work.
  • Gardening, and the install of many a linear foot of new irises out front of my house. Digging garden beds is sweaty work, as I found out.
  • Lunching with a friend at her gorgeous house with her entertaining husband.
  • Talking with and enjoying the company of other friends, so much so that "time to go" was a hurtful thing to have to hear. I do so love friends like that. Everyone should have a few people in this world that they could always spend MORE time with.

It was gooood, and it was over too darned soon, and was so busy that I plum forgot to post on Friday, which of course puts me behind in the running for the title off Little Miss Daily Poster (who's the Poster Child? I'M the Poster Child!) which is simply not palatable for one as driven as I am to BE a Poster child, so maybe I might have to post twice today to make up for it.

I did notice that y'all kept yourselves busy commenting on the old posts, so yay for YOU! Makes my tingly bits tingle to think on it, it really does, and by me saying that I'm NOT implying that I think of you "like that", it just means that you warm the cockles of my heart with your tender minstrations. Or something.

So yeah. Another good weekend. I could so totally get used to that.

What about Yooo-hoo-hooo??


"Compassion's just a nicer way of looking down your nose" - OK Go.

Y'all need this CD. I'm serious. Seriously serious. Deadly seriously serious. Totally. Way.

Thursday, July 19, 2007

Lending a Hand

It's really cool to get a text message from a friend who is travelling that says that they would very much like to stick sharp implements into the people that surround them.

Also cool is being able to respond that while DOING such sticking might be wrong, THINKING about it is not, and might be an actual comfort.

I like to help people, it's what I do.

Oh, some might call me an instigator, or Devil's Advocate, but I prefer to think of myelf as a facilitator of desire. Really! There must be a job like that! Someone says "
I'm so mad I could just scream," why then my thought is that the only proper answer is to say "go right ahead!" Someone fantasizes about impaling the relatives with flatware during a long visit, I say "fill out the details in your mind, listen to their imaginary screams, feel the rage just melt away."

It is important to note that I would NEVER condone anyone actually DOING something illegal. Daydreaming about it should be enough. Why, the very thought of your mortal enemy (you do have one, don't you? If not one of those, then at least a nemesis?) getting smooshed under the giant drum of a steam roller, complete with bugging-out eyes and purply pressurized skull, should enough to make you giddy with glee, and it doesn't harm ANYONE! The mental image of a droning lecturer getting sucked under some quicksand that just HAPPENED to appear on stage, right behind the lectern, where the bore is taking up space and breathing everyone else's air, is evil and naughty, but also fun and disarming enough to keep the imaginer from falling asleep or seething with rage that they'd wasted yet another hour of their life on someone else's brain farts.

So yeah, I'm all about the enabling of rage, the venting of steam, the boiling of blood, as long as it's done safely and with a minimum of harm to someone else.

Even if it IS your motal enemy.

Do you agree?

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

Thparky Dukth Tag

Heh. I'm in an Igor mood, therefore the title mangling.

Oh, you don't KNOW Igors (or, as they would say, "Igoth")? Then you're really mithing thomething. Igors are helpful manservants who populate the Discworld in Terry Pratchett's books. They're one of the best characters around, handy to have in a difficult situation, would give you the shirt (or the skin) off their backs, are trained in circumspection and circumlocution, can make a mean cup of tea, and really honestly don't MIND digging in graveyards or coaching their "marthterth" on proper evil overlord cackling technique.

Sometimes a character just sticks with you, you know?

Perhaps it's the purposeful lisp that does it. They don't always, you know.


Which brings me, in a very roundabout way, to today's post, brought ot you by one Mithter Thparky Duck, who tagged me (BLISS!) in a post yesterday. Because he was so good as to tag, and because the post stuck with me long enough to remember to DO it, I shall be good enough to go "squee" like the girlie girl I am that a boy paid attention to me, and then play along like I didn't really want to be tagged in the first place but secretly glad that he picked me, because that probably means he likes me.

Yes, I am in second grade. Thanks for asking.

(Also, if you go to Sparky Duck's blog, you'll see that he's running a series of "50 hotties in 50 states," which is, as you would suspect it to be, a compendium of one hot woman from state. I'm sure you won't be disappointed, unless you're offended by that kind of thing, in which case forget I mentioned it and please no comments here about objectification of women, because dudes, they're pretty and nice to look at and even though I'm a reasonably straight woman I still like to look at pretty things, be they animal, vegetable, or mineral. So there.

Bonus geekery points for Sparky because he's running the states in the order in whcih they ratified the Constitution. Who THINKS of that stuff?)



The rules, go to Wikipedia.org, type in your birthday in the search box, then list 3 events, two births and one holidy. Then tag some other folks.

Three events:

1279 BC - Rameses II (The Great) (19th dynasty) becomes pharaoh of Ancient Egypt (walking like an Egyptian, no doubt)

1911 - R.M.S. Titanic launched.

1962 - The West Indies Federation dissolves. (coincidentally, this is the very DAY I was born. MOck me because I'm old, if you must, but BIG THINGS WERE HAPPENING on this day. If only I knew what the west indies federation actually was. I wonder where I could go to find out.....)

Two births:

Shockingly, MY birth is not listed as one of the notables on this day. However, THESE people did get mention made of their natal day, the attention hogs!

1953 - Pirkka-Pekka Petelius, Finnish actor (Who? You might say, which only strengthens my argument that I should be listed.)

1954 - Thomas Mavros, Greek footballer (again, WHO? Do I need to make this argument further?)

Oh, there are notables born on 31 May, like Clint Eastwood and Brooke Shields and the 35th president of New Zealand and a pope or two, but really, when they get down to noting the births of Greek footballers (someone please stop me from making a sex joke!) and Finnish actors (are there "Start" actors too?), I'm thinking that somewhere along the line they could include the birthday on of very unfamous blogger with visions of grandeur.

One holiday:

The Godiva procession. Yay! Woohoo! Let's get naked and douse each other with melted chocolate!!! Let's roll arond in nougat and truffle-makings! Let's pig out on hazlenut creams and dark chocolates with raspberry-scented centers! Oh, the fun we can have on Godiva procession day!

What's that you say? I'ts not about chocolate? How very disappointing. There is still nakedness involved? On a HORSE? Oh dear. Oh deardeardeardear.

(pardon me while I channel Piglet in my distress)

Also, my birthday is the day the Virgin Mary did visit Elizabeth, who I think was preggers with John the Baptist (though I suspect that she thought he was going to be Jewish. Was she disappointed when he came out shouting "praise Jesus", I wonder? I mean, who was this Jesus guy? He hadn't even been BORN yet, for Pete's sake! And who's Pete?).

It is the Second Miracle of the Rosary (here we go round the rosary bush!) and its theme is "Spiritual Fruit & Love of Neighbor." Sounds like a party to me, particularly all the neighborly love stuff, but I would suggest throwing in some chocolate and nakedness and you've got yourself a real humdinger of a celebration!


Tag, you're it!

Tuesday, July 17, 2007


Fridays are great, we all know that. Fridays on which you're the recipient of a visit from a good friend are better.

This past Friday was on of the better ones. Oldfriend came down for a quasi-impromptu visit, which is always more fun than the heavily planned kind. A quick e-mail exchange resulted in a wobbly plan to to 1) drink, 2) talk, 3) dye hair, 4) get pedicure, 5) drink more, 6) talk more.

We did not plan on the second round of hair dyeing.


See, well, Friday night kinda got a little tiny bit out of hand in the numbers 1 and 5 department, being as how the Knob Creek was working its anti-inhibition magic on us (perhaps on me more than her, but I didn't bother to query while the event was ongoing OR after the hangover wore off) after drinkie #2. To prepare for the great events, I had purchased a couple of boxes of RED hair preps for us, me the permanent kind, and she the temporary "washes out in 28 days" kind. Same shade, vastly different results, as it turned out.


WORD TO THE WISE: It is never, ever ever a good idea to start any hair dyeing process a) after midnight, b) after several drinks, and c) ESPECIALLY after a walk around the neighborhood only serves to prove that one is not in full control of one's gross motor skills. Yeah, uh, falling OFF the sidewalk is a pretty sure sign that one isn't working with all one's faculties intiact.


And when one is having much fun with an old friend, and when one is pretty well lubricated with some of the very bestest bourbon Kentucky has to offer, why, what BETTER time to dye one's hair than in the very small wee hours of a Saturday morning! Of COURSE it's the right time, what BETTER time! Tish tosh on your silly practicality and logic, say I!

Nevermind that one fell off a sidewalk earlier (more than once, it must be told), which should alert one to the fact that the FINE motor skills required to actually evenly distribute said red hair dye across one's cranium might be in some measure of doubt. One does not think of such things when one is 2 sheets gone and it's Saturday morning and OMG I haven't been up this late in a long time and let's just do this thing because I want to be a redhead right NOW!

For the record, so did she. It wasn't just me. She did too.

Therefore, I did a horribly crappy dye job on BOTH of us. Hooray!

How we did laugh at the funny funny color the dye mix turned in the bottle "oooh look, it's all purple! hee! do you thin our hair will be purple too? Whatever will people say?" and how we did maketh the amusing hairshapes with our semi-saturated purply dyed hair, and how we did make merry whilst rinsing (separately) and noticing the vivid slime that did drip from our vibrant scalps, and how we did peer into the mirror at 1 a.m. viewing the aftermath of slosh-ed dyeing.

How one of us did gasp in shock at the Bozo/Lucy/Fire engine redness of her hair, and the broad swatches of leftover blond in the back that somehow got left behind in the dyeing.

How one of us did admire her color, but wonder if perhaps ALL of it, in fact, shouldn't be red. In the wondering, she stumbled upon the truth that a woman with very thick long hair does in fact need TWO bodxes of hair dye to properly staurate the luxuriant tresses that do adorn her head.

How we did plan on a re-try at a more sober time.

The homemade guacamole and fire-roasted tortillas were good though, as was the conversation and baked sweet potatos with gobs of butter, as was the bourbon, and talking, and talking, and talking, so all was not lost. Why, we could just get MORE dye! We could re-process! And so we did, to reasonably good effect. Being sober helped. Amazing how that works. We sincerely needed the hand-eye coordination to lay the dye down onto the stripies we'd (I'd) left behind the first time.

My hair? Still shockingly red. Yes, I stuck with the "wake me up that's so LOUD" hair color.

Ahem. Again.

Other bits of a weekend well spent go like this: furniture shopping, walks in the neighborhood, Moe's, incredibly good vegetarian food made from some of YOUR recipes (and thanks, y'all!), mojitos of a sort, sleeping late, talking, talking, talking, initiating a Malt-o-Meal virigin into the yumminess that is the Brown Sugar and Maple breakfast food of the gods, getting a one-HOUR LONG pedicure, and picking out which cop from the crop out front of the sports bar who were doing the baby-seat fittings (sigh, public servants!) would be allowed to bed us if we so chose to deign such a thing possible. Also nachos.

We didn't even have time to play with makeup, which is a flagrant pajama party rule violation. I wonder if our girl cards are going to be revoked. I might have to appeal that decision by invoking the "double process" defense, then unveiling the great swath of titian tresses from the headwrap I'm currently wearing. Y'all, I might like to pretend I live my life right out loud, but I'm NOT above playing the sympathy card when provoked.

How was YOUR weekend?

Monday, July 16, 2007

A little help!

(what would all the bottoms say about this motto, I wonder?)

Well, it seems that the current wave of "I'm quitting blogging to go do something USEFUL with my life" has strtuck the ol' bookmarks list here at NAY. Sigh.

While I understand people's need to get on with it and get a life, which sometimes might even mean going so far as to quit blogging entirely, e'en to the point of deleting what WAS their blog so I can't even go out and relive the good times (perish the thought!), I do NOT care for the quitting, not one tiny iota of a smidgen.

At all.

Nobody's thinking about ME; this much is abundantly clear. Selfish beetards.

All the quittage leaves me so little with which to interior decoate my own tired wedge of the world, you know? How am I going to sparkle if I don't have amusing stories and bitingly witty commentary, borrowed from OTHER people's blogs, to intersperse into IM sessions? How am I goin to be the darlin of the chat rooms if people keep quitting and deleting their blogs, thereby depriving me of one of the best sources for blitheful banter onst the interwebs?

HOW, I ask you, HOW??

(sounds of anguished screaming come from stage left)

It hurts me to think about how this wave of quittery is going to affect my e-social standing. Gah! If I had Diggs and links and BlogHer status, I'd be hurt even MORE deeply. Y'all have no idea! This is torture!

I need. I have deep need. I NEED the bloglives of more people. I'm peckish for their virtual brain-meat, the outpouring of their alter-ego, the taste of their personalities. But where do I go? Who do I read? How do I find them?

This is where YOU come in. I need YOU to tell me. I need YOU to beef up my blogroll, to spill the beans on who you ravenously consume on a daily basis, to serve up appetizingly tasty new blogs on the silver platter of your considered opinion.

Please. I'm hungry.

Feed me

(oh, and if you look at my blogroll, you might spot a cupla new ones. I'm a giver like that, now hurry up and reciprocate already. also, don't be tellng me to "go look at my blogroll," because I have enough of a life to know I ain'ts gots timez fer dat. (or so I say. (I borrowed that line from someone. Someone who has prolly quit blogging by now.) you understand what I'm getting at here, I'm sure.))


UPDATE (at 2 p.m): to see what kind of stuff I'm currently reading and would LOVE more of, go read THIS latest offering from One Ms Jess Riley. I simply cannot recommend this entry highly enough.

When I say I LOL'D, I mean it. Menu planning was never this fun before.


(tales of the weekend that was a weekend plus some are forthcoming. Really, you'll want to check back. It's amazing what a half a bottle of Knob Creek will do to midnight hair-dying attempts.)

Friday, July 13, 2007

Quickies, because sometimes I like it like that

I had a dream last night that Ron and Hermoine got married. The dream was complete with fireside sex scene. Apparently Ron has quite the fuzzy chest, and Hermoine likes to....uh.......nevermind.


Also in the dream, I was at the house of a couple of who performed unusual marriages. The couple was also unusual, being as how one of them was a tiny woman who spent a large portion of her time flinging crocheted shawls over her shoulders and sitting on the tops of doorframes, and the other was a very tall long-faced cross-dressing British fellow who did decorative painting of oddly shaped birdhouses in his spare time. Their house/place of business was crammed full of birdhouses, teapots, shawls, and talking cats.

One of the marriages they were going to perform was among three lesbians. I told you they were unusual. Be honest, whoever heard of a lesbian triple that EVER worked out? (apologies to my gay GFs, but I've never heard of one. Feel free to correct me on that)


These dreams brought to you be basil pesto pasta salad. It's the basil that does it to me, every daggone time. If I want great dreams, I eat something loaded with basil. Works like a charm. Your basic grocery store pesto works fine, but for truly spectacular dreams try a fresh tomato/basil/mozzarella salad with fresh olive oil and freshly cracked sea salt.

Gosh I'm hungry now.


My buddy Oldfriend is coming for visit this weekend. She's vegeteranian, so I need to cook good-tasting foods with no meat (through she does eat schrimpies, so I could go there). I'm thinking Indian, or Mexi-something. Got any good easy recipes, y'all? Something that goes well with Knob Creek brown water (bourbon) woud be a huge plus.


Straight from Yahoo's headlines!

Authorities expand probe of wrestler's doctor

The 4-guage wasn't enough, they're moving up to the 6-guage.

North Korea makes unusual plea for direct talks with U.S.

Word on the street is that the plea involved several goats dressed in satin who were trained to do the Macarena to "My name is Slim Shady." That's unusual!

Al-Qaida works to plant U.S. operatives

Digging got tough around the 4-foot mark though, so they had to give up.

Web warnings may not make kids safe

Charlotte is disappointed, gets back to work.

Energizer to acquire Playtex for $1.16B

"18-hour" bra will now just keep going and going and going....

Flight diverted over passenger security

Barefoot people scatter willy-nilly.


And that's all I gots today, folks. Have yourselves a terrific weekend, and don't forget those recipes. I'm counting on you to make me a culinary schtar!

Thursday, July 12, 2007

A thinky-type post, for once.

What IS provocative?

The simplest definition is "tending to provoke or stimulate." Common adjectival uses center around the sexual, but provocation doesn't necessarily need to be sexual in nature. A provocative argument or point can be about ANY topic.

As a jumping-off point for further discussion, below are a couple of examples of material that may or may not be provocative. The caption for BOTH of these pictures is as follows: "Without a condom, you're sleeping with AIDS. Protect yourself."

My questions are these - do the pictures truly GET the point across about AIDS? If you didn't KNOW they were designed to illustrate the need for condom use, would you "get it" anyhow? Is the nakeness disparity fair? Is this campaign indeed provocative in a dual-meaning sort of way, or does it shriek SEX more than THINK (or the other way around)?

I'm interested to know your opinions.

And thus, am I a provocateur.

Wednesday, July 11, 2007


I picked up a copy of one of my favorite all-time in-print timewasters yesterday: The Weekly World News. I am only partway through it, and already I've learned so much. LIke eating too much hot mustard can turn a person into a soothsayer, and that almost anyone can become an advice columnist.

Like, for example, me.

Dear Tiff,

My Mother hates me, I'm convinced of it. She made me clean up some OJ I spilled yesterday, and then this morning made me take out the trash before breakfast. Also, I have to shower every day and brush my teeth and clean my room and get to bed on time and set the table for dinner and not cuss.

How can I make it so that she just leaves me alone to do my own thing? I'm 35 and live in the basement of her house, so it's not like she ever really has to see me or be in my space.

Over Her Bossy Ways

Dear OHBW,

Suck it up, buttercup. Then do the laundry, thank her for giving birth to you, make her dinner, tell her she's pretty, and offer to mow the lawn. God you're a punk, and sicken me.


Ola Tiff!

I'm in college and don't date. I had thought the social scene was going to be hot and heavy once I left home, but it seems like nothing's happening where I am. What can I do to kick-start my social life?

Lonely and Bored

Dear Prude,

Are you straight? Are you not straight? Are you maybe a little bent? Downright crooked? What are your thoughts on costumes? Do you cry easily? Who's your favorite of the Seven Dwarves? Is there any real use for the letter "x"?

I can't offer you good advice if you don't give me MORE INFO! Write me back with the answers to the above questions, because with some more knowledge and a little extra patience I might be able to stomach counseling someone as unimaginative as you.

OMG, I can't stand it! For Cripe's sake, you're in COLLEGE! Think happy hour! Think football games! Think art openings and concerts and the library stacks and the quad and night classes and tutoring the stupid and easily impressed! Jeez!!! It's not going to come to YOU, unless you're loose, which I'm guessing you're NOT, because if you were you wouldn't be writing to me all moopy and suchlike!

Let me know how it goes, once you DO get a life.


Hey Tiff,

Did you hear that "ginormous" has been included in the Merriam-Webster dictionary this year? That's pretty cool, but I'd like to know what words YOU would include in a dictionary if you could have your say.

Netherbit Kisser

Dear NK,

Firstly, I agreed to answer your oh-so-casually salutatorian missive only because it's a good question that takes into account MY feeling on an important matter. Otherwise I would have lofted your impertinence directly into the rubbish bin, where such impropriety belongs.

Yes, I'm channeling William Safire, what of it?

To your question then, and let me start by asking YOU as question as a rather homey didactic technique designed to create a fraternal atmosphere when in fact none exists at all.

You mean, would I include words that aren't really words but are concatenations of other words, like the aforementioned "ginormous"? If that's the case, then I'd have to go with "hugemungous" and "fugly." Also "idiohole," which I just made up but kind of like anyhow, because if you think about it for just a second you'll realize that it's really a bad thing to call someone that sounds rather nice indeed, like "flatulent" or "corpulent."

I hope this answers your question, and teaches you a lesson.

Yours in salubrious ministrations,



See? Being an advice columnist is easy-peasy, and FUN!

Also, it totally rocks when the columnist makes up her own questions to answer. Who needs to wait for actual PEOPLE to ask about stuff in order to dispense advice? Not me, that's for sure. Whee!!

Tuesday, July 10, 2007

It's just not in me today

New carpet + restriction on all foods and liquids in carpeted rooms (eg, bedrooms) + 'it's only ice" + the melting of the ice + one horribly misplaced hand swipe = an 8-ounce spill of orange juice all over the new carpet.

Using the transitive property of logic and higher maths, wherein "spills on carpet" equal "pissing off Tiff," one can assume that the compendium of events leading to the spill also pissed off Tiff.


In a "no more wire hangers" kind of way.

Which was followed by a loud and detailed explanation of just exactly HOW the Thing that spilled the juice that shouldn't have been there in the FIRST place should clean UP the mess, which left his brother standing by helplessly until he asked "so, what do I do?" at which point he was directed to "just help your bother clean up the daggone mess!" which he did. Quickly.

Therefore, Stress 1.


9:30 p.m. Palmetto bug skittering near and on and around the Spiller Thing's bed.

Mama catches it. Finally.

Afflicted Thing (AKA Spiller Thing) delcares, in a fit of rigid and abject fear "I'm not sleeping in that bed, I'm not sleeping in that bed, I'm not sleeping in that bed."

Mama recognizes that fear, and therefore has a bed partner for the night.

Stress 2.


6 a.m. alarm. Up and shower and pack up Things after giving the Afflicted Thing some ibuprofen for the headache he professes to have.

Hop in the car to take them to Daddy's house for the day because Mama's got a big ol' meeting she needs to be totally on deck for at 8.

Halfway to Daddy's, Afflicted Thing blurts out "I'm feeling sick!" rolls down his window, then proceeds to puke all over the back of the car.

Mama yells at Poor Thing to "puke out the window!" and so he does, until such time as Mama can pull the car over to a wide shoulder by a fruit stand to let the lad finish urping up the water and medicine he'd taken 20 minutes earlier.

Stress 3.


Something might be very wrong with the Things' Dad.

And, even though I don't live with him anymore, I still care enough about him for this to be Stress 4.


8 a.m. meeting, scheduled for an hour, goes for 2, during which time, I, as the note-taker and "person in charge of this project" am actively engaged in using Net Meeting and such to illustrate the changes we're making "live" so that we can all agree it's the best thing to do.

9:45, the computer freezes up.

I have no idea when I last saved.

While I scramble to recalibrate and recover, the conversation goes on around me, so I hand-write notes while debugging my computer while hand-writing notes while re-booting my computer while taking notes by hand while restarting and retrieving and recreating old changes while the conversation continues on around me.

Stress 5.


The one-hour meeting is being continued this afternoon at 1.

I just don't have it in me to write a post.

Unless I just did.


Monday, July 09, 2007

It's a start

This right here would be my 500th post.

On the occasion of my 100th post, quite some time ago, I went all out and wrote a post dedicated to the number 100 and how it related to the post at hand.

This time, all I'll say is "it's a start."


Because you didn't know you wanted to see it until I thought you might, here's a picture of my new bed. New starts are abounding in my life, and wee-haw, the new bed is part of them.

It's a Stearns and Foster "Plaza" bed. Some kind of gorgeous descriptor name (Plush? Elegant? Sinful?) is embedded in there, and I have to tell you that the minute I lay down on it last night my back started shouting praise to whatever deity would listen. I wouldn't be surprised if a new religion was born based solely on the new and inventive ways that the back was calling out happy noises. Gentle readers, I now have 15 inches of pleasure in my bedroom, ohyesido, and that's not even COUNTING the boxspring.

The best part is that the bed was a relative bargain, having been purchased for something like one THIRD the usual asking price. Y'all, the "floor model that's never been on the floor because there was no room for it on the floor because of new fire regulations" is a beautiful thing indeed.

I'd invite you to come on over and try it out, but my back won't hear of it. It's insanely jealous of the new bed, and does NOT want to share the ultimate in soft cushiness plus firm support of its perfect mate. For my part, I understand.


I think I might be done moving in. Now I have to finish unpacking. And drape hanging, because the million-candlepower STREET LIGHT in fromt of my house shines right into the Things' room, illuminating it like midnight in the Artic Circle on June 21st.

(OK, that might have been a little cryptic. Let's just say that at 2 a.m., it's as bright as day in their room, and I can't have that. )

Yes, right, I know, I moved into town, sp I should expect some extra brightness; but kids, I'm here to tell you that my road is a BLOCK long, is a dead end, has 5 houses on it, and does NOT need to be lit up like the inside of an exploding firework. Nobody's OUT on my street after 9! I need a shotgun, I think. OR is it a rifle? Which one is going to put out the balefully glaring eye of my new nemesis, the Streelight?

And, more to the point, which of you is going to do it FOR me, so that I can continue on with the "new starting" thing I got going on, which, not surprisingly, does NOT involve starting to acquaint myself with the insides of the Wake County pokey? Any volunteers? Hmmm??

Friday, July 06, 2007

Stop me if you've heard this before

I dreamed last night that I had a motorcycle. And that it wouldn't go as fast as I wanted it to whilst riding through the streets of Binghamton on my way to some ceremony designed to honor my Dad at which everyone had to wear copper drool cups on their chins. There was also the robbery, the fire trucks, the costumed weddings, the one-way streets, the impossibly complex bike key, the lack of arm strength when fighting off the aforementioned robber, the train ride, the plywood house, and a completely different face in the mirror.

The last thing was the freakiest.


I'd blame the weird dream on what was for dinner last night, but because I cooked dinner for all 14 of us I'd be implicating myself in my own mind's hasty rush toward complete and utter choas, and can't do that, because in doing so I'd create a Moebius loop of logic and probably spin the earth off its axis or cause duck's backs to stop shedding water, which would, in turn, stop bears from pooping in the woods and the Pope to cease being Catholic, and we all know if that happened that soon the platitude police would be knocking on my door and I cannot afford the ticket, so won't blame my dreams on my cooking.

I'll blame them on the fireworks instead. And the smell of bacon this morning, which, no doubt, got my primal mind churning with mental salivation, cooking up the most vivid delectable visions it could whilst also thinking of meat.

It's a pretty good theory, isn't it?


Boat rides are best taken when it's not raining. I'm just sayin'. More on that when I do the vacation recap sometime next week. I had to get the dream thing out of the way first.

Have a great weekend y'all!

Thursday, July 05, 2007


Hope y'all had a wonderful fourth of djooo-lie. Here are snippets of mine:

An 11-year-old proudly driving the big boat. Burgers and dogs on the grill. Bottle rockets on the lawn at sunset. Cousins crowded together on the couch. A pontoon boat ride. Late-night fireworks. Cold beer. A light breeze. No worries.

A big, long, husky, deep sleep.

Slow awkening. Breakfast at 10. A plan for another long boat ride up the lake, scheduled for "whenever."

The "maybe movie." Scheduled for.......you got it...........whenever.

More fireworks tonight, of the backyard variety. Somebody in my family took a trip to PA for colorful and possibly dangerous explosives. The two 18-year-olds and the 16-year-old nephew are really and truly looking forward to tonight. They get to be a part of the launch crew. Almost adults.

Pictures later, if I have the energy for it. This vacation thing is exhausting.