Thursday, April 30, 2009

No Grant, no

Grant (the Grantichrist over there --->) wants me to jump on his bandwagon of posting half-nekkid Asian women on NAY. Grant, ol buddy, there's just no way. Those girls make a big ol' German/Irish girl like me very very ANGRY, for the Asian sweeties are all about the tiny, the teacup-sized, the well-gapped, the demure, which are in direct opposition to what I was bred for, which is farm work and plenty of it.

Geisha, I ain't, and to scour pictures of those teenaged fresh-faced honeys that you so enjoy would be to depress me ever so much more about being 'older' and staring myopically into the craggy face of middle age.

So, no.

Plus which, at work the internet is acting funky, and I'll be lucky to post anything at all, much less pictures, or font formatting without hardcoding, or any fun shit like that. Sorry, Grant, but you are on your own when it comes to displaying almost-naughty photos of hotter than hell Asian schoolgirls/nurses/bikini babies.

Some people have ALL the nerve, don't they?


Going out to dinner tonight with a good friend that I don't get to see as often as I like. She's a fierce chick for sure, who is into all kinds of stuff so has very little free time, which makes getting to hang with her for a whole evening all the more special.

We're trying a Greek place not far from where we work and where she lives. It'll be about an hour's ride home for me after dinner, so I'm going to have to go slow on the ourzo, sadly.

After what I'm sincerely hoping is going to be an evening that leaves me hoarse (what with all the talking and stuff) I've opted to work at HOME tomorrow, which is sweet like honey and as soothing a thought as diving into a bed of marshmallows (because obviously all good things are food-related).

Maybe I'll take a lunch break tomorrow and spend some quality time in the front yard picking out some of the brazilian WEEDS that have invaded out poor baby front yard, turning it from a potential lush green carpet of perfection into some zit-spangled turfly teenager, spotted with weedly acne, a embarrasing blighted stretch of rough going. Poor baby lawn. I feel BAD for it, if you can imagine. Something must be done, and an hour spent crouching in the yard yanking out unattractive botanical interlopers might do me some good (and get out some o' dat old anger).

Yes - I am a high-flying social butterfly with sparkly weekend plans, thanks for asking.

And YOU?

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

One Farking THOUSAND, Beeetches!

I asked this morning on Facebook for some ideas about what to post in this thousandth NAY post. I had many an interesting suggestion (thank to those who know who they are, BTW), which I've concatentated into a SINGLE intro statement, because I'm all summarizey like dat. Herewith then:

"I've never told you about the time I wrote about some of my favorite products/things I can't live without, have I, nor have I
even written prolifically about it which could lead to much gloating about the wise decsions I make on dark and stormy nights while leafing through many a catalog of divine delights.*

So, here goes, for post the thousandth at NAY, the things I simply MUST have:

Charmin UltraStrong teepee. There can be no other. Three sheets is plenty enough for a pee-swabbin’, and not many more than that will fully clean even the gishiest poop smudge. It’s soft too, a bonus when cleaning up delicate buttal areas. I grea up on a steady supply of Scott toilet paper, which is cheap and comes a billion sheets on a roll, but once I delved into the world of quilted specialty bottom wipes there was no going back to something that reminds me of state park public facilities. No scrapey scrapey for me anymore!

Indigo Wild body spritz in patchouli, sandalwood-citrus, and frankinscence and myrrh. That’s 3 different kinds, not all mixed together. The spritz is non-aerosol, has no alcohol, is made of essential oils, and is guaranteed to have people sniff in appreciation.One or two pumps o’ the ergonomically designed plunger delivers enough olfactory pleasantry to last all day in a not-overwhelming way. At $10.50 for a bottle that lasts months, it’s also a pretty good deal.

Espresso-grind coffee in the automatic coffeemaker. El Pico, Bustelo, etc are mighty tasty. Once you’ve tried it, I swear you will NOT go back to regular old coffee. The flavor is robust, rich, and not at all bitter, much like a good spouse. It tastes good black, but benefits greatly from a glug of milk (preferably steaming) and a dash of sweetener. That first giant mug in the morning is what gets my eyes open and my system activated.

Payless shoes. I love Payless so much that I rarely buy shoes anyplace else. Ten, 20 bucks a pair, wear them for a year or two, then buh-bye without a backward glance. Payless carries my size (it’s ‘flintstone feet,’ if you must know (also known as an 11!)) in a wide variety, something most other shoe stores do NOT do. Plus which – BOGO! Love me some BOGO. It’s agreat feeling to walk out of a shoe store with 4 pais of shoes that came in at under 50 bucks. The way the Things go through shoes, I can’t imagine NOT shopping BOGO at Payless.

Crest toothpaste. It’s the one that gets the job done. Colgate’s minty freshness doesn’t last anywhere near long enough for this gal, Tom’s of Maine is good but pricey, those gel-stripe pastes are icky feeling, and Aqua-fresh is so hard it’s like putting floor stripper on your tongue. It’s Crest, baby, all the way.

For most other stuff, I don’t have a real preference. Laundry soap, shampoo, razors, flour, tennis balls, etc., do not have to be a specific brand. Hell, more often than not I’ll buy the store brand and save a few pennies. I LOVE looking at the bottom of the grocery receipt and seeing how much I’ve saved on in-store specials and crap like that. Oh wait – no to generic granola bars; they crumble instead of crunch. Also – Santita brand tortilla chips because they’re perfectly salty, very light, and have like 3 ingredients. OK, other than THAT I have no real allegiances.

(except Jim Beam, Yellowtail shiraz, ibuprofen not aspirin, real Q-tips, Sure anti-perspirant (unscented!), Calphalon cookware, and Target instead of WalMart).

See? I’m easy to please.


One of the folks who was over at the house last night parked right on our baby lawn, and turned a tire-tracks worth of nascent lawn into MUD. This ticked me off, until I remembered that we didn’t tell anyone to not park on the yard, so any bitching has to be done first at myself.

God I hate being so frigging self-aware. It’s all part of my growing fabulosity though, which of course is my new life goal. Must take the good with the bad, which includes beng all forgivey and understanding and crap like that.

NEXT week though there shall be forewarnings, and IF a yard-park of destruction occurs a second time I shall puff up in a righteous snit, then vent angrified sound bites of iration that will blister ears for a thousand yards in any direction, all at a barely perceptible level so that those within range might think they’re dreaming a long-winded bad-spirited stream of gasbaggery.

Or maybe we’ll just put up some orange construction tape and save me going to all the trouble of getting worked up.

There’s that fabulosity again. I’m a natural!


It's meeting time again. Y'all have a wonderful rest (FTFY LL) of the afternoon, won't you?

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

LUCILLE! Get yo’ big legs offa me!

In a rare moment of late-night lucidity yesterday, handsome Biff and I were talking about what we’d still like to accomplish with our lives. He has some mighty good goals, one of which is to try to KILL ME WITH FEAR (read: finish his private pilot training) even though I was sort of pushing the ‘why not go back to college and get your degree in something you LOVE?’ angle.

Classrooms are almost always safer places to be than behind the controls of a teeny weensy airplane, don’t you think?

He wasn’t buying it. He’s going for the big guns, and couching it in terms of being able to ‘do some good for mankind’ and ‘deliver supplies to the needy’ and high-falutin’ garbage like that. Bah! All this thinking of other people nonsense is, I’m certain, a screen play around the core reason of ‘I want to fly really really fast and maybe dive bomb a nudie beach.’ Because, really, who wouldn’t?

Yeah, he’s got goals. BIG ones. Admirable ones, if he’s to be believed.

Me, on the other hand, could only come up with this little nugget: I’d like to quit work and raise chickens and write.

Raise....chickens. And write (twee!), cozy in my safe little house, all tucked up under the eaves of my solitude like a hen after sundown. Yep – I like to live large, my friends. While the spousal unit is aiming for the sky, trying to shoot around the world in a flying casket, I am pining for the chance to putter around my wee backyard clucking gently to fancy-birds while spreading handsful of prime corn and high-grade giblet grit before retiring to a sunny sofa to write deep thoughts of longing and perhaps a sonnet or two regarding the antics of my new quiet pets the house spiders.

It's clear, at the end of the track of THIS train of though lies the harsh bumper of this message: My goals suck.

They suck! I’ve stopped dreaming big (becoming a doctor, getting a PhD, BEING FAMOUS!) in favor of some burnt umber notion of simplicity and tranquility. It is far too soon to start the slow slide into senescense, people! Pairing my lowly chicken farmer with Biff’s Junior Birdman seems pathetic and small, selfish and exclusionary.

Therefore, I state now that my new goal is this: to be utterly fabulous.

I’m reasonably sure I know the skill set involved, but just in case, y’all let me know what you think it would take for this middle aged chick to achieve fabulosity. All suggestions will be considered! Hell, feel free to put some of YOUR goals in the comments while you’re at it – confessing them might refresh your desire to achieve!

But do it fast, before the SWINE FLU gets YOU! Soooo-eY! PIGPIGPIGPIGPIG.


(if anyone's counting, this here is post 999. holy shit)

Monday, April 27, 2009

Squeal like a pig for me, darlin



Heeeere, piggy piggy piggy. Come on to mama. Lemme get a good look at you.

Why, you resemble my neighbor, right down to the tattoos! Wait - it's almost like you're trying to SAY something. Slow down a minute. I think I get it. You're saying ...



One more stupid-ass story about swine flu will be one too many. Quick everybody, run around waving your hands in the air screaming about certain imaginary imminent eventual DEATH!


Hey! I have one for ya - substitute GIANT PIANO DROPPING FROM SKY for the s-flu thingie and THAT'S when I'll start looking around for ways to avoid getting hit. For now, unless I'm going to hole up in my house, which will have been hermetically sealed, and not let anyone else in including loved ones and the pizza delivery guy, then I MIGHT be able to avoid the scourge of the Porcine Peril, but until that point.



I truly have nothing else to occupy my mind right now. Why think about anything else? It's the SWINE FLU, poeple, come panic with me!

And have a lovely day.

(swyne floo! boogity boogity boogity!)


Friday, April 24, 2009

Go, Hug.

My goodfriend Wordnerd needs a bit of support for the blogly community today as she says goodbye to her wonderful doggie buddy Champ. Please go visit her and tell her (even if you don't know her, in which case I'd have to ask 'why not?') that you understand and that you'll be thinking of her, because you should, and you darn well ought to.


I have decided that thee best way to get through a workday is to simply walk around with a nice cup of coffee chatting up everyone I've never met before. Heck, with the acquisition there's a built-in topic of conversation with EVERYONE here now. The chatting has made the last 90 minutes just FLY by - awesome! It might be a totally douchey maneuver, but hell, it beats lurking in my lonely lil' corner listening to the Statistician scrape the bottom of his thermos for the last bits of whatever noodle dish he's brought for lunch today while simultaneously being aurally assaulted by the Pharter's prodigious crunchy-food chewing and phlegm-hacking skillz.

Talking to strangers > listening to other people eat/cough/exist. Significance level somewhere around p = 0.0001.


Someone needs to tell Paula Deen that her 'dumplings' are really just big ol' noodles. TASTY big ol' noodles, yes, paticularly when cooked in an all-day chicken broth, but noodles nonetheless.

Is this NORMAL? Aren't dumplings supposed to be, well, dumpy? Help me out here folks, for I am a dumpling novice who is momentarily disillusioned.

(Whatever else you might believe, please do NOT tell me that biscuits = dumplings, as seems to be the case for at least one 'easy recipe' I found. To clarify, we're not discussing the Bisquick kind of biscuits, those might be OK; I'm talking the flaky flaky layers kind of biscuits. That's just sick and wrong, because we ALL know those go on top of Shephard's Pie. Right?)


Food talk. Yeeah. It's Friday. Didn't we used to snark headlines around here on Fridays? I think I recall soemthing about that. How in times past there was something 'funny' about NAY on Fridays, a little chucklepath toward the weekend's promise of debauchery. It's a vague memory, to be sure, but I do think I recall something along those lines. Let's give it a go for old times' sake, shall we?

Mexico City suspends schools over flu epidemic

Thousands of screaming children beg to be returned to earth.

Pakistani Taliban pull back to Swat stronghold

Are said to be readying to spank a castle next.

Federal agency spurs people to adopt wild horses

Get it? Spurs?


Y'all feel free to do better. I'm fresh out of time here...there's a new guy over in QA I haven't talked with yet. Time's a wastin' if I'm to get in a good chat before my afternoon coffee break. This hectic workaday schedule is KILLER!

Thursday, April 23, 2009

You are what you drive

Had dinner last night with some new friends. They're 'churchy' friends, and our experience with them has been from a few some small-group interactions, so we didn't really KNOW them that well outside of them seeming like nice folks. Oh, the womanly half is from the same area as Biff, so that's kinda cool, and yeah, they met in much the same way we did, they're about our age, and they've both had similar recent life experiences, so there was plenty enough to keep a conversation going, if indeed they wanted to 'go there' (because heaven knows, I'm always up for a bit of snooping around someone else's personal life).

It started off a little odd. OK, so neither of them seem like the types to GUSH and go on and on about stuff, but I was expecting them to be a touch more outgoing. There were some silences. There were some awkward pauses. There was the feeling-out of topic matter, talk of surface-level issues, a general tiptoeing around conversational gambits.


Until OMG the shovel of curiosity broke through a crusty layer of 'don't touch' and we wound up on how royally screwed the guy has been on his divorce. He allowed a thing or two, then some more, then the wife started to get a little animated, and pretty soon both Biff and I had to pick up our jaws from the tabletop if we were going to even TRY to avoid looking like a couple of tazered yokels.

I will not divulge details here; that wouldn't be right. Suffice it to say that it's possible to have a judgement go so horribly wrong against you that you are not ever going to be in control of your finances again, NOT EVEN TO CONTRIBUTE TO CHARITY, if your ex has a good enough lawyer.

BTW - even if your ex snuck around on YOU, as happens to be the case for this poor guy.

It is the suck for him, and for his new wife, who had an admirable glint of murder in her eyes when the subject warmed up a little.

These are good people. They are nice people. They seem happy together. Yet, they have to sell their home and live tethered to this harridan who had enough clout to garnish all his money for LIFE. They will never be free of her. I find this shockingly difficult to digest. Yes, we all have our skeletons, and we all have had to pay in one way or another, but this seems so terrifically over the top.

Now, I have no idea how much money this guy makes. It wouldn't really matter, would it? He makes what he makes, and it would seem that at least some of what he makes should be left over for him to use to support himself. I did kind of figure him for a low 6-figures kind of guy; someone who does pretty well but not lavishly. He's got a good job in a specialized field; I was willing to go up to about 140K in my mind for his earning power.

That is, until I saw the car they got into after dinner. Some kind of hot little red sportsmobile with a long slick hood and a short bobtail, perfect for 2 with the appearance of a sprinter.

So NOT low 6 figures.

So NOT reflective of the person, the nice church guy with the soft voice, who was driving it. That guy needed, in my mind, to drive a Toyota sedan-ish thing, not Speed Racer's street rig.

And then I thought - I wonder if Tinkerbell reflects ME? Already the answer is 'probably not,' for I once had a woman express surprise when she saw Tink and me together, allowing as to how she thought I would drive an F150 or something. Um, no. They are gas guzzlers and way too big to park comfortably (I suck at parking). I did drive a pickup at one time, but it was a ruby-red Toyota 4-by, not a monstrous roaring yeehaw of a truck.

But I love my Tinkerbell, even if she isn't the perfect 'me' car. She's big enough (for now) to fit all of us, she gets good gas mileage, she has a kicker bass end on the stereo system, and if you squint your eyes just right the front end is kinda classy looking.

You know what? That last one IS rather like me.


What kind of car do you drive, and is it a true reflection of who you think you are?

Also - you ever hear stories of folks getting completely reamed in a divorce settlement? I'm still having trouble with what I heard last night, and do SO want to believe he's not the worst case out there.

Thanks, and have a grand day.

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

Wishing for death, The Germinator, and whining about making smart choices.

Ring Ring

Ring Ring

Ring Ring

No, I’m not going to answer it. It’s from California, and they want me to do something, and I can’t do it because I’m already doing 12 other things. If they talk to me and ask me to do something I’ll say yes (because I'm a PEOPLE PERSON!) but unforunately YES is not a word that should (at work) pass my lips for at least the next 4 months, or until I have the projects on which I’m currently working wrapped up a little more neatly.

Ring Ring.

Ring Ring.

Crap. It’s the same number again. Who is calling me and what do they want?

Hello? Oh, hi! What can I do for you (my standard greeting – I hate it, but people seem to LOVE it (PEOPLE PERSON!), so I keep saying it).

Uh huh. I think so. Let me check. Hmmm – I see summary tables but no listings. Right. No listings.

We need listings, of course we do. I can’t for the life of me remember why we never got them in the first place. The report won’t be complete without it. I know, it’s been like, what, a year since we started working on this? Let me ask the programmer if they can open up the data and output listings.

Yeah, given that information I think a meeting would be a good idea. Right, and remember that we’ve asked already for XXX and YY and ZZZZ in the 2 previous drafts we sent out. When they were first sent out on review we had a hard time identifying people who could review them. It’s tough to put together a review team when nobody who WAS on the project still works here, isn’t it? Hahaha.

OK, let’s talk next week about this, and how to move forward. Thanks for the call!

Ring Ring

Ring Ring

Ring Ring

Hi, this is Tiff – who’s on the line please?

Great, so we’re all here. Suzy, you want to start by telling us your ideas for how to finalize these documents?

(wah wah wah wah wahhhh)

So, what I hear the team saying is we need to reopen the database, reprogram the subject assignments, output new listings and tables, rewrite the affected sections of the reports, change the investigator listings, reassess the vendor assignments, generate narratives, and then send the reports back on reivew. Is that it?


OK, I totally agree that we need to get this done. Let me look into resourcing here in our group, and once I get the meeting minutes I can forecast out if this can be done in-house or we’ll need to write a vendor contract for the re-write. There’s no doubt that it’s better to write an accurate document, and so I appreciate all of you jumping onto this project to ensure it gets done correctly.

Yep – thanks!




The guy across from me - you remember the Pharter, do you not? - has a vicious phlegmy cough and a water-faucet nose thang going on. It appears that he's able to offend his coworkers with more than one orifice at once, I'm horrified to announce.

Holding my breath probably isn't going to stop me from getting whatever it is that he's expelling all over the cube farm. The fucker.


So, I pretty much quit drinking during the workweek. By this, you should know that I still have a glass or two of wine at night, which for some of you might be like a HUGE amount but for me, with my tolerance and love of the tipple equals about a snifter full of tooth stain (hello, Shiraz!)and not much else.

This means a few things. 1) It is difficult to go to sleep at night, these days. I'm up until midnight. 2) Dreams , if possible, even more vivid than usual. 3) Waking up is easy. When the alarm goes off at 6:30 I feel refreshed. Only one slap of the snooze button is required, and that one slap remains because I LOVE LOUNGING IN BED..

This life change is messing with my reality, people. How much longer will it be before I no longer even WANT to have a cocktail? How much longer will it be before I PREFER to stay sober, to have a functioning liver, to have actual whites of my eyes? If this keeps up my status as 'functioning drunk' will have to be changed to something lame like 'social drinker,' awhich is a twee lil' moniker with no swagger whatsoever.

Me? Twee? Hardly. might be better to be twee for the next 40 years than to be a souse for only the next 10 before I assplode my liver or develop diabetes or start drinking cheap shit just to get a buzz on a Tuesday night. For shame.

I expect Friday night to be interesting. It's when bourbon comes back on the menu (weekends only from this point on). The smart money will be that I'll be drooling in the armchair by 9:30. Care to place a opposing bet?

Until then (or at least until tomorrow, this being only Wednesday), y'all have a wonderful day!

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

This is the long-cooking kind of post.

Holy friggin wall of words, Batdude!

Have the last couple of days’ worth of output here kind of got you reeling? Like, a verbal volcano busted wide open, spraying the landscape with context, meaning, insight, and chewy fresh mirth?

Amazing what happens when you talk with someone who actually has something to say. If you’re expecting more of that kind of action today, well you have come to the wrongest place on the face of this flat planet. The brain ain’t cranking on all cylinders today, certainly not enough to recite anything of possible interest that may have happened lately.

Except for Saturday, when we went of the Longest Hike Ever in recent memory, which started out as something of a grand adventure and wound up, 2 and a half hours later, to be a hip-popping, foot-crushing exercise (literally) that I thought for SURE I’d be feeling the next day, but surprisingly did not. Honestly, at my age I figured that the 6 or so miles of his hike would shut my fat white butt right the smack on DOWN, but no. There were no sympathy pains, no loving care needed, no mothering of my tender bits by a loved one. It’s apparent that I am in TOO GOOD A SHAPE to be fussed over. Even the stabbing pains in my left big toe subsided by the following morning; and I had such high hopes of being able to convincingly limp about for at least a day, garnering expressions of concern from little old ladies and other concerned citizens.

Perhaps God is a-smiting me for being an attention whore?

Or perhaps the hike was not nearly as arduous as I had thought, and that the brief-acting pain generators were overcome by a wash of endorphins brought about by the tremendous relief I felt when we finally got back to the sweet confines of the car and thus I cured myself with blessed relief? Could happen.

Must remember to grouse more next time, and for far longer than I did this past week. Must overcome impulse to be GRATEFUL, and instead substitute sarcastic fatalism for sheer ecstasy. Sure, it might still FEEL as good to sit down and have the bone-poppery commence as one’s spine realigns into the familiar slouch, but expressing that pleasure will only serve to FIX THE PAIN, and then where would one be? One would be staring into the face of a reality that includes one actually being able to walk for 2.5 hours straight, which means that one should be doing MORE of that kind of tomfoolery, and that is a hard reality indeed.

Or one could simply pray for rain every weekend until the end of time.

Either way – it appears that more very long walks indeed are to be in my future, for I know my limits, which do not include uber-grousing or being able to effect meteorologic change on the scale proposed. I am only human, more's the pity.


Ridiculous name: Dinky McChuckenham. Somebody should name their kid that.


Got the news yesterday that our company is being bought. It the first time I’ve even been through an acquisition in which I worked for the company being acquired.

Since hearing the news, it seems that I’ve developed the ability to crawl walls. ASTOUNDING! Being red-zone nervous about the future results in the development of SUPERPOWERS!

Also? I think my teeth are in danger of being ground into powder.

Sure wish I hadn’t picked this week to quit drinking.

Monday, April 20, 2009

Tammie's second half

Picking up where we left off – the last question posed to Tammie at the end of the previous installment of her interview was this: what part of your body do you like the most?

Tammie: I like my eyes. They're very expressive and unique. I like the character wrinkles around the eyes and the dark rings that circle my irises. Even my eye doctor comments on my eyes. Check out my profile's a good one of my eyes.

me: I've seen it. From whom do they come - genetically speaking?

Tammie: I get the dark circles around the iris from my mother and her father's family. The eye color might come from my father. I don't really know what color eyes he has. I don't know much about him and what I do know is not very flattering, so who knows? He was adopted. I might even get the eye color from his parents.
He was adopted when he was six months old. His mother was listed as Swedish descent and there was nothing about his father. He and my mother were married a little before I was born. He went in the Air Force and was stationed in California. My mother and I joined him when I was six months old. I ended up coming home with my mother after he and she began to have problems. She'd leave me alone and go party. The old ladies who lived below us called my father's parents and told them. So my mother brought me home and left me with my grandparents and aunt.
Then she lived in Haight Ashbury for awhile.
My dad went AWOL with another guy and eventually ended up in a mental institution. That was once of two times he'd end up in one.
He moved to Maryland and remarried. I have a half sister from that marriage. I only met her eight years ago.

me: why was he instituted?

Tammie: He pleaded that he was insane.

me: were how old when your mama went out to party and left you alone?

Tammie: I was less than a year old

me: and how the hell have you not...pardon me...written a book about this by now?

Tammie: I don't know... Anyway, his second wife divorced him when she discovered he was exposing himself to teen girls he'd pick up hitch hiking

me: (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

Tammie: I lived with my grand parents and aunt for almost a year and half while my mother was being a hippy

me: she was how old?

Tammie: She was 19.

me: aw, shit

Tammie: My dad married a third time and that was the first time I met him. His wife was very nice and had a daughter from a previous marriage. He and his new wife had a daughter, my second step sister.
Then he embezzled money from his company

me: (still stunned,,,,)

Tammie: They left in the middle of the night and he didn't even tell me

me: amazing

Tammie: I had a relationship with him for maybe two years. Then he moved away and didn't tell me

me: in which time you saw the color of his eyes, I would presume

Tammie: After moving away he did something stupid and ended up in prison for 9 years

me: your daddy is not anyone I'd match with YOU

Tammie: Yeah, well neither is my mother.

me: do you sometime feel that it's your duty to be the leveling force?

Tammie: Yes. I've always felt like the parent. My mother relied on me a great deal when I was growing up. She and my first step dad had my brother together. I cared for my younger brother until he decided to stay with my grandparents. Then I became her care giver.
My brother never met his dad

me: sheepers. I'm lost. Your head must swim

Tammie: I think I did write about that in my blog one day when I was feeling the need to share. Complicated huh?

me: enough for three lifetimes…can we bounce?

Tammie: Yes...let's bounce!

me: OK! Wheeee!
Tammie: Boing Boing

me: OK - last question - spit...or swallow?

Tammie: HAHAHA!
swallow. It is one of the things I enjoy doing the most and I make sure to suck every single drop out...
Hahaha...I said suck

me: I once read in a Playboy magazine that good girls suck, but great girls swallow.

Tammie: I'm totally a pervert.
That's why we get along
It's great being one of the great ones, isn't it?

Our men as so lucky to have us
The first time I did it with Mr. Man, it hurt because I wasn't properly ready and when I told him to stop, he said, "Wait a minute. I'm going to turn the light on so I can see this."

me: ?!???!?!?!?!?!!?!!

Tammie: HAHAHA
It got better. Much better.

me: the hell! that' is hysterical!

Tammie: Uhhh...YES!

me: Woohoo!

Tammie: The next time we were properly lubed

me: no doubt.

Tammie: I will now type with my breasts...they're feeling left out
lkjsdalb kjhdghklfghl

me: (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) hahahahaahaaha!

Tammie: One is smaller than the other

me: dude - I'm crying. In envy. My boobs do nothing but sulk.

Tammie: The left one...hence the smaller word. My nipples look like cookies - sugar cookies. When I get cold me and my sugar cookies could bust through walls
me: HA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Sorry - Just came up with your dominatrix name: Mistress Snickedoodles
Tammie: HAHAHA I will make your doodle snicker mister. Fifty whacks to the pee pee
Whappity slap!
me: Uh - mister I ain't, but I'm confident your skills are legendary
Tammie: Sorry...I was reliving the role play with Mr. Man last Sunday morning on the porch
We have to give the Jesus police something to pray about. They're on their way to church you know
me: holy god, let me be half as satisfied as that heathen
Tammie: Nothing like witnessing a good titty whipping to fire up the spirit!
me: I seem to have turned into something of a churchgoer myself but would NEVER EVER not take a peek at a rambunctious fuck on the front porch God made us to ENJOY, daggone it
Tammie: Amen sister
me: I find myself therefore a churchy pervert.
Tammie: A churchy that like a generous republican?
me: hysterical!
Tammie: I'm much more spontaneous after a few drinks
me: how many is a few?
Tammie: I'm not sure...two or eleven: I loosen up after a couple and then I get kind of wild after that
although I'm sure you don't believe I could be wild
Tammie: I like to have fun sometimes and clothes get in my way
me: you need to come on over for a cocktail
Tammie: I think we'd have a great time
Tammie: Yes! Mr. Man would LOVE that!
me: There are really old dead people everywhere! And....shells...and....muskets?
Tammie: Elderly Hellions?
me: There are probably some civil war veterans someplace around here
Tammie: I can handle the old men. It's the old woman who hate me
me: there are no old women in Raleigh. NONE
Tammie: I'm so freakin happy! I'll be right down
me: YAY!
Tammie: I really had fun with this interview
me: Me too - time to put it to bed?
Tammie: It was probably more serious than you wanted but I had a good time being spontaneous with it
I think Miss KIA has homework
me: Not more serious. I had no plans.....
and you have a life
Tammie: Night!


And that? Is it. Oh, I took out some bits that were largely just semi-drunken ramblings, corrected a few typos, and deleted stuff that was flat-out stupid (all my own contributions, it must be stressed), but pretty much 90% of our 2-ghour conversation has been transcribed here for your reading, and learning, enjoyment.


Now, I must go. Y'all have a grand day!

Friday, April 17, 2009

Interviewing an Internet Darling

You know what's fun? Interviewing Tammie, the Blonde Goddess is fun, that's what! It's so MUCH fun that what was scheduled to take an hour of Googlechat turned into almost 2, at which point our bloodied finger-stumps needed a break and I, for one, needed to fetch another cocktail.

Not surprisingly, 2 hours worth of chat turns into a mighty wall of words, and so the resulting transcript will be posted here over the course of at least 2 days, and possibly spilling over into 3. Oh, there will be honest discourse, cliffhangers, and in-depth probing the likes of which cannot be shown on network teevee!

Let's get DOWN on it!


me: You're about to be interviewed.

Tammie: I'm ready. I am naked and partially intoxicated.

me: pictures or it didn't happen. :)

Tammie: I can send you a partially clad picture of my ass. Seriously. I use it to tell people to kiss off.

me: Well now - that's special.

Tammie: Of course I would never tell you to kiss off, but I think it would excite you

me: another of my yet-to-be-explored kinks. I'm saving some for the old folks' home
so. how the hell are you?

Tammie: Things are helps the illusion. And the visual of old stretched out privates is a stunning visual. Thanks for that.

me: you are most welcome. However, even when I'm 80, some special netherbits will still be as taut as the day I took my first shit, for I kegel like a fiend, my friend.

Tammie: Ah...I see. Well I Kegal too but I think the fact I'm an ass freak probably doesn't help

me: that's a perfect starting point.

Tammie: true

me: Question 1 then: do Kegels help the poop sphincters, or are they only good for trying to repair what childbirth has wrought asunder?

Tammie: I believe they help tighten the vaginal muscles and pelvic floor. I have developed my own ass tightening exercises though, that consist of pennies, vasoline and a lighter....I could send pictures but it's a family blog.

me: so, the ol' aspirin between the knees trick doesn't really work, eh? Ann Landers is a professional LIAR!

Tammie: Ann Landers needs to get laid...seriously. As for the asprin between the only works for me when I bend forward and retrieve it with my tongue, then chew it to stop the chest pains. Sex is definitely an action verb in my house!

me: Dude, you're like a 15-YO boy. It's frigging amazing. What do you tell your kids about sex?

Tammie: Actually I tell them it's a natural thing that should be shared in a trusting relationship. My goal is for them to wait until they find someone they care about and can trust so the experience is the best it can be. I encourage them to not be self-conscious about their bodies and accept their sexuality. We have even discussed the urges and the need for masturbation. I say it's better than having sex to satisfy the urge...

me: hells yes! That’s a good answer!

Tammie: Thanks. I am a HUGE advocate of masturbation! Just ask the nuns

me: most kids think, somehow, that the EMword is a bad thing to do. Did you ever get that message? (nuns excluded, for I bet they were watching you..)

Tammie: Yes. I think you're right about people being self-conscious about masturbating. But why is that? It's a natural thing. We eat to make ourselves feel better, wrap up in a blanket to comfort ourselves, why is it wrong to masturbate and have an orgasm? It makes us feel good and keeps us from doing something stupid with some dumb asshole who's been told it's a sin to masturbate.

me: Fucking assholes. Good thing I didn't meet them until I was well past the point of being able to understand their message. Mastrubation is a good thing - I think we can agree.
or however you spell it.

Tammie: HAHAHA

me: on to the next question then

Tammie: Use BOTH hands to type Tiff!

me: dude - you wouldn't believe me when I say that this is the best typing I've done in YEARS
ask anyone who has ever IMed with me...there's a special language made just for me.

Tammie: I was making a crude reference to the masturbating...LOL

me: I know. I was TRYING to bring it back around to family blog territory.

Tammie: OHHHHH....ok.

me: which brings me to the next question

Tammie: Yep

me: You are preparing for a movie role. What is it, who costars, and how does it end?

Tammie: It's a comedy. I am the wife and mother and I'm married to George Clooney (cause he can do comedy). I am a nit witted, scatterbrained ding-a-ling and the movie ends with me winning the lottery and living happily ever after. I'm not too much about straying from what I know, you know...well except for winning the lottery part. The rest is my normal life and that's exciting enough for me.

me: And the bit about George Clooney? Normal life?
Because, in case you didn't know - HE'S MINE!

Tammie: Yeah well you've seen the pictures of Mr.Man on my facebook. He looks like Mr.Man and there's NO WAY Mr.Man would agree to be in a movie with me...unless it's one we make in the privacy of our own home.
I won't kiss George ok?

me: You can kiss.

Tammie: with tongues?

me: It's OK. We have an understanding, George and me. No penetration, and you're cool

Tammie: Ok. So I can kiss...any parts off limits?...*GRIN*

me: welll....let's see. He's my imaginary boyfriend in your imaginary movie about your life together as screwball husband and wife, so I'm guessing that comedic sex would be an option.
it's OK. he's cool with it. but do NOT touch my real husband (just so you know).

Tammie: Awww...
I'll be contented with Mr.Man and his restraints.

me: Take George....for a day. He's wanting some punishment anyhow

Tammie: I'd hate to ruin him for all the other women in the world. He'd become my stalker and we can't have that.

me: he's gay, you know
likes the ass

Tammie: My butt hurts at the thought

me: on to another topic then. Next up, this little gem: when in your life did you feel most powerful?

Tammie: I felt the most powerful when I left my ex-husband. Actually, it wasn't really supposed to be a separation, I was just afraid of him because the abuse had become more and more violent. My friend begged me to stay with her one night and think it over. I told him I was going to stay with her and then went to work. He called my mother and told her I'd abandoned him and our daughter and she called me at work. She accused me of being a whore and a bad mother. I had never felt so afraid and alone in my life. Then I got angry because I realized that none of them really cared about me, they just cared about me doing what they wanted. That realization made me feel powerful for the first time in my life. I never went back to him.

me: It's completely freeing, isn't it?

Tammie: Yes, It was. It was like I could finally give myself permission to love myself and take care of me for once.

me: Right now I'd give you a big ol' southern neck hug, because lord, lord, you've done it. you were so young too! Your mama and you have issues.

Tammie: Yes, well we all have our mountains to climb don't we?

me: yep - it's what makes life interesting. Here’s another question for ya: when you were a little girl, what did you want to do with your life?

Tammie: I wanted to go far away. I dreamed about flying planes and getting as far away from everything as I could. I think that the fact that three of my "fathers" were in the Air Force might have had something to do with that, but I always loved the huge bombers and dreamed I would pilot one. When I needed glasses, I realized that wouldn't happen. So I thought about maybe being a lawyer. Then I started writing. I wrote stories and kept a journal and wrote poetry. I loved to write and hoped that maybe someday I'd be an author...or write for know. I'm too silly to write a serious novel.

me: I can totally see you flying an aircraft.

Tammie: IN the nude!
I could call the business, "Wings and naked things"

me: a little g-string, a little bounce
you could do that as an attorney too what happened to the lawyer thing?

Tammie: I don't know...I guess I think I'm logical and I seem to have a good memory, but I'm a lover...not a fighter
I could titty slap the hostile witnesses
whappity slap!

me: no! don't bring out the big guns! they're for the closing argument!

Tammie: I like to beat people with my boobies. I can't help it. It's a weakness of mine

me: there are no words efficient enough to respond to that statement so, on to the next question?

Tammie: Bring it!

me: I would not trade my life now with being a teenager again - would you?

Tammie: GOD NO! I enjoy being a woman. I have confidence and I can control my own destiny.

me: Confidence is a thing that girls need to 'get'

Tammie: I hated having to rely on people. No one really encouraged me to be self-confident. And yes, girls need to be encouraged more

me: yeah, even all these years later, girls need to KNOW they're more than tits...if I can put it that crudely. OK, so, what was your first job?

Tammie: OK. My first tax paying job was when I was 16. Before that I always the fields, the barn, cleaning houses, name it. I got pregnant at 16 and my mother kicked me out. So I worked the 11-7 shift at a factory while my Nana took care of Freya. I slept during the day when she slept. It wasn't a lot of sleep. Plus I tried to pick up side jobs to make extra money. The factory work was piecing telephone components, matching up four wires and screwing them down in the correct holes. It was piece work...tedious and one job I don't miss. In the town I grew up in there was no such thing as welfare so I had to make it on my own
My family would have died if I has asked for assistance and hell, I didn't even know there was anything that I could ask for. So I worked. Then I got my diploma doing a correspondence course from home that was somewhat new. I hitch hiked into town once a week and took the tests. It was hard but I did it. Then they lost part of the records. They don't even have all my transcripts for my grades.
I don't think that any job is beneath me and I'm a hard worker. I give any job I do, 110%.

me: So, here I sit, thinking about how old my child would be if I had her at 16. And how different my life would be. You are a hero to me.

Tammie: Wow. That is such a compliment coming from you.

me: You're pretty fucking fierce.

I'm just who I am. Everyone has their moments, you know?

me: well, compared to the society ladies who lunch, you've had an interesting life

Tammie: Yes, I guess I have. Interesting is a good choice of words. And the small bit I've shared with you is just the tip of the iceberg. I don't open up much, but I said I'd answer any and all questions and I am a woman of my word. Ask away!

me: OK - here goes. What part of your body do you love the most?


And here we break. Ahahahaaa! I can hear y'all going all "oh MAN, no fair! We need to know the answer!" but that, my friedns, is the cliffhanger mentioned before, and which I hope will bring you back here to read more of Tammie's expostulation of truth.

Til Monday then, y'all be good!

Thursday, April 16, 2009

Shiny floors, sunny days, fuzzy pants

1 p.m. at the Tiny House. Lunch is done, dishes stacked in the sink. One boy is in the tub, one is playing Runescape, again.

One study report almost edited, another one to go. I think I'll send the team the raw versions and get back to the author in my sweet time, instead of editing both before team review. They're already 2 days behind schedule, and if I edit both they'll be at least 4 days late. Not something I want to have happen.

There's a timeline to update, documents to follow-up on, dishes to do, a bone doc appointment to get to, backpacks to clean out, laundry to fold, a transfer to the Things' Dad's house to make. There are many many things to do, to have already done and not, to think about doing right now but don't, to prioritize and reconfigure enough to fit into one day.

I already KNOW I'm not going to be successful. That part doesn't bother me, because by now I'm used to being behind. What I focus on now is not having it all done, because that's impossible; instead I focus on keeping up with the top 3 things that are most important. Even that can be a struggle.

As I sit in the big chair on a sunny Thursday afternoon, typing this in between bouts of editing and e-mail, it occurs to me that I am spectacularly fortunate. I am...lucky. I have been given much. Yes, I worked for it, yes, I still struggle and fret, but there are millions of people who would pay to have my problems. I have a job. I have a home. I have health and access to medicine and the internet and the ability to read and a good education and the inalienable right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Simple circumstances that are the envy of so very many.

Guess I'm taking a moment to be grateful. It's not hard to do on a sunny afternoon as the cats nap, the dog basks, the boys bathe or play, and I sit comfortably in a cozy chair streaming internet at blazing speed that is bought by the salary from a good steady job.

Yeah. Grateful. Not a bad way to feel.


This post ain't nothing but me being what I feel at this moment. There are no requests for comments, no questions for you to answer. There is no reason to respond at all, I suppose. If I knew how to turn off comments, I might, for this post is just for me. This kind of post is really the reason I started writing in the first palce - to diarize the moment, to express the inside goings-on that occur even asa life proceeds at breakneck pace.

I have kept a diary for 35 years. In those first few small lined books I poured my heart and soul; initially as an angst-filled teenager, then as a young woman finding herself, then through life change after change. Moments of deep sadness, anger, joy, love, disappointment were captured and are still held on their pages, a snapshot of those times that have made me who I am now.

This blog has gone through changes as well. In 3+ years it's gone from online diary to a story-telling space to an outright ploy for noteriety, to burden, to friend-maker to, most recently, curious appendage with no particular pupose. NAY isn't a humor blog (witness this post), it's not a writing blog (again, this post?), it's not a vehicle for world fame (something for which I have no explanation). It's just a bit of me; something I think I've forgotten recently and thus had populated with posts full of nothing more substantial than foam, nothing more meaty than air. They have been disappointing posts, and I apologize.

Perhaps a change is in the air. I don't know. For today, this is the 'me' I'm feeling. Introspective, grateful, aware of purpose and duty, loving the bright world, aiming once again to become something more.

And I 'll get right on it, right after I finish those three most important things that simply MUST be done.

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Abstinence, suicide, and why am I channeling Margaret Trudeau?

Been away a while, and I have a confession to make: I took 4 days off from the internet, and did not miss it.

No computer at all, even when there should have been some form of computering so that when I returned from where I was, which was lovely and fun, I would not be 2+ days behind and in a bit of a panic over things that don’t deserve panic. None of the computer. I was roughing it!

Of course, ‘roughing it’ is a term that is very very bendy, much like ‘really cute” or ‘impressive raise.’ Truly, it cannot be considered to be rough if there is a comfy quilt involved, and homemade bread to boot, but just go with me here for a few moments, won’t you? NO e-mail. NO comics. No other things that make the online life so interesting (except there maybe was a lil’ bit of facebooking last night and an e-mail or three, but even then it was brief and unsatisfactory, much like generic Twinkies, which can be enjoyable if you’re not expecting real Twinkies and therefore aren’t put off by a cake-like delicacy that tastes like sweetened greasy cardboard (I’m looking RIGHT AT YOU, Bingles!)).

I impress myself with my fortitude, which might simply be laziness in disguise but do not go there. Let’s not quibble about the reason behind it, let us instead focus on the impressive feat of abstinence.

The fact that I was the guest at a home that only had DIAL-UP internet had nothing whatsoever to do with the short spate of withdrawal. I repeat, nothing whatsoever


The Chesapeake Bay area is gorgeous and frightening. “Frightening?” I hear you say? Yes, dear reader. Frightening. There is water all around! Because of the water, there are bridges in abundance! Bridges that arc out over vast stretches of inlets and creeks, bays and bayettes (a technical term), bridges that sway slightly dangerously when large trucks rumble by. Bridges off of which one might decide to stop one’s car, turn on the flashers (for safety!), and proceed to jump from in an attempt to end the misery of life. Bridges that will accommodate the suicidal notions of the safety-minded depressed, and after which will be swarmed with cops of many makes and models who will shut down one of the 2 traffic lanes (not surprisingly, the lane in which the abandoned car is still sitting and flashing its lights), forcing the nervous traveler into a stationary position for what seems like an eternity as the 18-wheelers bounce the concrete roadway in a most alarming manner as they trundle on to their destination.

Frightening, yes.

The Police boat down at the shoreline, the crowd of people at the dock, the multiple police vehicles on the bridge, the dozen authoritarians with flashlights examining each nook and cranny of the lonely blinking car that was still stuck where its driver left it before meeting whatever demise seemed obvious, certainly was a spectacle for the curious (ahem). The scene was also a true challenge for those of us (also ahem) who don’t much care for bridges in the first place, care even LESS for 2-lane bridges, and enjoy it enormously when the bridge traverse is quite over with, thank you.

That evening though, the curious won out. Somehow, it appears someone decided that a leap off this particular bridge on the Monday after Easter was the way they wanted to shuffe off their mortal coil. The ruminations on why, and who, and when, were left to the occupants of a certain midsize SUV and hundreds of other occupants of other cars to parse out.

Other than that bit of WTF-age, it was a lovely weekend, and over too soon, as most good things are. Hovatter62 and husband were gracious hosts, knowledgeable tour guides, patient teachers of all things domino, and gifted in the cheffery department. They’re not so great at ordering up good weather, but we’ve promised to come back again when they have that skill set firmly under their belts, because we missed out on skiffing, gill netting, exploring the ‘creek’ (which dwarfs most rivers around here), walking country lanes, and visiting the interesting bits of their hometown. The cold windy rainy days lent themselves to a whopping dose of visitin’ though, so there will be no complaints from me.

Nice people. You should go get some of your own. They're all MINE.


The little matter of the Tammie interview is being worked out. She’s still game, people – can you believe it? I’m aghast, having fully expected her to change her name, move, close her blog, and otherwise shield her identity in order to avoid being under the white-hot glare of my examining room klieg-lights as I probe her depths for juicy secrets….

Now THAT’S a mental image to end a post. And so I shall. Ta!

Thursday, April 09, 2009

Damned expensive giveaways, and talk of grass

Two antibiotic capsules twice a day.

An anti-itch spray twice a day.

Anti-yeast eardrops twice a day.

Two vitamin E supplements once a day.

That's my allergic infected, itchy, slobbery mess of a dog! Who's a good girl? SHE IS! She'd better be, for the 500 bills I dropped on her the other day. In addition to the aforementioned meds, we also purchased the following: 12 months of flea stuff, 12 months of heartworm preventative, a poop culture, a heartworm test, an ear cleaning, TWO medicated baths (see itchy thing above), and about 30 different kinds of inoculations.

Such a deal.

Here's hoping it all works, because there's only so much snuffling about the netherbits and obsessive chewing a body can take before they're thinking of what farm to drop a dog off at.

Yep, the 'free dog' we adopted several years ago is turning out to be quite the bargain.


As proof of the very highly exciting life I lead, I shall now tell you about the grass in the front yard. IT IS TOO EXCITING, hush up.

As some of y'all might recall, several weeks ago I awoke to the sound of a rototiller going great guns in the front yard. 'What ho?' thought I, and went out to discover my dear husband chewing up the yard, a grimly determined look on his handsome mug.

Oh dear. This is going to mean work, I also thought.

Indeed, I was correct. The rototilling was followed by raking out all the old vegetative matter (hardly one shred of which was actual grass), then more rototilling, then more raking, then levelling, seeding, fertilizing, then application of 10 bags of peat moss in a thinly sprinkled layer (to keep yon birds from gulleting all the lovely, lovely potential grasses).

You know what happened, of course. It rained. And rained, and rained, and washed away about half the newly planted grass seeds.

From miles away, folks could hear the great sighs of dejection, and feel the wind from heavily heaved shrugs of two sets of shoulders.

Nothing to do for it but to replant, and pray for good weather, which almost happened. Someone was smart though (not me), and bought a few yards of new dirt to shore up the low spots and create some water-diverting berms, then put down some kind of snazzy hay fabric stuff to keep the grass firmly put so that when it started to rain again (and don't you KNOW it did), there would be no need for shruggage or sighage.

And.It. Worked!

Sweet Maria, there's now GRASS in the front yard. Lovely and green and tender, the grass is sprouting, growing, filling in the places where once there was nowt but snake weed and wild onion.

Oh, there are also deer prints and one random set of tire tracks in the soft dirt from where someone (again, not me) rather carelessly backed their truck into the driveway, but fully 99% of the yard is coming up grasses! Exciting, yes?

My thoughts exactly.


Hay (hee!), in case you didn't know, I have, by treachery and much knife-twisting, won the chance to interview the Blonde Goddess, an occasion that I hope will be the opportunity to learn many new things about her and to perhaps also pimp out this blog to a whole new set of readers (she's huge on the internet, you know). That being the case, it's incumbent on me to ask her the right sorts of questions. Because we already KNOW about her sex toy collection, and that she loves being naked, and that her family in Maine are an interesting and varied lot of folks, what more can be asked of her to fill us in on the great mysteries of Her Swedeness?

Favorite color?
One cartoon that changed her life?
The potential of mutant gerbils to raise the dead?

What would YOU ask her, if you could?

Tuesday, April 07, 2009

March (shush, I KNOW it's April) Wordsmiths

Hey Dad – while everyone else is playing mini-golf, want to go down to the dock and watch the sunset?

Sure honey. Let’s fix a highball first. Want a 7 and 7?

Sounds good - diet 7 for mine please

Coming right up

It’s hard to believe we’ve been coming here for almost 30 years, you know? Shoot, I’m older than mom was when she and bro first found this lake.

You’re kidding.

Nope. It’s been 29 years. I remember Mom saying that ‘she’d found the place we were going to go on vacation next year.' Seems impossible that it’s been that long.

I’m having a hard time with you being as old as your mother. You’re always going to be my little girl.

Heh – yeah, I know. When I look the kids I can’t believe they’re almost all grown up. Amazing what happens when a few years pass.

I hardly recognize them anymore. I guess I still think of them as babies.

Me too. It’s hard to see that armpit hair!

They have girlfriends yet?

Nah – neither is really interested right now.

Do their friends?

Only a couple. The kids are in the geeky crowd, just like I was when I was their age. It’s a pretty sure bet that they’re late bloomers, just given that fact.

Heh – they’ll get around to it.

Later rather than sooner is fine. I didn’t have a clue what I was doing when I was their age.

Shoot, I felt that way for about 50 years.

Do NOT tell me that. I’d like to think of you as pretty together.

OK, forget I mentioned it.

What has been heard cannot be unheard, dad.

It can be forgotten though. Just like the sound of someone’s voice when you haven’t heard from them in a long time.

Do you have someone like that?

Yeah, my Dad. He died when I was so young, that I can hardly remember what he looked like, much less what he sounded like. That German accent though…you remember your grandmother’s accent?

Yep. Her and her aching ‘chawbones.'

That’s it. When I think of my Dad’s voice, I have to put that accent on there or I draw a complete blank.

Ha! It’s like you and your New York City accent, with the ‘finguh in da bah-ul.’

Eins, zwei, drei, ve vill come put aus deine eye!


Heh, ve haff veys of makink you tock!

Ya, mein fahtti!

Who you calling fat?


Hey, would you look at that sunset!

It’s gorgeous.

Just like you, honey.

Aw thanks Dad.

Jo tipped her head to where her father’s shoulder would have been if he had actually been there. She sighed, wishing she could honestly say she remembered his voice. As she got up to leave, she caught a faint whiff of Old Spice and Wintergreen Lifesavers, ‘his’ smell.

Nice talking to ya dad. I love you.

I love you too, sweetie.

The tears in her eyes were as bright as her smile.


Yesterday would have been my Dad's 77th birthday. I still talk to him, just like this. Sometimes I miss him more than I think should still be possible, nearly 18 years after his death...

He never did meet my kids.

Monday, April 06, 2009

One day left to vote

Y'all, the Blonde Goddess votey thing for a chance to interview her has totally swung to Moog's favor, and I CANNOT HAVE THAT.

So, to sweeten the pot of me baring a portion of skin here on the blawg that normally doesn't get shown the light of day if I win (keeping it SFW), I am taking suggestions on which part it should be, and the more people who vote for a specific choice (name your fave in the comments here) will get their wish if they somehow make it possible for me to win that OTHER vote.

And thus implodes the internet.

Seriously - I didn't realize how much I wanted to interview that crazy bitch until it seemed like I wouldn't get to do so. So, please, go vote for me. Please?


I'm on my knees here. Begging.
(Note: if you voted for someone else before, you can CHANGE YOUR VOTE, which is a tactic I heartily endorse, if infact you did not vote for me the first time. If you did vote for me, do NOT use that option because tiny gnomes will tear at your taintflesh in your dreams. You have been warned!)


In other news - I'm still up to my ass in alligators with work. I cannot believe it's frigging 3:45 already. The petty dramas that make up my work life are laughably insane, yet are held in such high regard by the drama queens that meetings need to be held to appease them, and phone discussions about how to position our opinions are rampant, and DEAR GOD MAKE IT STOP.

It would be an OK thing to win the lottery. Must scrape up that dollar to play.

It's clear that my dream job would be something that include me handing out instructions and offering opinions, and instead I've opted for a job that entails a high degree of having to LISTEN to other people and take in consideration THEIR NEEDS, and I am not a big fan. Some people are thick-headed twatwaddles who are bloated with self-importance and an enhanced sense of history equalling relevance.

I, for one, am damned sick and tired of this paradigm, and thus have decided to turn into a baby carrot, because who doesn't LIKE baby carrots? They are sweet and vibrant and tasty, nobody expects them to work, nobody tells them to do things; instead, baby carrots are artfully arranged on platters and doused with luscious Ranch Dressing before being delicately nibbled. I could be doused in Ranch Dressing and nibbled, easily.

So there you go. Bring on the Hidden Valley, darlings, and go vote for me at Tammie's house. Because honestly? The thought of her being interviewed by the world's biggest baby carrot is simply too delicious to pass up, wouldn't you agree?

Friday, April 03, 2009


Hey folks, over at Blonde Goddess' home on the web she's running a lil' votey contest to see who gets to interview her.


Please please please go vote for me to interview her, because my GOD what a chance of a lifetime. Seriously, the things she can teach me about sex toys go on and on about NEED to be teased out by a kindred spirit, which, if you did not know it, is me.


Go. Please? Carrot: If I win, I'll post a picture of one of my normally covered up body parts.

Hey, the backs of my knees are pretty frikking sexay, don'tcha know. ;)

Thursday, April 02, 2009

It used to be something different, and so it shall remain

Lately, I've been interred in Facebook, which is the holder of such joys as random quizzes, improbable 'friendships,' and requests for such things as to throw an Easter egg at someone you may or may not know.

It's good to reconnect.

For my part, some of the most interesting this to happen is that I've found people from 30 or more years in my past. One of the most interesting is a man who now lives in the frozen north and now works for a store that uses a bullseye as its logo. This man is now happy, centered, solidly in love...with another man. I am insanely happy for him, which might seem odd, given our history.

You see, this man is also the person who was first boy to ask me out, the boy who I accompanied to the Homecoming dance my freshman year. He was the boy who first touched my boobs too, though in a seemingly innocent way - we were in the 'community pool' (A staple of 70's living) and he and I we goofing around, when he put a fingertip to a mole on my right breast and said 'she's got freckles on her but....she is nice' and my heart melted with a fever for something I had no idea would later turn out to be full-on lust. He cemented my lurve for clever wit, biting repartee, and a fashion flair that included terrifically feathered hair firmly placed with a can of White Rain.

He.Was. Marvelous.

And still is.

His response to a Facebook post I put up earlier today cracked my shit right up, causing me to think that perhaps I chose correctly years ago in searching him out, or in being open to his overtures, or in however it turned out that we're now still in-tune enough to mock one another from years and 900 miles apart.

God, I love the 1% of the Internet with which I'm familiar.


In a sort-f similar vein, I once got a letter from a boy that said (in reference to me) "watch out for this one. She's dangerous."

Wonder if that still holds true?


Also, to round out the allthetime nostalgia feel of this post, I got a little reminder of the former me today. The ex came by to pick up the boys this afternoon on the regularly scheduled Thursday afternoon switcheroo, and thoughtfully dropped off my ID tag from WAYBACKWHEN when I worked at WUSF in the late 80's.


What the hell happened to me over the last 20 years? I was awesome, and now, am merely a soft mushy kind of half-me. A righteous slap in the face, that one.

Slapped, perhaps, yet I feel no different, I act not very different, I AM not different than I was when I was 27, full of estrogen and potential....but time moves on. We go gray, we lose hair, we gain weight in unexpected places, we have a whole lifetime of history to look back on and a whole lifetime of memories yet to make, with a face only our mothers could recognize and a heart only our best friend would know; from which, if we are smart, we take home the message that if our choices were wise, it is enough.

Indeed, I am not as young as I once was, but you are not to tell my brain. She thinks she is forever 23, and I am in no position to disabuse her of that notion. It's better that way for all of us, I'm sure.

I do miss those cheekbones though.


If you're of an age to miss something about your youth, what is it?

Wednesday, April 01, 2009

Hold this spot.

Seriously, HOLD IT.

Get a grip on them ol' short hairs, and hang on y'all. The spot is hard to handle. Why, generations of bronc busters have meet their doom trying to ride that spot for 8 seconds only, what makes you think you are any better than them?

Y'all work on that. I'm working on a Wordsmiths story that I'm trying VERY HARD to be bereft of death.

So far? Not working. So far, in various stories, I've killed off 1 grandpa, 1 daughter, a young boy, a lost love, and perhaps any confidence I have of ever writing something in which horrible things do NOT happen to perfectly acceptable people.

Which is kind of awful, given that the picture prompt for this challenge is this:

Simply screams death, does it not?

Don't answer.

I'll be back later, after I resist killing off some other innocent. Or a thousand of 'em, such is my hidden rage.

*(if you're interested in writing a 500-word story about this picture, there's still time. I have it on good account that the moderators are....unprepared. I blame myself for this. Feel free to join in the chorus. AFTER YOU WRITE SOMETHING).