Things I am tired of

• White House State Dinner Gate Crashers.
• Tiger Woods' car accident.
• Being in a hotel room for much longer without something/one to be entertained by.
• Being wrinkly. Seriously - something's happened to my entire body in the past year or so that's bordering on frigging ALARMING.
• Teeter Hangups.
• The postmodernist architectural movement that allows preposterous angular plinths of concrete/steel/human hair/clots of dried yak blood to be erected and imbued with the responsibility of representing the 'yearning to be free' or 'a spirit of longing for what is greater than us.' Those things are not architecture, they are art (which if it's not representational is confrontational or inspirational, as it should be). Architecture is AN art, but does not and should not (ed note: IMHO) bear the responsibility of reminding us of our moral codes and/or failings as human beings to consistently and mindfully strive for that which is bigger/smaller than us. Fripperies in architecture had BETTER have a purpose, and by God that purpose had better be to house a bigger and better video game arcade or it's worth nothing. NOTHING, I tell you.

(Which is not to say that I don't love bizarre buildings. I do, wholeheartedly. (Hi Da Guggenheim!) Architecture is a secret love of mine; floor plans (drool!) are delicious bits of brain candy to be savored. Site plans too. Not so sure about the electrical plans, but even they have their beauty, It's just that extraneous stuff on buildings is....Extraneous. If you can't make your creation say what you want as a building, then you've failed and should start over. 'Nuf said.)

*Ahem* I think the 6-hour long hotel room solitary confinement might be getting to me. Should stop now before I begin blathering abotu things even more inconsequential, like my childhood. (pinkie to lips, please)

Oh! But wait! We have a BIG DOIN'S coming up on Sunday that I am fekking excited about, but first there's the small matter of more 'new family' gatherings tomorrow (and whoo boy are there some stories to tell about Thanksgiving) to tend to. One day at a time, eh?

Y'all be well until next time.

once again, the interwebz have spoken.

Fine.

White on white on white as a blog design is NOT the new black. My whites were too white apparently. Who knew THAT wsa possible?

I should have known to stick with the old standard basic black for a background that is not only clean and simple but will never go out of style, much like bodysuits or velvet stovepipe hats.

Until, of course I get a brand new idea to do something entirely different.

Much like Kaply did.

But she's braver than I am, so don't expect much out of me.

-

Also don't expect much out of this place for the week. Today is insane with work (again? you ask? Again, I reply), and tomorrow is travel day, after which is visitin' and hanging out and more visitin' then another travel day then it's back to work. Some of that time I'll try to get on the laptop and come say hey, but there are no promises to be made in those regards as at any point during the next 4 days I might have 1) slid off an icy road to an unfortunate end in a slushy ditch someplace on I75, 2) eaten myself into a coma, or 3) decided to have a marathon nap schedule which precludes any and all whiffs of things like 'productivity' or even 'sociability.'

Could happen.

Or, I could just spend time holed up near the hotel's indoor pool with a giant bottle of wine and some bootleg Ativan, hoping for stress relief.

Again. Could happen.

-

Any conversation that contains the phrase "I might grow genitals on my kneecaps" is a very good conversation indeed. Try it today and see if I'm wrong.

-

If I don't get around to seeing you on the internets or even in real life, please know that I extend my fondest wishes for a wonderful Thanksgiving to all of you. We are, by and large, people for which we have much to be thankful, and whether we consciously acknowledge that fortune regularly or take just this one day a year to keep it in the forefront of our reality, that doesn't change facts. That, plus STUFFING, should make Thursday a bright day indeed.

Until later - HUGS! Tiff out.

All cleaned up

So, white on white on white is the new blog. NOT THAT ANYONE WHO COMPLAINED ABOUT THE LAYOUT AT METAFILTER HAD ANYTHING TO DO WITH IT.

(I lie. It does. A lot.)

Hey, it was time to brush things up around here anyhow. However, being as the template is written in ancient Sanskrit or possibly Romanian (or is it Klingon?), it takes a while to bulk up the nads enough to make changes, but thank ye gods for the 'preview' button and the ability to dump all changes and simply REVERT REVERT if something doesn't work out. Like, that time I thought I was changing the header border padding and all the POSTS disappeared? Eeeeyeah.

So, what do you think? Is the plain white a crisp new change that'll keep you coming back for more because it's like a breath of fresh cool air on a hot summer afternoon, or is it the most unimaginative thing EVAR and should be done away with as soon as possible in favor of something in the black or patterned family so that you're feeling 'the edge' whenever you spend a bit of time here?

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Punch list of possible topics that I didn't write about:

• wasted potential
• sushi
• Biff's band
• orange tea
• the continued saga of the company takeover, which involves gossip, innuendo, wild guesses, and the accidental distribution of confidential emails. Good times!

And that's just from today!

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Thing 1 was studying for a German quiz last night, the topic was 'modal verbs' and the theme was 'proper forms of durfen and konnen to use with different pronouns.'

(and dang - does anyone know how to inset an umlautted 'u' or 'o'? It's bugging me)

So, he's in the living room going over the following list:

ich darf kann
du darfst kannst
er/sie/es darf kann
wir durfen konnen
ihr durft konnt
sie/Sie durfen konnen

And after about 5 minutes there was a nearly audible brainpop as he shouted "hey! I think I see a pattern here!" ORLY?

Don't you think his teacher would have TAUGHT them that pattern by now? Seriously folks, he's been taking this class since the end of August and only now it's coming to him (on his own, mind you) that there are RULES to verb forms in German?

Mein Gott.

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Lastly, we recently installed ad-block plus on FF so that I didn't have to wait forever for pages to load. Works great, I think, except for that when ABP is on, Facebook pages simply refuse to load, I can't leave comments, and I still get popups.

That's not really an improvement, is it?

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Have a schwangin' afternoon folks. They've turned off the heat in the building in order to prepare for some facilities maintenance this weekend, and I have to go do some actual work to get the circulation going in my hands again. Like blocks of ice are me fingers! BLOCKS OF ICE!

Your turn

Well. After the high DRAMA and extreme EMOTION and parabolic HYPERBOLE of the last post, I'm exhausted, so this post is being turned over to you.

WTH is going on here?


And I'll be back tomorrow, after waxing the new crop of franchisees and depileating a duck's back. So much to do...

Shoop a Dupe Dupe

Couple years ago, there was a big ol’ brouhaha regarding a blogger friend who accidentally walked into a bathroom door, busted an eye socket, got methicillin-resistant Staph aureus in the eye, which had to be enucleated, which didn’t stop the infection, which eventually killed him.

It was sad, so very very sad. Many of us who ‘knew’ this person were sad, and mourned the loss of a creative, fierce, funny, forthright individual. While we’d never met him in person, the pain of the loss of one so young (only 47!) and our sympathies for his family were keenly felt.

Not long after, a MetaFilter board lit up somewhat with the story, and many people there had the ‘holy shit’ moment. Then, as the suspicious and cynical will, people started doing some digging, doubting the story, casting aspersion on the reality of it and the convenience with which the tale unfolded. Foreshadowing, rapid turn of events, high drama, and the lack of an obituary were all put on the table as proof that the events were faked. Some said that the blogger ‘killed his persona’ in a way that took all his friends and most interested parties for fools.

Some of us joined MetaFilter to protest after their snark started leaking onto our comments, took the hit of outing ourselves as one of the possibly duped, tried to rebut their doubts, and accepted the occasional condolence on behalf of this person and their family, who we assumed were in too much shock to repsond appropriately to the smearing of the blogger’s name. All in the name of friendship and a sense of chivalry that we thought was the right thing to do.

(It was perhaps the only time in this blog’s history that hit counter approached 500 a day. Such is the power of Metafilter. Shame that none of those folks stuck around and became a follower…..but I digress.)

Two years ago, the death of this person that many of us considered a friend was a shocking force, a reality check, a sobering notion.

As it turns out, we likely wasted our efforts, as the death may in fact have been a huge fake.

Just....take a minute to wrap your head around that one. Consider please as you do that during this time there was post after post about the injury, the hospital treatment, the enucleation, the medicines, fevers, worries, anxiety, the ultimate collapse and death, sometimes written by the sufferer himself and, at the end, by his family, his wife and son, his poor brave family….

So it appears now that dude and his family, if new information is to be believed, went about faking his death on the interent. Faking death instead of just signing the fuck off of whatever new secret blog was invented to ostensibly escape the notice of your awful bosses. Faking death instead of simply disappearing, or shutting down, or leaving a final cryptic message. Faking death, involving the hearts and minds of people far and wide who will mourn for your family’s loss, put themselves out into a harsher sphere to stand up for your good name.

Faking your own death is one option if you want to be left utterly alone (because really - who’s going to call a dead man?). It’s a bad one, but not unforgivable. The unforgivable one would be if someone who has some vicious twisted streak is now attempting to resurrect someone who really honestly truly IS dead. What if some bizarro Bob or Betty is hinting at the the hope that this person is still alive by creating fake websites with pictures, creating fake YouTube ‘stations’ with videos, creating fake comments on people’s sites with notifications that the dead have arisen. THIS would be the unforgiveable thing, the sick and wrong thing, the head-scratcher to end all headscratchers because DAMN, if this is the case then there are people out there with way too fucking much time on their hands and need to find a dang job or write a book with all that creativity or maybe come see me because after I’m done ripping them apart boy have I got shit they could do with all the time they’d otherwise spend tearing the WTF out of people.

So now I’m not sure which is worse: 1) someone faking their own death and leaving their circle of virtual-world friends to make fools of themselves in mourning and THEN coming back and admitting the lie (oh and hey, ‘sorry’ probably isn’t enough, an explanation would be lovely), or 2) someone who is creating a fake resurrection (in which case NO explanation would make anybody feel better because that’s some sickass shit).

Whatever the case may be, herein lies my overall response:

WHATEVER.

If they’re alive, yay for them. If they’re not, them that’s too bad.

WHATEVER.

Dude, you know who you are. If you’re really alive, take the multiple personnas and your massive capacity for duplicity, and don’t let the door hit you on your way out of my life. If in fact the dead are lying in their grave being lied about, then the perpetrator of that bit of nastiness can go pound sand.

WHATEVER.

I for one am done with you. Whoever you are. Ain’t enough hours in the day to spend more than half of one responding to whatever drama you’re trying to stir up. That burner’s cold baby. Have a nice life.

Aren't YOU a pretty thing? Huh huh huh.

So, I’m pretty sure I don’t ever want to be a zombie. Seriously. I don’t care for runny scrambled eggs, AT ALL, and to be facing a deathtime (not lifetime, obviously) of eating nothing but icky goo-brains? Put a silver bullet though my head or a stake through my heart please, because THAT menu ain't happenin'.

-

Someone in our building is firing up what sounds like a jet engine right now. The sound is deafening.

Of course it’s NOT a jet engine, because, really, that would be stupid, but still. Something very loud is happening in the lab next door and I’m hoping it doesn’t end in large pieces of metal shrapnel being forcibly ejected through the lab walls and into my head. Or the heads of any of my coworkers. Even the new girl.

That last statement brought to you by my overwhelming sense of fair play.

If I happen to turn into a zombie though (see above), being decapitated by a high-speed lab accident might be a cool way to go.

-

Once again work is threatening to eat me alive, and once again I have dealt with this situation in the most responsible and mature way possible: by ignoring it.

There were things that could have been done this weekend, projects to ‘get ahead on’ vast tracts of updates to conquer, but did I? No, no I did not. What’s the sense in that, after all? Where’s the glamour in being on time, on schedule, on top of things? That’s not sexy nor does it make a good story. Far more interesting is the ‘time I worked for 24 hours straight just to get done what I had a week to do,’ right? Makes for a good war story, as long as nobody alludes to the BACK story of hours and hours spent doing far more interesting things, like playing games on the internet or challenging your liver to a little games of ‘keep up.’

Sadly, the cushion time done, and all waste-able time has been wasted. Now it’s all about productivity and putting out product so that my pasty white butt can keep its place in the cushy office chair to which it has become accustomed.

What I lack in self-motivation I make up for in panic productivity. So there’s that.

-

Y’all enjoy your day, mmkay? Think of me as you go about your business in a calm and dignified manner. If I don’t get my cranium sliced open by a razor-sharp piece of autoclave, I’ll be spending the rest of today actually working for a living.

Yep - Hell should be freezing over any time now.

Nauseating commonalities reported from exotic locations

Imagine, if you will, what it would smell like if you walked through a steamcloud emanating from a bubbling pot of old sneakers and rotten wood.

Then imagine that this is the smell of someone’s lunch in the cube farm.

Oh yes they did.

Bleah.

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

Right here’s the spot where I wrote something that bored even me. Holy shit, you KNOW it’s bad when even the author can’t get excited by what they're writing.

Is that what hookers feel like? What they do for a living is supposed to be thrilling, exciting, adventurous, even creative, and yet they do it so much it becomes as common as tap water. How do they work up any enthusiasm at all?

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The new girl in the cube farm….just….wow.

She looks a little like Gollum, but with lots of hair. She sounds like Linus Van Pelt, only with a gravellier stuffy-headed voice. She talks almost ALL the time, and, here’s the kicker, she cusses right out loud. At work!

Also, she takes personal calls in the cube, discusses any and all subjects RIGHT THERE, sniffles constantly, GROANS as she works, and crunches chips at 2:30 every afternoon.

Is it just me, or are those behaviors FRIGGING ANNOYING?

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

You know you might listen to a little too much NPR when the family 12-YO can mimic the correspondent’s signoff lines stone-cold perfect.

<-----This one’s his favorite. Can’t say as I blame the lad.









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OK - this is grinding along to a shuddering halt under the pressure of lack of inspiration, talent, or interesting things to talk about (except of course the Sea Monkey and Unicorn Farm opening), so I’ll sign off for now. Must go gather the undercoat from Snurfle the Party Dragon so I can start those Christmas gifts!

Y'all have a great day.

Oh, what a world, what a world!

Oy - such stress....

Today at work I have had to deal with major issues like PAGE MARGINS and PARAGRAPH SPACING and MIXED USE OF STYLES!

Gasp! Quel Suprise! Shocked looks!

I know, my life is so chock full of glamour and excitement that you wish, just for a moment, you were me. Ah, my dear misty-eyed friends, this cannot be, and for that I am wholly sorry, for to give you just an hour of my life would bring me so much pleasure, and yet I cannot, for you couldn’t know that strength it takes to not burst out in joyous song every time I get another e-mail asking about things like APPROVAL PROCESSES and MEETING REQUESTS and SYSTEM OUTAGES.

It is nearly too much for me to bear, and I’m an experienced professional.

So, take my word when I tell you that all the glamour is exhausting, as well as is all the actual work that is the output of decisions made about things like STATISTICAL PROCEDURES and DROPOUT RATES and VENDOR LISTS.

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For those of you who are a touch shy on the definition of ‘sarcasm,’ that right there was it.

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Turning now to the weather, because we are currently having some:

My oh my, Ida, how you do roar and guh-nash your choppers are our fair Triangle,. How you do soak and blow (ed note: GREAT name for a bathhouse!) our fair region with your moist offerings, your vivacious breath.

But Ida, sweet wonderful Ida, did you have to make it so VERY crappy outside that instead of having delicious sushi for lunch at an actual restaurant, I instead had a cafeteria salad while sitting in my cube, AGAIN?

I know, luscious Ida, that I will not melt if I go out in your rains. I will not fly apart in the clutches of your brisk zephyrs. I will not perish in the combination of attenuated weatherly offerings you have served up, but dang if I won’t get a little wrecked, a little tousled, a little tossed, a little nerve-bent while on the wet wet roads fighting off people who apparently believe that the rain is a sign of impending doom (perhaps even the Apocalypse, which sounds nice but probably isn’t accompanied by maracas) and thus should rive as irrationally as possible because hey, there isn’t any more tomorrow so let’s Danica Patrick the MUTHA out of Route 55.

Thanks, sweetie, for nothing. And hey, in case you don’t know it, cafeteria lettuce tastes NOTHING like Rock Star Roll.

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

And that’s it dudes. I figured I’d better post something else for our new friend the disgruntled blogger (or is it the whiny-ass mocker? The silly stalker? The blasted mewly-mouthed bitch-ass complainer with a short resume and a pocketful of sophomoric insults? I simply don’t know) to kvetch about.

Just a little public service, people. You’re welcome.

And if I had my druthers, I’d be off to ride a giant spotted monkey across wet fields of soybeans while shouting tangentially anachronistic phrases into a howling wind, but instead will simply turn my attentions back to the work at hand. Surely, SOMEONE must have needed my opinion of what size font to use in a table by now…

Have a grand day.

I realize a couple of things now that, well, surprise me.

Tonight we had dinner at 5:10 p.m.

"Big deal," you say? Not for us, a 5:10 is easily 3 HOURS earlier than our usual prandial appointment.

Why the rush? Well, tonight is Monday, which means band practice night for Biff, meaning that if he's to eat at all he's to eat before 5:30 (band practice [or, 'first note'] starting at 6:30). What's more, he has to fast for 12 hours tonight because of a little oral surgery matter tomorrow morning so what the heck, let's eat early and call it good.

The 5:10 thing would have been impossible on a regular day because we both WORK and don't normally even get home until 5:30 or 6 (or 7....or 8), but today he 'worked' at home and therefore got the guilts offered to cook, resulting in a wonderful concoction that smelled up the whole house most wonderfully by the time I walked through the door at 5:05. My Gods, I thought I was a man in the '50s for a minute...spouse all cute and cozy on the couch reading, children amusing themselves, house smelling utterly edible. Why, I almost expected someone to fetch my pipe and slippers!

So. Dinner before 8. I didn't mind it, which is shocking. See, all the time I've been an adult I've been the 'dinner at 8' kind of person, mocking the folks who eat at buffet hours as common or more easily amused by food than I who prepare a meal each night using techniques varied, complicated, and time-consuming. Which worked, mostly, unless we were really hungry or had 'something to do' (A thing which in my history was grossly underrepresented, but we're catching up thanks for asking).

Sure, it was weird having ALL THAT TIME after dinner to do 'stuff,' but it being dark at 5:30 helps to ease into the 'evening' mentality and dang if there wasn't homework for the Things to do and my book to finish and "Good Eats" to watch and a couch to snuggle on. People, by 8:30 I was seriously nodding off...

It's a sure bet that pretty soon I'll be camped out in front of the Golden Corral at 4 p.m. waiting for the first bolus of banana pudding to be deposited in the trough...and I don't dread that thought as much as I used to.

Someone hold me.

I think I am one.

nihilarian

PRONUNCIATION: (nih-i-LAR-ee-uhn)

MEANING: noun: One who does useless work.

ETYMOLOGY: From Latin nihil (nothing).

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

I would have thought ‘nihilist’ would mean the same thing (much like ‘typist’ and ‘typarian’ do, or ‘agrist’ and ‘agrarian’. Look it up!), but that is not the case. In fact, a nihilist is a person who believes human existence has no objective meaning, purpose, or intrinsic value. So, taking this to its logical ending, a nihilarian nihilist must be the happiest person in the world, having fulfilled their philosophy perfectly while making money doing so!

If that were the case for me, I’d be getting a paycheck for lazing around surfing the internet looking for gross pictures of surgery and/or infections.

Oh wait.



*Ahem*



Anyhow. It’s Thursday, otherwise known as ‘trash day’ in our neighborhood. It’s a big thing, the trash day. Garbage canes must be lined up not further than X feet from the roadside so the garbage truck motorized arm can effectively lift your bin o’ flotsam into it’s gaping maw, and heaven FORBID if you put the recycling container too close to the garbage can because wow, won’t that make it hard for the recycling people (a kinder, gentler garbageman, I think) to get to the precious load of green-living. So, bins n’ cans must be lined up properly and adjusted for wind speed and the sun’s angle as well perhaps as barometric pressure but we’ve not had a memo on that yet thank goodness.

Oh, and also? It’s common knowledge that if you do not retrieve your garbage coffins by Friday morning and place them neatly back in whatever area they live during the week, you’re kind of a sloth and the neighbors have every right to either 1) snigger haughtily at you while feeling superior at their own can-putting-away skills or 2) be concerned that you might be dead in your own home and your pets are snacking on your eyeballs.

Guess how often #2 happens.

Oh yes, it’s high times all around where we live, and we don’t even have a HOA. It’s just good old-fashioned neighboring, where detente is achieved through tacit understanding of ‘how people are supposed to behave.’ It a nice system we got going, fueled by nothing more than general decency.

Except of course for that house on the corner…but we’ve gotten used to the old trucks in the yard and the piles of crap peeking out over the pool fence. *Sigh* There’s one in every neighborhood, ain’t there?

You’ve got one of ‘them’ where you live, don’tcha? Whyn’t you spill your guts in the comments? It will help relieve some of that rage you have going on that’s keeping you from realizing your full zen potential. Trust me.

As for me, I’m off to shampoo a wild boar, plant a row of ‘maters, and slipstitch a fleece shroud for a newborn echidna that was born utterly hairless. Y’all have a glorious day.

FINISH the dang thing already!

Oh no, my pets, I did not forget the '69 question' thingie that was started here in stits and farts a couple of weeks ago. I might forget your name, where I live, how I got to bed last night, but forget a meme? NEVAH! So strap on (or is it in?) and let's get this thing done once and for all.

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61. Do you use cuss words in other languages? Mange merde et morde, cher.

62. Do you steal or pay for your music downloads? Neither. Biff does all the downloading into the monstrous pile of music that inhabits a fair portion of the memory on the home computer.

63. Do you hate chocolate? ……………….(all thought processes suspended while brain wraps around a world without chocolate)……………….No.

64. What do you and your parents fight about the most? My curfew. (Obviously, a joke. They won't let me stay out past midnight, no excuses)

65. Are you a gullible person? When an outrageous lie is delivered properly, yes. I like to believe people are trustworthy, more fool me.

66. Do you need a boyfriend/girlfriend to be happy? I’d say ‘no’ now, but 25 years ago? I was deluded enough to believe that I was happier with a boyfriend. This is one of those things I’d go back in time and lecture me about if I had the chance. Maybe even slap me around a little bit just to see how tough I really am/was. Other things I might lecture me on: Get your PhD, don't abandon your friends for ANY guy, enjoy your fabulous figure now because it's not going to last, take a picture of them boobies now while they're still almost-perky, take some time to get to know yourself, and start saving for retirement NOW.

67. If you could have any job what would it be? Radio announcer. (yes, the money generally sucks, but I’m making the assumption here that money is no object. My fantasy, my rules)

68. Are you easy to get along with? Just do as I say and nobody gets hurt. Easy!

69. What is your favorite time of day? It sure as hell isn’t when the alarm goes off. Otherwise, I’m cool with most of the other times of day, but the nicest associations are with the after-dinner hours, when the chores are done and there’s nothing left to do but relax with Biff and the Things. A full tummy, a full glass, everyone safe and near = total contentment.

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There. List done. Aren't we all deliriously enthused over this turn of events? I can imagine your curiosity is so sated it's sitting back, tummy swollen, with legs splayed and pants undone as it digests the full spectrum of fascination that this list has provided. Not even room for dessert, I'm sure. Not even if it's a wafer-thin mint.

Ah well, all good things must come to an end.

So, have a consenscual rest of the day, and don't forget to brush your teeth. I'm off to bathe the Australian men's water polo team and bake the world's largest pickle loaf. Busy busy!

Hello Monday - nice to see you again

Apparently, whining to the internet about the weather is an effective means of causing a meteorologic paradigm shift, inasmuch as a short post on Saturday about the stupid RAIN that was present here resulted in a frontal system pass-through that brought with it a GLORIOUS afternoon and evening, just right for having a party.

So thanks, internet! You rock!

Oh yes, we had a party. The second Tiffowe'en (FIRST ANNUAL!) party was rather a success. By my count, there were at least 50 people who passed through our doors on the way to party central (da backyard), and BONUS, I knew fully 3/4s of them! Ahem. Not that it was a problem, because we knew one of our guests had asked to invite some other people, so OK, fine, that really tall dude dressed like the Jolly Green Giant and his wife the Little Green Sprout were cool, as was the chick dressed like an M&M, and several others. Sure, come on in, the beer’s out back! But you guys, who came with the dude we’ve met twice, who didn’t even bother to wear a costume (except maybe you just got those wicked pissah piercings for the occasion?) I’m not so sure about, but heck, come on in, the beer’s out back and I’ll keep my eye on you.

I think I may have stressed a little about that. OK, more than a little. Throwing parties is stressful! Who ARE these people? Why are they in my house? And why do MORE people keep coming? Apparently I’m a “20 people at a party” kind of person, not a “50 people at a party” person. God I’m getting old. Good thing I had a jug of liquid stress reliever at the ready. Plus coffee.

Anyhow – the bounce house was a huge hit (though folks were sad when it was taken down at 10), as was the bonfire (sawdust flame balls!) and the scavenger hunt. There was way too much food (yay! Leftovers!), we bought far too much potable liquid refreshment (yay! Leftovers!), the two sound systems were just about enough, the potato cannon was a remarkably good way to cap off the night, and by about 1 a.m. (or was it 2?) it was all over. By about midnight I think I’d completely lost track of what was going on (see ‘liquid stress reliever’), but from all reports there was no nakedness (our dog humping a toddler DOES NOT COUNT!) or fighting so it’s all good.

For some other folks’ perspectives, go here and here. Added enticement: They have pictures!

Now, to start planning NEXT year’s party. Your suggestions are welcome.

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Apparently the party and excitement was all a little too much for Skeeter The Dog (despite the aforementioned humping episode), as today’s dawning brought with it the distinct gut-churning odor of canine crap. Oh yes, dog poopy, all over the living room rug. The dang dog had an entire kitchen floor to shit on, but does she? No, she does not. She trots over to the dang RUG and lets fly, that what she does. Once, twice, a dozen times, with stuff that looks like pea soup as the endgame last hurrah. All before I've had my coffee, the cur.

It is a testament to Biff’s fortitude that he did not barf, even a little, while scraping all of it up with the use of two drywall knives. Oh, it was close at the end, but he held it together. Brave, wonderful man!

My job was to run the Bissellizer on all affected areas, which were hard to discern after I vacuumed up all the dry-ish bit, so 8 a.m. found me on hand and knees giving the entire rug a good going-over. Mmm, wet dog crap. Deelish! From the looks of the water coming OUT of the rug, it was well past time to have done this particular chore anyway, as the coffee-colored ick being extracted has to be a clear sign that there was more than canine fecal matter ground in there. So charming. It’s not like we never vacuum that rug; in fact I’m forever at that thing with the Eureka, getting crumbs and dog hair off it so people who MIGHT drop by (like the guy who showed up FRIDAY NIGHT for the party) don’t think we’re utter slobs, but apparently mere vacuuming isn’t sufficient. *Shiver* But hey, it’s done. I hope it doesn’t need to be RE-done once I get home from work tonight…because really, once is enough ‘ew’ for today, thanks very much.

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That’s about it from here. There’s much more to report about our fun-filled party and the things that occurred, but I need to leave something for the Biffster to write about. If he ever posts again, which seems to be less likely as the months fly by, but the fact that I and at least two other bloggers are calling him out on his lackadaisical attitude toward the blogosphere might compel him to write a lil' something for all of us who miss is unique style and humor.

Of course, y’all could go to his blog and pester him too if you want. I’m just sayin’ is all.

Have a lovely day folks!