(Preamble - if any of y'all had read this before about 6 pm Eastern time, you might have thought I'd commenced to drankin' well before posting this. That is most certainly NOT the case. What you saw was my abhorrent typing skills, which have now been corrected. You're welcome)
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1) Hai! I missed you too, though probably not as much as I'd miss a winning Powerball ticket if I had one...just so you know.
I mean, friends are wonderful and all, and I treasure each of you DEEPLY, but a cool few million dollars is enough to buy new friends, or have some made in my likeness should I choose to do so, which wouldn't be creepy at all because I'd make them all have different color hair and such.
However, being that I don't even PLAY the lottery anymore, guess you're stuck with me.
2) Birds are fine. Still sticking around. I'm worried that they're not going to be independent enough come vacation time and that we're going to have to 'make arrangements' for them. Or, maybe they're just opportunistic little FREAKS who know a good meal ticket when they taste it and so come chirping around the back door ready to dive-bomb any likely suspect if it's around dawn or dusk (or any time in between when they're around and peckish). They've gotten....tall. Tail feathers are all sticky-outy now, so they're flying a LOT Better. Them babies best watch out though, for this morning I spotted Albert The Cat set himself up on the deck rail just UNDER the bit of roofline the birdines frequent. There was malice in his golden eyes, people, and I would NOT be surprise to find him Cheshire-grinned one day soon, with a mottled brown feather jutting rakishly from one side of his mouth.
3) Saturday will find us doing something I've never done before - CORN GLEANING! Sounds fun, huh? It's only supposed to be a 4-hour stint in a buggy, spidery cornfield stopping between rows to pick up the ears left behind by the combines and they rumble through today's modern farms. Shoot, I had no idea it was even TIME to harvest corn. Seems too early, but this is the south and while time SEEMS to run much more slowly than in other place, in fact it is corn season and the corn will not wait. Corn, as we all know, is an impatient food. Look at how fast it exists after being eaten, for Pete's sake!
After the gleaning I think there will be a nap. Is it sad that I'm already looking forward to that?
4) Otherwise, the groaning coming from under the hood of my car is nothing serious. Phewf on that, eh? Never mind that it might be a worn out motor mount or 8, which might results in the engine just dropping out onto Route 40 at an inopportune moment, it's FINE to drive now the nice young fellow ath the shop tells me. I am SUFFUSED with confidence now! SUFFUSED!
5) Watched 'The Princess Bride' last night (and this morning). Woo! Pit of Despair, Fire Swamp, Cliffs of INCONCEIVABILITY (or whatever), plus dashing derring-do and Manny Patinkin in TIGHTS? Delicious. To say nothing of Christopher Guest, who is sexy in a way that confuses me Of course for the men there's the ethereal Princess Buttercup and enough swordplay to satisfy an entire RennFaire, plus blood! What a fun fun flick, with tons of quotable lines.
Which prompts a QotD: what's your favorite PB line? Mine's "have fun storming the castle!"
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Kind of amazing, really
Today I spent some time wandering around the blogosphere during my lunch minute. And I was amazed by what I read, for somehow that path I chose was one of self-reveals, confessions, and 'outings' of misdeeds. I'm not certain I can get my head around the kind of balls it takes to be so 'real' in front of people who 1) are mostly strangers, and 2) are allowed to comment on the confessed behavior. If anything, I'd turn those comments off even before I put the first word on the screen if I were to dig any deeper into my psyche than the crusty outer layer that's presented here.
Those people who do reveal are amazing. Foolhardy or brave, it doesn't matter. Airing their issues in front of anyone who chooses to read, fully aware that some of those people will hate them for what they've done, is way off the map for this writer. What compells someone to DO that kind of thing? Especially, as I saw more than once today, on what is generally a humor blog...
'Cuz really, isn't that what secret blogs are for?
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I'm in the process of changing my last name as a result of the matrimony thing that happened oh, about 6 MONTHS ago. I told Biff that I would, and it's about time I got off my dimpled ass and did it. Last week was the inaugural visit to the Social Security Admin, a 90-minute slice of my life I'll never get back, and this afternoon perhaps I'll wander down to the DMV to see what tribulations I can endure there.
Once done with that, there are only about 100 other things in my 'other' name that need to be changed to my shiny new name. Passport, mortgage, insurance, utilities, magazine subscriptions, bank accounts, credit cards, checks, work ID,...did I leave anything out?
This is one time it might be nice to be a boy. Their names, by and large, do NOT change. For nothin'.
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Random item you probably don't need to know about me #alphadeltabrazilian:
There's a patch of hair on the back of my head that refuses to grow more than about 6 inches long. This is troublesome, as I'm in the process of growing my hair out, and the dichotomy of mostly-long locks combined with this one stupid hunk of half-length hair is odd.
My theory is that it gets sheard off when I'm sleeping by the vigorous head-tossings that occur during the epic dreams I have most every night. Like a baby rubbing a bald spot on the back of it's head, you know?
Either that, or I'm GOING bald. That would not be a good look for me; my noggin is HUGE and misshapen. There's no way it would look good all shiny and smooth. So, dream-induced hair loss it is!
You, in the back. Shut up.
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Lastly....the SlimQuick 7-day 'cleanse' is....working? Ahem?
Four fiber pills before lunch and 4 more at bedtime will turn even the most humble of gastrointestinal tracts into a bleating, braying, gahoodling horn-tooter.
You should do this for the SOUNDS ALONE, people. The intended effect of enhanced poopery is there, of course, but for pure entertainment value I'd say the audibles are what's really worth the 15 clams you need to shell out. When you can scare the dog with the simple act of digestion, you KNOW you've hit on a winner.
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That's it for now - must go get ready to brave the lines at Ye Olde Dee Ehm Vee. Whee!
Those people who do reveal are amazing. Foolhardy or brave, it doesn't matter. Airing their issues in front of anyone who chooses to read, fully aware that some of those people will hate them for what they've done, is way off the map for this writer. What compells someone to DO that kind of thing? Especially, as I saw more than once today, on what is generally a humor blog...
'Cuz really, isn't that what secret blogs are for?
-------------------------------------
I'm in the process of changing my last name as a result of the matrimony thing that happened oh, about 6 MONTHS ago. I told Biff that I would, and it's about time I got off my dimpled ass and did it. Last week was the inaugural visit to the Social Security Admin, a 90-minute slice of my life I'll never get back, and this afternoon perhaps I'll wander down to the DMV to see what tribulations I can endure there.
Once done with that, there are only about 100 other things in my 'other' name that need to be changed to my shiny new name. Passport, mortgage, insurance, utilities, magazine subscriptions, bank accounts, credit cards, checks, work ID,...did I leave anything out?
This is one time it might be nice to be a boy. Their names, by and large, do NOT change. For nothin'.
--------------------------------------
Random item you probably don't need to know about me #alphadeltabrazilian:
There's a patch of hair on the back of my head that refuses to grow more than about 6 inches long. This is troublesome, as I'm in the process of growing my hair out, and the dichotomy of mostly-long locks combined with this one stupid hunk of half-length hair is odd.
My theory is that it gets sheard off when I'm sleeping by the vigorous head-tossings that occur during the epic dreams I have most every night. Like a baby rubbing a bald spot on the back of it's head, you know?
Either that, or I'm GOING bald. That would not be a good look for me; my noggin is HUGE and misshapen. There's no way it would look good all shiny and smooth. So, dream-induced hair loss it is!
You, in the back. Shut up.
--------------------------------------
Lastly....the SlimQuick 7-day 'cleanse' is....working? Ahem?
Four fiber pills before lunch and 4 more at bedtime will turn even the most humble of gastrointestinal tracts into a bleating, braying, gahoodling horn-tooter.
You should do this for the SOUNDS ALONE, people. The intended effect of enhanced poopery is there, of course, but for pure entertainment value I'd say the audibles are what's really worth the 15 clams you need to shell out. When you can scare the dog with the simple act of digestion, you KNOW you've hit on a winner.
---------------------------------------
That's it for now - must go get ready to brave the lines at Ye Olde Dee Ehm Vee. Whee!
Monday, June 22, 2009
Perfectly LOVELY time
Saturday afternoon we had the good luck to have been invited to Kenju’s house to spend the afternoon ‘hanging out’ around her pool. If EVER there was a day to hang out around a pool, it was this past Saturday. It was hot and muggy, a day when the simple act of raising a cold beer to one’s lips can cause a body to break out in an oil slick. (I, apparently, do not sweat as much as I ooze these days. A pretty picture, yes?) We spent about an hour reconnecting with Judy and the inimitable Mr Kenju as well as having the opportunity to get to know 2 of their children, who are lovely lovely people that don’t seem to sweat at ALL.
Sheesh.
After about an hour, I was as slick as goose poop and decided that all concerned were going to get a chance to gander at my pudgy white middle aged body in a grandma bathing suit, because the HOT was so hot there were beads of sweat doing the slip n’ slide down my butt crack.
Also a pretty picture.
The pool was awesome – about 78 F and clean as clean can be. There were 6 kids of theirs and the two Things in the pool, so there was lots of Nerf tossing and float grabbing going on. Biff of course was in the thick of things, playing hisself to tiredness and having a ball. I tried to be a little more sedate, taking time between water romps to chat people up who deigned to only dip their toes or stay completely ashore. I was playing Lil’ Miss social butterfly, oh yes I was.
Felt pretty good about the whole deal until I went to the bafroom to change, which is when I noticed the 2 GIGANTIC mascara smears under my eyes. Honestly, it looked like I’d broken my nose. Sigh. Classy with a K doesn’t even begin to describe it. What a doofus.
Next time I’m wearing sunglasses so nobody can see if it’s me or Maybelline.
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In what movie did Jack Nicholson famously quote “never trust a fart”? I’m drawing a blank on anything except the truism of that statement, especially when one is on Day 4 of the SlimQuick ‘cleanse.’
Fiber, anyone?
Word to the wise: don’t start this stuff and then go on a camping trip. You’re going to want the nice soft ‘homestyle’ teepee around for the duration, not the 1-ply cardboard you find in most state park stalls.
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Watched ‘The Breakfast Club’ last night. I have never seen the Breakfast Club before now. Why? Because 20+ years ago, when it came out, I was very very busy chasing boys, getting drunk, and studying, not necessarily in that order (hi Mom!). So, there was a gap in my ancient history knowledge of film that needed to be filled.
Thoughts:
Judd Nelson – where is he now? He was the best thing about that movie.
Mollie Ringwald – nice lips, spitty mouth. Hairstyle changed about 8 times throughout the flick.
Emilio Estevez – how’d you dance on the WALL like that?
Anthony M. Hall - ……………….
Ally Sheedy – I totally WANT her ‘pre-fixup’ hairstyle.
Overall I suppose the movie was OK. Dated, for SURE, but OK. Not terribly sure I missed out on a whole lot by NOT watching it all those years ago, but hey. A girl has to get caught up on her ‘80’s pop culture to stay relevant, right?
Plus which? Bandanas around the ankle simply MUST come back in style. That’s a look that’s been gone way too long, don’t you think?
Sheesh.
After about an hour, I was as slick as goose poop and decided that all concerned were going to get a chance to gander at my pudgy white middle aged body in a grandma bathing suit, because the HOT was so hot there were beads of sweat doing the slip n’ slide down my butt crack.
Also a pretty picture.
The pool was awesome – about 78 F and clean as clean can be. There were 6 kids of theirs and the two Things in the pool, so there was lots of Nerf tossing and float grabbing going on. Biff of course was in the thick of things, playing hisself to tiredness and having a ball. I tried to be a little more sedate, taking time between water romps to chat people up who deigned to only dip their toes or stay completely ashore. I was playing Lil’ Miss social butterfly, oh yes I was.
Felt pretty good about the whole deal until I went to the bafroom to change, which is when I noticed the 2 GIGANTIC mascara smears under my eyes. Honestly, it looked like I’d broken my nose. Sigh. Classy with a K doesn’t even begin to describe it. What a doofus.
Next time I’m wearing sunglasses so nobody can see if it’s me or Maybelline.
----------------------------------------------------
In what movie did Jack Nicholson famously quote “never trust a fart”? I’m drawing a blank on anything except the truism of that statement, especially when one is on Day 4 of the SlimQuick ‘cleanse.’
Fiber, anyone?
Word to the wise: don’t start this stuff and then go on a camping trip. You’re going to want the nice soft ‘homestyle’ teepee around for the duration, not the 1-ply cardboard you find in most state park stalls.
---------------------------------------------------
Watched ‘The Breakfast Club’ last night. I have never seen the Breakfast Club before now. Why? Because 20+ years ago, when it came out, I was very very busy chasing boys, getting drunk, and studying, not necessarily in that order (hi Mom!). So, there was a gap in my ancient history knowledge of film that needed to be filled.
Thoughts:
Judd Nelson – where is he now? He was the best thing about that movie.
Mollie Ringwald – nice lips, spitty mouth. Hairstyle changed about 8 times throughout the flick.
Emilio Estevez – how’d you dance on the WALL like that?
Anthony M. Hall - ……………….
Ally Sheedy – I totally WANT her ‘pre-fixup’ hairstyle.
Overall I suppose the movie was OK. Dated, for SURE, but OK. Not terribly sure I missed out on a whole lot by NOT watching it all those years ago, but hey. A girl has to get caught up on her ‘80’s pop culture to stay relevant, right?
Plus which? Bandanas around the ankle simply MUST come back in style. That’s a look that’s been gone way too long, don’t you think?
Friday, June 19, 2009
Where it is at
If someone sees my brain lying around, would you please pick it up (GENTLY!) and return it to me? I think I lost it about a week or two ago, and it’s been difficult going since then.
In the past several days I’ve had to send apologies for minor eff-ups to many a person who is depending on me to provide them with 1) the correct materials, 2) the correct date of delivery, 3) the correct guidance, and 4) some insight into how to interpret said materials. To say I’m becoming adept at throwing things over the fence at other people is to make a grand understatement. One can only hope that some of what’s getting chucked ends up hitting someplace reasonably close to the mark.
Speaking of chucking…I had the misguided idea to watch one of those “world’s wildest partiers” shows last night, and allowed the Things to watch it with me. Now , I loves me some drunken antics caught on tape, but some of what was on that show last night was a little too much, even for me. Imagine, if you will, a clip entitled “Vesuvius,” and you have the idea of the KINDS of vids being shown. Naturally, the boys LOVED it. To make me feel better about my parenting skillz, I’m looking at the experience as a teaching opportunity, letting the kids know that not only can you get VERY HURT by slipping in a pool of you own vomit or tumbling ass-over-wasted-teakettle down a flight of stairs, but you can in fact also DIE of alcohol-related poisoning or accident.
Not sure they heard me over their hearty peals of laughter. Hey – I tried.
In Birdie update: getting divebombed by a couple of hungry chicks first thing in the morning is not as much fun as it might sound. The upside is that they’re both still alive, so, YAY! One does begin to wonder, though, at which point they are out and living on their own with no need for blueberries and dog food to be shoved down their throats by accommodating mammals. I hope it’s sometime in the next 3 weeks or so, because we’re on vacation for a week in mid-July, and I’m pretty sure the dogsitter’s going to charge us extra for the care and feeding on baby robins if they’re not independent by that point.
Vacation. What a glorious word. Hoo boy – I can NOT wait. Perhaps that is where my brain is already, and perhaps that is why I’m having such a very difficult time focusing? Plausible.
And with that, friends, I leave you, to perchance make a path through the torturous mess of to-dos that need to-do-ing before I can get out of here for the day. At the very least, I need to make a list of the things I need to accomplish this weekend, for it looks to be ‘one of those’ where my computer and I make sweet workly LURVE for at least a few hours outside of normal professional intercourse time. Tantric work skillz – I has ‘em.
Y’all enjoy. See ya around the interwebs!
In the past several days I’ve had to send apologies for minor eff-ups to many a person who is depending on me to provide them with 1) the correct materials, 2) the correct date of delivery, 3) the correct guidance, and 4) some insight into how to interpret said materials. To say I’m becoming adept at throwing things over the fence at other people is to make a grand understatement. One can only hope that some of what’s getting chucked ends up hitting someplace reasonably close to the mark.
Speaking of chucking…I had the misguided idea to watch one of those “world’s wildest partiers” shows last night, and allowed the Things to watch it with me. Now , I loves me some drunken antics caught on tape, but some of what was on that show last night was a little too much, even for me. Imagine, if you will, a clip entitled “Vesuvius,” and you have the idea of the KINDS of vids being shown. Naturally, the boys LOVED it. To make me feel better about my parenting skillz, I’m looking at the experience as a teaching opportunity, letting the kids know that not only can you get VERY HURT by slipping in a pool of you own vomit or tumbling ass-over-wasted-teakettle down a flight of stairs, but you can in fact also DIE of alcohol-related poisoning or accident.
Not sure they heard me over their hearty peals of laughter. Hey – I tried.
In Birdie update: getting divebombed by a couple of hungry chicks first thing in the morning is not as much fun as it might sound. The upside is that they’re both still alive, so, YAY! One does begin to wonder, though, at which point they are out and living on their own with no need for blueberries and dog food to be shoved down their throats by accommodating mammals. I hope it’s sometime in the next 3 weeks or so, because we’re on vacation for a week in mid-July, and I’m pretty sure the dogsitter’s going to charge us extra for the care and feeding on baby robins if they’re not independent by that point.
Vacation. What a glorious word. Hoo boy – I can NOT wait. Perhaps that is where my brain is already, and perhaps that is why I’m having such a very difficult time focusing? Plausible.
And with that, friends, I leave you, to perchance make a path through the torturous mess of to-dos that need to-do-ing before I can get out of here for the day. At the very least, I need to make a list of the things I need to accomplish this weekend, for it looks to be ‘one of those’ where my computer and I make sweet workly LURVE for at least a few hours outside of normal professional intercourse time. Tantric work skillz – I has ‘em.
Y’all enjoy. See ya around the interwebs!
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
cone of silence
That last band concert of middle school I mentioned yesterday?
I missed it. Completely.
It's not that I didn't show up, for I did, leaving another gathering to do so, because I am an Interested Mom and like to do the right thing by the kids (who are with their Dad this week, just FYI). I did show up, at 10 minutes 'til 7, which is a comfortable margin to have to find a seat, chat with other parents, etc.
As I was walking into the school a HORDE of kids with "DARE" tee shirts and recorders were coming out of the school, which I thought was odd because they were the one supposed to be doing the ol' Recorder Rock' with the 8th grade band. "Hmmm," thought I, "Perhaps they're just coming outdoor for a little warmup time? Oh, and why is it that there are band kids LEAVING the school with their folks when the concert hasn't even started yet?"
They were leaving because the 8th graders played at 6:30.
*sigh*
Thing 1 was in the dance room munching on cookies and milk (a part of the celebration of their last middle-school concert) and didn't seem bothered by the fact that his Mom wasn't there to hear him play. I, on the other hand, was vigorously (mentally) kicking myself for missing it, even though the concert started half an hour before they normally do and why on earth would I even THINK to ask about something like that when they ALWAYS start at 7??
Thing 2's band, not to be outdone by the random start times, didn't play until 7:30. Yep - they had ONE part of the concert an hour before the second part. Does that make any sense at ALL?
Amazingly enough, the world didn't fly off its axis because I failed. Nobody died, there were no zombie outbreaks, and the 6th grade band sounded pretty good. Worse things could have happened, I suppose.
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Right now I'm hungry for something that I don't know what it is, but will know it when I eat it. Sadly, I suspect that what I'm hungry FOR is a McDonald's double cheeseburger, and that until I get it my mouth will not be happy.
Wonder if there's a healthy substitute for what might be the world's yummiest heart attack vector?
As always, your thoughts are welcome. Have a lovely day.
I missed it. Completely.
It's not that I didn't show up, for I did, leaving another gathering to do so, because I am an Interested Mom and like to do the right thing by the kids (who are with their Dad this week, just FYI). I did show up, at 10 minutes 'til 7, which is a comfortable margin to have to find a seat, chat with other parents, etc.
As I was walking into the school a HORDE of kids with "DARE" tee shirts and recorders were coming out of the school, which I thought was odd because they were the one supposed to be doing the ol' Recorder Rock' with the 8th grade band. "Hmmm," thought I, "Perhaps they're just coming outdoor for a little warmup time? Oh, and why is it that there are band kids LEAVING the school with their folks when the concert hasn't even started yet?"
They were leaving because the 8th graders played at 6:30.
Thing 1 was in the dance room munching on cookies and milk (a part of the celebration of their last middle-school concert) and didn't seem bothered by the fact that his Mom wasn't there to hear him play. I, on the other hand, was vigorously (mentally) kicking myself for missing it, even though the concert started half an hour before they normally do and why on earth would I even THINK to ask about something like that when they ALWAYS start at 7??
Thing 2's band, not to be outdone by the random start times, didn't play until 7:30. Yep - they had ONE part of the concert an hour before the second part. Does that make any sense at ALL?
Amazingly enough, the world didn't fly off its axis because I failed. Nobody died, there were no zombie outbreaks, and the 6th grade band sounded pretty good. Worse things could have happened, I suppose.
------------------------------------------
Right now I'm hungry for something that I don't know what it is, but will know it when I eat it. Sadly, I suspect that what I'm hungry FOR is a McDonald's double cheeseburger, and that until I get it my mouth will not be happy.
Wonder if there's a healthy substitute for what might be the world's yummiest heart attack vector?
As always, your thoughts are welcome. Have a lovely day.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Bedraggled ‘Tweeties’
Woke up this morning to the sound of heavy rain. Ah, rain – water the yard, water the flowers, water the tomatoes and veg, water the birdies…
ACK! The birds! They spent the night out again, and now they’re wet and cold, the poor dears. Must find the birdies!
This is why, at 7:45 this morning, you’d have found me out on the back deck, stripey PJs slightly dampened from the rain (thank goodness for our canopy tent over the deck, though it doesn’t QUITE meet up with the house, thereby allowing a few drops of celestial pee to drop on unprotected head and shoulders), wielding a green plastic bowl full of avian noms, wheedling them in to have a bit of a tuck-in. Oh, I wheedled, and chirped, and cajoled, until one of them flew awkwardly down to me, feathers dripping and small body quivering with chill.
I picked that baby bird up, held him right close to me, and stuffed his lil’ gaping maw full of blueberries and wet cat kibble. Once satiated, he (she?) nuzzled into my chest, heaved a little sigh, and closed his eyes to nap.
Have I mentioned how adorable these birds are?
They’re highly adorable. And while I don’t want to make this an ‘all baby robins all the time’ site, they are big in what’s going on in life right now, and BIG + adorable = news.
So. It took a bit, but I finally detached the bairn from me, put him in an upturned bike helmet in the shed, and went to fetch the hanging bird bucket we’d used for them when they were much smaller. By the time I got BACK to the shed, Albert was seen skulking around casting sidelong glances at the wee cheeper in the helmet. Albert is not as stupid as he appears to be, it would seem, and that baby would make a nice snack, if he could just get TO it.
But no. THWART! The bird bucket + bird was hung in the rafters of the canopy, after which time the second bird was located, herded, and corralled by a bumberchute-bearing Biff, relocated to the bucket, fed, and settled in again.
And hour later, they were still there, much more dry and looking quite comfy, thankyouverymuch. After one more feeding, I was out the door to work. As of now (about 4 hours later), it’s still raining, and I’ll bet you they’re still in the daggone bucket, cuddled into the pine straw, waiting for the back door to open again and for the ‘food people’ to deliver the next in a series of take-out meals.
Consider the birds…neither do they sow nor reap…and yet they are fed. Oh, they’re fed all right…by US. Hey - Nobody ever said the hand of God couldn’t look like a couple of average white folks, now did they?
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The last middle school band concert of the year is tonight. It will be Thing 1’s last middle school concert ever. Holy shit. High school next year. I don’t think I’m ready.
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We were driving home from a baseball game last Friday night, a warm humid night that reminded me a LOT of a night 20 years ago when I lived in Charlottesville, didn’t know many people, didn’t have much money to party, and had to learn the second horn part of Beethoven’s 7th symphony. Being somewhat of an odd duck even then, I learned it by putting a tape of the symphony into my car’s stereo system, and driving around the back roads on hot summer nights with the volume turned way up. As the wind blew my hair into my face, as the peep frogs whistled accompaniment, as the fireflies scattered from my headlights, the music burned its way into my head, chasing away loneliness and boredom. Downshifting around sharp turns of country roads, notes flew past my eyes, settling into a body memory that would help perform in color what was only in black and white on the page.
There were a wild few nights like that, of almost angry energy expenditure in pursuit of the ‘feel’ of the music.
Last Friday night, I remembered that serene rush of sensation, the curvature of the road disappearing over the edge of headlight’s influence, swooping moths flickering into view, hot damp air lifting the hair from my neck as we dipped and rose with the road. For a minute, me and that girl from the summer of ’88 were one, and I remembered how MUCH I love driving country roads on hot summer nights.
Anything trigger long-gone memories for you like that?
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And that’s my time. Y’all have been great. Tip your waitress! I'll be back here tomorrow, if the management will have me.
ACK! The birds! They spent the night out again, and now they’re wet and cold, the poor dears. Must find the birdies!
This is why, at 7:45 this morning, you’d have found me out on the back deck, stripey PJs slightly dampened from the rain (thank goodness for our canopy tent over the deck, though it doesn’t QUITE meet up with the house, thereby allowing a few drops of celestial pee to drop on unprotected head and shoulders), wielding a green plastic bowl full of avian noms, wheedling them in to have a bit of a tuck-in. Oh, I wheedled, and chirped, and cajoled, until one of them flew awkwardly down to me, feathers dripping and small body quivering with chill.
I picked that baby bird up, held him right close to me, and stuffed his lil’ gaping maw full of blueberries and wet cat kibble. Once satiated, he (she?) nuzzled into my chest, heaved a little sigh, and closed his eyes to nap.
Have I mentioned how adorable these birds are?
They’re highly adorable. And while I don’t want to make this an ‘all baby robins all the time’ site, they are big in what’s going on in life right now, and BIG + adorable = news.
So. It took a bit, but I finally detached the bairn from me, put him in an upturned bike helmet in the shed, and went to fetch the hanging bird bucket we’d used for them when they were much smaller. By the time I got BACK to the shed, Albert was seen skulking around casting sidelong glances at the wee cheeper in the helmet. Albert is not as stupid as he appears to be, it would seem, and that baby would make a nice snack, if he could just get TO it.
But no. THWART! The bird bucket + bird was hung in the rafters of the canopy, after which time the second bird was located, herded, and corralled by a bumberchute-bearing Biff, relocated to the bucket, fed, and settled in again.
And hour later, they were still there, much more dry and looking quite comfy, thankyouverymuch. After one more feeding, I was out the door to work. As of now (about 4 hours later), it’s still raining, and I’ll bet you they’re still in the daggone bucket, cuddled into the pine straw, waiting for the back door to open again and for the ‘food people’ to deliver the next in a series of take-out meals.
Consider the birds…neither do they sow nor reap…and yet they are fed. Oh, they’re fed all right…by US. Hey - Nobody ever said the hand of God couldn’t look like a couple of average white folks, now did they?
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The last middle school band concert of the year is tonight. It will be Thing 1’s last middle school concert ever. Holy shit. High school next year. I don’t think I’m ready.
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We were driving home from a baseball game last Friday night, a warm humid night that reminded me a LOT of a night 20 years ago when I lived in Charlottesville, didn’t know many people, didn’t have much money to party, and had to learn the second horn part of Beethoven’s 7th symphony. Being somewhat of an odd duck even then, I learned it by putting a tape of the symphony into my car’s stereo system, and driving around the back roads on hot summer nights with the volume turned way up. As the wind blew my hair into my face, as the peep frogs whistled accompaniment, as the fireflies scattered from my headlights, the music burned its way into my head, chasing away loneliness and boredom. Downshifting around sharp turns of country roads, notes flew past my eyes, settling into a body memory that would help perform in color what was only in black and white on the page.
There were a wild few nights like that, of almost angry energy expenditure in pursuit of the ‘feel’ of the music.
Last Friday night, I remembered that serene rush of sensation, the curvature of the road disappearing over the edge of headlight’s influence, swooping moths flickering into view, hot damp air lifting the hair from my neck as we dipped and rose with the road. For a minute, me and that girl from the summer of ’88 were one, and I remembered how MUCH I love driving country roads on hot summer nights.
Anything trigger long-gone memories for you like that?
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And that’s my time. Y’all have been great. Tip your waitress! I'll be back here tomorrow, if the management will have me.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Ping boing, yer out!
Whadda weekend.
Went to a ball game Friday night – the local minor league team beat the visiting team by a comfy 4 to nuthin’ score. Then there were fireworks. Which we saw from the parking lot, because getting out of Dodge before the crowds poured out of the stadium was prime goal numero Uno.
I found out at the ball game that gigantic bug-eye sunglasses are the new headband for fashionable young women. Also in style are those weird little dresses with the tube-toppy top part that connects to a knee-length ‘skirt’ thing. Also also in style is wearing Winehousian eyeliner. Who knew? There I was in my cargo shorts and Keds, semi-Oakley sunglasses on my noggin, hardly a smidge of eyeliner, and a big ol’ floppy hat in my lap, feeling rather out of style and yet comforted in the notion that I’m simply too old to track or care about such things.
That being said, I hate everything in my closet. Except for a couple of shirts and several pairs of sneakers, it’s all really old, has been worn a gazillion times, and much of it is showing considerable signs of wear n’ tear. I stand in front of the line of clothes every day, sighing heavily, and wind up picking the same 6 shirts, 2 pairs of pants, and 1 skirt to wear to work every day (though not all at the same time).
Which is why I liked working at home last week. Feeding the baby birds was a GREAT reason to not come to work. There I’d be in my PJs at 3 in the afternoon, plopped on the LR floor with the laptop on the coffee table, a mug of hot coffee in hand, completely comfy and gittin’ things done. But now, the birdies are much more independent, and I ‘can’ come into work to pick up voicemails, ‘interface’ with real live people, and hate what I’m wearing.
That’s not to say that the birds don’t NEED us anymore; quite the opposite. They have learned to come to us when we call them, and even show up on the back porch when they’re hungry. They are adorable. Getting better at flying too, which is nice because we cannot keep Albert The Cat indoors all the dang time. The little birdlies are cheeping wee fluffballs of indignation when they’re hungry; they get these ticked-off looks on their wee faces (shush, they can TOO have expressions) if we’re slow to feed, and once satiated they snuggle down for a nap. It’s just about the cutest thing ever.
The only good thing about coming into work is the chocolate that’s on my desk. Nice dark chocolate stars wrapped in festively colored foil that was a gift from my boss for my birthday. Almost makes the 40-minute commute worthwhile.
No, no it doesn’t. I could be home right now. I could be at home, feedin’ birds and doing laundry (and working! Mustn't forget the working!) IN MY PAJAMAS right now. Chocolate can’t make my present situation better than that.
Sigh.
Went to a ball game Friday night – the local minor league team beat the visiting team by a comfy 4 to nuthin’ score. Then there were fireworks. Which we saw from the parking lot, because getting out of Dodge before the crowds poured out of the stadium was prime goal numero Uno.
I found out at the ball game that gigantic bug-eye sunglasses are the new headband for fashionable young women. Also in style are those weird little dresses with the tube-toppy top part that connects to a knee-length ‘skirt’ thing. Also also in style is wearing Winehousian eyeliner. Who knew? There I was in my cargo shorts and Keds, semi-Oakley sunglasses on my noggin, hardly a smidge of eyeliner, and a big ol’ floppy hat in my lap, feeling rather out of style and yet comforted in the notion that I’m simply too old to track or care about such things.
That being said, I hate everything in my closet. Except for a couple of shirts and several pairs of sneakers, it’s all really old, has been worn a gazillion times, and much of it is showing considerable signs of wear n’ tear. I stand in front of the line of clothes every day, sighing heavily, and wind up picking the same 6 shirts, 2 pairs of pants, and 1 skirt to wear to work every day (though not all at the same time).
Which is why I liked working at home last week. Feeding the baby birds was a GREAT reason to not come to work. There I’d be in my PJs at 3 in the afternoon, plopped on the LR floor with the laptop on the coffee table, a mug of hot coffee in hand, completely comfy and gittin’ things done. But now, the birdies are much more independent, and I ‘can’ come into work to pick up voicemails, ‘interface’ with real live people, and hate what I’m wearing.
That’s not to say that the birds don’t NEED us anymore; quite the opposite. They have learned to come to us when we call them, and even show up on the back porch when they’re hungry. They are adorable. Getting better at flying too, which is nice because we cannot keep Albert The Cat indoors all the dang time. The little birdlies are cheeping wee fluffballs of indignation when they’re hungry; they get these ticked-off looks on their wee faces (shush, they can TOO have expressions) if we’re slow to feed, and once satiated they snuggle down for a nap. It’s just about the cutest thing ever.
The only good thing about coming into work is the chocolate that’s on my desk. Nice dark chocolate stars wrapped in festively colored foil that was a gift from my boss for my birthday. Almost makes the 40-minute commute worthwhile.
No, no it doesn’t. I could be home right now. I could be at home, feedin’ birds and doing laundry (and working! Mustn't forget the working!) IN MY PAJAMAS right now. Chocolate can’t make my present situation better than that.
Sigh.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Consider, if you would...
As mentioned here before, I'm a proud sponsor of 2 kids who live in one of the worst slums on Earth - La Limonada in Guatemala city. These kinds and thousands like them live in extreme poverty, the kind I' not sure I can wrap my head around. My 30 bucks a month per kid makes school and food within their reach.
That 60 dollars a month doesn't sound like much, but for lots of us it's not within budget. I totally get it. That's why I'm happy to tell you that the people at Lemonade International have started a new campaign called Ten2End, and all that's being asked of people is to give 10 dollars a month to help the kids in need.
Go here to find out more.
Please consider joining Ten2End - they're looking for 200 people total by month's end, and are having a tough time drumming up business, as it were. Ten dollars a month will buy 2 schoolkids food for a MONTH. Amazing, don't you think?
For most of us, that's TOTALLY doable.
Thanks for considering it.
Back to the regularly scheduled nonsense on Monday.
That 60 dollars a month doesn't sound like much, but for lots of us it's not within budget. I totally get it. That's why I'm happy to tell you that the people at Lemonade International have started a new campaign called Ten2End, and all that's being asked of people is to give 10 dollars a month to help the kids in need.
Go here to find out more.
Please consider joining Ten2End - they're looking for 200 people total by month's end, and are having a tough time drumming up business, as it were. Ten dollars a month will buy 2 schoolkids food for a MONTH. Amazing, don't you think?
For most of us, that's TOTALLY doable.
Thanks for considering it.
Back to the regularly scheduled nonsense on Monday.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Original or Extra Crispy?
This is the brief history of 2 valiant wee birdies, so deliciously adorable they were named "Original" and "Extra Crispy."A week ago Biff and I pulled into the drive around lunchtime after running a cupla too-tree errands. Something in the driveway caught his eye - a baby bird. So tiny, half-naked, and breathing fast. because we are soft-hearted people, the bird was scooped up, nestled close, brought inside, and subjected to examination and online research. Common wisdom, at least the interwebly type, said to put the birdy back in the nest and the parent birds would take care of it like nothing had happened. SO, off to the maple tree we went to try to find the daggone nest.
While under the tree, peering up through thick foliage, we heard a rustle of wings, a squawk, and lo and behold an adult bird flew out of the tree, dropping another baby onto the driveway As We Watched.
SO very not good news. There were now 2 baby birds. Who looked a lot like this:
This is them on the day we found them, eatin' hard-boiled egg whites, just like the internet said to feed them. They are about 6 days old here.The birdies LIKED hardboiled egg pieces. They also liked wetted-down cat food kibble and blueberries. They liked these foods a lot. The birdies also liked to poop a lot. That's OK though, they have this neat lil' poop sac thing that was easy, at first, to clean up. The design is spectacular, really.
And so the birdies grew. This is them at about 9 days old, huddled down in their artificial nest, a surgical glove full of warm water as their stand-in mama. Look at how many more feathers they have!They eat about every 15-20 minutes, poop every time they eat, and are gaining use of their legs more and more each day. They're really interested in what's going on around them, but still don't move around a whole heck of a lot. Kinda nice, akshully.
A few more days went by, and they were 11 days old. Time for a bath, little birdies! (Hand modeling by me and Biff)It was readily evident from their reaction that birds at this age do not much enjoy baths. What they DO like is hanging out in a little plastic bucket lined with pine straw that is hung on a hook on the front porch. They can poke their wee heads over the side and observe the world.
They also still like eating. A lot. And often. Still about every 20-30 minutes, from dawn to dusk. Canned dog food is now on the menu. They dig the dog chow, man.
Today are 13 (or so) days old. It's been a week since we found them. Look at how they've changed!When the lid was opened this morning on their shoebox nest, they were ready to STRETCH, have some chow, and start to hoppin' around on their much-stronger legs.
Hopping is a big step for them.
Bigger still was the flying.
Extra Crispy was first to fly, straight from the shelf by the kitchen sink to the laundry-bedecked kitchen table, where Mutzi the cat was sleeping (but not for long). the sudden arrival of a wee feathered bomblet onto her head scared the cat into immediate action, which consisted of running away.
Today has been an interesting day, what with all the flying. Right now, the birds are out on the back deck, hopping, flying, and napping in between feedings. Oh yes, they still want to be fed. Often. And a lot. They will continue to want to be fed for a few more days, after which time we hope they will have gotten the hang of eating out on their own...
What a difference a week makes.
Oops - I hear them cheeping out back. Time to grab the can of Rover Me Right and get to feedin'! I wager there are not too many more days I'll get to do so, and want to be there for each and every one.
Y'all have a great Friday afternoon and a wonderful weekend. Tiff out.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
I've been unfollowed
Yesterday I had one more follower than I do today. Hrmph.Apparently some people pay attention to their blog lists, weeding and planting on a more active basis than yours truly, who pretty much plops a bunch of perennials down and leaves the garden the hell alone thereafter.
For in real life, as is the blog world, I am one lazy bitch.
So, to whomever it was that unfollowed me, here is your personal backhanded compliment - good for you for being so tendy like that (but damn, what a slap to my ego.).
Meh - traffic is down about 70% from what it was last year at this time. By now I'm comfortable with my own irrelevance. It's better to be comfy than to agonize over why people hate me.
Like I said: LAZY.
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This week, with the advent of the baby robins what need caring for, I've been working at home. This is an unbelievably good week, just because of that. Other reasons it's a good week:
1) my couch is a hell of a lot more comfortable than the stupid office chair
2) COMFY CLOTHES!
3) Silence, when and how I want it
4) 90 minutes less time in the car
5) Refrigerator, 5 steps away.
With my laptop, Internet, and a VPN connection, I can get as much done here (plus laundry!) as I can when I'm putting in face time at the cube farm. Of this, I am a huge fan. Working at home is far more environmentally friendly too! It's GREEN!
I am SUCH a trend whore. Hey, for the chance to hang out in my gym clothes at home while shuffling virtual papers, I'll hop on any bandwagon that comes by. Don't even TRY to tell me you wouldn't do the same!
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CD recommendation: KT Tunstall's 'Drastic Fantastic.' Almost every single song on that collection is a white-hot winner IMHO.
And I normally don't go for girl singers. Go figure.
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Time to go feed the birds again. We're trying peach pieces today. This amends the bird-approved food list of: blueberries, canned dog food, wetted cat kibble, hardboiled eggs, and strawberries.
And pancakes.
Hey, they deserve SOMETHING marginally unhealthy. They're only kids once!
Have a lovely afternoon, y'all.
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
Tay-yay-YAKE IT!
Take another little piece of my flesh, baby!
Tay-yay-YAKE IT!
Take another piece or two of my fay-yace, ya know ya willlll!!
Had a dermatologist visit this afternoon. Because, as if having 1) car trouble, 2) poison ivy, and 3) baby birds around for the last few weeks hasn't been enough stressly-stress for the time being, it was time to go see if any of the random bumps, blotches, and spots on this aging bod are morphing into something more sinister.
The answer is: yes. Yes, they are. Two of 'em, anyhow. One bump, two bump, red bump, almost-blue bump, and off you come with a stab and a scrape. Shoot me up, dear young-enough-to-be-my-daughter doc, and grab your scalpel; slice off them there hyperkeratotic lesions or whatever they are and sink 'em in preservative for the nice biopsy people to have a gander at.
Then? Stick a big ol' round Band-oodie on the wounds and send me on my way.
That's how they do it in MY hood.
So, if you see me sittin' funny, you know why, because one of those suspicious lesions was on the upper back of my right thigh. How the dear sweet young thing found it in all the dimples is beyond me. The other was as plain as the nose on my face, which, coincidentally, is about right where it resided until an hour or two ago. Mmm, face lesions.
Makes me want a bag of Fritos.
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Got home a half an hour ago, and the wee bairds, who were spending some quality time outdoors in their blue bucket, had gotten hot enough to PANT. So cute, their lil' beaklies poking up over the edge of their artificial nest, mouths agawp, tongues floippin' around.
Of course we brought them in to cool down and have a bite ot eat, which was also when we discovered that if you microwave frozen blueberries, you'll get quite the flash fire!
Keeping baby birds is EXCITING!
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Oh, and their names are Original and Extra Cripsy. Thanks Ron - you made me LOL with that one. Grant, you too. With two great minds thinking so much alike on that one issue, how could we say no??
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That's it from here. Must go finish work, clean the house, and git ready for some folks to come over tonight. And maybe nuke some more blueberries, just because.
Y'all have a lovely evening.
Monday, June 08, 2009
Ah, to be 13 again
So yesterday after church I was hanging out shooting the shizz with a few folks, just chatting and doing the social thing. It was kind of nice, for a few minutes, and then it was time to go.
Got in Tinkerbell feeling pretty good about life, checked out my look in the rearview mirror, and disappeared into my shoes.
Why? Oh, just because there was a GIANT booger hanging out my nose! A fine-sized multidimensional hunk-a nose crop, wafting gently in and out with each breath.
And now I'm sure I've been the topic of much hilarity around luncheon tables areawide. That's OK I suppose, because you know what? I totally would have talked about my booger if it hadn't been me sportin' it. Boogers.Are.Funny.
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Sad fact #231: How good you feel after finishing a bout of workout is NOT always directly proportional to how much work it was to workout. Sometimes you can put heart and soul into something and still feel like 10 pounds of crap stuffed in a 5-pound bag.
Endorphins can be capricious, it would appear.
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We are having some difficulty naming the robins. Some combinations that have been hoisted up the flagpole are as follows:
Michigan and Jay
Bob and Jim
Moby and Dick
William and Wallace
But none seemed to have stuck. What are we dong wrong? Perhaps the birds aren't supposed to be named? Doesn't help that they're growing and changing at such an accelerated rate that by the time we do come up with decent names they'll probably be shaving and chasing girls in a beater car, forgetting to listen to us telling them to be careful and come home by 11.
They grow up so fast. Honestly - three days ago they could even stand up, and now they're hopping and flappin' their lil' wings, doing some preening (teenagers!) and actually keeping their eyes open for longer than it takes to get a belly full o' grub.
So cute. But still, un-named. Feel free to offer suggestions; I think we need s half-ton of help here.
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Speaking of half-tons...
At the farmer's market the other day, just outside the seafood place where we dined like kings on fried denizens of the deep, I saw a woman who looked like she was smuggling a loveseat in her pants.
From head to waist - normal. From waist to knees - WOW. Room for two, at least.
Makes me glad I'm not subject to figure vagaries like that. I'm too weak, constitutionally, to have to stand up to a lifetime of adjusting to that sort of thing. So, good for her, I guess, for going out in public in bright blue skintight clam diggers, but maybe next time she should think about just purchasing some produce and leaving the deep-fried everything alone.
Jus' sayin.'
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That wraps it up. Y'all have a fine evening. Thanks for reading.
Got in Tinkerbell feeling pretty good about life, checked out my look in the rearview mirror, and disappeared into my shoes.
Why? Oh, just because there was a GIANT booger hanging out my nose! A fine-sized multidimensional hunk-a nose crop, wafting gently in and out with each breath.
And now I'm sure I've been the topic of much hilarity around luncheon tables areawide. That's OK I suppose, because you know what? I totally would have talked about my booger if it hadn't been me sportin' it. Boogers.Are.Funny.
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Sad fact #231: How good you feel after finishing a bout of workout is NOT always directly proportional to how much work it was to workout. Sometimes you can put heart and soul into something and still feel like 10 pounds of crap stuffed in a 5-pound bag.
Endorphins can be capricious, it would appear.
--------------------------------------------
We are having some difficulty naming the robins. Some combinations that have been hoisted up the flagpole are as follows:
Michigan and Jay
Bob and Jim
Moby and Dick
William and Wallace
But none seemed to have stuck. What are we dong wrong? Perhaps the birds aren't supposed to be named? Doesn't help that they're growing and changing at such an accelerated rate that by the time we do come up with decent names they'll probably be shaving and chasing girls in a beater car, forgetting to listen to us telling them to be careful and come home by 11.
They grow up so fast. Honestly - three days ago they could even stand up, and now they're hopping and flappin' their lil' wings, doing some preening (teenagers!) and actually keeping their eyes open for longer than it takes to get a belly full o' grub.
So cute. But still, un-named. Feel free to offer suggestions; I think we need s half-ton of help here.
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Speaking of half-tons...
At the farmer's market the other day, just outside the seafood place where we dined like kings on fried denizens of the deep, I saw a woman who looked like she was smuggling a loveseat in her pants.
From head to waist - normal. From waist to knees - WOW. Room for two, at least.
Makes me glad I'm not subject to figure vagaries like that. I'm too weak, constitutionally, to have to stand up to a lifetime of adjusting to that sort of thing. So, good for her, I guess, for going out in public in bright blue skintight clam diggers, but maybe next time she should think about just purchasing some produce and leaving the deep-fried everything alone.
Jus' sayin.'
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That wraps it up. Y'all have a fine evening. Thanks for reading.
Sunday, June 07, 2009
There's been stuff aplenty
Baby bird's butts throb like carp mouths. At least baby ROBIN'S butts do. At least, the 2 baby robins that currently live in a shoebox on our kitchen counter's buttholes throb like hungry ol' carp mouths.
And no, there's no way to avoid looking. It seems that they're designed to point said buttholes directly at the sky when defecating so that the Mom and Dad birds will 'do something with that fecal sac, won't you dear' (the equivalent of avian 'it's your turn to change the diaper') which means either the mom and dad bird 1) eat it or 2 ) dump it somewhere far from the nest.
In our case, we've chosen to not snack on the sac. Tiny mucus bags of uric acid simply aren't all that appealing.
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BOOOOKS!!!
Terry Pratchett is, in my humble estimation, a frigging genius. I'm reading "Guards Guards" right now, and can't wait to get to the end of it. It might well be this desire to read that has made me a tad crabby this weekend. Once there's a good book laying around that I MUST get to the end of, it'd be ever so nice if nothing else got in the way...
Or, I could be irritable because my uterus hates me, and has decided to, once again, and rather vigorously, spew forth unused baby-swaddling.
Whatever the reason for the irritable season, the book is good. No questions about that.
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When someone invites themselves over for dinner, asks you to buy them their steak (also offering to pay you if you can offer up a receipt), calls at 4:30 to ask when dinner is because they're hungry, then comes over at the appointed hour of 8 p.m. after having wings and ice cream with their girlfriend du jour, which of course means that neither of them are hungry for the dinner you prepared (because he invited himself to DINNER at 4.....)
Would you be mad?
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OK - enough for now. I'm banging this out and getting angrier - not a good thing for a Sunday evening.
Must go think of the good things that have happened in my life recently, not the least of which involved the return home of Biff, a trip to the Farmer's Market today with Renn and family, no more poison ivy itch, 2 wee birdies who survive against all odds, a home, plenty in the larder......and countless other blessings that OUGHT to countermand the surface irritations that prick at my longed-for inner peace.
Heh. I said 'prick.'
And no, there's no way to avoid looking. It seems that they're designed to point said buttholes directly at the sky when defecating so that the Mom and Dad birds will 'do something with that fecal sac, won't you dear' (the equivalent of avian 'it's your turn to change the diaper') which means either the mom and dad bird 1) eat it or 2 ) dump it somewhere far from the nest.
In our case, we've chosen to not snack on the sac. Tiny mucus bags of uric acid simply aren't all that appealing.
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BOOOOKS!!!
Terry Pratchett is, in my humble estimation, a frigging genius. I'm reading "Guards Guards" right now, and can't wait to get to the end of it. It might well be this desire to read that has made me a tad crabby this weekend. Once there's a good book laying around that I MUST get to the end of, it'd be ever so nice if nothing else got in the way...
Or, I could be irritable because my uterus hates me, and has decided to, once again, and rather vigorously, spew forth unused baby-swaddling.
Whatever the reason for the irritable season, the book is good. No questions about that.
-------------------------------------------
When someone invites themselves over for dinner, asks you to buy them their steak (also offering to pay you if you can offer up a receipt), calls at 4:30 to ask when dinner is because they're hungry, then comes over at the appointed hour of 8 p.m. after having wings and ice cream with their girlfriend du jour, which of course means that neither of them are hungry for the dinner you prepared (because he invited himself to DINNER at 4.....)
Would you be mad?
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OK - enough for now. I'm banging this out and getting angrier - not a good thing for a Sunday evening.
Must go think of the good things that have happened in my life recently, not the least of which involved the return home of Biff, a trip to the Farmer's Market today with Renn and family, no more poison ivy itch, 2 wee birdies who survive against all odds, a home, plenty in the larder......and countless other blessings that OUGHT to countermand the surface irritations that prick at my longed-for inner peace.
Heh. I said 'prick.'
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
'ello 'ello!
There are 15 minutes staring me in the face right now before my next meeting. What to do, what to do? Arrange the meetings I'm supposed to arrange to talk about stuff I don't want to even pretend exists, or post?
You don't have to be a genius to figure out which direction I'd be headed. The mere fact that you're reading this should be testament enough, but don't think too long and hard about what that might mean about your overall smartypantsedness if you're still trying to guess what I did.
Just. Don't. You might hurt yourself.
Also, don't think too long and hard about the new phenomenon that is sweeping the nation: 8th grade gaduation. Apparently it's totally the new black. This might be the reason that it's not such a big deal down here, what with black being far too warm a color to wear after Easter. Seriously! Too hot! It's like 95 degrees outside and I have no airconditioning in my car, so I KNOW! Too hot. But still, why 8th grade graduation? Those poor kids are just stepping up to 4 more years of school (if they don't flunk out, drop out, get knocked up and shipped off to grannies, or cack before their time's up), so why all the celebration? It's not as though they're unfamiliar with the concepts of what's going to happens when school resumes in the fall, and it's not like they have much of a CHOICE in the matter nor are they able to self-direct to much of any effect, so I'm schtumped about this new development.
I'm glad they don't do that sort of thing around these parts (or at least my my kids' school) because, damn, I already have enough crap to pay for. A 'junior size' cap n' gown just isn't in the budget.
What also isn't in the budget is a fix of that car AC I mentioned up there. Oh, I had had visions of not fixing it and just gutting through, saving myself money on the repair to live fiscally responsibly, but IT'S 95 DEGREES OUTSIDE and I swear to you that walking into work covered in slick of sweat, windblown and irritable, is NOT the height of corporate TIff look. OK, FINE - it's true that the actual corporate Tiff look is a mere step or two BETTER than irritable, sweat-stained, and windblown (so the no AC ain't SUCH a huge deal as appearances go), so you can understand that it's best to not notch the look down any further.
Is there anyone out there who doesn't use the AC in their car, even on the hottest of summer days, if it's available to them? If so, why ON EARTH?
I could go on like this all day (I haven't even told y'all about my b-day celebration yet or my new arsenal of DRUGS!) but my time's up - 3 minutes to the next meeting.
Have a lovely afternoon.
You don't have to be a genius to figure out which direction I'd be headed. The mere fact that you're reading this should be testament enough, but don't think too long and hard about what that might mean about your overall smartypantsedness if you're still trying to guess what I did.
Just. Don't. You might hurt yourself.
Also, don't think too long and hard about the new phenomenon that is sweeping the nation: 8th grade gaduation. Apparently it's totally the new black. This might be the reason that it's not such a big deal down here, what with black being far too warm a color to wear after Easter. Seriously! Too hot! It's like 95 degrees outside and I have no airconditioning in my car, so I KNOW! Too hot. But still, why 8th grade graduation? Those poor kids are just stepping up to 4 more years of school (if they don't flunk out, drop out, get knocked up and shipped off to grannies, or cack before their time's up), so why all the celebration? It's not as though they're unfamiliar with the concepts of what's going to happens when school resumes in the fall, and it's not like they have much of a CHOICE in the matter nor are they able to self-direct to much of any effect, so I'm schtumped about this new development.
I'm glad they don't do that sort of thing around these parts (or at least my my kids' school) because, damn, I already have enough crap to pay for. A 'junior size' cap n' gown just isn't in the budget.
What also isn't in the budget is a fix of that car AC I mentioned up there. Oh, I had had visions of not fixing it and just gutting through, saving myself money on the repair to live fiscally responsibly, but IT'S 95 DEGREES OUTSIDE and I swear to you that walking into work covered in slick of sweat, windblown and irritable, is NOT the height of corporate TIff look. OK, FINE - it's true that the actual corporate Tiff look is a mere step or two BETTER than irritable, sweat-stained, and windblown (so the no AC ain't SUCH a huge deal as appearances go), so you can understand that it's best to not notch the look down any further.
Is there anyone out there who doesn't use the AC in their car, even on the hottest of summer days, if it's available to them? If so, why ON EARTH?
I could go on like this all day (I haven't even told y'all about my b-day celebration yet or my new arsenal of DRUGS!) but my time's up - 3 minutes to the next meeting.
Have a lovely afternoon.
Monday, June 01, 2009
blush
Thanks to those who chose to add me to their list of blogs to follow as a result of yesterday's mewling and simultaneous bashing of your collective consciences by my dear blogly buddies... Yes, both tactics worked, but that's all you'll hear about it from me, for I it appears that I am a widgetless fool who doean't have the necessary accessbility to reach the dizzying heights of DOZENS of followers.
Don't get me wrong, I rather like my template, but it lacks....accessbility (that is necessary for gross adoration and slavish followings). This lack has not yet caused me to leap off the metaphorical bridge into CHANGING it to more widget-friendly code, but I'm thisclose, oh yes I am. All's I need is to copy out the sassy header and have it available in a new-format template, right?
Anyone out there raising their hand in fervent volunteerism to help me get this gasping bitch off the ground?
------------------------------------------
Back in the glory days (of about 4 months ago) I could do things on this blog like 'format' and 'insert pictures.' This is not the case now, as it seems the Dark Overlords at Work are moving to restrict my access to fun buttons and neat shiny objects that would make this pathetic site something more interesting than fly-speckeled pablum....
Chew on THAT, internet.
--------------------------------------------
After tonight's pedicure, my toes are a shade of polish called "I'm not a waitress."
Once I picked it up and saw the name, there was no other choice but that one.
Gentlemen, think of deep red sports cars with an engine that makes you want to do naughty things. Ladies, think of that girl at the community pool you use to hate, but wanted to be like, even though her belly jiggled.
I have THOSE toes. Lucious, tawdry, fast, throaty, inviting, playful toes. RED frigging sparkly toes.
It's JC's fault, and it makes me smile.
--------------------------------------------
Young men can hide a prodigious amount of wax in their ears. Throat-closingly large amounts. Hint - a little H2O2 in the ear canal, a strong stomach, and a couple dozen cotton swabs will restore hearing in a just a few minutes.
Ask me how I know. I dare you.
----------------------------------------
That's it. Just got a call from the globetrotter, and he's safely 'home' in bed, so I can go be similarly oriented. Tomorrow comes early, and only the well-rested catch the bagel!
Toss one, and see if I'm a liar.
Don't get me wrong, I rather like my template, but it lacks....accessbility (that is necessary for gross adoration and slavish followings). This lack has not yet caused me to leap off the metaphorical bridge into CHANGING it to more widget-friendly code, but I'm thisclose, oh yes I am. All's I need is to copy out the sassy header and have it available in a new-format template, right?
Anyone out there raising their hand in fervent volunteerism to help me get this gasping bitch off the ground?
------------------------------------------
Back in the glory days (of about 4 months ago) I could do things on this blog like 'format' and 'insert pictures.' This is not the case now, as it seems the Dark Overlords at Work are moving to restrict my access to fun buttons and neat shiny objects that would make this pathetic site something more interesting than fly-speckeled pablum....
Chew on THAT, internet.
--------------------------------------------
After tonight's pedicure, my toes are a shade of polish called "I'm not a waitress."
Once I picked it up and saw the name, there was no other choice but that one.
Gentlemen, think of deep red sports cars with an engine that makes you want to do naughty things. Ladies, think of that girl at the community pool you use to hate, but wanted to be like, even though her belly jiggled.
I have THOSE toes. Lucious, tawdry, fast, throaty, inviting, playful toes. RED frigging sparkly toes.
It's JC's fault, and it makes me smile.
--------------------------------------------
Young men can hide a prodigious amount of wax in their ears. Throat-closingly large amounts. Hint - a little H2O2 in the ear canal, a strong stomach, and a couple dozen cotton swabs will restore hearing in a just a few minutes.
Ask me how I know. I dare you.
----------------------------------------
That's it. Just got a call from the globetrotter, and he's safely 'home' in bed, so I can go be similarly oriented. Tomorrow comes early, and only the well-rested catch the bagel!
Toss one, and see if I'm a liar.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Follow me!
Hey, follow me on your blogly service, y'all. Please? It's my birthday tomorrow! Follow me and that's enough of a birthday prezzie. Just add me to your (probably very long) list o' blogs - a couple of clicks, darling, and that's all there is to it!
Come ON. I'm old. Old people still like presents for their birthdays, and this one's free!
Nothing to spend except a little time.
And tell your friends to follow me too. All's I really want is as many followers as I am old (which, tomorrow will be....47). Won't you help an old lady realize a dream, before it's too late?
------------------------------
Dear Tim,
You blog hates me and won't let me comment on it. Fix that, won't you dear?
For the sake of troubleshooting, I can't use my Google ID as a profile even when already logged IN to iGoogle, and I can't comment as 'anonymous' either. It pains me to craft pearls of complete perfection to drop into your comment box, and be turned away by some invisible hand.
Thanks,
TIff.
--------------------------------------------
Dear Facebook,
You know, I already HAVE 'Pathwords' bookmarked. I REALLY DO! Quit frigging suggesting I bookmark it then, for cripe's sake!
You know where to reach me if you have questions.
Tiff
-------------------------------------------
Dear poison ivy,
Piss off.
T
------------------------------------------
Dear fancy-ass new running shoes,
I sure hope you make it so I like jogging. You cost enough to make me HAVE to run to justify the expense, that much is for sure. One thing though - if my knee still feels like it's full of blood pudding AFTER you and I start a relationship, you're so totally boned. It's on the BONFIRE with you!
Thought you should know.
Tiff
------------------------------------------
Dear cheesecake in the oven,
ToOmorrow you are mine. Mwuahahahaa!!!
Adoringly,
T
----------------------------------------
And now you're all caught up. Have a good 'un, and remember - FOLLOW ME!
Please?
Come ON. I'm old. Old people still like presents for their birthdays, and this one's free!
Nothing to spend except a little time.
And tell your friends to follow me too. All's I really want is as many followers as I am old (which, tomorrow will be....47). Won't you help an old lady realize a dream, before it's too late?
------------------------------
Dear Tim,
You blog hates me and won't let me comment on it. Fix that, won't you dear?
For the sake of troubleshooting, I can't use my Google ID as a profile even when already logged IN to iGoogle, and I can't comment as 'anonymous' either. It pains me to craft pearls of complete perfection to drop into your comment box, and be turned away by some invisible hand.
Thanks,
TIff.
--------------------------------------------
Dear Facebook,
You know, I already HAVE 'Pathwords' bookmarked. I REALLY DO! Quit frigging suggesting I bookmark it then, for cripe's sake!
You know where to reach me if you have questions.
Tiff
-------------------------------------------
Dear poison ivy,
Piss off.
T
------------------------------------------
Dear fancy-ass new running shoes,
I sure hope you make it so I like jogging. You cost enough to make me HAVE to run to justify the expense, that much is for sure. One thing though - if my knee still feels like it's full of blood pudding AFTER you and I start a relationship, you're so totally boned. It's on the BONFIRE with you!
Thought you should know.
Tiff
------------------------------------------
Dear cheesecake in the oven,
ToOmorrow you are mine. Mwuahahahaa!!!
Adoringly,
T
----------------------------------------
And now you're all caught up. Have a good 'un, and remember - FOLLOW ME!
Please?
Friday, May 29, 2009
Don't you wish there were pictures?
You know what? At the risk of stating the obvious (a genre at which I am a master), poison ivy sucks, HARD. To wit: At the moment half my neck and chest and stomach are covered in a thick deep red rash that is morphing into a scabrous landscape of burst blisters and oozy bits. The itch has NOT subsided, merely changed from occasional annoyance (ah, the early phases of an outbreak) to a near-constant roil of nerve firings.
Fuck fuckkity FUCK!
I TRY to keep my hands off, really I do. Not itching though means that other means must be employed, like tapping on really bad spots with my fingernails, or patting with fingertips, or digging in with the edge of a counter while I’m washing dishes or cooking.
What also works, but takes a little more bravery, is a white-hot shower. Oh my. It’s a good thing I’m a bit of a masochist (shhh!), because I’m fairly certain that people who are afraid to embrace pain would hate this method of ‘treatment.’ This morning, for example, I set the shower as hot as it would go, then stepped directly into the stinging spray of our low-flow shower, which on a regular day feels very much like like being sandblasted. Being blasted by 120F sand is, in a word, therapeutic. The sensation of it on itchy poison ivy rash is almost too much to take; the effects of it, however, are so long-lived in the anti-itch department that it’s completely worth stepping in and taking the pain for a few minutes. Once the sensation turns from ‘kill me now’ to ‘hey, not so bad, akshully,’ it’s a sure thing that the nerves that cause the itch are so overwhelmed with OTHER signals that they won’t start into itching again for a few hours.
In a weird way, it’s like those moments leading up to a really spectacular orgasm, when you almost can’t stand it anymore and then BLAMMO! Sweet relief!
Or am I the only one who feels that way?
-------------------------------------------
Other things that work for the itch: 1% corticosteroid cream, and Sarna. Totally OTC at the moment, I am.
I’ve not yet gone to a doc for treatment because 1) I hate going to doctors, 2) my old doc quit the biz a while back and I don’t have another one, 3) it’s not really all THAT bad yet, and 4) it would probably take 2 weeks to get an appointment, at which time I won’t HAVE poison ivy rash anymore.
If it spreads though, you can bet I’m all over the insta-clinic. There’s a Doc in the Box not but a mile from my house at the new CVS; I’m certain they’d love to get a gander at my middle-aged rashy flabbitude. Docs are pervs like that, you know.
--------------------------------------------
Another weekend is almost upon us. It is a weekend that will bring with it yet another in a string of birthdays for me. At this point, I’m pretty much OVER celebrating my birthday; there’s only so much room on the cake for candles, you know? However, being as my Mom is coming down for a visit and bringing her fabulous homemade spaghetti and meatballs for a birthday dinner, I suppose a TINY celebration might be in order. Hey, it’s not every day someone’s willing to drive dinner a couple hundred miles for me, might as well take advantage. :)
With that, y’all please have yourselves a wonderful Friday and a restful weekend.
Tiff out.
(UPDATE: I work at a dermatology company. Two docs just were here looking at my 'case,' and it appears as though they think I should hurry out to MY dermatologist for a consult and prescriptions for stronger topical steroids and an oral steroid because, in their words, "that's not normal." Also, one of them took pictures of me for teaching purposes, and is going to send me copies! Yay! Also also, the word 'textbook' was bandied about. If I wind up in a textbook, I'll autograph it for anyone interested...because damn, that's my 15 minutes of fame!)
Fuck fuckkity FUCK!
I TRY to keep my hands off, really I do. Not itching though means that other means must be employed, like tapping on really bad spots with my fingernails, or patting with fingertips, or digging in with the edge of a counter while I’m washing dishes or cooking.
What also works, but takes a little more bravery, is a white-hot shower. Oh my. It’s a good thing I’m a bit of a masochist (shhh!), because I’m fairly certain that people who are afraid to embrace pain would hate this method of ‘treatment.’ This morning, for example, I set the shower as hot as it would go, then stepped directly into the stinging spray of our low-flow shower, which on a regular day feels very much like like being sandblasted. Being blasted by 120F sand is, in a word, therapeutic. The sensation of it on itchy poison ivy rash is almost too much to take; the effects of it, however, are so long-lived in the anti-itch department that it’s completely worth stepping in and taking the pain for a few minutes. Once the sensation turns from ‘kill me now’ to ‘hey, not so bad, akshully,’ it’s a sure thing that the nerves that cause the itch are so overwhelmed with OTHER signals that they won’t start into itching again for a few hours.
In a weird way, it’s like those moments leading up to a really spectacular orgasm, when you almost can’t stand it anymore and then BLAMMO! Sweet relief!
Or am I the only one who feels that way?
-------------------------------------------
Other things that work for the itch: 1% corticosteroid cream, and Sarna. Totally OTC at the moment, I am.
I’ve not yet gone to a doc for treatment because 1) I hate going to doctors, 2) my old doc quit the biz a while back and I don’t have another one, 3) it’s not really all THAT bad yet, and 4) it would probably take 2 weeks to get an appointment, at which time I won’t HAVE poison ivy rash anymore.
If it spreads though, you can bet I’m all over the insta-clinic. There’s a Doc in the Box not but a mile from my house at the new CVS; I’m certain they’d love to get a gander at my middle-aged rashy flabbitude. Docs are pervs like that, you know.
--------------------------------------------
Another weekend is almost upon us. It is a weekend that will bring with it yet another in a string of birthdays for me. At this point, I’m pretty much OVER celebrating my birthday; there’s only so much room on the cake for candles, you know? However, being as my Mom is coming down for a visit and bringing her fabulous homemade spaghetti and meatballs for a birthday dinner, I suppose a TINY celebration might be in order. Hey, it’s not every day someone’s willing to drive dinner a couple hundred miles for me, might as well take advantage. :)
With that, y’all please have yourselves a wonderful Friday and a restful weekend.
Tiff out.
(UPDATE: I work at a dermatology company. Two docs just were here looking at my 'case,' and it appears as though they think I should hurry out to MY dermatologist for a consult and prescriptions for stronger topical steroids and an oral steroid because, in their words, "that's not normal." Also, one of them took pictures of me for teaching purposes, and is going to send me copies! Yay! Also also, the word 'textbook' was bandied about. If I wind up in a textbook, I'll autograph it for anyone interested...because damn, that's my 15 minutes of fame!)
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Hi Universe, you big ol’ Jokemeister
Yesterday was a tad stressful, what with the whole ‘car dying on the road' thing and the ‘have to find a way home' thing. Having a vehicle just quit working is a puzzling and angst-generating happenstance. I’ve been through worse stresses, but not lately, so it kind of kicked my butt.
Which is why that lil’ itchy rash on my chest was chalked up to stress-related hives…which I HAVE NEVER GOTTEN BEFORE. But hey, stress can do weird things, my hormones are for shit so who KNOWS what beauties I might generate through anxiety alone? Stranger things have happened.
But then…
The rash spread. From my collarbone down to my belly and up to my neck it spread. That rash crept around inflaming itch sensors and histamine receptors until pretty much all I could think about was ‘oh for FUCK’S SAKE I itch! Stress sucks!’
Only it was, and is, not stress. Heavens no, for that would mean a fast resolution of torturous pruritus (that’s fancy med-speak for ‘being itchy’). No, what this awful rash is, in fact, a gift from Albert The Cat to me, a schmear of poison ivy juice from his nimble little all-weather bod onto mine…the result of ‘shooing’ him (through direct corporal interaction) out of our bedroom yesterday morning right after I’d had my shower and, yes, before I’d gotten dressed.
Friends, there is a cat-shaped poison ivy rash on me, from my neck to my ribcage.
That damned cat is therefore getting a bath tonight, whether he wants it or not. That’ll learn him.
--------------------------------------------
Tinkerbell is in grave condition, y’all. When she throws a fit, she throws it BIG.
How big? 800 BUCKS big, is how.
Ouch.
Eeyeah. Something about a crankshaft sensor whatevermabob that needs replacing but that to replace requires the wholesale eviction of lots of belts and geegaws and shit that of course will need to be replaced because once you stretch ‘em you can’t unstretch ‘em.
Ah well, the timing belt needed to be replaced anyhow. 60K miles is about all you can expect offa one, and Tink’s gone through about 80K since she was kitted out with the last one. It was only a matter of time, really, before urping up a big chunk of my monthly income was going to have to happen.
800 bucks. Goodbye, savings account. You were pretty swell there for a while.
------------------------------------------------
Guess I’d better make darned good use of that Lovely New Jeep Compass it looks like I’m going to be driving for the next few days. Nothing parties like a rental! 4-wheeling, anyone? Doughnuts in the highschool parking lot? Come on, I bought the rip-off insurance just so I could drive with the impunity of a 90-year old! Who’s with me?
Meet me at the WalMart at 6. Until then, have a grand day.
Which is why that lil’ itchy rash on my chest was chalked up to stress-related hives…which I HAVE NEVER GOTTEN BEFORE. But hey, stress can do weird things, my hormones are for shit so who KNOWS what beauties I might generate through anxiety alone? Stranger things have happened.
But then…
The rash spread. From my collarbone down to my belly and up to my neck it spread. That rash crept around inflaming itch sensors and histamine receptors until pretty much all I could think about was ‘oh for FUCK’S SAKE I itch! Stress sucks!’
Only it was, and is, not stress. Heavens no, for that would mean a fast resolution of torturous pruritus (that’s fancy med-speak for ‘being itchy’). No, what this awful rash is, in fact, a gift from Albert The Cat to me, a schmear of poison ivy juice from his nimble little all-weather bod onto mine…the result of ‘shooing’ him (through direct corporal interaction) out of our bedroom yesterday morning right after I’d had my shower and, yes, before I’d gotten dressed.
Friends, there is a cat-shaped poison ivy rash on me, from my neck to my ribcage.
That damned cat is therefore getting a bath tonight, whether he wants it or not. That’ll learn him.
--------------------------------------------
Tinkerbell is in grave condition, y’all. When she throws a fit, she throws it BIG.
How big? 800 BUCKS big, is how.
Ouch.
Eeyeah. Something about a crankshaft sensor whatevermabob that needs replacing but that to replace requires the wholesale eviction of lots of belts and geegaws and shit that of course will need to be replaced because once you stretch ‘em you can’t unstretch ‘em.
Ah well, the timing belt needed to be replaced anyhow. 60K miles is about all you can expect offa one, and Tink’s gone through about 80K since she was kitted out with the last one. It was only a matter of time, really, before urping up a big chunk of my monthly income was going to have to happen.
800 bucks. Goodbye, savings account. You were pretty swell there for a while.
------------------------------------------------
Guess I’d better make darned good use of that Lovely New Jeep Compass it looks like I’m going to be driving for the next few days. Nothing parties like a rental! 4-wheeling, anyone? Doughnuts in the highschool parking lot? Come on, I bought the rip-off insurance just so I could drive with the impunity of a 90-year old! Who’s with me?
Meet me at the WalMart at 6. Until then, have a grand day.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
On the other hand
The plus side is that I'm driving a lovely new Jeep compass.
The minus side is that I'm driving a lovely new Jeep compass because Tinkerbell decided to die on the highway.
The plus side is Tinkerbell decided to die on the highway right near a car shop.
The minus side is that Tinkerbell decided to die on the highway right near a car shop that couldn't help me because the proprietor works on Hondas and is also going out of business.
But he could point me to someone who could help me.
Who couldn't come with a tow truck for 90 minutes.
But the guy he recommended could get me in 15 minutes.
However, that 15 minutes was spent in a TURN lane, flashers on, hood up, which apparently is not enough of a signal for some people and made for some highly nervous moments.
But was OK after the cop showed up and hung out with me until those 15 minutes passed by.
Minus is that I had to pay for the tow.
Plus is the guy 'only' charged my 50 bucks; a 15 dollar discount.
Minus is that the shop to which Tink was towed couldn't look at her until later this afternoon, necessitating I rent yet another car.
Plus is that the girl at the car rental place (they pick you up!) gave me money off on the lovely new Jeep Compass rental to make up the difference between its normal going rate and that rate of their cheaper rides.
So, the bad bottom line is that Tinkerbell nearly scared the giblets out of me by dying on a highway. The good bottom line is she's in good hands, there was no accident, there were discounts on services to be had, it quit raining during my 'outdoors' time, the issue didn't happen during rush hour or while I was on the way to pick up the boys, and on and on.
Take THAT cloud. I'm my own git-dammed silver lining. Now start raining shekels, because I'm going to frigging need them when the REAL bottom line nears...
The minus side is that I'm driving a lovely new Jeep compass because Tinkerbell decided to die on the highway.
The plus side is Tinkerbell decided to die on the highway right near a car shop.
The minus side is that Tinkerbell decided to die on the highway right near a car shop that couldn't help me because the proprietor works on Hondas and is also going out of business.
But he could point me to someone who could help me.
Who couldn't come with a tow truck for 90 minutes.
But the guy he recommended could get me in 15 minutes.
However, that 15 minutes was spent in a TURN lane, flashers on, hood up, which apparently is not enough of a signal for some people and made for some highly nervous moments.
But was OK after the cop showed up and hung out with me until those 15 minutes passed by.
Minus is that I had to pay for the tow.
Plus is the guy 'only' charged my 50 bucks; a 15 dollar discount.
Minus is that the shop to which Tink was towed couldn't look at her until later this afternoon, necessitating I rent yet another car.
Plus is that the girl at the car rental place (they pick you up!) gave me money off on the lovely new Jeep Compass rental to make up the difference between its normal going rate and that rate of their cheaper rides.
So, the bad bottom line is that Tinkerbell nearly scared the giblets out of me by dying on a highway. The good bottom line is she's in good hands, there was no accident, there were discounts on services to be had, it quit raining during my 'outdoors' time, the issue didn't happen during rush hour or while I was on the way to pick up the boys, and on and on.
Take THAT cloud. I'm my own git-dammed silver lining. Now start raining shekels, because I'm going to frigging need them when the REAL bottom line nears...
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Pretty much, it's just like that.
A while back, No Celery Please posted that 'facebook ate (her) blog.' I fear that same is true for NAY. Blogs, on contrast to the ever-affable Facebook, simply do NOT have what it takes to distract me for 5 minutes (Pathwords) or 7 rounds (Chain Rxn). Blogs don't have what it takes to get the latest news from my 'friends' and friends, from old classmates who I probably wouldn't recognize in a million years if they came up and smacked me in the face with a dead cat, to those people I hold most near and dear. Blogs do not have killer apps that will tell you what your birthyear means or how well you'll get along with other representatives of the Chinese zodiac or what sexual position you are based an the answers you give to a few easy (and oft-misspelled) questions.
One can see why Facebook is the new blog. It's shiny and new and fun in bite-sized pieces of whatever reality people choose to have you believe! With pictures! Facebook is going to take over the WORLD!!!
Well, I don't really care for that sort of thing, truth be known. Over the past few months I've spent my fair share of time on FB, and do enjoy checking in there from time to time, but am coming to realize that that site is a killer of time and productivity, isn't it? A promise to onesself to only do a 'quick check' of statii (plural of 'statuses,' you know) turns into an hour-long slog through photo albums and profiles and new quizzes and updates....and pretty soon the stuff you were going to do in that hour becomes stuff you still need to do, and really that hour spent goofing off didn't really get you any closer to real goals, did it?
Real goals, like blogging, which is wholesome, improves posture, and freshens breath. I value those things, don't you?
Don't let Facebook eat YOUR blog. Just say 'no,' and go post something on your REAL site. I'll be over to read just as soon as I crack 20,000,000 on Chain Rxn, I promise.
------------------------------------------
Public service announcement: It's time for another site traffic check. Pardon me while I test the system to ascertain if a random string of buzzwords will increase visitors to NAY. We'll be back to our regularly scheduled program in 2 minutes.
Britney Spears
John Legend
Butt sex
Naughty nuns spanking
schoolgirl enemas
Jonas Brothers eating pie
Transformers Megan Fox
Boobies bounce
Mac and cheese recipe
4:20 laws
Obama muslim
There. That should do it. Oh wait....must insert Kenju's traffic getter for good measure
Kissing balls
OK. We're done here.
-------------------------------------------
Actually, we're not QUITE done yet...we still have this one thing to do: celebrate Thing 2's birthday! Yes! BIRTHDAY! He is a dozen years old today.
This is him with a cheek full of hot dog last Hallowe'en (photo by Kenju!). Even with his face stuffed his mama thinks he's a handsome boy. *sigh* This is the last year I won't have to look UP at him to look him in the eye. My, they do grow up fast.
Happy birthday, my baby. Thanks for being a part of our family. You're one to be proud of, you trombone-playin', tae kwon do-doin', straight-A gettin', witty, intense, insightful, lovin' lil' (OK, BIG) jokester.
One can see why Facebook is the new blog. It's shiny and new and fun in bite-sized pieces of whatever reality people choose to have you believe! With pictures! Facebook is going to take over the WORLD!!!
Well, I don't really care for that sort of thing, truth be known. Over the past few months I've spent my fair share of time on FB, and do enjoy checking in there from time to time, but am coming to realize that that site is a killer of time and productivity, isn't it? A promise to onesself to only do a 'quick check' of statii (plural of 'statuses,' you know) turns into an hour-long slog through photo albums and profiles and new quizzes and updates....and pretty soon the stuff you were going to do in that hour becomes stuff you still need to do, and really that hour spent goofing off didn't really get you any closer to real goals, did it?
Real goals, like blogging, which is wholesome, improves posture, and freshens breath. I value those things, don't you?
Don't let Facebook eat YOUR blog. Just say 'no,' and go post something on your REAL site. I'll be over to read just as soon as I crack 20,000,000 on Chain Rxn, I promise.
------------------------------------------
Public service announcement: It's time for another site traffic check. Pardon me while I test the system to ascertain if a random string of buzzwords will increase visitors to NAY. We'll be back to our regularly scheduled program in 2 minutes.
Britney Spears
John Legend
Butt sex
Naughty nuns spanking
schoolgirl enemas
Jonas Brothers eating pie
Transformers Megan Fox
Boobies bounce
Mac and cheese recipe
4:20 laws
Obama muslim
There. That should do it. Oh wait....must insert Kenju's traffic getter for good measure
Kissing balls
OK. We're done here.
-------------------------------------------
Actually, we're not QUITE done yet...we still have this one thing to do: celebrate Thing 2's birthday! Yes! BIRTHDAY! He is a dozen years old today.This is him with a cheek full of hot dog last Hallowe'en (photo by Kenju!). Even with his face stuffed his mama thinks he's a handsome boy. *sigh* This is the last year I won't have to look UP at him to look him in the eye. My, they do grow up fast.
Happy birthday, my baby. Thanks for being a part of our family. You're one to be proud of, you trombone-playin', tae kwon do-doin', straight-A gettin', witty, intense, insightful, lovin' lil' (OK, BIG) jokester.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Birthday Girl Goes Whee!!
Not for me, but for she, the she of the Swdeness (and hotness) - it's TAMMIE'S BIRTHDAY!
Go on over and say hey, if you haven't already. Heaven knows she's got a ton of traffic at her site already, but if you DON'T routinely go there (and whyever not?), please pay her a visit.
NOTE: You might want to put your hand over the lower right side of the copmuter screen if there are children or Judgy McJudgementalpants adults or your boss milling about before you do any clicking. Jus' sayin.'
-----------------------------------
And because the world needs another awkward segue, here ya go - from birthdays to bathrooms in less than 15 seconds:
There's a woman here at work who can pee for a solid 2 minutes. It's frickking amazing. She can pee, constantly, for the time it takes for someone else to enter that bathroom, go pee, clean up, wash hands, and exit. I'm not talking little dribbly pee here either; nosir, it's like a vicious stream of pee shooting with a fair bit of velocity out of what I can only imagine is a bladder the size of a human head.
It's a source of wonder, and I am jealous. My own personal bladder is the size of a lemur noggin at best.
Is this 'pee'anist envy, then?
-----------------------------------
Playing double-12 chicken foot dominos with 2 people takes a long, LONG time, and can result in the loser getting smacked upside the head with mega-points each round if they're not watching for every opportunity to shed those high-point tiles.
In truth, those few glasses of red wine I had prior to start of play might have contributed to the THRASHING I took. That, and it was approximately 90 minutes past my normal 'stop paying attention to things' hour of the evening when we STARTED playing.
Ah well, there's only like a 200-point deficit for me to make up, and we're slated to deal out the double 8's tonight. There's still time for me to make a spectacular comeback!
-----------------------------------
I sure hope y'all are having a spectacular day where you are. It's a sunny 70's (fahrenheit, not decade) day in the Triangle, and I'm about to go out into it to do some high-grade basking.
Peace out, yo.
Go on over and say hey, if you haven't already. Heaven knows she's got a ton of traffic at her site already, but if you DON'T routinely go there (and whyever not?), please pay her a visit.
NOTE: You might want to put your hand over the lower right side of the copmuter screen if there are children or Judgy McJudgementalpants adults or your boss milling about before you do any clicking. Jus' sayin.'
-----------------------------------
And because the world needs another awkward segue, here ya go - from birthdays to bathrooms in less than 15 seconds:
There's a woman here at work who can pee for a solid 2 minutes. It's frickking amazing. She can pee, constantly, for the time it takes for someone else to enter that bathroom, go pee, clean up, wash hands, and exit. I'm not talking little dribbly pee here either; nosir, it's like a vicious stream of pee shooting with a fair bit of velocity out of what I can only imagine is a bladder the size of a human head.
It's a source of wonder, and I am jealous. My own personal bladder is the size of a lemur noggin at best.
Is this 'pee'anist envy, then?
-----------------------------------
Playing double-12 chicken foot dominos with 2 people takes a long, LONG time, and can result in the loser getting smacked upside the head with mega-points each round if they're not watching for every opportunity to shed those high-point tiles.
In truth, those few glasses of red wine I had prior to start of play might have contributed to the THRASHING I took. That, and it was approximately 90 minutes past my normal 'stop paying attention to things' hour of the evening when we STARTED playing.
Ah well, there's only like a 200-point deficit for me to make up, and we're slated to deal out the double 8's tonight. There's still time for me to make a spectacular comeback!
-----------------------------------
I sure hope y'all are having a spectacular day where you are. It's a sunny 70's (fahrenheit, not decade) day in the Triangle, and I'm about to go out into it to do some high-grade basking.
Peace out, yo.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Ain't no time to take a break
Our little house is not very complicated - it's basically 4 rooms arranged within a 30-foot wide (and long!) square with a bathroom tacked on the back. All the rooms except the bathroom are a 15-foot square with a lil' bit of the inside corner taken out for a used-to-be-fireplace (central heat used to equal central chimney, apparently). This simplicity is wonderful for a simple-minded person like yours truly - basic arrangements of rooms and sensible uses for each please me to no end. I LIKE all the rooms in the house; the living room is cozy, the bedrooms are multipurpose, the kitchen seems spacious and homey at the same time. Therefore, being comfortable in each room is key so that people want to spend time in all of them instead of being all piled-up on one another in the one comfy room. Fact is - We are too large for all that, and the house, in general, is too small for the long-term piling-on.
So....it has been a problem that our bedroom was the least pleasant room in the house, atmospherically speaking. It was then a problem of mustyness, you see. Of perhaps a smidge of damp, or of staleness. A few issues with the room are as follows: Firstly, there's only one window in there, which makes the place a touch cavelike. Not a bad thing on long weekend mornings, but not a 'come on IN and let's hang out, read, play records, do each others' toes, and talk about thermonuclear war' kind of place. Second - one window = no cross-ventilation. Thirdond - the ceiling fan in that room was woefully undersized...a result of having the attc pull-down attich just off center of the bedroom, and a ceiling fan that is about half-size just so the blades don't overlap the pull-down. Truth is, even the bravest of little soldier fans couldn't keep up with the demands of moving around a 15' cube of air - even on high speed that wee lil' thang just couldn't generate a breeze brisk enough keep two full-grown adults comfy at night.
(it must be added here that THIS full-grown adult throws off enough heat while sleeping to melt an igloo, and the other full-sized adult is no slouch in the exothermia, either)
That fan didn't work so great last summer to augment the AC. And now, the spectre of summer looms large again. It's already been in the 90s here. Summer with a wee fan isn't all that hot, hardeeharhar. As if that vague sense of 'ohno, not this again' wasn't enough, there was the burning smell that woke me up at about 4:30 yesterday morning. (What, again? you might ask, remembering that not but about 2 months ago we had the fireboys at our house for a PREVIOUS burning smell, which resulted in a $5000 outlay for a new heating and air-conditioning unit.) Yes, a burning smell; the cause of which this time seemed to be the tiny fan giving its all, coughing out its final efforts while humming louder and louder against the strain of its duties.
The fan was burning up, y'all.
And so, yesterday afternoon found us at Lowe's, purchasing a 52" ceiling fan AND REMOTE CONTROL for the 'master bedroom.' Yessir, 100-some dollars worth of pure comfort came home with us, was ably installed by the handydude, and was SLEPT UNDER very shortly after lunch. Oh, sweet Sunday afternoon nap - the fond memories!
The fan works a treat, folks. A TREAT! If it is wrong to love having my nostril hairs swirled about by this brawny new air-handler, to feel the chill breeze on whatever leg I poke out rfom under the duvet, to revel in the notion that we haven't even USED medium and high speed yet, then I don't even WANT to be right.
Bring your worst, summer. We are ready.
As long as there's electricity. Which reminds me....I wonder if we have a generator?
So....it has been a problem that our bedroom was the least pleasant room in the house, atmospherically speaking. It was then a problem of mustyness, you see. Of perhaps a smidge of damp, or of staleness. A few issues with the room are as follows: Firstly, there's only one window in there, which makes the place a touch cavelike. Not a bad thing on long weekend mornings, but not a 'come on IN and let's hang out, read, play records, do each others' toes, and talk about thermonuclear war' kind of place. Second - one window = no cross-ventilation. Thirdond - the ceiling fan in that room was woefully undersized...a result of having the attc pull-down attich just off center of the bedroom, and a ceiling fan that is about half-size just so the blades don't overlap the pull-down. Truth is, even the bravest of little soldier fans couldn't keep up with the demands of moving around a 15' cube of air - even on high speed that wee lil' thang just couldn't generate a breeze brisk enough keep two full-grown adults comfy at night.
(it must be added here that THIS full-grown adult throws off enough heat while sleeping to melt an igloo, and the other full-sized adult is no slouch in the exothermia, either)
That fan didn't work so great last summer to augment the AC. And now, the spectre of summer looms large again. It's already been in the 90s here. Summer with a wee fan isn't all that hot, hardeeharhar. As if that vague sense of 'ohno, not this again' wasn't enough, there was the burning smell that woke me up at about 4:30 yesterday morning. (What, again? you might ask, remembering that not but about 2 months ago we had the fireboys at our house for a PREVIOUS burning smell, which resulted in a $5000 outlay for a new heating and air-conditioning unit.) Yes, a burning smell; the cause of which this time seemed to be the tiny fan giving its all, coughing out its final efforts while humming louder and louder against the strain of its duties.
The fan was burning up, y'all.
And so, yesterday afternoon found us at Lowe's, purchasing a 52" ceiling fan AND REMOTE CONTROL for the 'master bedroom.' Yessir, 100-some dollars worth of pure comfort came home with us, was ably installed by the handydude, and was SLEPT UNDER very shortly after lunch. Oh, sweet Sunday afternoon nap - the fond memories!
The fan works a treat, folks. A TREAT! If it is wrong to love having my nostril hairs swirled about by this brawny new air-handler, to feel the chill breeze on whatever leg I poke out rfom under the duvet, to revel in the notion that we haven't even USED medium and high speed yet, then I don't even WANT to be right.
Bring your worst, summer. We are ready.
As long as there's electricity. Which reminds me....I wonder if we have a generator?
Friday, May 15, 2009
Can you do the lotus doggie-style?
Well now. Today was about a combination of busy-busy please get the work done AND oh my god I'll never get the work done so I might as well just plow through about a metric assload of FaceBook quizzes and dump the pile of random requests and maybe play about 8 brazilian games of Pathwords because oh shit the time is running out but there's always tomorrow to do the shit I didn't do today.
This, of course, makes me the reincarnation of the most stereotypical laid-back Hispanic in history, for whom 'manana' (do NOT day it like 'banana' please) is not just a word, but a way of life. Swah-vey, babies I'll do it tomorrow. Today, the roof doesn't need a patch because it's not raining!
In the plowing through of things that was (unexpectedly, and shamefully) on the menu for today, I learned a lot of things. Some of those things are as follows:
Oh yes. I bring people together. With My CHARM! Now bow to me and give me your CASH!!!
Boring stuff. Just like that.
Oh, and my Angerometer is on the fritz and needs a juiceup. I'm feeling far too accepting lately, and need something to get pissed off about to get the ol' juices flowing again. Any ideas?
I'm off to get, as we used to say, 'altered.' Hope y'all are doing the same.
Have yourselves a lovely weekend.
This, of course, makes me the reincarnation of the most stereotypical laid-back Hispanic in history, for whom 'manana' (do NOT day it like 'banana' please) is not just a word, but a way of life. Swah-vey, babies I'll do it tomorrow. Today, the roof doesn't need a patch because it's not raining!
In the plowing through of things that was (unexpectedly, and shamefully) on the menu for today, I learned a lot of things. Some of those things are as follows:
- I am an ENTJ (or was it an ENTP? aw crap. um, whichever one it was was the one that makes me sound like a whole LOT of fun). Wait, lemme go see...
Oh yes. I bring people together. With My CHARM! Now bow to me and give me your CASH!!!
- If I were a sexual position, I would be 'doggie style.' How very serendipitous, for I am a big fan of that action.
- If I were a Kama sutra position, I would be the lotus. How also very serendipitous, for I am also a fan of that action too, but because i am old have to slowly work my way up to the flexibility required to be crossed-legged with my thighs against my chest (whilst on my back)...another week or so should do it. I will either achieve success, or be the horniest paraplegic on the block.
- I do not know enough about Ron.
- Someone from my HS class who was in the 'popular kids' group asked to be my friend. I allowed her the privilege, for I BRING PEOPLE TOGETHER! What I learned about myself from this is that the kids who were cool in HS are now humbled in my presence. It is a good feeling. A very good feeling.
Boring stuff. Just like that.
Oh, and my Angerometer is on the fritz and needs a juiceup. I'm feeling far too accepting lately, and need something to get pissed off about to get the ol' juices flowing again. Any ideas?
I'm off to get, as we used to say, 'altered.' Hope y'all are doing the same.
Have yourselves a lovely weekend.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
A half a cup of jalapenos might be a touch too much
Tongue on fire. A good feeling.
10 hours from now, maybe not so much, but for now I feel alive, ALIVE! Hot jalapenos on the salad n’ my tongue is a-hangin’ out like I’m a professional stamp-licker. Mmm, tasty mucilage.
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Things like “tasty mucilage" are, no doubt, why BuzzardBilly FINALLY gave me the long-awaited lil’ prezzie yesterday in the form of one o' dem dere blog awards, which of course I love because it is new and shiny and has girlie touches like flowers and lace, which would resemble my underwear if I chose to ever wear any and indeed had ever purchased any like that which I have not because the lace is itchy and flowers look like giant embroidery zits under my regular costume of cotton ninja pants, a look I think all can agree is very distasteful indeed.
So, ‘no’ to the panties, but YES to the prezzie.
AN AWARD! Yes! I am loved, vindicated, supported, recognized! Who cares if it might be a part of a gigantic conspiracy to make be break out the giddy – for today I am pleased.
See? Isn’t it pretty?
10 hours from now, maybe not so much, but for now I feel alive, ALIVE! Hot jalapenos on the salad n’ my tongue is a-hangin’ out like I’m a professional stamp-licker. Mmm, tasty mucilage.
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Things like “tasty mucilage" are, no doubt, why BuzzardBilly FINALLY gave me the long-awaited lil’ prezzie yesterday in the form of one o' dem dere blog awards, which of course I love because it is new and shiny and has girlie touches like flowers and lace, which would resemble my underwear if I chose to ever wear any and indeed had ever purchased any like that which I have not because the lace is itchy and flowers look like giant embroidery zits under my regular costume of cotton ninja pants, a look I think all can agree is very distasteful indeed.
So, ‘no’ to the panties, but YES to the prezzie.
AN AWARD! Yes! I am loved, vindicated, supported, recognized! Who cares if it might be a part of a gigantic conspiracy to make be break out the giddy – for today I am pleased.
See? Isn’t it pretty?
Of course, unlike awards in real life, when only the WINNER (like me!) gets the big shiny pretty trophy, bloggy awards make you pass them around, getting them all tarnished and fingerprinty in happy happy group lurve, a fact that is stimulating (shared lurve) and irritating (sharing!) at the same time.
The Bella Rules:
1) Accept the award, post it on your blog together with the name of the person who has granted the award, and his or her blog link.
2) Pass the award to 15 other blogs that you've newly discovered. Remember to contact the bloggers to let them know they have been chosen for this award.
Oh kay.... anyone who has been here for any period of time knows that my blog roll is freakishly static. I have my core, and I like it that way. But,even with an admirably stable core (much like the Starship Enterprise, if I can be so bold), things can get stagnant and the only cure for stagnicity is to dump the core, blow up a black hole or two, and ride the explosive wave our of danger of the Vaste Boredome.
Now, here's where I need your help: I KNOW a number of y’all who read here have gigantic blogrolls of people who are readworthy. Who have YOU discovered recently that you have had to add to your blogroll? Let me know please in the comments.
Ah, and for the record? I’ve recently added “I’m not Benny” and “Mind of Spaz” to the list over there on the right. Also “Bitchy McBitcherson.” I like people who can tell a story, make me laugh, or wish I was them, apparently (you decide who is who!).
At the very least, they deserve a visit from YOU. Oh, right, and from me too, because I have to go tell them I gave them something, which might surprise them, because I’m sure at least one of them has no idea who I am and might, in fact, ban me from their blog once they find out about the lace and flowers.
It’s a risk I must take to share the lurve, much as I hate to (it's mine!).
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Lastly, may I just say that your hair looks fantastic today? Tell me what you do to keep it looking so lustrous!
Then have a lovely day.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Pinning blame, and other niceties of relationships
I sometimes get excited when people tell me that they enjoy this blog so very much that they’re going to give me an award (or at least I’m assuming they like it, because if they hated it or thought it sophomoric and tedious they wouldn’t be awarding me anything, would they? (unless of course the awards are all big jokes on me, which is why I don’t sidebar them for fear it’s all a vast internet prank aimed SOLELY AT ME, which is a thought pattern that kept me from dating much in my teen years)).
Yes, I get excited. Everyone likes praise, from the tiniest toddler learning to toddle to the eldest individual who still can toddle (and chew, and change their own sodden diapers), from the most mentally challenged of us who beam when a LEGO finally snaps together properly to the astoundingly intelligent who beam when their laser touches off cold fission (fusion?). Praise is good, to be eagerly anticipated, so when someone says ‘hey I have an award for you, come over and get it’ of course the first thing you do is go over to their house to pick up your award, no matter if it’s deserved or not.
Well, I’m still waiting for mine….and so today’s post is rather disappointingly for me NOT about getting an award, it is rather about what happened to me this morning that engendered a powerful hunger to crawl back in bed and wish heartily for a mostly-total do-over.
Chronology as follows:
1:25 a.m. – wake up, look at clock, groan, fall back to sleep.
2:45 a.m. – wake up, look at clock, groan, fall back to sleep.
3:35 a.m. – wake up, look at clock, groan, fall back to sleep.
Rinse and repeat at 4:20 and 5:15.
6:15 a.m. – get poked in the side by bed partner, wake up. Get up, brush teeth, pee, put the dog out, go back to bed. Spend some quality time. Fall back to sleep. (this is the bit I'd NOT do over, in case you're wondering)
7:40 a.m. – wake up, look at clock, say ‘oh shit,’ get up, wake up kids. Go to pantry to get coffee can so as to make the bean squeezins, step in still-warm cat puke (positioned PRECISELY in the middle of the floor. Nice shootin’, cat).
7:45 a.m. - (note: this is normally about the time we LEAVE for school, which starts at 8:15) make lunches, slam down coffee, get dressed, sign agendas, nag about the importance of brushing teeth, admonish Thing 2 to change shirt because wearing the same one 2 days in a row just ain't cool, administer cold meds, get dressed enough to drive kids to school.
8:05 a.m. – break longest fingernail on car door while loading up car.
8:12 a.m. - Decide to get sick for the rest of the day. Check systems to see which can fail fastest first. Determine that I am, in fact, not sick, drive back home, get a shower, get dressed, and go to work.
Sigh.
So here I am in Da Kyoob, logy as hell, needing a caffeine drip, avoiding e-mails, wishing for a sudden burst of lottery winnings to fall directly in my lap, and boring the shit out of anyone reading this.
Oh, plus which, if sudden sweaty spells and an itchy nose are any indication, I think I’ve caught Thing 1’s cold. So there’s that to look forward to.
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We went out to dinner last night, which was nice. Maybe not 100 dollars nice (erk!), but there were appetizers and chopsticks. And the Things ate honest-to-God Asian food, which pleased me to no end. With chopsticks. All right, so the sticks were generally used to SPEAR the food, but hey man, baby steps.
Also? I’m finding out that Thing 1 has very expensive taste indeed. Filet mignon, my eye, young man, you’ll have the shrimp in lobster sauce and LIKE IT. And so he did. And ate bok choi. Like a bunny.
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Guess I’ll go commence to waitin’ for that AWARD I am supposed to be getting. That might be all I get done to day, so I’d better to it up right.
Y’all have yourselves a fine, fine day.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
In honor of Edward Lear
It's national limerick day, beeyotches! Let's celebrate in style!
One day I was smoking a bong
with a dude who was 12 inches long
full of chatter and play
we cruised through the day
me and that dude Mr Schlong.
See? Easy-peasy! Now you try! First, second and fifth lines rhyme, third and fourth rhyme. First second and fifth have 8 or 9 syllables, third n' fourth have 4 or 5. Like so:
There once was an man from Nantuck---
Ah, you've probably heard that one. How about this one then (which I also just made up on the spot like the limiericky genius I am):
While walking in ye olde Bombay
I heard a frail old woman say
she'd once had the chance
to wear Churchill's pants
while he wore her saree so gay!
Woo-hoo! A whiff of salaciousness is never a bad idea where limericks are concerned. Being bawdy without being outright offensive is the trick, my dears. Oh! Wait! Here's another one coming on!
Step away from the side of the track
Lest a car smash you in front or back
You'd wind up a pile
or dragged for a mile
'Neath a train with a filthy smokestack.
Cautionary tales also work, it would appear.
The limerick is a nimble art form, is it not? Suitable for amusement and purposes of teaching. Hysterical AND inspiring. One thing it is not though, is eponymous.
Now, you know. Have a wonderful day.
One day I was smoking a bong
with a dude who was 12 inches long
full of chatter and play
we cruised through the day
me and that dude Mr Schlong.
See? Easy-peasy! Now you try! First, second and fifth lines rhyme, third and fourth rhyme. First second and fifth have 8 or 9 syllables, third n' fourth have 4 or 5. Like so:
There once was an man from Nantuck---
Ah, you've probably heard that one. How about this one then (which I also just made up on the spot like the limiericky genius I am):
While walking in ye olde Bombay
I heard a frail old woman say
she'd once had the chance
to wear Churchill's pants
while he wore her saree so gay!
Woo-hoo! A whiff of salaciousness is never a bad idea where limericks are concerned. Being bawdy without being outright offensive is the trick, my dears. Oh! Wait! Here's another one coming on!
Step away from the side of the track
Lest a car smash you in front or back
You'd wind up a pile
or dragged for a mile
'Neath a train with a filthy smokestack.
Cautionary tales also work, it would appear.
The limerick is a nimble art form, is it not? Suitable for amusement and purposes of teaching. Hysterical AND inspiring. One thing it is not though, is eponymous.
Now, you know. Have a wonderful day.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Hay, Zeus!
A long chain of events has led me now to the place of extreme understanding of the hotlinked charm inherent in youth of foreign species, mostly having to do with their featheriness about the gills. In all honesty, therefore, I say that the sublime misunderstanding of unction bypasses all change control measures previously established.
Lorem ipsicum, in a gadda da vida.
Gobbeldygook is the power of the people, a right to prevarication unalienable in that age and day of estuarian rapaciousness, woudln't one agenda? Insuitable, we confer.
More tomorrow, or as events progress to a natural vortex.
Right on.
Lorem ipsicum, in a gadda da vida.
Gobbeldygook is the power of the people, a right to prevarication unalienable in that age and day of estuarian rapaciousness, woudln't one agenda? Insuitable, we confer.
More tomorrow, or as events progress to a natural vortex.
Right on.
Friday, May 08, 2009
An auspicious day indeed
40 years ago today, a certain small blob of human protoplasm was ejected from its mother's womb into the big brash world. Since that time, the keen bright blue eyes of that human have been open to all the sights, drinking in the world and its vast scope of experiences, cataloguing them and searching for more, ever more.
In other words - 40 years ago today, Biff Spiffy was born. Now y'all KNOW I love me some Biff, but here's an idea - whyn't you click on that link and leave a comment on his blog regarding this most celebratory of days (unless, of course, you're a 7th Day Adventist, in which case just go say hi or something else utterly non-celebratory yet still friendly in a non-creepy kind of way).
We'll could maybe get the whole internet crowding around in his comments section, bumping up against one another in a sexy melange of bloggerdom. Ooooh, FEEL the love.
I'll be back later with a few choice thoughts on the birthday boy. Now go, click, comment, and spread the birthday cheer like you're an infected lil' Mexican Piggie!
Much obliged.
In other words - 40 years ago today, Biff Spiffy was born. Now y'all KNOW I love me some Biff, but here's an idea - whyn't you click on that link and leave a comment on his blog regarding this most celebratory of days (unless, of course, you're a 7th Day Adventist, in which case just go say hi or something else utterly non-celebratory yet still friendly in a non-creepy kind of way).
We'll could maybe get the whole internet crowding around in his comments section, bumping up against one another in a sexy melange of bloggerdom. Ooooh, FEEL the love.
I'll be back later with a few choice thoughts on the birthday boy. Now go, click, comment, and spread the birthday cheer like you're an infected lil' Mexican Piggie!
Much obliged.
(HAPPY BIRTHDAY BIFF, says the FreeCell King!)
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
Pop n Fresh
Saw a kid/guy/20-something at the grocery store tonight who looked like he MIGHT have been the Pillsbury dough boy, all grown up.
Starting at the top, there was this to notice:
The thighs though. Those freaking THIGHS will haunt my memory. The soft yeasty overproofed thighs of a young MAN (if the snotty demi-beard is to be believed), the thighs that should be hard and sound and muscular in the places where this....boy....was as yielding as a down pillow, yet not as alluring a place to rest.
Ew. Ew ew ew ew ew ew.
And yet? He was with a GIRL. Who was being all solicitous and shit about what kind of kraftbrew or bubbly wine he wanted. Either she was his sister, or he's got a huge dick.
There can be no other explanation.
Starting at the top, there was this to notice:
- a too-small straw hat
- a wreath of hair curling out from the edges of the too-small hat
- a pair of emo-hipster tortoiseshell glasses in a shade of ironic black
- plugs in the earlobes, I'm guessing 14 gauge
- a ratty Van Dyke beady thing, with crumbs on.
- a double chin under an already weak one
- a short sleeved plaid cotton shirt in a mix of muddy browns that no doubt spoke to his lifelong parent-hate
- a pair of jean shorts. rolled up. to his crotch. unevenly.
- a set of blazing white doughy thighs that would make a 15-year-old girl cry at the injustice of them if they were hers, causing her to adopt an 'all-maxi-dress, all-the-time' attitude and a love for lights-off sex, not to mention never EVER getting into a bathing suit in front of anyone, not even her granny, because Granny has better thighs than her, dammit.
- shinny chicken calfs
- ratty hi-tops, in a bland tan that no doubt is a mirror of his take on the current state of society.
The thighs though. Those freaking THIGHS will haunt my memory. The soft yeasty overproofed thighs of a young MAN (if the snotty demi-beard is to be believed), the thighs that should be hard and sound and muscular in the places where this....boy....was as yielding as a down pillow, yet not as alluring a place to rest.
Ew. Ew ew ew ew ew ew.
And yet? He was with a GIRL. Who was being all solicitous and shit about what kind of kraftbrew or bubbly wine he wanted. Either she was his sister, or he's got a huge dick.
There can be no other explanation.
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
Comatose narcoleptics and the banishing of Garglimish
Where this post is lie the shadows of four previous posts.
Little postabortions, if I may be so crass. Sorry nubs of ideas that didn’t take root or that were poisoned early on by a sick gush of malevolence, twisting them terribly until there was no way they could survive (without causing torsion leading to clotting and subsequent necrosis. Not pretty).
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Bet you're wondering what they were about, huh? Neener neener neener! I'm not telling!
Let's just say that what follows is a LOT better than what you could have been reading...
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I made tuna casserole last night from a recipe I found online. MISTAKE. Should have stuck with the tried-and-true method that revolves around the notion that very nearly everything tastes better when bathed in cheese sauce. I had my taster tuned for the old down-home ‘role recipe, and was disappointed. Oh, it wasn’t BAD, but cream of celery soup ain’t no kind of substitute for melted orange pseuo-cheese. Something to do with not having a heart-attack-inducing level of salt, is what I’m thinking. So there I sat, heart attack-less, and slightly disapppointed that this new way of doing things simply wasn’t cutting the mustard (if I might use a culinary metaphor here). It’s like wanting a Chik-Fil-A artery-clogger onna bun, and settling for something grilled, with lettuce on. Yes, it might be better for you, but if all that’s left of life is a series of choices made to help us live longer in grudging half-enjoyment while remaining fully cognizant of what COULD be, then what’s the POINT?
Next time, I’m breaking out the Velveeta and saying buy-bye to that healthy choice soup crap.
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Last Sunday I spent some quality time at a local middle school track going ‘round and ‘round while Biff was playing Ultimate Frisbee. Round and ‘round gives one a fair bit of time for pondering. Pondering important life questions like “why does that fat woman in front of me think it’s a good idea to wear those shorts out in public? Her thighs are as bumpy as the surface of the moon, her butt is wobbling up and down so much I’m getting motion sickness, and her crotch is slooowly eating the inside hem. That upside-down vee hem is so NOT A GOOD LOOK. Of course, neither is the tee shirt that so tight we can all see each and every one of her 1..2..3..4 rolls of back fat. Is that her husband with her? Does he grab dem back fat rolls and slap ‘em against each other when he’s riding behind? Does he maybe….oh God no Tiff, don’t go there. No. Think of something else.”
And then the voices in my head started talking in a Swedish accent, because nothing banishes thoughts of mature citizens having back-fat sex than that.
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And for that mental image you are welcome.
Tiff out.
Little postabortions, if I may be so crass. Sorry nubs of ideas that didn’t take root or that were poisoned early on by a sick gush of malevolence, twisting them terribly until there was no way they could survive (without causing torsion leading to clotting and subsequent necrosis. Not pretty).
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Bet you're wondering what they were about, huh? Neener neener neener! I'm not telling!
Let's just say that what follows is a LOT better than what you could have been reading...
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I made tuna casserole last night from a recipe I found online. MISTAKE. Should have stuck with the tried-and-true method that revolves around the notion that very nearly everything tastes better when bathed in cheese sauce. I had my taster tuned for the old down-home ‘role recipe, and was disappointed. Oh, it wasn’t BAD, but cream of celery soup ain’t no kind of substitute for melted orange pseuo-cheese. Something to do with not having a heart-attack-inducing level of salt, is what I’m thinking. So there I sat, heart attack-less, and slightly disapppointed that this new way of doing things simply wasn’t cutting the mustard (if I might use a culinary metaphor here). It’s like wanting a Chik-Fil-A artery-clogger onna bun, and settling for something grilled, with lettuce on. Yes, it might be better for you, but if all that’s left of life is a series of choices made to help us live longer in grudging half-enjoyment while remaining fully cognizant of what COULD be, then what’s the POINT?
Next time, I’m breaking out the Velveeta and saying buy-bye to that healthy choice soup crap.
----------------------------------------------------
Last Sunday I spent some quality time at a local middle school track going ‘round and ‘round while Biff was playing Ultimate Frisbee. Round and ‘round gives one a fair bit of time for pondering. Pondering important life questions like “why does that fat woman in front of me think it’s a good idea to wear those shorts out in public? Her thighs are as bumpy as the surface of the moon, her butt is wobbling up and down so much I’m getting motion sickness, and her crotch is slooowly eating the inside hem. That upside-down vee hem is so NOT A GOOD LOOK. Of course, neither is the tee shirt that so tight we can all see each and every one of her 1..2..3..4 rolls of back fat. Is that her husband with her? Does he grab dem back fat rolls and slap ‘em against each other when he’s riding behind? Does he maybe….oh God no Tiff, don’t go there. No. Think of something else.”
And then the voices in my head started talking in a Swedish accent, because nothing banishes thoughts of mature citizens having back-fat sex than that.
----------------------------
And for that mental image you are welcome.
Tiff out.
Friday, May 01, 2009
1987
1987 is but a few moments ago. If I cast my mind back to Harrisonburg in 1987, I can see the inside of Calhoun's like it used to be before it was shut down; the long philodendron vines snaking around the walls of the bar, the odd assortment of random 'decorative' crap hanging all over, the stage and soundbooth, the table where the archeology students sat, the green of the walls, the smoky musty smell of long night of partying that simply wouldn't ever come out of the carpet, the half-wall to the atrium that Billy fell over one drunken night.
In those moments of mind-casting, the mid- and later-1980's are but a memory away, not 20+/- years.
That time of my life was rich; I was young, single, surrounded by friends, totally free. Wonder what it would be like to go back there with the 'me' I am now so that I could fully enjoy that time and place, if only for a short time.
If I had these looks again, I'd go in a heartbeat:
Yep, that's a blondie Tiff back in 1987, a fresh-faced 25-year-old with nothing but time on my hands (when I wasn't working or going to school or teaching labs), and a ton of friends to help me find trouble and fun.
Sheeeeyit. What being young, carefree, skinny, and having estrogen in your system will do for a body.
This picture came courtesy of my buddy Puffhead, who has been uploading some pictures from back in the day to her Facebook page, and it's been a wonderful trip thus far down memory lane. All those folks who were a part of daily life back in the day reappear in full color, folks who are unfortunately now gone are still there with a smile on their faces, we're all so much younger. Puff says there are more pictures to come; as holder of 'the goods' from when that bar shut down (as the bookkeeper she was in POWER!), she's been carting crap around for over 20 years and is just now going through a bunch of stuff, airing out old memories and subjecting the past to the electronic light of day.
Parts of the past like this:
And this:
PROOF (if you can look past the fact that I'm not in any of the pics with these guys) that I knew these now-famous people well before they were famous. I TOLD you!
(In case you didn't know, that's Butch Taylor, recently of DMB fame, on the top with part of "Secrets," and Tim Reynolds, currently of his own fame (and good buddy of the DMB) on the bottom playing with his group TR3)
From the 'now' perspective, I'd have to say that we had nothing but wonderful times in that bar. Of course if you'd asked me back then, I would have griped about slow shifts, hating clean-up of the happy hour buffet, stupid drunk college kids, and having to clean the bathrooms after any given Thursday through Saturday night, because I can ALWAYS find something to whinge about. But now of course the lens of sentimentality caps the clearer vision of youth, and I only remember the good times.
.....good damned times, y'all.
So, my dear friends, lurkers, and stalkers, I challenge you this: go on and post a post sometime in the next week with a picture of YOU from 1987 or thereabouts, then leave a comment here that you did with a link to the post. I'd be happy to compile the posts into one big linkapalooza so that we can all get a gander at who we used to be. Come on, it'll be FUN!!
(Don't let me hang here, all alone, exposing myself.....)
And have a glorious weekend. See you Monday.
In those moments of mind-casting, the mid- and later-1980's are but a memory away, not 20+/- years.
That time of my life was rich; I was young, single, surrounded by friends, totally free. Wonder what it would be like to go back there with the 'me' I am now so that I could fully enjoy that time and place, if only for a short time.
If I had these looks again, I'd go in a heartbeat:
Yep, that's a blondie Tiff back in 1987, a fresh-faced 25-year-old with nothing but time on my hands (when I wasn't working or going to school or teaching labs), and a ton of friends to help me find trouble and fun.
Sheeeeyit. What being young, carefree, skinny, and having estrogen in your system will do for a body.
This picture came courtesy of my buddy Puffhead, who has been uploading some pictures from back in the day to her Facebook page, and it's been a wonderful trip thus far down memory lane. All those folks who were a part of daily life back in the day reappear in full color, folks who are unfortunately now gone are still there with a smile on their faces, we're all so much younger. Puff says there are more pictures to come; as holder of 'the goods' from when that bar shut down (as the bookkeeper she was in POWER!), she's been carting crap around for over 20 years and is just now going through a bunch of stuff, airing out old memories and subjecting the past to the electronic light of day.
Parts of the past like this:
And this:
PROOF (if you can look past the fact that I'm not in any of the pics with these guys) that I knew these now-famous people well before they were famous. I TOLD you!
(In case you didn't know, that's Butch Taylor, recently of DMB fame, on the top with part of "Secrets," and Tim Reynolds, currently of his own fame (and good buddy of the DMB) on the bottom playing with his group TR3)
From the 'now' perspective, I'd have to say that we had nothing but wonderful times in that bar. Of course if you'd asked me back then, I would have griped about slow shifts, hating clean-up of the happy hour buffet, stupid drunk college kids, and having to clean the bathrooms after any given Thursday through Saturday night, because I can ALWAYS find something to whinge about. But now of course the lens of sentimentality caps the clearer vision of youth, and I only remember the good times.
.....good damned times, y'all.
So, my dear friends, lurkers, and stalkers, I challenge you this: go on and post a post sometime in the next week with a picture of YOU from 1987 or thereabouts, then leave a comment here that you did with a link to the post. I'd be happy to compile the posts into one big linkapalooza so that we can all get a gander at who we used to be. Come on, it'll be FUN!!
(Don't let me hang here, all alone, exposing myself.....)
And have a glorious weekend. See you Monday.
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