Harry sent me flowers - AWWWWW!
I have no camera phone so I decided to scrawl out a picture of it - please don't make fun of my juvenile artwork - the macaroni bits wouldn't scan so I had to use pen and paper!
I hate Forwards. If someone sends me a Forward it better be funny. And not just kinda funny - like "holy crap I just peed a little," funny. For your reading pleasure, I have dissected a Forward that was sent to me by a "friend." This is the same "friend" that demoted me to "acquaintance" after moving to the big city of Columbus. AND she still sends me this crap!
Read on! But be warned - 'tis not for the weak of heart, mind, or bladder....
Especially the Poem
[HKS]Why??? What on earth could be so important that it MUST be read alone???
Update: This was the email that followed my thanking her for condemning me to death with a condemning forward and instructing her on what to put on my tombstone....Thank you for your input. I have taken you off of my mailing list so you will no longer receive forwards from me, and next time you decide to voice your option (which you have every right to) please do not send it to everyone I sent the forward to and only direct it to me.
And this was from me: My opinion was hilarious - and so was that forward! Thanks for cheering up my day! Sorry about the "reply to everyone" catastrophe - it was habit and - well - I'm sure they'll get a kick out of it - especially if they love a good forward! --Sincerely , Holly K.!
I left my house on time, jumped in my car, opened my garage door, put my car in gear and slammed on the gas.
Then I slammed the brake down, hard.
I was going forward.
Harry hates when I rearrange the furniture while he's gone, I can only guess his reaction should I have forcibly removed the back of the garage with my vehicle.
So, now I'm at work, trying hard to be a good employee and not do anything to "tarnish the reputation" of the firm and all the while I'm forcing myself to stay in my chair. If I had my druthers - I'd be climbing up the floor-to-ceiling windows like a confused monkey, flinging hair pins at all that decide to venture to the front of the office, my lair.
But I will resist the temptation to climb. And to shriek. And to fling things at other's heads. I am determined to be "good." At least outwardly...
Muah hah hah hah....
Guy: "Well, when will he be out of the meeting." 62 minutes, five seconds and three point two nanoseconds.
Exasperated Me: "I'm not sure, can I have him call you back?"
Guy: "What? In like twenty minutes or something?" Grrrrr.
Exasperated Me: "I'm not sure, why don't you call back in an hour and a half. Around 4:30?"
Guy: "I'm not in the same time zone, I don't know what time that is." Missed you on the day they handed out brains, didn't they?
Exasperated Me: "Well, add an hour and a half to whatever time it is there, and call back." Stupid people are in all time zones, I guess!
Guy: "Uh, okay." He says doubtfully. As if the concept of time addition was a new and wondrous invention. I'd hate to see this guy when Daylight Savings Time was introduced to him: "So, I turn the clock - back? I don't get it."
Update: The guy has now called three times and yelled at me. My office manager called him a "prick" - that made me giggle.
At 20 years of age the will reigns, at 30 the wit, at 40 the judgment. Benjamin Franklin
[US author, diplomat, inventor, physicist, politician, & printer (1706 - 1790) ]
I wonder if I can get a raincheck for my twenties? I mean, I really didn't do that many truly "willful" things - so shouldn't I get an IOU? And as thirty is fast approaching - like a Hummer with its brake lines cut - I feel as if I should be able to make up for things I didn't do in my twenties. Like I need to do these "willful" things that I didn't take part in - for example - I'm untattoed. Yes, my dimpled pearly white, glow-in-the-dark skin has not a single mark of ink on it (besides the blue from my pen, but I digress) and I am feeling a bit lost and too stand-outishness in the sea of "marked" individuals. Perhaps a butterfly with pink wings? A holly leaf on my butt cheek? Xavier Roberts signature on the other? Hmm?
And I've never had a one night stand - well - not really. There was this one time, but I failed miserably. No, not like that! Well, you see, I married him, so, anyway, next topic!
I've never skinny-dipped. Wait, on second thought and upon further reflection of my expanding bottom, top, and middle - I think I'm okay without having experienced that - ever.
There are so many things that are reserved for those in the prime of their youth, so I think that I will just hold on to those reservations and cash them in when I turn - gulp - 30. According to good ol' Benny in the quote above, I'm supposed to have sharpened my wit by the time I hit the big XXX. So - why can't I have a "two-for-one special" with it? I think, since my twenties weren't as "willful" as others, that I will combine it with the wit of my thirties to have a bi-fecta of age! Hmm - makes me wonder at what age "pure genius" comes to pass? I'm voting for 27.
And how about that "judgment" thing that's supposed to come with 40 - is that a good thing? Or is it bad? Are all 40 year olds judging the younger generation? Or is it that when you're 40 you can now decipher between good and bad decisions so you tend to make good ones (don't drink expired milk) vs. bad ones (it's only a week past...)?
I vow to spend the rest of the day doing "willful" things.
Mission #1: Post this blog
Mission #2: Be Willful.
Mission #3: ????
While my sister was in we decided to go for ice cream.
"Wanna get a milkshake?" I asked which prompted her to immediately go into a very horrible dance rendition of "My milkshake's better than yours!"
Trying to be funny, I popped my chubby hip out, puckered up my lips and said: "Nuh-uh, Girrrrrrrl, 'cuz I's lactose intolerant!"
Summer looked at me. Stared with those big hazel eyes of hers. "What?"
"Ya know," I said, "Your, um, milkshake can't be better, 'cause I'm, um, allergic. Or something."
She snorted with laughter and then ran to tell all of my lame attempt at a joke.
This just proves that my "milkshake" is not better than hers.
My desk at work is shaped like a horseshoe (without the "lucky" attributes, of course). I have rows of drawers on either side of me and my computer is right in front. To my left is a bottom drawer filled with chocolate goodies, low-carb and low-sugar selections. To my right is the Wintergreen and Peppermint drawer.
One attorney here flies around the office at the speed of light until he feels the need for a mint, or a piece of candy (to refuel his sugar high? We may never know...). He then runs down the hallway, hair flying back in the stale recycled air of our office and flies behind me like a wasp on a mission. I hear the left drawer fly open and then the right and ZOOM he's gone.
Leaving me trapped.
Both my drawers are open, pinning me into my seat at my desk/prison cell! You can't tell me it's not deliberate!
Very tempted to set a trap for sticky-fingered lawyer man. Anybody got any mouse traps? Fly paper? "Kick Me" signs? Bear traps?
Me: "Good Morning, La, la, la and blah."
Clueless Saleslady: "The shirt your husband called about has been found."
Me: "What? What shirt?"
Clueless Saleslady: "Is he there?"
Me: "He's in Whitesville."
Clueless Saleslady: "Oh. Well, he wanted a shirt and we've found it."
Me: "I doubt it, who were you calling for?"
Clueless Saleslady: "May I speak to your husband."
Me: "I'm a receptionist here at this law firm. Who spoke to you about looking for a shirt?"
Clueless Saleslady: "Oh. Thank you."
Me: Hanging up the phone, "Dumbass."
Clueless Saleslady: Hanging up the phone, straigtening name tag, "Dumbass."
1. People who think it's funny they've dialed a wrong number, and wait
until after I finish listing off the equivalent of the Lincoln County phone
book before sharing in their mirth.
2. People who turn right on red and honk at pedestrians - when else are
they supposed to walk - asshole!
3. Store clerks that make you feel "lucky" that they are even bothering to
wait on you.
4. People who back into parking spaces --- at Mach 9.
5. People who offer their help, insist upon it and then back away quickly
when given responsibilities.
6. Chairs without arms.
7. People who tell me "You don't understand, you don't have kids." Well,
holy crap! You're right - not a single thing has been spawned from my dried
up, shriveled old uterus! Glory be!
8. People who get mad at me when I express my opinion about #7.
9. People who get mad at me when I express the fact that I'm expressing my
own opinion in #8.
10. Pineapple on pizza. That's just wrong.
11. People who poop at work. At 9am. We just got to work and you didn't
think that maybe, just maybe, you coulda stunk up your potty at home?!
12. People who tell me not to bite my nails. Really makes me want to say :
"Well, come over here so I can nervously chew on your face - might be an
13. People with flacid handshakes.
14. Parking meters.
15. The creepy man who "guards" the parking lot next to the one I park
every morning. I believe he is under the impression that he is invisible.
He stares and watches me as I get my belongings together and emerge from my car.
16. People whom, upon hearing that you missed a certain show but have
recorded it, still feel the need to tell you what happened.
17. People whom, upon hearing that you are going to buy a certain book, tell
you the whole plot line in intricate, excruciating detail.
18. People whom, upon seeing me reading a book - ignore the fact as if
their conversation will trump the beauty of the written word. Or a really
good sex scene.
19. Diet Dr. Pepper. It does NOT taste more like regular Dr. Pepper. In
fact - it tastes like envelope paste.
20. Aquarium screensavers.
21. People who call during "my stories" on Wednesday night.
22. People who insist that I should like seafood. Thanks, but if I had my
choice on oceanic food - give me a mouthful of sand any day!
23. People who remember to floss regularly.
24. Hotel hairdryers. A space heater has more oomph than one of those
things with their one foot cord!
25. Pushy salespeople. No, I don't need a belt/scarf/necklace/shoes to go
with my bra purchase! Leave me the hell alone!
26. Fat suits. Our chubbiness makes us unique - please leave the rubber
strap-on outfits to those of us who have worked hard to attain our peak
level of rotundness. Wait - did I really just write "rubber
27. People who are grammar Nazi's. Go f*ck you'reselves.
28. People who don't, can't or won't differentiate between "its" and
"it's." (BTW - I'm a self-loathing grammar natzi myself!)
29. People who claim to work, all day, while at work. Liars.
30. People who go on Reality Shows and complain about being on said Reality
31. Paris Hilton. She has the scariest ass cheeks I have ever seen.
32. Shoes that pretend to be comfortable when you buy them.
33. People who are "too busy." If you live in America - you will
eventually succumb to the "I'm just too busy" way of life.
34. Unsolicited criticism.
35. People who smoke right outside the door.
36. When my page-a-day calendar page doesn't come off in a smooth sheet,
leaving little stuck-up frays at the top.
37. When I have to get up and get ready for work.
38. When my cat sticks her nose on my upper lip at 4 AM.
39. People who still wear the chunky shoes from the year 2000. I may have
even sold 'em to them during my five year stint at Payless.
40 The last post-it. I can't bring myself to use it. I have to throw it away.
41. Any book that has ever used the phrase "throbbing member."
42. People who talk about what a wonderful (insert
occupation/hobby/something) they are and then I see them in action and realize
that someone is a big fat liarhead. Or dillusional. Or both.
44. Jennifer Garner
45. Make-up counter ladies. I feel like they are staring at me from behind their powdered masks - judging my application, or lack of, glossy lipstick.
46. Plotless Horror movies. People are starving in Africa and even in New Orleans but Rob Zombie is given millions of dollars to produce "Devil's
Rejects." Hell in a handbasket, peeps, hell in a handbasket...
47. Links that don't work. Pictures that won't upload and e-mail that won't open. And Forwards - especially ones with cats/angels/angelic cats/fluffy angels.
48. President Bush's lack of speaking skills. Good thing that being president doesn't require one to be quick-witted and phonetically pleasing
to the masses, huh?
49. The guy standing behind me making the fax go "beep, beep, BEEP." He's "fixing" it. Again.
50. Bottled water that costs $4. That's just wrong.
What bugs you?
Email me at email@example.com and let me know!
The bathroom in my office has marble-tiled floors. They're dark green and the two spot lights that illuminate the stalls make for a nice relaxing place to get away from it all and urinate your cares away.
However, sometimes I get the urge to tap dance.
I still remember a bit from my times as a tiny tappin' tot - so I know I could clickety-clack something that would be quite festive.
But I won't.
It wouldn't be prudent.
At least not today.
My weekend was spent chasing a two-year old, baby-sitting a 29 year old and entertaining a 26 year old. Now, they're in an overpriced, over-loaded, over-the-top (electronically-wise) SUV careening down the WV Turnpike. This gives me a chance for quiet reflection on my weekend:
1. My niece is learning to toilet train. But the concept is slightly lost on her. We even bought her a video to help things along. At this point, she still likes her little blue and pink potty - but only to eat fruit loops out of.
2. My sister's lack of concept of time is only surpassed by my grandmother's lack of concept of time - and - really - anything else.
3. My sis and I watched "Newsies" last night. GREAT movie starring a very young Christian Bale (It's Batman! Batman!) and many other cuties. Now, we loved this movie in the early 90's and upon watching it 16 years later, we were still drooling and canoodling the bums of the young Newsboy dancers. Then we watched the commentary and found out that the two leads were 15 and 16. Felt slightly dirty. Turned it off - but not without watching Batman, oops, I mean Christian, sing "Sante Fe" one last time.
4. Made "love coupons" for my sister's beau. I helped her make up rhymes. Here are some examples: "Take me to a movie, I'll show you one big boobie." "Bring me food from China, and I'll flash you my vagina." and Harry's contribution: "Wanna get a pizza and f*ck?"
5. May have relatives with the nicknames: "Piss Porter", "Fungoli" and "Tater." The last one went by the name of a small spud rather than his actual name : Everett. ???
6. Was told, four different times, "This better not make it on your blog."
7. Gillian rode the trolley at the mall. When Harry put a quarter in it, she scrambled out and up him as fast as her little arms and legs could carry her (without dropping her cookie). She then came over to Summer and me, sat down and said "Oh, shit!"
8. Does anyone else feel a bit harassed when going to a Japanese steakhouse? First to use the chopsticks (something I'm quite sucky at and fear it may cost me an eye one of these days) and second, to catch a piece of shrimp in one's mouth like a less-coordinated seal?
9. Summer and I found the bounty that is the Nerds Gumball machine at Blenko glass in milton. "Oh -if it's red, we'll have to give it to Harry!" Out pops a red gumball and we squeal. "I want a grape one!" Summer pops in a quarter and out pops a purple ball of nerd-filled gum! We do a happy dance "Orange! I want orange!" I clap my hands and wait as Summer cranks the machine and then slowly lifts up the metal mouth. IT'S ORANGE! We run to the car with wild abandon, retell the story and each bite into our Wonka treat.
Mine's empty. There goes all our good luck. No nerds. I sadly show Harry mine. He hops out and runs back into the store. "Hope it's orange," I say to Summer who is happily crunching in the back seat.
Harry walks out a few seconds later and holds up - An ORANGE GUMBALL FILLED WITH NERDS! All was right with the world again.
10. Harry and I were put in charge of Gillian from 11-2 on Saturday while Summer assisted Mommy Dearest with the Prom Fashion Show. I was okay with that part - but the changing the poopy diaper - not so much.
I waited until she was toxic-smelling and then plopped her down, yelled for Harry and started to remove the diaper. It was fine - all was well - Gillian was okay. Then, while Harry watched, she picked up her McDonald's drink and dumped it down the front of her. It soaked her neck and her hair - making her curls crunchy. "Um, Holly, you may want to get that," he said to me while I was holding the dirty diaper and trying to clean the naked butt crack in front of me with my free hand. "Well, Harry! Why didn't you grab it?" I was exasperated as I ran for a towel. "I figured you would," he responded.
But all was well as Harry took over at this point and put on the clean diaper. I tried to wash the Sprite out of her curls and was rewarded when she stuck her sleeve in a plate ofweek-old cake. Yeah.
My family is petrified that I'll post a blog about anything they say or do. "This better not end up on that internet." They say, wagging their fingers at me.
Paranoid, aren't they?
Anyway, last night I was at my parent's house with my hubby and sister. Summer, in mid-conversation as she is prone to do, stops and reaches for something in the floor under the coffee table. "What's this?" she asks my parents.
"Daddy brought me home a vibrator." Mom says nonchalantly.
Then, we all laugh hysterically as Summer opens up this thing that looks like an antique ear thermometer and squeals "It's from 1965!"
This prompts my dear hubby, he who possesses the social graces of an angry monkey, to retell a story.
Harry: "My friend's dad worked for the Department of Highways and he found a vibra-"
Me: "Please don't say it. I can't take anymore. Please - call it a - uh - a - uh 'personal hygeinated stimulatory device'!"
Harry: "So he found a vibrator by the side of the road, took it home, and used it on his wife."
A little part of me dies as I bury my head into his armpit.
Mom: "Oh, that reminds me of my friend-"
Harry: "Wait we're talking about vibrators and THAT reminds you of someone?"
Me: "Oh God, please, help me...
Mom: "Well, yes! You know, AIDS, Diseases and the like, since it was by the side of the road, and my friend was teaching class and a kid bit her! She and the little girl both have to go for AIDS tests!"
Dad: "Hey, Summer, does it smell funny?"
All but Holly: belly laugh with merriment and mirth.
And I'M the one they're worried about.
That I'M going to embarress THEM!
I grew up in a village. This village had more money than it knew what to do with, and still does. It finds ways to spend this cash inflow, no matter how silly they seem!
From the picture above you can see a SIGN telling people not to put their SIGNS on this here pole with a NO SIGN sign on it!
It makes me chuckle!
Tuesday night on our way to a romantic dinner for two in Charleston, Harry looks over at me. His face is illuminated by the passing cars and his eyes shine with pure joy and love.
Or so I thought.
"I wanna buy you a Valentine." He says to me, holding my hand in that too-tight way that he's prone to do.
"Well, that's sweet... Now that it's the 14th and they're marked half off." I say back to him, smiling broadly so that he'll still pay for my 11oz Filet Mignon.
"Huh?" he looks confused. Uh-oh. Did I use too many big words? Did I use a non-techie term? Quick, Holly! Say something technical! Motherboard!Sound card! Power Inverter! Head Unit! DVDA! Wait, that's not - huh- heh- heh - never mind...
"Valentine's are half-off right now, sweetie, and that's okay. You can just buy me dinner, instead!" I patted his hand after wrestling my fingers away from his grip.
"No - a Valentine. Valentine One? The Radar Dector?" he said in a "DUH!" voice.
Oh. Silly me.
"Yeah, that'd be nice... Not that I'd speed-" he cut me off.
"So when I take your car over the next few months, ya know, so I won't put miles on my Denali, I'll have it!" He said with glee.
And who said Romance is dead?
I hate that song.
You know which one.
The one where the guy is singing so passionately and soul-bearingly raw - about a stupid photograph.
He even sings/bellows " - IT MAKES ME LAUGH!" Um - no it obviously makes you scream, dude. Calm down. Try decaf.
Anyway, anytime I hear this song in the morning while getting ready for work - I have a bad day. EVERY FREAKIN' TIME. I heard it yesterday and, man, you could've cut the bad mood cloud in my office with an extra-sharp machete.
I heard the first few notes this morning coming from the clock radio in my bathroom and I flew, like some chubby-non-flighted bird across the room to smack it to "off."
First thing this morning I get an email from Lawyerman "Blah, blah blah, moot, blah blah, blah, didn't check voicmail enough yesterday." I'm pretty sure that's what it said, anyway... First thought : " I TRIED - but those darn clients ya'all insist on talking to kept calling - I'll make sure to hang up on them just so I can go through the complicated process of checking the voicemail." Second thought: "Ass."
The phone system here in the Office that Time Forgot is so archaic the chords are practically made of twine. There is no easy way to check for mail. If I try, and am thwarted, I tend to resolve to "try later." And then I forget. So sue me. Wait, bad choice of words.
Still slightly seething when another member of the staff interrupts my obviously frantic attempt at getting my timesheet together last minute to turn in, she leans over me and says in her pseudo-soft voice: "Do you have any other chocolate?" I told her, nicely enough, to "go'way" and "come back after I get my time in." She stands over top of me chatting in that breathy voice that should've died with Marilyn about, what else, the friggin' weather. What part of "Go'way" didja not get, honey?
THEN - here comes the faux pas/cliche in charge of running this hell on a highrise and asks for my check-in sheets from last week. She points her crooked finger at me and flings it. This is her nice way of requesting that I do something. She's in dire straits of losing one of her precious, gnarled, fake diamond encrusted digits. Next time, I freakin' bite it.
When I tell her that I have NEVER kept the tracker sheets, she looks at me wide-eyed. "I'm sure I've asked you to keep them. Some time last year, I requested it." She scoffed.
"Nope," said I of little patience and sharp teeth, "you've requested that I mark the time in and out of the staff, but never to keep the whole sheet." Sidenote - she stopped asking me to keep track of time when it became readily apparent to all who saw said sheet that she came in 45 minutes late and extended her lunches by at least twice that much.
"Well," she said to me, flipping her finger again, "start doing it now."
"I'll try!" I answered in a chipper voice. Groan.
I loathe that damn song.
I just realized, after posting the pics below, that my forehead is GINORMOUS. No, really - it's HUGE. I look like Helen Hunt - like I have a receding hairline! I swear! I think, as I've gotten older that my hair hasn't started receding - but my eyebrows are retreating! They are slowly sliding down my face!
Oh - second horrible thought: What if I have to pluck them all out and (gulp!) draw them in like those horrific older women?! What if I don't wanna look surprised all the time? Worse yet - I could leave the house and forget to draw them on???
Last night was the third installment of the ongoing trend of Stacey, Tiffany and I meeting up with my sis, Summer, when she would visit for an eve of pure gluttony. We dubbed them "Wine and Cheese Parties" for lack of a more creative name.
I knew the evening would have to start off better than my surprise party for Harry and the exploding Marinara incident.
I was wrong.
I got home and realized - Harry had my keys.
So Summer and I sit in the driveway and wait for dad to come unlock my front door.
I'm doing the pee pee dance like nobody's business in the front seat of a Ford Taurus.
I change and ditch the toe-scrunching heels. I pad happily around my kitchen, enjoying the roughness of the new Raffia rugs that are adorning the icky white-tiled floor. Humming slightly to the tune that was coming from my musically inclined sister, I grab a glass bowl, turn and watch while it sails, poltergeist-like, to the floor.
"Well, Holly!" Summer turned around to stare at me like I had done something so evil (breaking a cheap glass bowl) that the gatekeeper would never let me into heaven.
The worst part?
I had lifted up one leg when the bowl hit and could not find any place NOT covered in shards of glass to lower my piggies. So I stood, like an oversized, paler version of a Flamingo while my sister started slowly and methodically sweeping up the glass shards that shone from the floor.
Knowing my luck, I kept still.
The luck just kept flowing, though. My bud Stacey had a close encounter of the Oldsmobile kind and Tiffany was forced to stay over - which is torture for anyone - but especially when one's job is located in close proximity to the morgue.
Later that night, when the wine was drunk, the cheese was devoured and the chocolate fountain was dismantled (oh yes, there was a fountain of chocolate, and, oh yes, we stuck every edible item around in it!) we decided to do makeovers!
Fun - and very TLC channel-ish!
I was off my game. Usually I'm very good at expertly applying make-up to the faces of my friends, turning their "girl-next-door" looks into stunning beauties. However, when I was done applying a liner to my sister's eyeballs. I stopped, leaned back.
She looked like a lost member of the KISS army.
She was nicer to me.
My face was even, my eyes were bright and, by George! Were those lips?!
Tiffany decided to immortalize my big-haired, face-painted glory on film and snapped a few highly complicated pics with her digital camera. I plan on using these as my headshots when applying to be an extra/Matthew's fluffer on the movie set here in Huntington.
To be so immodest - I loved the pictures of me. Yes - I look chubby - but - get this - my nose doesn't look like it should have it's own zip code! And my less-than-perfect smile - well - it looked stunning!
Now, the whole package was weird - but that's just me. I constantly think I look weird - like a Jewish girl that's been eaten by a chubby Methodist spawned by Cousin It.
But I digress.
The party was a smashing success, even with the massive amount of chocolate clean-up afterwards and my sister's glossy stare at the television when "The Bachelor" came on.
Girls - if you're reading this - I beg of you - take the time to schedule a Girls' Night In! It's necessary for the survival of our species - and - it helps to prevent the disease that plagues most couples. The "we" disease. "We are doing this", "We don't like scary movies, " "We like Chinese!"
Get my drift?
Oh, and Happy Valentine's Day!
My friend, Stacey, of prior poetry-praising fun, is currently working on her thesis : "Blah, blahbitty and the Engagement Customs of the World." I would pay more attention but since graduating college my span has been reduced to thirty second increments.
Any hoo - to help her out I will post the link to the painless survey she has created. Please spread the word. She needs people from all over the world to fill this out - so - do your duty and Help a College Student Today!
I'm no poet, but my bud Stacey sent me an "Ode to Why I Don't Wanna Write My Thesis." And that beautiful prose prompted me to post my own personal poetry about a rather icky event that happened this weekend.
My weekend was to be filled with merriment and mirth,
my dear hubby, Harry, salt of the earth,
had turned 26! Oh what joy and what bliss!
I threw him a party, a surprise not to miss!
He picked up his granny (formerly "hermit couch")
and I toiled around, I was no slouch!
I put on the water, and prepped up the noodles!
I browned the rolls, the bread, the whole kit-n-caboodle!
I opened the slaw and went to the fridge
to get the sauce, two kinds, I wouldn't kid!
To the counter I plopped the one made of meat
and reached in for the marinara, oh what a feat!
It slipped from my hands and I watched in horror
as it flew to the ground like a mobster's fedora!
It landed with a thud on the white tiled floors
and before my very eyes it exploded, for sure!
Splash! To the floors that were once white!
Splash! To the tile marked red with fright!
Swoosh! To the fridge, that damned old foe!
Swoosh! To my shoe, and my big toe!
Flop! To the ceiling were it hung like blood!
Flop! To the carpet, where the sauce went thud!
In walked my sister, my mother, my niece
and spied me sitting, hands red, and no Phoebe.
They stared at me, trying to see what had happened,
they stared at me and just couldn't fathom,
why I would kill my dearest furball and only pet
on the day that my hubby's surprise was set.
My sister, walked past me to the table instead,
and started blowing balloons, not a word was said
on why the ceiling, the floor and the fridge,
was covered with a substance of apparent carnage.
The day ended happily, candles were blew-out
Harry had fun at his party, happiness throughput.
No one mentioned the incident, or the ghastly sight,
but everyone was relieved when Pheebs waddled in that night!
(Disclaimer - actually, the marinara on the ceiling wasn't noticed until after a late-night trip to Kmart, when Summer, my dear sis, chewing on one a french fry (oops - sorry - that was one of her crazy skinny pale fingers) says: "Uh, sis? Are you sure that sauce didn't hit the ceiling, too?" I looked up and then took the lord's name in vain. Then, of course, I looked at Harry. He, without looking up says : "Don't worry, I'll clean it.")
I love my mother, I really do.
She did not beat me with wire hangers or force me to continue the life of a pageant peruser when I no longer wanted to. However, she WILL be paying for my therapy bills in the near future.
Holly: "Mom, you haven't said a thing about my hair! Isn't it cute? I had to sleep with my hair in two princess Leia buns in order to get it all wavy like this!"
Mom: "Oh. You mean you did that on purpose?"
So, I had a dream/nightmare last night. I was sitting in bed with Harry watching tv. The phone rang.
"Hello?" I answered.
"Who is this?" I asked.
"A poltergiest." the creepy little voice answered.
"Oh. Are you the one that's been causing all these weird things to happen to us?" I asked.
Harry continues to watch tv.
"Fine. I invite you in!" I slammed down the phone and turned back to Harry. "Do we even know who to fight one of those?"
He shrugged noncommittally and kept switching the channels.
This dream led to a lunch time conversation between Tiffany and Alison and I about irrational fears becoming irrational dreams. Topics that were introduced:
1. Spiders in general.
2. Things coming out of closet (only if closet wasn't closed properly)
3. Covers having to be completely over head in order to sleep so that nothing creepy can "find" us.
4. Scary children in bedclothes.
The last one was mine. The girls worried that if I did end up with children one day and they, in turn, would have a scary dream and end up by my bed in the wee hours - that they would be rewarded with a screech and an accidental bitch slap from Mommy Dearest and her disallusions.
That's all folks!
When people say they are learning to play a musical instrument what they should say is: "I'm going to take a test, if I am musically inclined then I will pass, and if I'm not, well, then, I may take up Sodoku."
Let's face it - when you hear of someone learning to play - one of two things are said, "Oh - he's a natural - just picked it right up!" or "Well, he's trying. It's just taking some time," followed by "He gave up and went on to another hobby - scrapbooking."
So that's my observation - when it comes to mastering the piano, the guitar or even the freakin' oboe - you've either got "it" or - like me - you don't.
"Remember to always be yourself. Unless you suck." --- Joss Whedon.
Well, doesn't that just say it all.
I read this quote, laughed and then went : "Wait. DO I suck?" And I guess, yeah, I kinda do. I have become one of those perpetually peppy people who are seemingly high on life as they flit from one project to another. Lemmie just list my projects that I have attempted in the past year or so and have failed spectacularly at:
1. Crochet. I tried, I gave up. I retried, still managed to make some of the most colorful bookmarks you have ever laid your eyes upon. Were supposed to be scarves.
2. Needlepoint. I did one half of one side of one pillowcase. TA-DA!
3. Fiction. 20,000 words of pure, undiluted CRAP.
4. Poetry. Shel Silverstien, I am not.
5. Painting. I figured out a bit too late that naked canvases scare the holy bejeezus outta me.
6. Sodoku. Oh this is fun! For about five minutes. Yawn.
7. Pilates. I'm chubby. Not bendy. I think my powerhouse is a mobile home.
8. Cartooning. Three pages of half-drawn sketches later and I find that my witty banter falls, stalls and hits the walls when I try to illustrate it.
9. Guitar. Bug-eyed guy has freaked me out. This one, though, has not beaten me... yet...
10. Bellydancing. My snake arms look like Anacondas that have eaten large goats - whole. I'm working on it! Figure eight! Figure eight!
11. I have yet to try: knitting (a bit scared of a repeat bookmark incident), making my own pasta (yum, wallpaper paste!), and photography (my hubby is very protective of our digital cameras. All three of them.)
So - if you have a hobby I should try, lemmie know! I am up for trying anything - twice!
1. Baked a pound cake last night. Realized too late the importance of following directions and the ingredient list to a tee when I dumped out the cake and it crumbled. Realized too late, also, that if you pop a peice of the crumbled cake in mouth - it will still be 350 degrees. Ouch.
2. When making pasta - it's best to check the burners for debris before starting and smoking up the house like a pyromaniac.
3. When hanging curtains with your mother, it's best to knock her into a state of unconsciousness with the rod so as to spare her antics of "Are they straight? Do they need to be poofed some more on the left? Stand right there, no, there, NO! Over there! Now - pull it down- " WHAM - all better.
4. When your hubby is away, do not, for any reason, watch any portion of the film "A Walk to Remember." I cried so loud that Phoebe ran from me and hid in the corner for an hour and a half.
5. Do not tell people that when you get cold, you go sit in the bathroom floor in front of a space heater. They will think you odd. And a big dork. Ah, yes, but a toasty one!
6. When your hubby offers to buy you a "Substitute Hubby" - make sure you get one that's not so powerful it'll rattle the fillings out of your teeth.
7. If it's "Man v. the Big Wheel" - the "Big Wheel" will always win. Harry had to put together Gillian's new big wheel. From the sounds coming from the other end of the phone - he was either constipated, or losing.
8. When someone hands you a three month old baby and says "Don't worry, you can't hurt him." What they're really saying is "Just don't piss him off."
9. Harry called after the Super Bowl had ended. "Let's see how much of a hermit you really are - who won today?"
"The Steelers." I said with mock certainty.
"Damnit! I had a 50/50 chance to get it right." I bellowed into my cell phone.
"You, did, I just wanted you to prove my point. Which you just did. Ha-ha." He gloated.
I had to laugh. I hate sports - and he knows it.
10. Saw "Walk the Line" with two of my friends. We were running late so we grabbed three seats (not together) and settled in. During one of the first scenes (rather emotional) we all remembered to turn off cell phones. I manage to get mine off, so does my co-worker. However, our other movie bud didn't fare so well. Upon trying to silence her phone, it beeped, whistled and lit up like the Rockefeller Christmas Tree. A guy nextto us started shushing like a librarian on crack. I could practically see the spittle illuminated in the air.
I busted out laughing which only infuriated him more. He spent the rest of the night trying to sit on my co-worker's lap. Poor chicks, one gets yelled at for having a life, and the other gets a free lap dance from a man old enough to be her dad's dad! Ew.
Since I seem to be in a rather bloggy (did I just make a new word? Why, yes, I did!) mood today, I have decided to share the story of "The Day I Helped My Parents Put Together Their New Bed." which occurred all of - yesterday.
I rush home from work, change, feed the cat (you ate a whole bowl while I was gone?! Tubby!) and run out the front door. I make it to Mommy and Daddy Dearest's home at a little after six. We eat (mom and I in the kitchen and dad from the comforts of his new recliner in the other room - yelling news tidbits to us over mouthfuls of spaghetti)and then march upstairs to assemble new cherry four-poster bed.
We push, pound, strain and wiggle to get the little metal latches to line up and slide into the headboard and footboard. It won't fit. So dad goes and gets vaseline from the bathroom. Yup - in my parent's bedroom I am now lubing up the bed pieces to make them fit together.
While I'm turning red in the face and covered with slime, my sister calls - from Richmond - as if to punctuate the fact that I, the younger sister, am now the only "grunt" left to work. "Get home, Bitch, and help me out!" I yell to her when mom stands over me with the speakerphone.
Finally, after much lubing, pounding, cursing and wishing to be sent back to my REAL parents (I was convinced, at that time, that I was adopted from nice people, like serial killers, to come live with these crazies.) we got the bed together.
We put the supports on :
Mom: "Dammit, Ben, slide that one piece over that other one and then move that other part to the middle! NO! Watch! No - like this!" Sidebar: I was twelve before I figured out that my father's first name was not, in fact, "Dammit."
Dad: "Which one? This one? This one? Huh?"
Mom: "THAT piece goes over - NO - not like that - I'll do IT myself!" She hops over the bed rails and stumbles over to my dad where she begins to gesture more emphatically. This is her way of "doing it herself."
Me: "Dad, it's like a puzzle-"
Mom: "Don't tell him that! He'll never figure it out then!"
Finally, all is settled and we shove the box springs on to the frame followed by the mattress.
The bed, as a whole, is now towering three feet off the floor.
All three of us collapse into hysterics.
I go home hoping that my parents don't roll off the bed in the middle of the night and plummet to their doom...
Really, why do I even bother?
I should pick up the handle, yell "You've got the wrong number, ASSHAT!" and hang up.
The important ones will call back...
Me: "Blah Yippety, Boo boo blah and blech."
Him: Who is this?
Me: "Blah Blah... law firm."
Him: "I thought I was gettin' ahol' of the Water Company."
Me: "No, sir. We're a law firm."
Me: "No water here, just lawyers."
Him: (exasperated) "Well, okay..."
Me: "Uh-huh, bye!" (A THUD sounds as Holly slams her forehead on desk repeatedly, THUD!)
I could answer the phone: "Good day! Thank you for calling 'Pitsohell', can I interest you in pitch fork up the ass?" and no one would pay any more attention than they do now...
ME: "Good Morning, blah, blah, blah and more blah!"
LADY: "Yes, tomorrow is my daughter's birthday and I always ship a bunch of roses to her to work to celebrate and how much are your roses per dozen?"
ME: "Roses? Ma'am all I've got is a bunch of lawyers, here."
LADY: "This isn't Spurlock's Flowers?"
ME: "No. But I'd be happy to ship all of the attorneys to you if you'd like!"
LADY : "Oh, no, no thank you!"
ME: "Hope your daughter has a happy birthday!"
LADY: "Oh, bless you! Oh, goodness! Oh,dear!"
I decided to over-achieve last night. Yes, the Couch Potato Queen of WV decided to "do stuff." I perched on the edge of my lazy-boy parrot encrusted chair and clutched my baby blue guitar in one hand and the remote in my other, sweaty, hand. The unblinking guy on the dvd casually held his instrument (hee hee) and began instructing me on the E chord. "Okay, now you place your third finger on the fourth string and your second finger on the fifth string and strum and there's E. Okay, now for the A chord." Hold on one freakin' minute blinky, I do what?! With what??
I sometimes think that those who popped out of the womb with a musical instrument clutched in their tiny pink fists, sometimes forget that other people, like, I dunno, ME - have NO FREAKIN' CLUE. I needed this dry-eyed guy to start at the beginning - like "Okay, for you girls out there, here is the proper placement of your boob behind the guitar, oh, and don't forget that you won't be able to see what strings you are playing because this instrument is made with them facing out so you can't see a thing. Got it? Good?"
Does "Guitar for Dummies" come with a dvd?
Then, with sore fingers, I decided I needed brownies. So, I hop down to the kitchen, put my fingers on ice and set about making blondies. I'm happily tossing ingredients in, not measuring ( I watch foodnetwork, after all! EVOO, baby!) and then watch in horror as my too-expensive bottle of vanilla gets dropped in the sugar and egg goo. Now, there is no way to extract the, um, extract out of the mix, so, I think: double it. More crap is thrown in the bowl (is it getting smaller?) and I turn on the beaters. Pulling them out slowly so the goo will come off of them, I ease the beaters out of my uncooked brownies and watch in horror as batter flies from them onto me, the counter, the stove, the bread bin, the salt and pepper shakers and the floor. I never do anything halfway.
Cussing at the globby messes, I pour the rest into two pans, throw them in the oven and slam the door shut. Fifteen minutes later I have two pans of brownies and a slightly sticky counter.
I can live with that.
I should've stopped there. Really, common sense shoulda intervened. But NO - I had to try to conquer "Bellydancing Boogie." Eight reps of "snake arms" and ten "figure eights" later I was thinking that my arms hurt, my back hurt and that I may be kinda sucky at the sex thing considering my hips were not making a figure eight so much as an "O." As in "OH my God - don't EVER do that again."
Tonight - round 2 with unblinking guy on the guitar dvd and maybe, just maybe I'll work my way up to learn the "D" chord. Yeah, baby. Rock on! Hee hee.