Undomesticated Me

It's Sunday.

It's after one pm and I'm - still in bed. 

To my right is a copy of "The Secret Supper" - a wonderful book (or so it's been touted) that, after 300 pages, I still have no clue what the point of it was. So, either I'm too dumb to "get it" or to smart to "fall for it."  Let's go with the latter to save my sanity, k?

To my feet is my ever-present heating pad (for my still aching side), my "Live in Love" tote bag (which harbors my present works) and a box containing a half-eaten pizza.  I feel like the typical recluse only I have more guilt than a person choosing to be inside on this gorgeous day.  Why am I feeling this way?  Because I just had to hike up the volume on the FoodNetwork in order to hear it over the lawnmower that my dear, overworked hubby is pushing around our front yard. 

I guess I should pry my legs from under my warm, toasty blanket and run a brush through my greasy hair to join my hubby in the "joy" of yardwork.

Sigh.

Wish me luck, no bug bites and that my hands shall not come into contact with : bugs, dirt, sweat, or plants of any kind.

I'm such a girl....

Fight or Flight or - Both?

What does one do when one is nearing thirty and still fighting against all odds to be an adult?  And what does this same one do if the idea of being an adult is so scary that it makes "Saw II" look like a Disney film?

Upon first hearing that old Britney Spears song (pre K-Fed) "Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman" I thought it was pop drivel.  Now?  I kinda get it. 

And now that I've found a link to a barefoot, white trash prima-donna with a weird flip-flop fetish - I'm going to bed to join my snoring hubby who crashed around 9:30, face-first in to our King bed after being mediator between me and my mother, who refuses to believe that neither my sister nor I are capable of making our own decisions.  Much less, the right ones.

I'm obviously annoyed right now.

Annoyed with wondering where a family unit ends and an individual begins. 

Annoyed with where my life is and really annoyed that my double chin seems to be growing a friend. 

So - I'm off to comfort eat a bag of bagels and a vat of cream cheese. 

I just hope that I am not found, 6am, passed out on the dirty white tile, crumbs trailing down my massive boobies and a cream cheese mustache to boot.

Sigh.

Do What You're Told... Or Else!

I just read this:

Meanwhile Katie Holmes is changing her first name to just Kate.

Tom said:

“Katie is a young girl’s name. Her name is Kate now she’s a child-bearing woman.”

I just got "icky man vibe" shivers.

Ugh.

Fat Girl in Little Car!!!

I drove my white corvette to work today - I was loving it, driving along, both hands on the wheel, knuckles white as I am dealing with being petrified that I'm gonna hit a bump or a tree or a car that I'm making myself a bit sick - but - I still love it.

I did have a particular thought jump out of the inner workings of my mind as I was cruising down Third Avenue this morning - how dissappointing for people to see this beautiful car, admiring the curves and the way it hugs the road and then seeing me, the quintessential "fat girl" behind the wheel.

I guess it could be worse - I could be an overly tanned, under-sexed, balding middle-aged man, holding on to my youth like a stick shift and straddling an engine that sputtered out years before the purchase of the vehicle in question.

'Cause, ya know, that would totally suck - and stuff...

HAVE A GREAT WEEKEND!

ps - How come you can eat with your fingers, but licking them in public after a messy treat of ice cream is considered rude???

I'm a Mechana-chick!

All day today I've had the peculiar feeling that this date was an important one. I reviewed my mental list of friend's birthdays, anniversaries and even wondered if there was something I "must see" on tv tonight.

Then, it hit me this morning as I sat down at my desk, (already bored off my ever-expanding ass): Today is my dating anniversary with Harry!

Six years!

We've been together four years shy of a decade.

It feels longer.

But in a good way - of course.

For example: I was parked on Main Street in Barboursville last night and was leaving. Merging into the flow of traffic, I flipped on my turn signal to make a right on to Central Avenue.

It began ticking like a bomb - fast and furious.

My tail light was out.

"Mother f'r." I thought to myself as I stared at my crazy flashing green arrow that was winking at me from my dash. Mocking me and my non-ability to let other motorists know my turning intentions!

Pretty odd coincidence that my turn signal stops working the week after Harry self-installed new clear taillights on my vehicle, dont'chathink?

At this point - I'm tired, covered in paint (long story) and pissed all the hell off.

Hopping out of my Escape, I turn on my emergency blinkers and walk to the back.

Sure enough - It's not working.

I can't even hurt Harry at this point - he's in Morefield, WV (Where is that? Hellifino.) so I have to fix it myself.

I took a page out my Daddy Dearest's book and, well, I hit it.

Hard.

I believe this is the proper method according to "Advance Auto's Guide to Car Repair."

If not - it should be - cuz it totally worked!

I laughed as the little yellow light sprang to life and started blinking in synch with its twin.

I called Harry on his cell: "You were sooo almost in trouble!"

"An Ode to Avoiding Work" by Holly K.

I'm so bored that my toes are asleep,

they dozed off while counting some fluffy white sheep,

you can hardly blame them for catching some z's,

my life is quite boring, if not quite a breeze.

 

I sit at a desk shaped like a horseshoe,

but no luck do I have, of many or few,

my wishes aren't granted, that I can tell,

and my hopes are just that, dreams unfulfilled.

 

What can I do to spice up my days?

Aggravate my co-workers? Set trashcans ablaze?

Replace the t.p. with leaves from the street?

Gather ice cubes with the balls of my feet?

 

Knock on their doors and run away quick?!

Smack them with staplers/call them a dick?

Answer the phone with an accent of Cockney?

Pretend every item is a Hawaiin Portkey?

 

Wear bunny ears like it's the new fashion style?

Smoke candy cigarettes while I process and file?

Barge in on a conference calls and make armpit noises?

Question every single one of their tie choices?

 

Lounge on the couch from ten to one?

Warming my feet in the bright midday sun?

Bleach my mustach from two to two-fifteen?

Brush my hair/shave my legs the time in between?

 

Oh what would they do if I went through with it?

Would they ignore me, scold me, or throw a heenie fit?

I'd be okay, whatever may come,

as long as I'm here (or there) having fun!

 

 

I Hate HTML and HTML Hate Me...

I have been on-line all morning, Google searching, Blogger searching and even commenting on Forums trying to figure out how to post in chronological order on my Vampire Blog.  After THREE GRUELING HOURS of "helpful" suggestions to "just change the date"  (um - NOOOOO!) I finally found a site.

It gives me the HTML codes I so desired.

In Spanish.

Thanks for that.  REALLY helpful!

So I post a fake blog (unlike the vampire one - tee hee) and try it out on it.  I enter in the code, replace html with other html and expect a miracle.

Me thinks I expect too much.

It doesn't post in reverse  - it only posts the first entry first and that's it.  The rest are - POOF - gone.  Eaten by the World Wide Web. 

I'm just not geeky enough to be a computer nerd.

I've tried.

I've failed.

I'm going back to the guitar.  At least then I expect to be bad at it...

Rain of Pain

Friday night Harry and I stood under the Sears awning and watched as rain fell from the sky in angry sheets. I looked at him and he looked at me, sizing up the situation.

"Stay here," he said, kicking off his expensive leather sandals and wriggling out of his Lacoste polo (that shrinks in fear when water approaches).

"Stop. I'll go." I sacrifice myself, my hair, my tennis shoes and my mascara to the Gods of Rain and run (funny - I walked brisk) to the car.

Picking him up at the door, he jumps in and I drive like Andretti to get him to Gamestop before they close to pick up the new Lara Croft game.

I scored sooooo many brownie points for THAT one!

Pulling into the garage at home, I emerge from the car a proverbial wet noodle while Harry hops out like a dry, too perky hubby about to get smacked with a wet hooded sweatshirt.

"Two minutes. Just give me TWO minutes and we can go downstairs and play," he says to me as he grabs the new toilet connectors. We had to buy metal ones since the ark could've been built in our basement a few weeks ago due to faulty plastic toilet connectors.

I'm so tired. SOOO tired. And wet. And cranky. Did I mention - tired?

"Just a sec!" He bounces into the bathroom off of the kitchen, connector in hands, and I sit down at the kitchen table.

I'm so tired. I yawn. It's 9:30. I'm old.

WHOOOOOOOOSH!

"Aw - SHIIIIIIIIT!" comes a cry from the bathroom.

So tired. I pick up a towel from the sink in the kitchen and gather five more from the drawer. So tired. I sit in the floor where the water has pooled, on my knees, I begin mopping. So tired.

The water is on the floor, the flowers on the back of the toilet, the mirror and the tippy-top of the eight foot ceiling and is dripping on my head.

So tired.

Harry is cussing the man who built the house, the man who had enough sense to reverse the water knob so that when Harry thought he was turning the water to the commode off - he was really turning it on - full blast. Which promptly hit him in the face and bounced off his head to the ceiling to collect and drip on his tired wife as she scrubbed with Target Collection Kitchen towels the watery mess.

His clothes, the ones that we had so painstakingly kept from the rain, were now soaked with toilet water and were flying through the air with the greatest of ease.

I'm so tired.

And trying like HELL not to laugh at the irony and at the half-naked, hairy, wet man standing in my kitchen, shaking with anger at the exploding toilet.

"Do NOT, under ANY circumstance - Post this in your BLOG!" he bellowed at me as little drops of water formed on his eyebrows.

Brownie points are given, brownie points are taketh away....

:)

Morbid Me!

I have just found a new favorite site - by accident!

If you like to look at old cemeteries and can't help but have your curiosity peaked by tragedies of the dead and famous - go here!

I spent three hours looking up stuff! 

Bite my Blog... please?

It was recently pointed out to me that my Vamperella Blog was lacking in - well everything - since I hadn't posted in an eon or two (fifteen days - but the other sounds loads more dramatic) and she was right. 

I have been neglecting my blogs, my writings and my art doodles, all which keep me sane in this mind-numbing life that I sometimes lead.  So - with some prodding by a nifty bud (thanks, Tara!) I have decided - NO MORE! 

I will take time for me and here is my list of things to "do":

1.  Blog everyday - on both blogs - well - 'cept weekends when I must perform "wifely duties" (laundry, picking up man panties, socks, tees, shoes...)

2.  Finish that darn book.  It's not the "Great American Novel" or anything - but it's funny and it's me - that's for darn sure - so - hopefully some agent/publisher will like it enough to take it to the bathroom and read it and not use it as substitute Charmin.

3.  Open up my Bridal Biz with my returning sis.  We have the store, just not the inner-workings.  We just need to find our angle....

4.  Start a family.  I may be anti-babies - but I'm not anti-family - so - there's an inner demon (hopefully not literally) that I will need to confront in a short time.

5.  Quit my job.  Being a receptionist has afforded me three things:  a larger ass, a larger ass, and larger ass.

And if those don't work - then I will hang my writer's hat up, quit blogging, line Phoebe's box with my book and sign up for Taco Bell's midnight shift. 

Let's hope it doesn't come to that...

Geographically speaking, of course.

I suck at Geography.

If someone where to ask me - "which way is north?"  I would, inevitably, point up. 

If someone where to ask me - "which is closer - Hawaii or Europe?"  I would, of course, answer that Hawaii is in the United States so it is closer (which is how I picked our honeymoon destination three years ago - and upon telling my hubby my logic, I instantly lost all claim to being "the smart one" in the relationship). 

If someone were to ask me to find, on the map, Washington - I would point towards WV and then, stop and put my other hand on the upper left hand corner.  Now, this is an easy mistake - but it just further cements my hall of fame entry into "Worst Geographically Inclined Person Ever."

The real irony is that I have many friends slowly climbing the Academic Ladder at MU, striving daily to become "Geography People."  I envy these dot-makers and their ability to navigate a strange speckled map and coordinate coordinates with the ease and grace of a roaming gnome.  I would love to be one of these people.

I would also love to be Michael Buble's toothbrush, but that's another entry all together. 

Sorry, ya LOST me...

I watched the first three episodes of Season One of LOST yesterday during my unfortunate incarceration/bed rest. I had heard that it was amazing. I had been told that it was superb television. I had watched the chilling previews.

I don't think I like it.

I'm not giving up yet, but I am having serious trouble "suspending my disbelief" especially when someone gets eaten - Jurassic Park-style - and another shoots a polar bear - on a desserted island.

I'm trying. I really am.

I will watch at least four more episodes in an attempt to get "hooked."

But I have my doubts.

Not to blame the show, but I'm just a one-type of tv kinda gal. Let's look at my all-time faves:

1. Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Teenage girl is the "chosen one" to destroy evil and save humanity while still trying to be "normal" and kick butt in cute shoes.

2. Dawson's Creek: Teenage hormones cross a creek and enter through bedroom windows.

3. Saved By the Bell (when it was still "good"): Teenage kids in a school try not to look like they're 30.

4. 90210: See above.

5. One Tree Hill: Teenagers partake in love triangles, cheerleading and basketball - it's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad, World.

So, in other words, maybe the only shows that can truly entertain me are the ones that deal with high-school angst.

I truly think that my id has never matured past thirteen, therefore, my inner-self will not let me "enjoy" any show without a titled teenage character. Let's hope that my outsides continue to reflect my insides.

Case in point: The nurse at Triage, frantic with her clipboard, says: "How old are ya, honey?" She's doing four things at once in a RN-kinda juggle that's perfected by people in high-stress jobs.

"Twenty-seven." I reply while one person strips me of my hooded sweatshirt, another straps on an blood-pressure cuff and a third gags me with a thermometer.

She stops - papers, pens, stethoscopes and paper clips freeze in mid-flight.

"How old?" She asks, staring me in the eye as if she could draw the truth out of my eyeballs.

"Twenty-seven" I mumble around the beeping stick in my mouth.

"Okaaaaaay."

"No, really, I am. I just look young." I say as someone grabs the thermometer from me, unstraps my arm and tosses my sweatshirt towards my arms.

"Yes, honey. Yes you do." She looks at me wistfully and then flies back in to her state of permanent panic as I'm shoved "gently" out the door.

Smallville is on tonight. I plan on watching.

(NON)Emergency Room

I don't know what's worse - sitting in an emergency room/daycare for five hours or being felt up by a gorgeous-beyond-reason MD while my husband watched. 

Scratch that last part.   That was actually pretty cool.

Why was I banished to the ER?  Well, after three weeks of sharp, stabbing pains in my right ribs, I called my doctor who told me to "Go the Emergency Room, NOW!" - do not pass go, do NOT collect $200 - just GO.

So, I left work, a little freaked after being told that it was probably my Galbladder ready to erupt - JOY - and, after picking up my mom (she refused to let me go alone) we checked in and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Four hours.  Finally, mom went to the window.  They said that they had called my name two hours ago and that I chose not to respond.

Yes, I just enjoy the frickin' waiting room so much with it's infectious diseases and barefoot hilljack children that I  chose not to respond.  I was BEYOND pissed. 

And of COURSE - they want my blood.   I hate that crap.  I could've gone in for a stuffed-up nose and a skinny nurse with a bad perm would've made eye contact with her clipboard and said "yeah - we're gonna  need a blood sample."  

Poor Dave.

He came in, was as gentle as if I was a blood-virgin and then talked to me while I tried to remain conscious. 

Didn't work.

"Dave," I said to him, "You were great, really.  But I'm gonna throw up.  Or pass out.  I haven't decided yet." 

He made me lie down and reclined the bottom part of the bed so that my feet were up in the air and my breasts, clad in a horrible blue gown, were somewhere near my ears.

A little while later, I felt better, didn't throw up or make nice with the linoleum and - in walked my doctor.

Angels sang and either I was still a bit out of it, or else a halo appeared from behind his dark, dreamy curls. 

"Um, why do they have you in the (medical term I didn't understand in the least) position?"

"I don't like having my blood taken.  I tend to hit the floor," I drool to him and manage a pathetic chuckle.

He smiled.

I 'bout fainted again.

He fixed my bed and then sat down to talk to me.

"How are you today?" he asked.

"Fine," I lie, cursing my lack of lipstick and the fact that I'm so "lucky" to end up in the ER on two separate occasions and end up with two very hot doctors each time.

Harry knocks then.  He drove in from Raleigh in the time it took me to get to see a Doctor.  Now THAT'S efficient.

The gorgeous doctor manipulates my arm and rubs my rib cage.  I giggle. 

I'm ticklish.

And wishing I'd shaved my pits.  Jeez!

"I don't think it's your Galbladder," he says in that deep baritone voice, " I think it's an inflamed cartlidge between your rib cage and breast bone."  I'm relieved as I watch him explain the body and how it needs cartlidge to remain flexible.  He leaves to set up an x-ray, just in case one of my ribs may be cracked.

I look up at Harry and smile. I'm so happy he's there.

"Quit drooling over the doctor," he says to me with a big grin as he strokes my head.

"I wasn't.  Much." I said.  He kissed me on the forehead. 

Seven hours after arriving at St. Mary's Medical Center of Hurry Up and Wait  - I leave.

The bonus?

I have a prescription for Loratab and a day off work .

Not to mention the quasi-threesome with the hot doctor.

Yeah, I still got it.  Inflamed cartlidge and all...

 

I'm a Freak Magnet.

I enjoyed a nice quiet lunch, nestled in my freshly waxed Escape (when the HELL did I drive through TAR???) and coveting the bum of one flannel-encrusted Tom Welling on Smallville.

My hour is up, so I un-recline my seat, put on my coat and shoes and drive back to the middle of the ocean, oops, pardon me, the Employee Parking Lot. I splash through the puddles, being careful not to soak a small man who is walking through the alley holding a soggy cigarette. I stop, gather my things and start to open the door.

He's still standing there.

Right off to my left - almost out of my line of vision.

He's waiting on me to get out of my car.

The macho-girl side of me wants to get out and be on the ready to whack him like that Mole game at Chuck E. Cheese should he even begin to talk to me.

The scardy-cat-sproutin'-feathers-as-I-sat-there side of me wanted to put the car in gear and make him into roadkill out of sheer apprehension and fright.

Instead, I put the car back in gear and drove off. I could see him huff in the rearview and then slowly walk in the opposite direction.

Maybe he wanted to bum one off me. Or ask for a light. Or maybe he needed some money. Perhaps he was lost and needed directions.

Don't give a flying rat's ass.

Just a warning to all of you out there - don't approach a woman in a parked car or you may get: a face full of umbrella, a shoe in the groin, tire tracks on your back, or a facial courtesy of "Pepper Spray Du Jour."

As a side bar: A man with a very thick East Indian accent just called:

Me: "Hello, Law Office of Evil Things and Deeds?"

Him: "I need to speak to someone about your domain registry."

Me: "Okay, please hold while I get the Office Manager."

Him: (calling back) "What is your problem? I ask for your domain registry and you put me on HOLD for ten minutes."

Me: "Sir, you were on hold for 30 seconds while I was waiting for my office manager to pick up."

Him: " I just need to know - "

Me: "Please hold."

Now at this point he's yelling at me and cursing. I hate that crap.

Him: (calling back again) "DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND ENGLISH!!!" (The irony here is that he barely speaks it)

Me: "Yes, and you are being rude. I'm hanging up now."

Him: (calling back AGAIN). "Just SHUT UP AND LISTEN TO ME! WHY ARE YOU-"

Me: "BYE!"

Him: (yet again, calling me) "YOU ARE A F'N ASSHOLE! YOU ARE A -"

Me: "Have a nice day!" (He has yet to call back - but give him time - he is planning to call again - he's just trying to come up with insults. I can see him now, in his little folding metal chair, dictionary opened up to a picture of a Porcupine or some other woodland creature and stroking his chin and nodding slowly)

By the way - GREAT IDEA TO OUTSOURCE TO OTHER COUNTRIES - The customer service is SUPERB!

A Tisket, A Tasket...

As part of our "Romantic Weekend," Harry and I decided to head to German Village in Columbus, a mere 15,000 (much exaggeration here) from our hotel. 

"Let's walk it," my hubby proclaims.

"O-kay!" I stupidly agree.

Ten blocks later, I'm red-faced and my comfortably baggy jeans are now threatening to fall off with each dragging step I take.  Harry is trotting along like some sort of marathon runner while I am ready to attempt to roll up like Sonic the Hedgehog and fling myself down the brick road. 

"Are you - glistening?" he asks me, taking in my purple cheeks, matted bangs and soaked shirt. 

"No, I was glistening three blocks ago."  I smile at him sweetly.  "NOW, I'm just sweating like a f'n pig!"  He grins and tries to kiss me on my forehead. 

"EW." I say, backing away from him and nearly twisting my ankle on yet another pot hole that seems to be the norm for German Village. 

"I love you, babycakeshead, but oh, do I ever hate you at the moment."  I pull my hair up in a sweaty ponytail, pout, and insist on a cab for the ride home. 

Later, at the concert, he's loathing me, I'm sure, as we sit, sandwiched between throngs of overweight women clutching their Michael Buble t-shirts and swooning at the Canadian crooner.  I am mooning over the man on the stage while my  hubby keeps one hand snaked around my shoulder to either remind me that he's there or to keep me from throwing myself (or my undergarments) on to the stage below.

                                                              

Running back to the hotel during the first monsoon to ever hit Ohio, we hop into our King-sized bed and I lean up one one elbow, looking at him seductively.  "Do I really have to wear it tonight?"  I whine, speaking of the "outfit" I purchased back in February for Valentine's Day.

                                               

"No, you don't," he said, patting me on my soggy head and watching as I snuggle into his armpit.  Thinking this meant I was off the hook for Carnal Copulation, I started to drift off when I felt something grope me. 

I was wrong.  But at least I didn't have to wrestle my chubby legs into a pair of thigh-highs.  So, Amen to that one!

I'm off now to sign up for Michael Buble's fan club.  I figure you can get special privileges - like advanced ticket sales, autograph signings, meet and greets,  naked tango lessons and free t-shirts. 

                                                          

Ya know, the usual!

tee hee

Trapper/Keeper

How to know if you have a "Keeper."

1. If your man is out running errands and brings you home two corn dogs and a cherry limeade during your "stories" - he's a keeper. Bonus: If he hands them to you silently, kisses your head and then retreats.

2. If he offers to rub your sweaty feet after a hard day of work in killer heels. Bonus: If he doesn't grimace when he pulls off your sweaty socks/hose.

3. If he looks at you and says "I bought you somethin' today." And it's something you really wanted. Like two crates of Laffy Taffy.

Okay - i must interrupt this regularly scheduled broadcast of "What's on Holly's Mind" to bring you this: the guy that I "work" with (he's never here - hence the sarcastic use of quotes) just walked in to pick up his check wearing - a ten gallon hat. I swear to God - it was tan and it looked like the Marlboro man had dropped it and this dude picked it up, dusted it off, stuck it on his pinhead, adjusted his oversized belt-buckle and start struttin' like a Rooster in a hen house.

I asked him about his family member - the one that was "fount dead" (his words - not mine). And he said "s'okay." Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight.

Mosey along, then, little partner, mosey along...

We now return you to your regularly scheduled rant..

4. If your guy still makes you laugh - even if it's over something stupid like a blob of dropped ice cream stuck in the hair of his chinny-chin-chin.

5. If your guy is understanding about the fact that it's now mid-april and the "special outfit" that was bought for Valentine's Day has yet to be worn or, really, unpacked.

6. He is okay with the fact that "alone time" will be dictated by the discression of a separation-anxiety ridden feline and her obsession with sleeping between her owners.

7. If you still love him after you've been tea-bagged, post-shower. Some of you will get this - some of you won't. If you don't - consider yourself lucky. VERY lucky.

8. Cleans out the Garage. 'Nuff said.

9. If he lets you put your cold toes on the back of his warm legs in the middle of the night. And your ice-cold nose in the small of his back. And frigid fingers under each one of his armpits.

10. Finally, you have a keeper if he tells you, shows you and proves by every little action he does - that he loves you - on a daily/hourly/minutely/secondly basis.

Oh - and if he buys you tickets to drool over someone like, say, I dunno - MICHAEL BUBLE - then - yeah - he's a KEEPER!

          HAVE A GREAT EASTER, YA'ALL!

Welcome to My Life Similies.

"Life is like a box of chocolates; you never know what'cher gonna get." ~ Forrest Gump

Let's run with this:

"Life is like a highliter; juicy and bright one day, dried up and dull the next."

"Life is like a post-it note; sticky and functionable, but too often ignored."

"Life is like a candy bar; great to devour, hard to face when it's gone."

"Life is like a ladder; each rung brings you higher, but hurts like hell when you fall off and land on your ass."

"Life is like a chinese checkerboard; everyone's different and no one really understands what's going on."

"Life is like a squished bug; ugly and messy, but pretty cool upon closer examination."

"Life is like a keyboard; push the right button and you get where you want to go, push the wrong one and your whole system crashes."

"Life is like a bic pen; reliable and sturdy, but a complete surprise when it runs out of ink."

"Life is like a fax machine; constantly transmitting and receiving, never knowing when it may get an error and paper jam."
"Life is like a half-eaten donut in a box of wholes; tempting to devour but not knowing where the rest is."

Okay - so I don't get the last one even if it did come from somewhere in the confines of my brain!

You try!

email me: h0llyk911@aol.com

My Cup Runeth Over

My bra is trying to eat my left boob. 

And that's the least of my worries.

Ever since a co-worker was in a "bad wreck" where Karma so appropriately bit her in the ass for being on a two-hour non-working lunch, she feels the need to do what I have dubbed "The Dance of the Wicked" anytime she thinks I am looking at her.  She leaves for hours on end for "Doctor's Appointments" and then comes back to the office, arching her back, placing her hands on the small of her back to support it and then twists and turns like a fish on a hook with this pained look on her face. 

I'm not buying it.

One day, soon after her "traumatizing" wreck, she parked her rental car thisclose to mine.  The only way for her to extricate herself from her car would have been to climb over the passenger seat and exit through the other side.  I don't see how someone visiting a massage therapist and a chiropractor for "immense back pain" could have done such automobile gymnastics. 

And people wonder why W.V. is the #1 place for frivilous lawsuits...

Dr. 25504! Paging Dr. 25504!

"I want to go my own way, to follow the path that seems right to me. Don't think of me as a 14-year-old, since all these troubles have made me older. I won't regret my actions. I'll behave the way I think I should."

~ Anne Frank

Fifty years later and we are all still striving to be independent. Even at 27 I am still fighting the confines of what I "should be doing" versus what I want to be doing. I'm constantly shifting uncomfortably, pushing at the invisible ties that bind me to the girl I'm supposed to be - that all girls are supposed to be - pretty, sweet, non-confrontational, domesticated, maternal - things that I'm not and couldn't be even if I lived in Stepford.

I'm not made that way.

And I suspect that many of you out there aren't either.

So what's a non-conforming gal to do? Feel guilty about my lack of spawn? Feel bad that I'm not a good knitter/crocheter/cook? Apologize profusely for my inability to raise a non-suicidal houseplant? Worry incessantly about the bump in my nose/weird toes/chubby arms/messed up legs/crooked smile/odd tooth/funky and oddly placed birthmark?

I could, I guess.

Or I could easily solve all my problems the good ol' American way.

With plastic surgery and therapy.

Hubby's Cell Phone Picture - EXTRAVAGANZA!!!!

Harry sent me oodles of pics from his camera phone - had to share (or torture) ya'all  with the results!

 

"Whhhheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! - ?"

IT'S MINE!

ALL MINE!

MUAH-HA-HA HA!

(and maybe a lil' bit Harry's, too.  But only a little.)

It MUST be the Car...

When we were barefoot teenagers, my sis and I would cruise around Huntington in a dirt brown Oldmobile.  It was ugly - and not just  "not cute" it was so ugly people would park two spaces down to give it breathing room. 

One day we're sitting at a red light.  I have my rosy toes hanging out of the passenger's window while my cute button-nosed sister is at the wheel.  A carload of boys go by and they stare at us as if in slow-mo.  We stare back - a moment is shared along with a zillion pounds of hormones. 

"They were either looking at us - or the car."  I remarked to Summer and readjusted myself on the tan cloth interior that was stained with the days of the past.

"Must've been the car," she said absentmindedly and then slammed on the gas as the light changed to green and the car filled with the cool breeze of an otherwise stifling summer day. 

"'Cause it couldn't have been us - that they were looking at - huh?"  I said.

She readjusted her seatbelt, gathered her curls up and flopped them over the headrest "Huh?"  she replied. 

I had to explain to her that she just insulted us both by saying that a group of virginal teenagers  would rather ogle our auto rather than our bodies - she looked at my blankly and then erupted into George McFly giggles.

Having a junkheap for a car :  $800

Having Summer as my sis:  priceless

Making fun of her in my blog:  mucho priceless.

 

 

Excuse Me While I Kick Your Ass - K?

Why is it okay to interrupt the receptionist in mid-conversation to ask a stupid-ass question? Why is it deemed appropriate to butt-in to a repitiore that you are clearly not involved in to ask "Where's so-and-so?" And is it then, completely on the up-and-up to resond to the butter-inner with a fake grin and a contrite: "Don't know - have you parted your creamy, pimply butt-cheeks and checked for him in there? Or is your head in the f'n way?"

 

Weighing in on a Hefty Topic

Dr. Phil once said, "People who overeat are replacing what they need with food." Okay - so maybe he didn't say that but I'm sure that he has said, at some time in his "doctor" career, something like that. Besides, he's so full of himself, I bet if you cut him in half, another, smaller version of Dr. Phil would pop out like a Russian Nesting Doll.

Anyway - moving ON.

I think that, in order for anyone to successfully lose excess poundage one has to figure out the "trigger" that causes those of us with issues to jump on an eclair like it's the elixir of life.

Sometimes it can be emotional holes or voids that we, as the chubby population, are trying to fill with pizzas, cakes, pies, deep-fried hot dogs and the like.

Maybe I'm nervous-eating. Perhaps my entire obsession with devouring the delights of ill-repute is a simple nervous habit that can be broken like nail-biting (which I do) or hair twirling (guilty).

Or maybe I'm just freakin' too lazy to drag my ass upstairs, plop it into my recumbent bike and start pedaling.

Either way - I eat until my jowls are filled like a squirrel on "Last Nut of the Earth" day and something has to give.

And not just my future in elastic-wasteband pants.

 

 

By the way - If you see me in stretch pants walking along the side of the road - even if I'm exercising and my shiny jubilant face is glowing - Kill me.

Just hit me with your car, keep driving and know that you have rid the earth of the unsightly fashion disaster that is : stretch pants.

Shudder, shudder....

Slips of the Tongue.

Harry and I decide to hop into our newly procured, pristine, snow-white, gorgeous, drool-inspiring Corvette and go to a romantic dinner in Charleston.

About half-way there a HUGE truck passes us. It's covered in mud from the bottom of its Tonka tires to the top of its dented roof.

ZOOM! It roars past us and we laugh as the little Corvette shakes and then SMACK!

The truck flung mud on us.

Harry looks stunned.

I'm staring, mouth agape, at the large mudbogs that were launched from the behemoth's tires and are now lodged on our pristine white hood.

Harry looks at me: "Mother F***er."

I look at him: "MUDDER F***ER!"

And then I laugh until I drool.

Good times, Good times.

We're sitting at dinner and I'm devouring a Beefsteak Tomato salad by candlelight and discussing the upcoming Michael Buble concert:

"There will be no: huffing, sighning, puffing, crying, whining, snoring, snorting, laughing, eye-rolling or anything else of the sort while he is on stage - got it?!" I point my fork at him for emphasis and then go back to attacking a large tomato. I'm hacking away when he responds: "Well, can I play with myself, then?" I look up at him, eyes wide and say "Whathuh?"

His blue eyes round to big O's and he raises his eyebrows at me. "I said, 'Can I play with my cell phone?"

"Oh." I answer sheepishly. "That's really not what I thought you said!"

Me thinks I better adjust the volume on my car stereo before I end up completely rendering myself deaf at 27!

TKO

I still feel like someone has punched me in the stomach, walked away, and then came back, smiled, and socked me one more time.

If I was bulimic this wouldn't be a problem - I could stick my tiny little chubby finger down my throat and spew like a  seven-year old on the Spinning Teacups.  But, alas, I don't have much of a gag reflex and I kinda like having what teeth I do have not eaten away by upchucking stomach acid so I will sit here, coddle my 20oz of Sprite and pout at my reluctance to become an "Ana" (rexic).

And you'd think that with all that being said - the last thing I'd want to do is attend a "Firm Luncheon", huh?  And yes, the rest of the staff was (surprise!) actually invited.  My guess is that they've finally decided to can my ass for being less than a model employee.  It would take me YEARS to clean off the computer here of any last iota of my genius (ahem!) and to remove the various Garfield and Dilbert strips that adorn my horseshoe of a desk area. 

But I still have to go.  And eat. And be merry. 

Or something.

My Non-American Idol

"I've got two daughters who will have to make their way in this skinny-obsessed world, and it worries me, because I don't want them to be empty-headed, self-obsessed, emaciated clones; I'd rather they were independent, interesting, idealistic, kind, opinionated, original, funny - a thousand things, before 'thin'. And frankly, I'd rather they didn't give a gust of stinking Chihuahua flatulence whether the woman next to them has fleshier knees than they do."

~ JK Rowling via her website and the "Extra Stuff" section.

 

---- The genius of this woman never ceases to amaze me.  And for those of you whom have never been to her site - go - explore - hunt the "easter eggs" and have a good time.  Ill still be sitting here staring at my screen in awe of her and her - ahem - magic with the written word. 

I'm Seeing Stars...

I skipped out on the mega-block party to welcome the star of the upcoming movie "We Are Marshall,"  Matthew McConaughey to our little podunk town.

They are shooting right now at Marshall University and I'm all twitterpated with the idea that MM is breathing the same lead paint as I did when I attended campus. 

Sigh.

Above are some pics that others took of Matthew McDreamy when he was arriving at the block party - which I was not in attendance  (grumble, grumble, grumble).

Uncle Sam Wants You - to bring me some hair product please...

For some reason my hair, even though it is harnassed in a very pretty pressed black leather headband, is still revolting.

Little stray folicles are standing on end and sticking straight up like soldiers lining up for battle.

The Battle of a Bad Hair Day.

I'm Frightened. Please - Hold Me...

While my bestest bud, Tiffany and I were downstairs engaging in the delights of "Smallville" and multiple yummy-nummy James Marsters' Harry retreated (as men often do when too much estrogen presents itself) to the bedroom. 

I figured he was napping or watching sportscenter, but as I entered the bedroom, flinging open the door with a flourish in order to have a clear path to which I may launch myself, flying squirrel-like, towards his sleeping form, I stopped dead in my tracks.

He was reading.

And it wasn't Playboy, or Toyfare, or even Corvette Weekly - it was a hardback book.  Clive Cussler.  No pictures.

I'm still in shock.

He's even borrowed my "Iddy Biddy Booklight."

If this is a case of the Invasion of the Body Snatchers - I'm not sure I mind all that much...

Excuse me, but do you have this in MY size?

On Saturday, Harry and I decided to go car shopping - again.

We drove down to C&O motors, hair flying in the wind with the top down on Harry's conspicuous corvette.

                                                          

I spy a brand new, 2006 triple black ZO6 and my jaw hits the dirty pavement. Not twenty minutes later, we're wedged (literally) into the car and zipping down Route 60. Harry pulls into a lot and jumps out:

"Wanna drive?"

"Ah, hell yeah!" I roar without an ounce of femininity and jump into the driver's seat. He closes my door and I wiggle, adjust, wiggle some more and start hitting buttons and gizmos and levers until my already sunburnt face is purple with frustration.

"I don't like this! I can't move my legs! I feel smushed! And these seats are NOT fat butt friendly!" I whine and then pop out of the seat.

"Get back in! At least you can say you drove one!"

His logic makes sense to my deep-fried brains and I agree. I take a cleansing breath, gather up my overflowing thighs and daintily step back into the $60,000 machine. I pull out of the parking lot and make it to 50 mph in about a second and a half (and that's only 'cause I freaked a bit, applied the brake and then, realizing what I did, slammed on the gas again) and tore down the highway.

When we arrived back at the dealer there was the salesman looking like Billy Bob Thorton's doppleganger in a big white truckers hat and a cigarette dangling precariously close to Harry's baby.

And I don't mean me.

"Well," he drawled, "whattayathink?"

"She didn't like it." Harry blamed me. And even though I 'bout ripped off the rearview and beat him with it for placing me in the spotlight I knew it was for the best and nodded meekly.

"Well-" The guy looked like he'd choked on his Marlboro.

Later, on the drive home Harry looked at me with pride and joy: "You know - you've really matured since we first got together, you know that?"

"I don't get it." I said.

"Well, most people would've jumped at the chance to get a new Corvette, but you said that it wasn't right for you. Very mature."

"Oh." I held up a hand to shield the sun from my eyes. "I'm not really sure if having a gargantuan sized ass that won't fit into the seats counts as 'mature,' but I'll take it all the same!"

He laughed and wisely said nothing.

 

Update:  We're still buying the white one - but we wanted to explore all options - and - well- I wanted to drive a new one!