Paula Deen is my Hero!

I love Paula Deen.

  She's the fluffy and comforting southern lady from Foodnetwork that adds a vat of butter to EVERYTHING she's making!

I watch her show all the time and when I saw that Target was carrying the dvd versions - I snatched them up!

I'm watching her first ever episode and it was worth every penny - she's adding wings to a skillet of oil and it popped on her!  She giggled and I heard: "Litte (BEEEEEEP!)!"  She cussed!  Holy-rolly-polly- she said bastard!  I laughed so hard that tears were streaming down my face and made me worry that bits of my bland chicken sandwich were to come flying out of my nose. 

I decided to conquer one of her cookie recipes from "Just Desserts." The ingredients were simple:  Mint wafers, sugar cookie log, crushed pecans. 

I go to the grocery store and, because I was hungry , I bought too much cheese. 

$50 later I arrive home and open the bag of chocolate covered mint wafers and after consulting with the recipe, realize that I've purchased the wrong thing. 

DRATZ.

I bake 'em up anyway, thinking they'll either be really good or really bad when my dad knocks on my front door.  I have a doorbell that rivals The Addams Family- he never uses it.

He became my Guinea Pig: "Hey - I can't eat this - try it!  Hey, Daddy, try this,too!"

I piled the baked goods on to a plate and he left soon after.  He waddled out the door, his belly swollen under his "Cereal Killer" shirt and after making sure that he had his teeth, a candy bar, some lunchmeat and his model car he'd just purchased - he left me to go home and sleep off the sugar hangover.

I love my Dad.

He's like Peter Pan.

But he can't fly.

Unless you're counting the time he fell off the ladder.

Or the roof.

Or the pool deck.

Or out of bed.

Or off the porch.

Or...

:)

 

 

Walk the Line, and Don't Trip.

I wanted Macaroni and Cheese for dinner last night.  That was it.  That's what I wanted and I thought, stupidly, that as long as I used low-fat cheese and other ingredients it would turn out fine.  JUST fine...

Nope - turns out if you bake up a vat of noodles mixed with Light Sour Cream, Butter and Low-fat cheese - you get a vat of noodles with crusty, metallic tasting, half-melted goo all over it. 

It was - GROSS.

So I ate an illegal salad with lots of tomatoes and lettuce.  I'm a rebel.

I then went downstairs to watch a movie and do laundry.  I decided on a happy go-lucky teenagery movie which I seem to often enjoy due to their fun and uncomplicated plot-lines.  I popped in "The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants" and settled down for a good laugh.

I cried like a two-year old lacking a blankie and binky.

I was sobbing.  Tears were streaming down my face and I was sniffing and - I was just a mess.  That movie is heart-wrenching.  They need to put warnings on the outside of dvd boxes:  This movie may make you snivel to the point that your eyes well shut and your nose resembles that of a pickled beet.  This would also work on bad movies:  This movie is horrible, however, men will like that Halle Berry shows her boobs.  And complicated movies:  You will not understand this movie, but will pretend that it was "brilliant" just like Ebert did.

After the movie I decided to tackle the treadmill again.  I would push myself to get to fifteen minutes - that was my goal.  At 3mph, too. 

Everybody now:  "Oooohhhhhhhhhhh!"

I got caught up watching "One Tree Hill"  (James Lafferty is an absolute cutiepie and - oddly - even has cute armpits - but I digress..) and didn't notice that I had made it to a whole twenty minutes! I celebrated a bit - almost flew off the darned thing and pushed onward for another three minutes. 

Feeling proud of myself I wobbled on my shaky legs over to the couch where I noticed something odd. 

"Is that door unlocked?"  I asked Phoebe.  She purred louder in response and turned upside down, baring her fluffy belly and seventh nipple.

"Is it? Is THAT door REALLY unlocked?"  I was getting louder. 

I pulled on the handle. It opened with a soft swish. 

I had been sleeping.  Alone. In a big ol' house.  By myself.  With the door - unlocked. 

I slammed it and locked it with a flourish.  Phoebe snorted in protest. 

I gathered up all the laundry I had done:  more Hanes shirts, more polo undies, more khakis with "EZRA" emblazoned on them and jeans from Express.  Not mine. Nope.  None of it was mine. It was all for my dear hubby - so far away in Texas that I couldn't wring his neck for leaving me. Alone. In a big ol' house. By myself.  With the door - UNLOCKED.

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

I call him:  "Hey.  Are you TRYING to get me raped and pillaged?" 

"Uh - no. ?"  He said/asked.

"You left the door unlocked downstairs."

"Oh - uh - sorry. ?" 

"I could've been killed! Raped! Phoebe, too!"

"I'm sorry. ?" he responded/questioned.

"Fine."  I flopped on the bed.  Phoebe joined me.  And licked my hair.  Gross.

"I really don't want you to die." He offered a truce.

"Fine."  I sighed heavily. "But you are no longer allowed to use any door in this house without consulting me first.  Got it?"

"Yes, ?"  he said/asked.

Must not kill thy hubby... Must not kill thy hubby.... Must not...

I got off the phone and took a shower.  Went to bed with wet hair and woke up this morning with Medusa tresses with less body.  I slept horrible. I kept thinking about that Lifetime Movie of the Week:  "Stranger in the Attic." I was convinced that some creep had set up shop in the rafters and would now be documenting my every move and selling it on the net for $3.95 per minute...

Lifetime should be banned from cable television just for their fear-inspiring tales. And for using Tori Spelling in so many of their "flicks."  Yeeeesh. 

 

Run Awaaaaaaaay!

I get home from work yesterday after navigating the racing strip that is Route 60.  Running in, I ditch my morbid black shirt, pants, shoes and throw on shorts (that I didn't even know I owned!) and a sleeveless tee courtesy of Harry. 

I put on my sneakers, grabbed a bottle of water and was seriously rockin' a kick ass pony tail-headband combo when I stepped on to the machine. 

I was ready to walk. 

I love my new treadmill - it has all the bells and whistles and - a television in it!  Yes, you read that right! I can now walk at 3.2 miles per hour while watchng tv!

I straddle the belt like the salesmen told me - greatly reducing my risk of flying back and landing in the closet amidst old Christmas decorations - and start pushing buttons.  I decide to start slow since my aerobic activity as of late has been close to that of roadkill. 

So what do I watch while slowly ambling along?  Foodnetwork.  The process of eating too much has landed me on a moving sidewalk to nowhere yet I still feel the need to see how Sandra Lee and her Vodka-filled fake booples will make a banana cream cake.  It's torture.

After five minutes I decide to increase the speed and began a brisk walk - all the while clutching the handle bars for dear life.  I surprise myself by not hating it.  I blame the mini television.  Pop a tv in anything and it will make the enjoyment factor increase by 75% - at least.

After twelve minutes I call it quits.  I have done all I can and my chubby pale speckled legs are jell-o-fied.  I climb the stairs in a wobbly motion and remember that I still have to make dinner. 

Crap.

Now - sane people would have collapsed on the couch, but I had a movie date in an hour to see "The Lake House" with Tiffany so I slapped together a Turkey sandwich with a teeny bit of mustard and sat on a stool in my kitchen. 

Where I turn on the tv.

And watch Foodnetwork.

:)

After resting a bit and deciding to vaseline up my plentiful thighs next time before setting my shorts on fire from friction while walking on my new treadmill, I get dressed and find Tiffany downtown at Empire with her boyfriend. 

He's reading National Geographic and looking quite intelligent.  She is reading Cooking Light and looking quite entranced by a cobbler-ish picture on the cover.  Great minds think alike!

We go to buy our tickets. 

"One for Boat - shoot - Lake House, please."  I say and hand over my money. 

"One for Lake House and one for Superman at ten," I hear her say.  I look at her and she shrugs. 

At this point the smell of freshly popped popcorn and butter substitute wafts from the snack counter inside.  I figure, wrongly, that since I did a whole TWELVE minutes on my treadmill-o-pain that I am deserving of a small popcorn with a smidgen of butter-stuff and a bucket-o-cherry Icee. 

I order my snacks, looking at the forbidden popcorn/icee fruit with fervor and glee and then "Uh - your card doesn't work."  The girl, about fifteen and in serious need of a deep-conditioning treatment, tells me.

"I'm sure it does.  Here, try again."  I watched her screen as it blipped, beeped and then read TIMEOUT. 

"Hey - if it says TIMEOUT does that mean it's down?" she yells over her shoulder at a tall man weilding a mop. 

"I guess so," he helpfully answers back.

"You can go to the ATM downstairs.  I'll hold this here." And she pulls my treasures away from my out-stretched hands.

I have a choice to make here.  I can either swallow my pride and dignity and walk down the stairs, pay the surcharge on the ATM and then pay, in cash, MORE for my over-priced popped corn than I would have normally, or I can do that other thing, that thing I do very rarely - I can choose not to eat the nutritionally hampering food and save $10 at the same time. 

"I'm not walking all the way downstairs just for popcorn," I say to her.  She blinks. I take it thatshe gets my underlying meaning of her vast imcompetentness.  "Thanks, anyway," I say. 

I chew gum throught the movie and left the movie feeling weepy (it's a rather sad flick) yet owning not a single stain of popcorn grease on my clothing. A first, that's for sure!

 

 

Boss Hog

I complain a LOT about my job and those above me on the occupational ladder of importance.  Turns out - I could win a week's vacation for it!

Go here and tell them your worst BAD BOSS story and you could win your dream vacation!  (And maybe a permanent one if the head honcho finds out!) 

Hee hee ...

Bad Toupee

 I tried to tell Harry that the Davey Crockett look was SOOOO last season but - sigh - he just wouldn't listen...

When Bugs Attack

I hate when I get e-mails that instruct me to do actual work when I first get into the office in the morning. It's like a slap in the face of my budding creativity. I'm just waking up - please do not expect any actual work from me for at LEAST another two hours. E-mail me with instructions at 10 AM. I'll get back to you around 2 PM. Thanks!

Anyway, so I get to work, all clad in my mourning frock (my will to succeed has died, shriveled and crumpled like, um, something shrively and crumply...) when my e-mail beeps.

I have mail.

It's from the managing partner. "Please buzz me about this," it says in bold Times New Roman.

I sigh and take a bite of my breakfast pb-and-no-j sandwich.

I pick up the shiny black receiver and ring his office.

"You wanted me to buzz you?" I ask in a timid please-don't-yell-at-me-voice.

And then it happens.

From out of nowhere - a spider attacks.

It runs and scurries towards my exposed forearms.

"AAAAAAAAAGH! SPIIIIIIIIDER! AAAAAAAAAAGH! SPIDER ATTACKING!"

"Uh-" I hear from the other end of the line as my boss contemplates my sanity or lack of.

"AAAAAAAAAAAGH! SPIIIIIIIDER! WAIT! WAIT!" I pick up my phone message pad and smack it down on top of the attacking foe berserker. SMACK! SMACK!

"AAAAAAAAAGH! WHY DO THEY ALWAYS GO FOR MEEEEEEE?!  WHYYYY?!" I wail and smack the desk again, checking for spider goo on my pad. "EWWWW!"

"Uh-" I hear him try to remain boss-like and not burst into lawyerman giggles over my dilemma.

"Okay - What did you need?" I am calm now as I tear the paper from the back of the message log and throw the bug gut goo into my black trashcan circa 1970.

"Uh-" I think I scared him. "Uh-"

"The e-mail?" I prompt.

"Oh - it didn't work." And I'm off to save the day! I'm like Mighty Mouse  with smaller ears and bigger boobs. Fixing e-mails and killing crazy HUGE attackingspiders in one fail swoop!

"Heeeere I come to save the daaaaaaaaaay!"

                                    SUPER RECEPTIONIST LADY!

                                                             

 

 

Self-portrait

I am evil.

But I managed to Photoshop out my "666" birthmark...

Melancholy Holly

According to my bud April's blog, my tree is a Weeping Willow.  Which is funny becuause I really thought I would end up being a, well, I dunno, a HOLLY TREEEEEEE!  But I know not everyone born when I did could have the obvious fortune of being named after a prickly bush, but when I read my tree properties, I was surprised by how close it was to actually being like me:

Weeping Willow (Melancholy) - likes to be stress free, loves family life, full of hopes and dreams, attractive, very empathetic, loves anything beautiful, musically inclined, loves to travel to exotic places, restless, capricious, honest, can be influenced but is not easy to live with when pressured, sometimes demanding, good intuition, suffers in love until they find that one loyal, steadfast partner; loves to make others laugh.

Especially that last one - huh?

Horror-scopes and more!

1. Yet another stunning observation from the stars: It can be a tough day for you, dear Virgo, if you aren't comfortable handling anger directed at you from another person. If there is any abuse or violence, you'd be wise to get as far away from that person as soon as possible. This does not bode well. I am going to dinner at my friend's house tonight to look at fabrics for her bridesmaid's dresses. And, apparently, it's to end in fisticuffs.

2. The dishwasher that Home Depot also "installed" (more like shoved in and prayed) is now leaking. A large T-shaped wetness can be seen in the downstairs office. Sigh.

3. They've replaced the lights in the bathroom with ones of a very high wattage. I feel a bit like I'm performing for an audience when I go to take a tinkle.

4. I'm grumpy on Saturday due to the fact that Harry is in town and I have other plans: a Bridal Show. I pick my sister up and she instantly starts in on me: "Didyouwearcomfortableshoes?"

"Uh - they'll have chairs for us at our table," I point out.

"Holly," she says in a dissappointed mom voice, "youcan'tsitthewholetime! Youhavetogetupandtalktothebrides!"

I restrain myself from smacking her cute and perky nose into the back of her cute and perky head. I calmly tell her that I've worked retail for years and I know how to work a customer and to please refrain from advising me on such matters as I clearly am not in need of the advice.

Or I told her to "shut all the hell up." One of the two... :)

5. I slipped on my bland diet and took a horse-pill equivilant of Ibuprofin, washed it down with a couple of dark chocolate kisses. I'm still alive - so I'm counting that as a good sign that the alien is alive and well in my tummy.

6. If I have to drink another bottle of water - I'm gonna float away on a sea of my own pee. Which is quite a gross image - so you may want to pause and ponder that for a while...

7. My grandmother doesn't like anything. She'll eat an entire salad at Bob Evan's and when asked how it was she'll respond "T'aint no good..." She'll fix a peanut butter sandwich, eat it all, every last crumb and then mutter,"T'aint no good - soured!"

It's just been brought to my attention that I'm more like my granny than I care to admit. When asked about my hair after a recent trip to the salon I said: "It's not right. Too blonde." or "It's no good, liked it better before." It's true - I'm never happy with my hair cut/style/color!

8. And speaking of my hair - I look AWFUL today! The rain has made it fuzzy. And not "so cute and fluffy!" fuzzy - nope - I'm talking "Night of the Living Dead" I've slept on it for three years - fuzzy!

One side has three big waves in it while the right side of my head seems to be revolting, in strands, by standing straight up and out.
I'd give anything for a bucket of pomade right now...

9. You can tell a lot from people just by watching them in the grocery store. The "Singletons" will have a small arm basket and will be carefully selecting imported cheese or other such exciting dairy products. The Newlyweds will both be pushing the buggy and will be loaded down with soda, toilet paper and boxed dinners as these are the staples of a new marriage. The Soccer Mom will be efficiently zipping up and down the aisles, cart arranged for maximum storage and will be clutching at least three of the following: coupons, divided list, cell phone, baby. The Elderly will have a cart filled with "Manager's Specials" and wilted lettuce and will take their time perusing the aisles looking for other "special values." The College Student will have Ramen Noodles and tuna along with beer and deoderant - the important things in life. The Newly Single Man will have meat, lots of it, and beer. The Newly Single Female will have veggies, lots of 'em and Diet Coke.

10. I lost the button to my shirt this morning while ironing it. Since I had just finished ironing it I had a tough choice to make: Do I wear it buttonless or do I just start starching a new shirt? All I can say is thank God for safety pins!!!

You are What You Eat: BLAND

Following Doctor's orders I woke up this morning and took a Pepcid OTC (aka - "too frickin' expensive over-the-counter stomach pill").  I overslept - so I decided to make something and take it to work with me.  Opening up my refridgerator I see sweets and tons of fruit and veggies  - all things I can't have.

So I decide that peanut butter is a safe option.  "Can't be too bad for you," I think and pull out my fave:  JIF - Super Chunk.  Oh yeah!  Slapping it on a  piece of bread (after carefully looking for green spots - when the hell'd I buy bread?) I then paused.  "Can I have jelly?" I wondered aloud.  I pulled open the doors and found Strawberry Jam.  "It's sugar free - I'm sure it's fiiiiiine!" I convince myself and slap a small amount on to the bread, plop it in a Ziploc bag and shimmy out the door.

Climbing into Jumbo the Denali I notice the print-out from yesterday where I'd googled "Foods to Avoid, Ulcer."  Glancing at it I notice that, like I thought, Peanut Butter is okay - just not chunky.  Ooops.  Jelly, too, is good - just not strawberry.  Double oops. 

So now I'm at work, eating my "illegal" sandwich slowly, as if by slowing down the ingestion process will render the food less "illegal" than before.

Day one of my Bland Diet and I'm already cheating.

This does not bode well for Mr. Doctorman.  Nor my precious gallbladder.

Sigh.

My lunch plans?  Me, Jumbo, a plain grilled chicken sandwich and a potato. 

(Smiling with pained expression): "Yum!"

 

Update:  It's actually PRILOSEC OTC, not PEPCID OTC.   I blame lack of proper nutrition. I really think all the fatty and greasy foods kept me quick-witted and wiley. 

Candle in the Wind... and the floor... and the ...

The wind was howling and the lights were flickering last night while I was trying to enjoy the delicious James Franco in "Tristan and Isolde."  I was intently following the story - okay - that's a big honkin' lie - I was actually barely following the story and watching closely as his gorgeous mouth puckered and his brown teddy bear eyes brimmed with heartfelt tears.  Anyhoo, I was trying to concentrate on the movie but the impending storm outside my windows kept distracting me.  Not wanting to be alone in the dark (I figured it was a safe bet that my power'd go kaput) I lit a large Harvest Yankee Candle - which smells so good and is a really pretty orangey color. 

Now I can concentrate on studying the "movie."  The dryer beeps letting me know that the second load of Hanes Tagless Tees and Polo Man Panties are dried and ready to be folded.  I'm a bit aggravated.  Which is not too surprising considering it's my mood of choice as of late. I push back in my recliner,flop my legs straight out, grab the leather arm and fling my feet down as hard as I can (it's a hard recliner to un-recline) and watch as the cute side animal loses the tray he's holding along with my can of soda, and the half-melted candle. 

I freak.

There is orange candle wax all over the leather sofa - over the arm (but it missed me!) and down the side. More wax is oozing down between the cushions of the loveseat and, nestled between the two pieces of furniture, spattered on the white carpet is a massive amount of orange goo and a half a can of poured out Coca-cola. 

"Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!"  I yell and pulled off my tee shirt.  I'm not sure why I did this.  It was instinct.  Which was odd.  Who else, in mid-crisis, would strip down to their skivvies?  Anyway, I use my shirt to wipe the soda off the sofas and then start to rub the wax off.  Wax on, Wax off.

Getting up, harvest goo under my short nails, I run to the laundry room and grab what I can find: two old towels and a handful of  Lost Soulmate socks. I'm half-naked, scrubbing and crying and moaning and cursing.  After abouta half hour of scrubbing, I get most of the wax off the couches. 

Since we're still out of sorts from the water damage we had last month - the couch is pushed up to make an L-shape with the loveseat.  I try to move the couch to get to the majority of the coke and wax stain that's still sitting on the floor.  I manage to pop the recliner out four times and still, can't budge the damn thing.  So I try to move the loveseat.  Nope.  Won't move either.  At this point, I'm cursing La-Z-Boy, Home Depot, Yankee Candle and my own stupidity. 

I find some Bissell Carpet cleaner and a clean shirt.  And Phoebe cowering on the stairs.

Most of the coke came out of the carpet - but the orange splotch with corresponding dots - still there - mocking me.

I sit down, sweaty from cleaning and scrubbing and call Harry:  "When're you coming home?"

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"I covered the couch, loveseat, carpet, frog butler, fan remote and my shirt in candle wax and Coke." 

"Oh.  Oooooookay."

"Somehow it's your fault," I tell him.

"I figured," he said back and then sighed.

 

 

 

I'm "Special"

I went to see Dr. Jennings today.

"So you're having pain - like after you eat greasy or fatty foods?" he asked - his blue eyes opening wide.

"No - like when I move suddenly or, um, if I reach for something or lay on that side - it hurts.  OH - and when I sneeze - well that hurts really badly."  I hate describing my symptoms. I feel like I'm complaining, wasting his time, he could be curing cancer - or cutting it out of someone but instead he's perched upon a stool squinting at a chubby girl who's listing off strange ailments.

"You have pain with movement?"  he asks and scribbled furiously.

"Yes.  For three months now."

"Oh.  Well. " And then he starts explaining.  I do my best to not swoon or pass out when he gets detailed about the inner-workings of my digestive track.  I do not like innard details anymore than I like detailed innards.

He's worried that the gallbladder removal would not take away the pain.  "I can remove it," he says, adjusting his glasses and looking at me in the eye, "but there's a chance that you'll still have that pain. And I really don't want to do anything unnecessary."

"I'm a surgi-phobe," I tell him.  He nods.  He's patronizing me.  Don't care.  He doesn't want to slice-n-dice me - I'm happy.  For now.

He starts listing off the things he thinks it may be:  ulcer, hernia, tumor.. etc.. etc.. ugh...

"Do you feel nervous a lot?"  he asks, pen poised over pad.

"I was born that way," was my response.

"Okay, but what about stress?  Are you stressed?"

"I was born that way."  He smiles and then I see him flip through my chart, looking for my meds listing.  I can see him look at the list, check for pschizoid drugs and, dissappointed, looks back at me.

His RX:  For three weeks I have to stop taking my aspirin - avoid Ibuprof and lay off all foods that are spicy, greasy, fatty, leafy, harsh or flavorful. Tonight's dinner: bread and water with a side of noodles. Tomorrow I may get brave and have a sweet potato.  Whoo-frickin'-hoo.

Finally - he says he's not sure what's wrong with me.

I'm a medical anomalie.

Again.

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY TO MEEEEE and Harry!

So I'm sitting here, minding my own business, sulking and moping at being HUNDREDS of miles away from my husband on TODAY - our THREE YEAR ANNIVERSARY, when a spritely old man comes in carrying a vase full of gorgeous roses. 

I sign and he says "I couldn't carry both up.  I'll be back with the other one."  He ducks back on the elevator and I think to myself:  other one?

I call Harry to thank him and ask him about - "the other one." 

"Just wait," he says.  "Call me back."

As soon as I hang up the little guy appears and startles me by plopping down a HUGE basket of candy.  I'm a little ashamed to admit, but I'm too busy poking around the contents to properly thank him for cheering up my otherwise dreary day. 

The basket contents, for your drooling pleasure:  Whatchamacalits, Snickers, York Peppermint patties, Oreos, Assorted Chocolates, Almond Joy, Mounds, Smores, Three Muskateers, Twix, M&M's, M&M's peanut, Baby Ruth, Rollos, Hershey's, Whoppers, Nips, 5th Avenue, Kit Kats, and - brace yourself - Chocolate Covered Potato Chips.

I'm in shock.

Or a diabetic coma. 

Either way - I'm happy!

 

FOUL play

I could not stand to watch the NBA Finals last night. I tried. I really did. But I was put off by the theatrics of the court.

For one thing - I've never really seen Shaq in action. He appeared to me to be very large and tank-like, a sloth, covering the ground slowly but surely in large, sweeping steps. He looked cartoonish next to his little scrambling teammates.

And for another - if I had to see one more large man get gently tapped by another player and then see the first player jump backwards, slide across the floor and hold his hands up like "Ewwwwwwww - he touched me! Owie!" I was gonna put my side table through the big screen.

So I went to bed and slept until 5:30 AM when I awoke due to absolutely nothing. You would think that by giving myself a full hour more than usual to get ready for work would end with me being able to stop, get breakfast and arrive at my office in plenty of time looking neat, perky and well-fed. Nope.

I took my time. Even did my toes and shaved my legs - ironed my pants, even. And I got to work, hungry and haggard - at 8:29 AM.

That still counts as early, right?

:)

Curry and Irony

I went to lunch with Stacey at an Indian restaurant - and for those of you who don't know me all that well - you might want to know that the smell of curry just about sends me into delusional fits. You see, my dear friends and readers, when I first moved into my home - it was stark white. From the floors to the ceiling - WHITE. And to make matters worse - it was as if the white paint was infused with the smell of curry. Every drawer, every cabinet, every room - smelled like an Indian diner. I could not bare to put new furniture, curtains and perfectly coordinated and be-jeweled throw pillows and have them instantly soiled by the curry smell.

So I had the whole house painted. Scaffolding was brought in. Men in little white speckled hats came by the hundreds. The flat white paint was covered by gallons of "Toasted Almond" and the smell - was still there.

So I had the carpets cleaned. Every room, every floor, was scrubbed. Stanley Steamer was able to afford orthodontia for little Stan by the time they were done with my house.

The smell faded.

So, needless to say, walking into "Nawab; Fine Indian Cuisine" was a little unsettling. Will I smell of the dreaded curry? Will I bring the unsettling aroma back to my house where it will breed, like olfactory vermin in the walls? GASP! What if I actually like it?! All these thoughts and more swirled through my one-track mind as we pushed open the doors and arrived at the tiny restaurant.

I dared not breathe.

Starting to feel faint, I took a tentative sniff.

Well, huh. I don't smell it.

So we sat and then almost instantly popped back up to head to the buffet. I tried a bit of everything - even grabbing a few morsels of curried chicken - ya know - for the sake of culinary adventure - and returned to our chairs.

I poked a bit and started with the rice. I was not one to dive into the icy waters of unknown food tasting without some preparation to my soon-to-be-startled taste buds. It was nice, I admit, to have rice without the typical egg that most Chinese restaurants insist on adding.

I then tried some soupy veggie concoction. Which surprised the hell outta me by being not only edible but - good. I then moved on to the beef - something - I'm not sure what it was swimming in - but the result was a moist piece of meat that I usually won't even eat home-cooked.

I went back for seconds.

I really should've stopped there.

But Stacey, being much more adventurous than I, insisted on me trying the rice pudding. It had green bits in it. Convincing myself that it was pistachio, I tasted it.

"Tastes like a candle. A rose candle." I told her and Chandra and Amy who were there to witness my Indian food virginity removal (which is a horrible figure of speech and I shall use it no more - which is sad because the mental image it gives is actually quite entertaining...).

"That's irony. We spend all this money buying candles that smell so good we want to eat them and then we come here and eat something that tastes like a candle," says Stacey. This is a "Stacey Thought" and happens often. It's observational genius - but I think it's patented by her under "Stacey Thoughts, Inc." so I shall go ahead and give her credit for the cool observation.

"So I'm eating irony, here?" Is my not-so-cool observation.

"Just a side dish, really," she responds and takes my bowl from me to finish eating my portion of candle pudding.

So while I watch her finishing my irony/candle/rice pudding - which is better served cold - I congratulate myself on my accomplishment in culinary adventure.

What's next?

Calimari? Lobster Bisque? Oysters? Flan?

Bring it on.

 

 

I Like 'em BIG.

Over the weekend I attended a shower with Harry - the bride registered at Macy's and the groom at Sears (power tools!). The entire event was catered by my seventh grade teachers which made me nervous to no end. Should I have looked down and noticed that I was, in fact, wearing acid wash jeans with surfer boy patches - I would not be surprised that my worst nightmare was coming true.

The groom's mom, my seventh grade math teacher, frightened me so bad in my youth that I worried she would turn me inside out for not knowing what 7 x 6 equaled. Her friend, the health teacher warped me for life after proclaiming, during the dreaded "SEX ED" lesson, that the "anus was where gay men have sexual intercourse" and then slapping the diagram of the psuedo-endowed sketch. Another in attendance was my science teacher, a subject I only excelled at when copying vocabulary words straight from the back of the book. She made me dissect a frog. 'Nuff said. And finally, my homeroom teacher - whom I adored and who, upon seeing me, had no clue who I was. I made such an impression on her in my youth, that I was nonexistent in her memory.

I visited with them and reminisced over the old school and old teachers and old memories and, for some reason, I felt the need to continually compliment them on the food they had provided for the shindig.

"I LOVED the big hot dogs!" I'd exclaim.

"Those BIG hot dogs were great!" I'd squeal.

"I'm gonna have to get me some of those BIG OL' hot dogs," at this point - the phrase "big hot dog" should've been stricken from my word usage. I should not be allowed to use that combination of words ever again. But I did.

Repeatedly. It got so bad that Harry would visibly flinch when they would fall out of my mouth and land, dead, on the heated pavement beneath our feet.

I blame the heat for my lack of charm - it was 90 degrees and sweltering and we were hanging out in a garage - eating big hot dogs and talking to retired teachers and police officers.

And now, as I groggily type away, I wonder about my dear hubby, thousands of feet in the air in a big tube hurling towards Texas - hope he's okay, hope he's happy, hope he's missing me, hope he'll bring me back something Texas-y - like a big cowboy hat or a flat of land with an oil well on it...

:)

Bribes, Vibes and being Snide

I was just given a $100 bonus - "just because."

I know it's a bribe. I know it's a ploy for my affection.  I know it's a bid for my loyalty.

And I know that I shouldn't feel sated at taking it. 

Or spending it.

Which I'm planning to do.

Shall I buy a "Good Husband's Day Gift"?  Nah - Harry just bought himself a seat for Game Six to while he's in Texas (he leaves me Monday - AGGGGHH!).

Shall I spend it on something practical like a much-needed highlighting job (WHAT?! To me - and my 2" roots - that IS practical!)?  Or something fun, like a life-sized Dobby from the Harry Potter movies?

However it's spent - I will not let its origin, or intention, spur me from treating it like I would any other $100 - by spending it quickly and without regret! 

Wheeeeee!

Missing You

Three years ago today my grandfather passed away. He was a small man, wrinkly and tanned a gorgeous red-brown from years spent tilling his mile-long garden. His hair was white as the purest diamond and his smile lit up his entire face while crinkling away his pale blue eyes.

He was the first one to ever tell me my origin story.

"I was out there in my garden, trying to get my watermelons to grow when I heard the strangest noise. I carefully started poking through the lettuce patch but still couldn't find the noise. Finally, I saw the biggest head of cabbage and slowly pulled back the leaves - and there you were! Pink and screaming! Your little face all screwed up and your fist just a'walin' away!"

He would tell me this while rocking me in a big green rocking chair. I would listen intently and trace the ducks carved into the wood until I closed my eyes. He would rock me and hum bluegrass tunes until I told him I was asleep: "Papaw, I'm asleep now - can you take me to bed?"

Somedays - when the world is rough and unkind - I want nothing more than to be in that rocker.  Rocking and rocking and hearing the gentle twang of a man who loved me so much and hearing him tell me: "Papaw's little bullfrog!  Wouldn't trade you for TWO tomcats!  Nope... Maybe three... But certainly not TWO!"

Ribbit.  :)

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum

Funny Things From My Morning:

1. A little guy in a motorized wheelchair was rolling along the sidewalk walking his little tiny dog who was on a leash - and circling the man like he was in orbit.

2. A proud soccer mom in her minivan - her bumper sticker proudly proclaiming: "I LOVE BUSH."

3. I'm regretting my choice of a horizontal striped shirt.

4. My office manager just introduced me to the temp - and pronounced my last name wrong. I've been working here three years.

5. I looked all over the floor of my closet, under piles of clothes and purses, to find a certain pair of shoes - that were in their box neatly on the shelf.

6. Two people were here to meet with one of the Lawyermen - but the older attorney came out and stole them back to his office to entertain them with traveling stories and about the time he apprehended a pick-pocket in Italy.

7. I found a fake rubber spider and put it on Phoebe - thinking she would freak and it would be a great way to start off a morning watching a tubby Himalayan go all Sumo on a little fake spider. She didn't even feel it. She's too fluffy. Or unobservant. But she sat there with it riding her like a thoroughbred until she rolled over and it fell off - still without her noticing. I'm thinking her nickname of "Killer" is really undeserved. Especially after a real spider was found on the bed yesterday afternoon and she stepped on it before moving on.

Funny things that happened last night:

1. I ran back up to Michael's - at 10 till close and picked up silk flowers - 20 orange lilies and 10 orange tulips. I didn't realize until later that in my retail frenzy I had miscounted my tulips and cheated Michael's out of fifty cents. I would return it - but I'm just not that nice of a person...

2. I lost my phone. I looked everywhere for it until Harry finally called it and - a man answered. Chris, the manager of Outback Steakhouse had found my pink Sliver phone - on the table where I left it. I then had to go in and sheepishly ask for my phone which was given to me after a fair amount of teasing.

3. There's a little fair going on by my parent's house. "Do you want to stop and get a funnel cake?" My thought process: No, is bad for me, shouldn't have, gallbladder will try to jump out through bellybutton, bad food, greasy... What I said: "Sure!"

4. While eating the funnel cake I noticed a small black bug nestled in the powder sugar to the side. "Harry, there's a bug in my funnel cake." He took the plate, flicked away the bug and handed it back to me. I looked at the treat, saw no other signs of larvae or the like, so - I'm ashamed to admit - I ate it.

5. Half way through the (hopefully) bug-less funnel cake a little man wandered over to us. He was picking up trash from the field. Harry and I were up to our elbows in powdered sugar and happily sitting in the Denali watching an episode of "Red v. Blue" when the carney popped up from the other side of the window "Hellooooooooooooooooo!' he boomed - scaring me into almost dropping my deep-fried-dough. He grinned at us with his four teeth and then moved on to the next car.

6. After getting ready for bed and spending an extra ten minutes trying to scrub the sugar off of my teeth, I plopped into bed and said: "This house is gross. It's dirty. Let's move." Harry reached down, grabbed my leg and began rubbing my chubby little foot. "I still want to move..." I said grumpily and fell asleep with my leg still propped up on his abdomen.

No repeats

If I could do this day over - I would.

If I could do this past week over - I would.

If I could do this past year/decade over - I would.

Who ever said "live for today" was definitely not of the same mental attitude as most people today in their "hurry up and wait" way of life. I'm sick of waiting and I'm sick of wondering the "what if's" of life.  Yet, I still do.

I wonder if I would've turned left out of my housing complex instead of right - what would've happened?  Would the world spin off its axis if Holly didn't show up for her crappy job to answer crappy questions from crappy callers?  No.  However - I would've missed this sight:

I'm stopped, sitting in my car, slowly creeping down Third Avenue, trying to navigate the left turning lane - but am having difficulties due to the tiny browned man in tiny tight jogging shorts.  He has chosen, rather brazenly, to not tread upon the sidewalk or curb, but to carve his own path and niche - right down the middle of the road. He's jogging, bobbing up and down and following the double yellow line. 

I watch as his little white head disappears down the street and wonder to myself - is he living for today? Is he?  And as I watch as people rubberneck around him, trying to get a good look at him, making sure he's real and that the No-Doze and Eight cups of coffee are not wreaking havoc with their sanity, I realize that yes, that little man is definitely living for today. 

And - if he's not careful...

MY Lunch hour -not YOURS - MIIIIIIIINE!

Since I am driving the pretty white Corvette to work - I do not have access to the usual comforts of my lunch hour : DVD player, 7 inch screen, PS2 and other comfortable amenities. So, to make the best of the hour at hand, I went to a local cafe and asked for a Taco Salad. Sitting down, I pulled out my pink Ipod to listen to some Buble (love him).

Over the sounds of the cutie crooner I could hear the man who owns the cafe on the phone:

"No! NO! You're - you're just like Heather! You just can't do that! No! NO! You're just like Heather! You can't take orders!"

Ten minutes later...

"Hello? No! NO! Call them and ask them for their fax number! No! NO! You're just like Heather! Can't take directions!"

I got up and left. I couldn't stay and listen to him berate his boyfriend and his sister in the same breath. I fled to the sanctity of my office.

Settling in at the kitchen table I pulled out my Ipod and a pad of paper and began outlining story ideas. I was half-way through a rather juicy plot twist when the candy-bowl-sniffer pushed open the door.

"No, it's not time yet - but I have to get ready to leave! Right at 12:30! Can't be late!" I didn't bother to remove my ear buds while she talked. I was at lunch. Her head could be on fire and I'd wait until my hour had expired before helping her extinguish the flames.

I waved my hand dismissively.

I was in no mood to be bothered.

However, I was tempted to throw a chocolate bar in the opposite direction to see if she'd chase it.

Instead I turned back to my scribbles - and cursed.

I lost my plot line.

Okay - I was mad before - with all the firings and stupid "rules" but nobody - NOBODY -makes me LOSE MY PLOT LINE!

BAD Receptionist! BAD, BAD Receptionist!

I had to stay late in a meeting with a lawyerman so that he could tell me that the two recently departed secretaries left "amicably." He used that horrendous word no less than five times and by the fifth I was less than amicable - I was f'n pissed. Ten minutes into my lunch the "talk" ended and I was dismissed.

I, reasonably enough, did not come back from lunch until 12:40 - taking my ten minutes back from "the man."

Apparently the Lone Secretary whom has a food disorder that leaves her sniffing the chocolates in the candy bowl --- and putting them back told the office manager (she of designer imposter shoes, handbags, rings, things and face) that I was late and then whined that she couldn't leave yet.

Which lead to me being reminded that "lunch is to be taken from 11:30 - 12:30."

"Well,  tell people to quit calling me into meetings when I'm supposed to be to lunch, then." I said.

"It wasn't that late."

"Yes, it was," I responded - staring up into her lines, wrinkles and folds.

"Oh - well. With the way things are around here... You know... With only one secretary..." she flipped her wrist towards me. I fought the urge to rip it from its socket.

I chose to just raise my eyebrows and nod slowly in response. She giggled nervously and walked away.

My mission, should I choose to accept it, is to destroy the human toothpick by making her gain weight a la "Mean Girls." Second, I shall slowly drive the office manager insane. I think I've got a good head start on the last one...

"Amicable," huh? We'll see about that...

The "Fit Hit the Shan"

Yesterday - my work fired two secretaries for giving their two weeks notice. No, I don't get it either. The office manager (whom I'd like to take her stupid CZ's and shove them so far up her tight ass that they turn into real diamonds) nor the Lawyermen (who sold their spines in excange for being able to understand what a "tort" truly is) have given the rest of the staff any clue as to what happened or where the two secretaries are today. We are left to assume the worst - that they have left us here and moved on to better lives - ones that don't include working for an evil law firm in a faux high-rise.

I figure I will be asked to help pick up the slack. Obviously I am going to refuse any "help" of any kind leaving plenty of room for them to hire a new receptionist should they decide that I, too, am expendable.

I would quit, but I really don't want to give them the satisfaction of replacing me with a perkier, less-hostile version of myself (with less impressive accessories, of course).

If that wasn't enough - Harry and I met his grandmother in Ashland last night so that we could pay for the new Jeep and then go to the Texas Roadhouse for rolls and other food (the rolls are the best - other food is just filler until the server brings more bread!). We sit down at our table - Harry and I share a side while his grandmother goes to the other side. Not long after, a group of young motorcycle "oil for brains" men come in and sit down behind her. The one with his back to me is wearing a t-shirt that has a naked girl, spread eagle  with the words : LEGS WIDE OPEN CYCLES in bold letters above her.

I can't believe it.

I was worried about having to eat a steak while a big bull stared at me from the picture above our table and now, NOW, I was going to have to talk to Harry's sweet, petite grandmother while a naked crotch danced off stage left??!!

It was my worst nightmare.

"Kinda like a train wreck, iddinit?" Harry said to me out of the corner of his mouth.

"Yeah," I agreed, "and apparently 'Train Wreck' only knows four words and all of them are four-lettered."

Finally we leave - the image now seared into my brain and get into our separate cars. I hop into the new Jeep - driver's side - while Harry isn't looking - he's trying to get his grandmother to let him drive her home.

She insists she's fine.

She 'bout takes out half of Kentucky before Harry and I catch up to her and motion for her to pull over (Harry hung out the passenger window like a lunatic).

We get home at 10 am and I hit the bed like a ton-o-bricks.

"Holly? Honey?" I pop my head up and look at my loving hubby. "Will you make me a sundae?"

Gonna.

Kill.

Him.

But I got up and made him a sundae with a waffle bowl, magic shell, sprinkles, mini kisses, whipped cream and waffle pieces sticking out of it for dippers.

I'm a good wife.

Plus, how else am I gonna steal the new Jeep from him?

Muah -ha- ha!

The Price Was Right!

WE FINALLY BOUGHT A CAR - AINT IT PURTY???!!!

(ps - I swiped this pic from the net - ours is an SRT-8 which means  - should you want to freak your hubby out - you can hit the gas pedal and fly back against the headrest at Mach 8!)

Wine and Cheese Revisited

First of all I must tell you about the cutest thing - EVER!  Harry, Sis and I went to Blenko Glass last Sunday and I got a plate with a handle on it - shaped like a mouse! And a matching green plate that's labeled: CHEESE!!!

Can't wait to put them to use at the next W(h)ine and Cheese(y) party!

Here's a great pic that our resident photographer, Tiffany took at our last gathering  - that's my kitchen with the misappropriated refridgerator in the background:

From left to right:  Bracken (a newbie to the circuit), Tiffany, Angela, ME (ugh - never wearing THAT shirt again - I look like an old sausage casing), Stacey (she's gettin' hitched in November) and my darling Sister, Summer (she of the shoe-string fingers - check-em out - they're abnormally long and skinny... creepy...).

 

I Was Unmugged.

I got all my jewelry back from Harry on Saturday - along with a pretty darn cool anniversary gift (he'll be in the Lonestar State on the 21st, our actual anniversary, so I get presents NOW!  wheeee!).  He had a new face put on my watch - with shiny baubles for me to ogle during long, unproductive workdays - like today!

He spoils me.

It's nice.

I don't deserve it.

But it's fun to pretend I do!

hee hee

Cindy Rocks!

Cindy went to the San Diego zoo and, by request, took this picture for me!

I luuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurve him!

Drive Me Crazy!

There I am, in the middle of a half-deserted Kmart parking lot, knuckles white from gripping the steering wheel and face flushed with effort - of learning to drive a manual transmission.

And not just any manual transmission - but a corvette one. Harry's toy. His prize. His joy. His first love (I come in at a close second, I'm sure.)

"Okay. Put your foot on the clutch and the other one on the brake. Good. Now ease off the clutch. See? You're kinda coasting!" He patted my shaky knee with his sweaty palm. He was nervous. I don't blame him.

"Okay. Now - push the clutch in. All the way. Okay- now put it in first. Slowly let off the clutch while you're giving it some gas." He keeps talking slower and slower like I'm an infant or - he's trying to maintain his sanity while I'm grinding every gear that's not "first."

"There ya go!" he says as I jerk and sputter towards Kmart.

"Okay - now - STOP!" he tests me.

I fail.

I slowly and carefully apply the brake and then push in the clutch. I turn and grin at him.

"Yeah - there was a bit of a delayed reaction on that one - but - ya know - I'm sure you would've stopped quicker if there was a car barreling at us or something!" He doesn't sound convinced.

"Drive around to the back of Kmart - I want to see if you can shift to second."

I'm freaked all the hell out.

This car costs more than my life is worth so the idea of dropping the transmission out behind a discount store is terrifying to me - as is second gear.

I get going again, avoiding the craters that are in the middle of the pavement and worrying about scraping the nose of the car that's practically level with the ground, and - I go to shift in to second.

GRRIND, SQWEEESH! CHUGGGA!

"Uh - ?" I slam on the brake and the clutch and stare at my hubby who pointed to the dash sheepishly.

"Um, see, I kinda forgot to tell you, but, um, in this car, where it's a corvette, it has this thing, a '1 to 4 shift' thing. It locks out second and third gear to save you gas." He giggled nervously and blinked like I was gonna backhand him through the rag top.

Which I contemplated.

"Okay." I said. I put it into first and after a few attempts managed to make it on to a little hill.

"Stop!" Harry yelled - and I obeyed by stalling the car.

"It's very hard to drive a standard on a hill without rolling backwards so - give it some gas - put it in first and -" he motioned up the parking lot.

"I don't wanna." Visions of fiery crashes filled my head. I was positive that I would slam the gas and end up a bright purple rocket that would wreak havoc across Route 60 before ending up as a fireball a few minutes later - dooming us both to our untimely deaths.

"You can do this." He was being so sweet.

I put it in gear and maneuvered from the brake to the gas and instantly turned Harry's car into a large, purple and yellow grasshopper.

"That's it! I'M DONE! YA KNOW, SOME PEOPLE WERE JUST NOT MEANT TO DRIVE STANDARDS - SOME PEOPLE WERE MEANT TO BE DRIVEN AROUND IN STANDARDS! IT'S RIDICULOUS TO HAVE TO PUT THAT MUCH THOUGHT INTO DRIVING A CAR! WHY CAN'T THEY JUST KEEP IT SIMPLE?! P,R,N,D! SIMPLE!" I continued my tirade until I had hopped out of the car and circled it and was once again resting in my rightful place : the passenger seat.

I plan on staying there.

Co-pilot.

Spotter of deer.

Sign reader.

Just not - "driver."

Perp Walk

I was mugged on my lunch hour.

By my husband.

He took my watch, my rings, my necklace and my earrings.

I have my rings back - but the rest are MIA.

I will not find out where they are or what's being done to them until closer to our Anniversary on the 21st.

I'm scared.

Hold me?

:)

This is a Test

Sometimes I want to test the limits of my reign as receptionist here at "Kill'm, Bag'm and Tag'm."  I wonder how long I could get away with calling in sick every Friday and Monday?  Would they even bat an eye if I started wearing black lipstick? Matching nails? Toes?  Would they insist on buying me an ace bandage if I tatooed my neck with a set of lovebirds snaking down to my cleavage?  Wonder if they'd even notice if I started answering the phone with a cockney accent: "'alo, LOVE! Right state-o-day, it is!"  or if I answered with a long pause "...........................................Good afternoon."  It'd certainly weed out the impatient callers!

And maybe this new desire to test my limits is just a sad way of making up for the fact that due to incessant nagging by the "higher-ups" two of my very good friends will soon be leaving, turning in their parking pass and runnin' for the greener hills that are just beyond the horizon.

Sigh.

At least I still have my dignity - then again - I didn't read the employment contract all that closely...

Apocolypse - Now?

As the clouds darken and thunder fills my ears with claps loud enough to jarr my teeth, I wonder if the apocolypse starts with the pretty red sunset that filled the horizon last night...

Two of the three secretaries have given their notice after a long morning meeting.

Tension is high.

Morale is low.

And it's all gonna hit the fan.

'Scuze me while I go buy a poncho.

Jedi Me

I'm not exactly what one would label a "Star Wars Fan." However, I am positively obsessed with learning how to work the Jedi Mind Trick. Imagine how much more interesting life would be if you could change the whims of those around you.

A beautiful day in July could easily be made better by waving your hand before your boss' face and saying "you want to let us all go home early."

No more would long lines plague you at the local mini-mart or movie theater - a simple flick of the wrist and all those in front would suddenly decide to take up a new hobby or water sport.

And this power would certainly come in handy when arguing with one's spouse. *a gentle wave* "You yearn to buy me diamonds. Big ones. Oh! And a Rolex... and a tennis bracelet and..."

Then again - this could be considered an abuse of the Jedi ways and we all know that "Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering."

Then again, again - the dark side IS tempting and black is VERY slimming...

hee hee

 

Rhyme Time for the Frozen Mind

I'm huddled over my heater,

my toes have gone and froze,

I'm huddled over my heater,

with icicles on my nose.

I'm huddled over my heater,

and I think it's cold as ice,

I'm huddled over my heater,

too cold to pretend to be nice.

I'm huddled over my heater,

no other warmth in sight,

I'm huddled over my heater,

cursing my lack of insight.

I'm huddled over my heater,

wearing open-toed shoes,

I'm huddled over my heater,

burnt piggies starting to ooze.

I'm huddled over my heater,

trying to keep from freezing,

I'm huddled over my heater,

and fear electricution from sneezing.

I'm huddled over my heater,

with no other tale to tell,

I'm huddled over my heater,

wishing my boss to hell.

 

Home Depot Sucks

Those packages of mix you add to your water should really come with an explicit warning label: "Do not use if you are accident prone, hyper, nervous, half-asleep, or Holly."

I just opened my water and added my orange-strawberry-banana flavoring - all over my desk, mouse, stapler, leg, hand and foot.

Yeah, I'm THAT good.

I should've known that bad karma was floating my way when I went back to the store That Shall Not Be Named. Yes - the one with the initials H.D. and is a wide dissapointer of home improvement nut jobs throughout the continental U.S.

It started out okay - I was a good little customer - went in through the slow, swishing front doors to look for a specific product: Glitter.

I looked all around the paint department while the little paint chick "helped" another couple (and by "helped" I mean stared at them blankly while they tried to explain the color of stain needed). Searching in aisle after aisle I found: spray paint glitter, gold leaf, a star roller, three different sponging technique applicators and a gazillion signs for the home depot credit card. But no glitter to paint additive.

So I went to the counter where the male member of the aforementioned couple was reaching his breaking point: "This is NOT the same color as this one. See?" More blank-staring from the chick in the orange apron. "It's really not the same. See? This one is much darker than this one. See?" the wife gently pleaded with the sales associate who looked at me, standing, non-threateningly off to the side of the paint counter.

And then she looked away. I was PISSED. There I was, perched on top of my work heels, waiting patiently for her to finish with the angry duo in front of me so that I may ask her a simple question and I don't even get a "It'll be just one minute, ma'am" or a simple "Can I get someone else to assist you?" Nope. Nothing.

So when she walks past me to get another bucket of paint I catch her and say: "HI! I JUST HAD A QUICK QUESTION - DO YOU HAVE SOMETHING LIKE A GLITTER PACKET YOU ADD TO PAINT?" I really didn't mean to talk to her like she was hard of hearing - but Iwanted to make sure I was well understood.

"We don't carry 'at." She mumbled and then scurried off.

"Well." I was a bit stunned. I shouldn't have been. But I was. She didn't even apologize - just ran off like a rat with its tail on fire. "Well - SHE was friendly!" I practically yelled and as I stormed off, heels clicking on the cold, hard concrete floor, I could hear the angry couple in front of me in line voicing their agreement.

I walked out and plopped into Harry's car: "Home Depot sucks."

"They didn't have it?" he asked.

"Nope."

"Want me to go in and look for it."

"Nope."

"Sure?"

"Home Depot sucks."

"I know, baby. I know..."

And - we still haven't decided on a car.  Harry's wheelin' and dealin' and I'm whinin' and cryin' - it all evens out...

Let Them Eat Pie

Last night, a group of my friends gathered at my house for a quasi-impromptu "Wine and Cheese Party."  I raced from work, to the bank, then to the grocery store where I gathered the components for a happenin' party:  cheese, bread, crackers, more crackers, more bread and some more cheese.  Oh yeah, and I "accidentally" tossed in a frozen pecan pie and a carton of ice cream.  Slippery lil' buggers...

Another important point of the evening was to taste the wine that my bud, Stacey found for her pending nuptials while in Cincinnati over the weekend.  "You guys have to taste it and lemmie know what you think."  Everyone readies their glass and POP my sister stands over the wine bottle with a shocked expression on her face. 

"Itgotstuckandjustgotstuckanddoyouhaveanotherone?"  She is holding the wine opener in one hand while the cork screw end is protruding from the top of the wine bottle.

This, my dear readers, is what is defined as a "party foul." Please make a note... I'll wait...

After failed attempts to break into Harry's coveted Crafstman toolbox (a man's tool chest is worth more to him than his pinky) Summer comes back upstairs with a helpful instrument.  "It'saclamp.  Wecanclampitonandpullitout!" She's so proud.  I'm scared - but I'm eating pie and can't be bothered to help.  Plus, the amusing three stooges show is quite entertaining - so why should I stop it?

Ten minutes later, a screwdriver, a set of pliers (Stacey figured out how to "break into" Harry's tool box:  "I lifted the lid and used the key.") and a discarded clamp later - the cork was still intact.

Tiffany was now standing over it, hacking away at the cork with my $1.99 Pampered Chef paring knife.  I feared for her fingers.  And a bit for my knife.

Finally they get it open and much rejoicing was had by all - except me - I was still eatin' my pie.  After straining the cork bits out of the wine they all decided on one thing:  Not bad for an inexpensive bottle of wine that was bought by the crate and better be good or we were going to have to just wait and serve it at the end of the night when everyone was good and drunk and no one would notice.  Stacey was visibly relieved. 

As the evening wore on the conversation turned to - what else? - SEX.  We were all discussing the horrors of videotaping one's self having sex and how it would be a horrendous thing to do/watch/lose when one member of our group piped up.  She is the sweet one, the one who actually had enough willpower to "wait for marriage" and the one who's dear hubby travels MORE than mine. 

She sat up, looked us all in the eye and said: "I'd do it, I'd tape it, and I'd watch it, too!"

Dead silence while we processed this info and then burst out laughing in a collective sputter. 

And although I'm still finding bits of cork all over my kitchen, I wouldn't trade those memories (or that darn good pie) for the world! 

De Ja F-U...

I hate doing things twice. Not all things (dessert - twice a day - NICE; Sex twice a day - NICE; Sleeping twice a day - NICE...) but in certain instances, when one has to perform one tedious task and then turn around and do the same exact task for a second time - it gets annoying.

Take this morning for instance. I have to print bills at my job and then give them to the office manager (who looks like a frickin' bumble bee this morning) who, in turn, hands them out to the attorneys (heaven forbid if they should come directly from my lower-class hands!).

I gave her half of Mr. Lawyerman's bills on Friday since a printing error made it impossible to que his whole stack-o-bills.

She never gave them to him.

I didn't know this.

So when I reprinted his bills on Monday - I omitted the ones I had thought he already had - therefore making sure he knew that his time was too valuable to spend doing things twice.

Like me.

Once again - my place as a second-rate peon has been established and as I sit to reprint, and re-staple the bills for a second time I contemplate the meaning of life and wonder "is the third time the charm? Or is it 'three strikes and you're out'?"

I'm gonna go with the latter...

 

And is it just me or is my horoscope a bit, well, bitchy today?"Do things with one hundred percent effort, or don't do them at all. Put your energy into things you are passionate about. Otherwise you are just wasting your time and the time of everyone else around you."

 

Hollyisms...

More things I want to do RIGHT NOW:

1. Take off my shoes and shuffle 'round the office, working up enough static electricity to shock the socks off the managing partner.

2. Open up all the sodas in the fridge - put'em back.

3. Empty ice cubes - fill with pen caps and water - refreeze.

4. Lube up all door handles and file drawers with Lotion.

5. Leave.

6. Arm myself with two tubes of canned air. Walk around the office, bow-legged, delivering blasts of air to the face of any who dare question me and then shout: "GLAUCOMA!"

7. Open my umbrella and sit at my desk. Wait until someone asks me what the hell I'm doing and then make a big show of checking for rain, huffing and putting it away.

8. Make a sign that says "RECEPTIONIST IS AWAY - PLEASE LEAVE GIFTS OF FOOD OR JEWELRY AS AN OFFERING."

9. Sidenote: This is something that happened this morning and I just remembered it so - into the blog it goes! Phoebe the Cat was making out with her hairbrush beau this morning while I was applying my second (third?) coat of Maybelline to my eyes. I then noticed she was squirming and twisting. WTF? Somehow, the brush had gotten caught on her collar and the bell around her neck and was now smacking her in her little flat face with every move she made - domestic violence! I watched for a second (it was REALLY funny) and then disentangled her and put her boyfriend back in his drawer. She then started licking my knee.

Hey, we all make sacrifices!

10. Oh - one more thing! I enter time for the older attorney here and I mistyped something rather badly: "What's this?" he had shuffled up to my desk and pointed at the time listing sheet in his hand.

I stopped typing, took the paper and - burst out laughing: "Received Sex of State Registration." He laughed andsaid "I thought it was from the Sec. of State, but who am I to argue!"

Master Debater

And the Car Debate rages on:

Holly: "Buy me a new car, yet?"

Harry: "No - which do you want? The Chevy SS or the Jeep SRT-8 or my Denali."

What I hear: "Numbers ,numbers, shiny car, numbers."

Holly: "Dunno."

Harry: "Will my Denali make you happy?"

Holly: "It's big."

Harry: "Is that bad?"

Holly: "It's like an elephant."

Harry: "So you don't want it?"

Holly: "Maybe - what about that Chevy?"

Harry: "It only got three stars in driver safety and four in passenger safety whereas the Jeep got five stars all around!"

What I hear: "numbers, numbers, little star, how I wonder what numbers you are!"

Holly: "So which one do I get?"

Harry: "How about we make the Corvette your primary vehicle?"

Holly: "So then it'd be mine, all mine?!"

Harry: "We'll look into it."

What I hear: "OH - HELLLLLLS NO!"

 

Making An Ass of One's Self...

Yesterday, I drove "Whitey", the white corvette to work while Harry took my Escape to strip it back down to stock. I bid adieu to my Playstation 2, my dvd player, six disk changer, and pop out head unit and hopped into the pretty white car with the dangerous roof insert.

After work I picked up Harry, made him ride in the "bitch seat" and went to Chili's. We had a great meal and finished it off by fighting (literally) over every last scrap of a molten lava cake.

Walking back to the car, Harry, chivalrous gent that he is, gets my door and then opens his own. Here is where I digress to tell you the thing about my car I don't like : the seatbelts are not fat girl friendly. I struggle like a floudering fish for a good four minutes every time I get into the gorgeous automobile.

So there I am, reeking of Fajitas and gyrating like a ten cent hooker on the red leather seats. I swear, for such an expensive car - these belts SUCK! I can't get it around my fat ass! Darnit! FIT! Wiggle a bit more - won't go 'round my FAT- "HELP ME, FAT ASS!" I yell. And then stop when I've realized that I've just called my much skinnier than me hubby a lard butt. "With my seatbelt? Help my fat ass with my seatbelt?" I meekly add to my outburst.

He is in the middle of leaning over the armrest to assist me and just shakes his head.

"My fat ass. Not yours." I'm beating a dead horse here (or dead bush as I so lamely commented to my bud Johnny last Saturday morning - yeah - I'm so cool I invent my own phrases).

We're driving out of the parking lot now, and he just keeps shaking his head while I keep repeating "It was mine! I meant mine - I have a large butt...not you - me - my butt's big..."

He looks at me at a green light. "That," he says trying not to crack up, "better make your blog."

And it did.

Hi babycakeshead! My fat ass loves your skinny 'un!

I fear Change...

I do, really, fear change.

Not pennies, nickels and dimes change - but real, actual, "your life shall be forever altered" change.

Case in point - my "ticka, ticka, TICKA, TICKA" car.  I love it.  Don't wanna part with it and about came to tears over the thought of getting rid of it for my replacement - Harry's beloved Gas Guzzling Charger.

So - we're not getting the Charger.

However, on Saturday we went to test-drive a black on black Chevy Trailblazer SS that boasts Onstar, duel (Harry just called to tell me that I mis-typed "duel" -it should be "dual" - but in my mind - I think the other spelling is MUCH more appropriate!) climate, heated seats and a tire inflater in the back.  Not to mention an engine that's faster than my corvette. 

It was heaven.

And, as one online mag put it:  "If you must drive an SUV, might as well drive a fast one!" 

I loved every single one of those 495 horsies under the hood and had mental images of me, zooming down Fifth Avenue and drawing admiring stares from the half-naked frat brats perched on the end of their tattered lawn chairs.

We drive around St. Albans - punching the gas at every green light and playing with the windows and seats when Harry looks at me:  "Do you like it? I think it's great..."

I'm just about to open my mouth to sing the praises of the not-too-big SUV when he says this: "Yeah - I could drive this everyday...  Think you could handle the Denali?" 

I stop, smile and say: "Yup."  Me and Jumbo - we go waaaaay back.... 

So I get a hand-me-down car - again.  But seeing as how the last one was a white 'vette that made today, an otherwise dreary Monday, pretty darn cool - then it's all gooooooood.

Yup.

Charger - it!

Harry and I went car shopping last night after hearing back from the Ford Dealership about my beloved Escape:  "Oh, it's okay, we've fixed everything except the ticking noise. See what happened was that we fixed the other side but not this here side so that's why you got's the ticking noise still happening.  But don't you worry, we'll get her fixed!"  Yeah - right.  That car's gonna explode and leave a mushroom-shaped cloud in its wake...

So we went down the road to the Dodge Dealer.  Harry made a bee-line to the Dodge Charger SRT that was sitting on the showroom floor.  It was black.  It was mean.  It was shiny.  

"Do you want to test drive it?" The dealer pronounced our last name correctly - which never, EVER happens. 

"Can you get it off the floor?  I hate for you guys to have to move-"  Harry started but the salesguy cut him off.

"Not a problem."  Ten minutes later and after jumping three dead showroom cars - we were on our way.

"You like it? I like it?  You like it?"  He's behind the wheel making the "O" face everytime he pushes the gas pedal.  I worry he may be staining his pants.

"Hey - what's a 'Gas Guzzler fee'?" I ask him.

"Oh -that? It's a one time fee that you pay when you buy a car that uses more gas than a typical car," he explained and then adjusted himself on the comfy seat all the while holding the "O" face.

"So... You pay more money because you're gonna have to spend more money on gas?  That doesn't seem fair."  I was obviously perturbed.

"It's a one time fee - and it's usually on high end cars or more expensive ones..." His voice trailed off as he found the auto-stick feature.

"So - you PAY MORE to PAY MORE?"  I was shocked.  This was the equivalent of price-gouging/wallet-gouging.

"You only have to pay it once - ohhhhhh!"  He found the lumbar.

"That's not right..." My voice trailed off as I crossed my arms and fumed at the car maker for making such a ridiculous car for such a crazy price with an insane "Gas Guzzler" fee.  I mean - c'mon - who the hell would want this car after all that?!  WHO?!

"Hey baby?  I think I want this..."  Harry is rubbing the steering wheel with more passion that the Karate Kid (Wax on! Wax off!) and I can see it in his teary eyes - he's in love - and its name is Charger...

The Id v. The Ego

Semi-irrespressable urges that happen at work:

1. I want to play Alison Kruass' version of "Working 9-5" very loudly at my desk.  And sing along.  And put it on the speaker.

2.  I want to sit on the stool in the bathroom and see how long it is before anyone notices I've gone "missing."

3.  I want to change the name of the firm to include the word "hell" and see if anyone on the other end of the phone notices.

4.  I want to empty all the cans of compressed air.

5.  I want to leave a trail of paper clips down one hall and up the other one and end at the candy bowl.  "I dunno who did that.  Must've been the candy-guzzlin' paper clip fairy..."

6.  I want to remove the space bar from everyone's keyboard.

7.  I want to replace all the live plants with user-friendly plastic ones.

8.  I want to have my own pink porta potty installed behind my desk.

9.  I want to reorganize the supply closet so that all the rarely used stuff is in the middle and all the pens, clips, paper pads and binders are waaaaaaay on the top.

10.  I want to send out stupid e-mail updates: "The time is now 2:18 PM.  The weather is hot.  The streets are quiet.  A bird just pooped on my car and, since this IS WV, somewhere a half-sister is marrying her half-brother."

11.  I want to roll down the hallway after having taped myself to my chair - just to see if anyone bothers to "rescue" me.

12.  I want to wear sunglasses, tank top, big straw hat and Nicole Ritchie-esque sunglasses while propping up my feet, sipping lemonade and listening to the radio at my desk, just to make a point about how frickin' hot it is out here in the lobby!!!

13.  I want to change the voicemail to say: "Thank you for calling our firm. We care about each and every one of our clients and your call is very important to us - after all - we DO charge you $250 an hour!"

14.  Everyone here has to track their time but me - I should start: .1  Looked out window; .2 looked out window again; .1  tore off sheets of day-by-day calendar; .2  Looked out window...

15.  Wait until the office manager goes into the bathroom.  Turn off lights.

16.  Run to her office.  Do the same.

17.  Steal everyone's family photos.  Rearrange and distribute throughout office.

18.  Hide "Homies" figurines in various places around the office:  the fridge, the freezer, the copier, the urinals...

19.  Walk through the office carrying on a balances conversation with myself - more often than I already do.

20.  Start offering up asinine explanations for everything like the cleaning people do (their latest - the elevator shaft sucks up all the cool air - that's why it's hotter than Hades in our office) "No - I didn't send your call to the wrong email address - the time flux capacitor was on the fritz causing an anomalie that opened up a worm hole that - ate it."