License to Kill, Oops, I Mean - DRIVE.

After dragging myself across the parking lot and climbing into my 1,000 degree SUV and cursing my choice of black pants, black sweater and black glasses - I tentatively ease my elephant car into the alley. I have to swing wide in order not to take out the car parked next to me. I'm concentrating on being perfectly aware of my side, front and, just in case, my back when - ZOOOOOM! A tiny gold Honda races down the one-way alley. I stand on my brakes, curse like a newbie sailor with fresh tats, and ease out into the street.

The Honda has stopped in the middle of the alley - pulled into a spot and is now backing up to head towards me - the wrong way down a one way street.

I refuse to move.

Let's just size up this situation.

I'm in a big black Denali.

I am huge.

Hear me roar, Honda-bug. I'll squish you.

Squishy, squishy, squash.

So I don't move. I keep meandering down the alley - forcing the Honda to retreat and pull back into a vacant spot.

I have won the game of chicken.

Bok, bok, baby. :)

The Odd Couple.

I sometimes think that my dear, sweet, devoted, loving, caring and nurturing hubby has - well - control issues.

Saturday night we are sitting patiently in the darkened movie theater for "Clerks 2".  Adjusting the center arm so that maximum snuggles are achieved I grab my cherry icee and start to stir the contents to better situate the juice. 

"Uh - what're you doing?"  Harry stiffens.

"I'm, uh - what?"  I wonder if I've accidentally racked him while snuggling.  It's one of the hazzards of dating an accident-prone woman.  He should really invest in a good cup.

"Why're you stirring it?"  He points to my icee with his free hand. 

"I -"  Stopping I sit up and turn to face him.  "I think I know how to eat an icee, thank you very much."

He burst out laughing and tried to grab it from me to prevent any more ill-timed stirrage.  "No! You don't!  You don't know how to eat an icee!  You can't stir it before the juice is all gone from the bottom!"

I continue to stir in slow, torturing circles.

"You're doing it wrong!" he yells in fits of laughter.

"Yup."  I say and place my lips on the straw.  "And it tastes sooooo good!"

I didn't give him too much hell for it - after all - I did get the cutest Tiffany's trinket from him (that's my neck in the picture above!).

However, I don't know if I'm going to be able to resist doing things "wrong" on purpose just to mess with his over-calculating brain.  Like eating a pizza backwards, or stapling on the right hand corner, or parting my hair on the wrong side, or even - just for giggles - switch the sides of his entertain tower and put the games on the right side and the television seasons on the other! OH! What hilarity would ensue!  ahahahha

 

:) 

 

That's IT! Tell the Fates to get SPELL-CHECK or I'm Done - DONE!

My horroscope continues to disappoint:

Today, you will probably decide to help someone close to you, dear Virgo(Usually I don't help.  Usually I'm more of a "kick 'em while they're down" v. "help 'em get up). Indeed, you are concerned about one of your friends (Unlike my usual self-involved "but enough about YOU let's talk about ME!" mentality) . You will probably decide to get personally involved in a humanitarian project (Ew.  Sounds messy) . You are not really used to act this way (What?  WHAT?  That doesn't even MAKE SENSE!). But this will give you the opportunity to learn more about yourself (Oh - okay.  I've learned that I'm a selfish, uncaring twit who will have a moment of humanitarian clarity before going back to her selfish, handbag hoarding ways. Wait.  That actually sounds pretty good to me!  )

Grocery Grumbles

I went to the Grocery Store yesterday - which ya'all know I hate to do - and had a list.  Not  a complicated list.  A well devised list.  One that was separated into sections:  Produce, Dairy, Dry, Misc. - for easier and faster shopping.

I was ready.

I get my cart and quickly put it back.  It looked like a ton of corn had exploded its husks all over it and the idea of pushing around a buggy with flaxen hair all over it grossed me out. 

So I mosey over and grab another one and start by eyeballing the produce.  I need celery.  There are celery pieces, cut up in a plastic cup.  There is organic celery.  There are celery hearts.  Poor celery - I bet some kumquat ripped out it's heart.  hee hee.

And then it starts.  Just as I am pulling into the noodle and sauce aisle a little old lady, purse slung over her chest and hands in her JC Penney pockets starts her slow amble.  She has all the time in the world.  Nowhere to go.  She's spending the evening at the grocery store.  I try to avoid her.  Try to go around her.  But she blocks me.  I go for peaches.  She's there trying to decide if paying five cents more for Dole is worth it or not.  She measures the cans with her eyes, carefully reading the ingredients.  I fake left and make my way to the oil and salad dressings.

She's there, too!  She's fondling the olive oil!

And then it happens.  The young couple with the two wailing kids close in behind me.  I'm trapped.  The two kids, very tiny, are crammed into the front of the cart.  They seem to be having a contest to see who can scream the loudest/make the most annoying sound ever/make my head explode.  My uterus actually clenched.  The parents uselessly plead with them to be quiet and then yell at them to stop. 

I want to smack them with a canned ham and pelt them with my birth control pills. 

So I'm stuck.  I can't move forward because Ms. Granny "I may die before my milk's gonna expire, so I might as well take my time" Pants is now heavily debating between peanut and olive oil.  I'm amazed how something that's 90 lbs can take up a whole aisle.  Behind me the war rages on.

And I almost start to cry.

In the middle of frickin' Kroger I am thisclose to bawling in frustration.   

I had twooptions:  1.  Ditch the cart and flee in tears.   2.  Stay and fight.

I charged granny.

I'm not proud of it.

But I did it.

And she's okay.

But her Kmart handbag may never be the same...

 

disclaimer:  No grannies were actually harmed in the making of this post.  No children were either but it is the author's sole intention to note that the children from the market severely needed a "knot jerked in their tails" - whatever that means.  The grocery bill came to :  $98.99 in groceries, 1 saved dignity, 18 prayers for sterility and 1 near-fit of tears. 

Good Things Come in BLUE Packages!

My hubby e-mailed me the picture above.

Apparently he stopped in Tiffany's (Yipppppppeee!) while shopping in Texas.

Hmmm- what could it be?

 

Cute - but Creepy.

I was disturbed and saying "Awwww" at the same time.

It was a weird feeling.

Go here to find out why....

Even though I'm not a Jeff Foxworthy fan...

You know you're a closet redneck if:

1. The undies you are wearing have flowers AND holes.

2. You understand the following sentence: "He was aimin' ta pitch a fit and reared back like a pole cat in heat and fell on down in the co' ho'."

3. You respond to the preceding sentence with a resounding: "Sho' was."

4. You spent your evening watching your sister vacuum the floor with a wet vac 'cause "The Welfare People's was a'comin'"

5. You have bras that your husband refers to as "Lowe's bras" due to their front hook and racer back persuasion.

6. You've ever eaten a 'mater like an apple.

7. You drink "pop."

8. You've eaten government issued cheese - and liked it.

9. Your fondest childhood memory involves a big wheel, a mountain-like hill and a rickety ol' shack.

10. Finally, you may be a closeted redneck if the road you grew up on is named after vermin: Possum Lick Road, Racoon Creek...

Liar, Liar, Tires on Fire!

Harry's car told on me.

It -get this - e-mailed him.

Apparently I had let the oil life get down to 18%.

Oooops.

Well, c'mon! I'm a GIRL! I don't think about those things! I'm the same chick who didn't realize her inspection sticker had run out - three months too late!

So now I'm worried that if I accidentally run up on a curb/pothole/parked car/pedestrian that Harry will get an Onstar e-mail with the subject line: "Subj: GET THIS CRAZY ASS FEMALE DRIVER OUT FROM BEHIND THE WHEEL! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, MAN !!!"

Stupid Technology.

You've Made Your Bed...

Last night I ventured, once again, to the home of my parent's to help them on their quest: the assembling of a rubix cube-like toddler bed.

We are all ready to assemble. Mom stands in front of me, holding the too simplistic directions two inches from her nose. Summer sits in the cushion-less rocking chair (my niece had a bit of a "big girl panties" accident) and stares off into space. Dad fiddles with a pile of tools, bits, screws and bolts.

Ten minutes later we realize that the bolts need to be inserted with an allen wrench.

Which we don't have.

We make a community decision to go ahead and thread the bolts through the side of the bed.

I'm working on the last one, seeing as how I'm the "lucky" chosen one (or the one stupid enough to be in the floor wrestling with a bed pin in 90 degree heat) and realize I can't get it to thread right.

"What the -?" I say. I'm grunting and groaning and wiggling and then - I look over to wear my father is on his knees putting in the last bolt on the other side.

"DAD!" I yell.

Summer and Mom stop talking about whatever it is they were discussing - probably something Elmo-related - and look over at us.

"DAMMIT BEN!" my mother yells. I was fourteen before I realized that my dad's first name was not, in fact, "DAMMIT." "LET HOLLY PUT IN THE OTHER SIDE FIRST AND JUST HOLD THE TOP LIKE I TOLD YA!"

I'm now laughing as beads of sweat drip down my nose.

"We still need an allen wrench," I say as I stand up and wipe my face with my pink shirt.

"Harryhasawholethingofthematthehouse!" My sister says.

"Huh?" I have no clue what she's talking about.

"I'veseenthem. Atyourhouse. Awholethingofallenwrenches."

"Huh? We don't have a big thing of allen wrenches at the house - " and then it dawns on me.

I HAVE A WHOLE SET OF THEM IN MY CAR!!!

Two hours later, we more or less have the bed together and I go home to catch a good night's sleep.

Or so I thought.

At 2:30 AM Phoebe decided to go insane.

I hear a high-pitched squeal and then I bolt upright as she darts from the bed. I hear the jingle of her bell as it is flung at high speeds around the room. She then runs out of the bedroom and down the stairs, pausing momentarily to catch her little kitty breath, and then she zooms back up the stairs and heads for the bedroom door.

She misjudges.

THUMP!

She smacks into the door and the screeching and jingling stop abruptly.

"Phoebe?" I offer tentatively to the darkened room. Visions of horrible monsters eating my tiny fluffy kitty bounce around in my foggy brain.

"Mrrreow?" she answers. Jumping on the bed and licking my arm, elbow and underarm fat she settles in to groom me as if I was the one who just hit a door at 70 mph.

 

Conversations with Old People - Revisited.

I called my grandmother last night to inquire about her health.  Last week my sister rushed her to the Emergency Room because she felt like she was "dying."  Turns out that she was taking her blood pressure meds - WITHOUT EATING.  Why do they do that?  What is it about the older generation that insists on feeding the general public to the point of stuffage but will then refuse to consume so much as a sandwich? WHY?

Here's our conversation, give or take some eye-rolls:

Me:  "Hey, nanners!  How ya doin'?"

Her: (PAUSE)  "Fine."

Me:  "When do you  hear back from your doctors about those tests you had done?"

Her: (PAUSE) "Tomorrow."  (PAUSE) (I sense more is coming, so I wait)  "They took four different MRI's."  (PAUSE)  "'At's not good."

Me:  "I'm sure they just wanted to be thorough.  They took tons of my abdomen and they still don't know what's wrong with me!"

And she's off:  Her:  "Now you don't let'em take out your gallbladder.  'at's not what it is.  You just need to eat better.  No more junk.  Now, if they tell you to diet - you diet  - you just need to diet."

Me:  "Oooooooookay, nanners. Will do.  Ooooooooooookay." 

My grandmother just called me a junk-eatin' fat ass.

I'm good with that.

And if that wasn't bad enough, Harry's wonderful, sweet and teeny grandmother has reverted back to calling me Kelly  - which is Harry's stepmother's name.  So our conversations go like this:

Her:  "So Kelly -"

Me:  "Holly."

Her:  "Oh, yes, I'm sorry. So sorry!"

Me: "That's okay."

Her:  "So Kelly - "

Me: "Holly."

Her:  "What?"

Harry:  "This is Holly, Meme.  NOT Kelly.  HOLLY." 

Me: "It's okay."

Her:  "So- Kelly..."

Me:  Sigh.

 

Pilfered Purses and Hot Handbags

Ways to tell if your couture handbag is an imposter:

1.  You bought it out of the back of a car.  ANYTHING that you buy out of the back of a car is FAKE - end of story.  Unless it's a kitten - and then- well - I think you're safe.

2.  You bought it at a local boutique - for $39.95.  It's fake.  It may look real.  It may feel real.  But, like cilicone and saline - it's not real.

3.  The woman selling it to you tells you that it was a "defect" item and that Mr. Vouitton sold it to her.  No, he didn't and no, he wouldn't.  Look around.  Are you standing in the middle of a flea market?  Are there giant "bloomers" hanging from a 2 x4 on your left?  Then it's NOT a real LV.  Sorry.

4.  No matter how many rhinestones and "genuine crystal" are adorning a pair of over-sized sunglasses - it still doesn't make them attractive or worth the extra $20 you will pay for the double C's next to your temple.  

5.  Finally, if the person selling you the designer item in question is missing any of the following:  teeth, eye, limb, finger - then you are not purchasing an authentic Kate Spade.  You are purchasing insurance.  For Benny to buy hisself some new toofers.

Here endeth the rant.

Questions?   Wanna know if the handbag clutched under your sweaty lil' armpit is real or fake?  Email me - I answer all:  h0llyk911@aol.com.

Weekends are FUNNY!

When we were still car-shopping and test-driving new cars awhile back - we had a genuine concern with the Jeep's door locks. Without warning they smack down and can pinch the underneath of your arm.

I'm soooooo glad we bought the Jeep.

Friday night, we're leaving the 'rents house. Harry is navigating the alley road with ease in his pretty new car when - WHAM! The locks engage and he howls: "OWH - MY BABY FAT!" He's rubbing his tender white underarm and then looks at me accusingly while I stifle my giggles unsuccessfully.

"You're NOT putting that in your blog."

"Hell I'm not! 'My baby fat! OH! My BABY FAT'" I mock like the good wife I am. "Oh - that's great - BABY FAT!" I'm hornking like a seal with laughter and he's looking at me with big mournful eyes.

"They're gonna make fun of me at work..." I should feel bad for him at this point.

But I don't.

BABY FAT!!!! AHAHAHAHAH

Saturday rolls around and we're in a different vehicle. Even after the "Baby Fat" incident of the previous night, Harry is nice enough to give up his space in the garage and let me put the white corvette in the left bay and the elephant, oops, 'scuse me, the DENALI in the right one.

"Wanna go for a drive?" he asks from the comforts of the red leather seat.

"Sure." I hop in and, after the usual grunting and groaning to fasten my non-fat-ass friendly seatbelt, we're off.

"Crap!" I yell.

"What?" Harry asks me.

"I can't find my sunglasses, I must've left 'em in the Jeep. CRAP!" I can't stand to be out in natural sunlight without shades. I'm like a Gremlin. Only more aggrieved.

"Here - you can have mine and I'll get the spare out of the console." He hands me a pair of Oakley's that engulfs my face. I look like Arnold in Terminator 2 after fighting with the liquid metal guy and losing most of his skin.

"Thanks, babycakeshead." I settle back in the seat and then, without warning, Harry rips the glasses from my face.

"HOLLY!" he bellows with a smidge of condescension as he replaces the sunglasses on to the bridge of his perfect nose.

"What? WHAT?!" I squint in the sun.

"You'll figure it out."

"WHAT?!" He refuses to answer me.

Ass.

I sink back and start to adjust my headband - and find my sunglasses sitting on my head.

Ooooops!

I cannot close this retelling of the past weekend's events without touching on "Perverted miniature golf".

Saturday night, Harry and I went out with another married couple. They have a brand new beautiful baby boy so their time is limited - we were happy to get to see them so when Putt-Putt was mentioned - I gritted my teeth and agreed to go - warning all of my tendencies to get bored after about eight holes of the "sport."

The boys in the group, Harry and Johnny, immediately start in heavy competition. Not to get the best golf score. No. Both were trying their hardest to make every phrase uttered into one that was not for the faint of heart.

"You're up by one stroke!" we'd say and then brace ourselves for the inevitable comments: "That's what SHE said! heh heh heh!" or "That's all it usually takes! heh heh heh!"

Finally, Julie and I surrendered and just waited it out. The boys eventually stopped commenting and just started sniggering instead. All was calm until this moment:

"Hey, Holly! Just hit the ball hard (snigger, snigger) and I'll knock it in for ya!" Harry stood at the end of a complicated green, waving his putter for all to see (hee hee).

I obliged.

WHACK!

Harry watched as my pastel purple ball flew past him and plunked into the 2,000 flushes blue pond.

"I got it!" he yelled.

WHACK!

The abused golf ball flew up into the air and directly towards the group ahead of us - almost making it into the hole two greens up.

"I can get it from there!" Harry dashes, putter held above his head, and lines up his shot - from two greens away.

A plus-sized gentleman in ill-advised Hawaiian flowered shorts saw his life flash before his eyes as Harry aimed for the appropriate hole (heh heh).

The man jumped up in the air, performing a lop-sided pirouette and landing just after the ball zoomed past his ample calf and landed in a bush.

I'm so glad Harry "helped me" with my game of golf. And my score - of 55.

Yes - 18 holes. Score of 55. You do the math.

:)

 

 

What's Yours is Mine and What's Mine is Mine...

"Five Things" - I stole this from Dan who stole it from Cindy. We're just one big happy internet kleptomaniac family....

Five Things in My Refrigerator:

1. A teeny bottle of 2% milk that expired. Last month.

2. Eggs. (see note above). I'm scared to throw them out. I'm worried about  accidentally stink bombing myself.

3. Bleu Cheese Dressing. I always have this. It's a staple. Like milk and eggs.

4. Sprite, Diet Coke, Diet Pepsi, Coke, Bottled Water, Caffeine-free Pepsi, Pepsi and Orange Sunkist. Oh - and an ancient Red Bull that Tiffany gave me to try and I just - well - haven't.

5. Cheese. Like Dan I have TONS of cheese in my fridge. But, alas, my tastes are more simple: Block-o-sharp cheddar, Cheddar slices, Pepperjack slices, shredded parmesean, and, of course, cream cheese.

Five Things in My Closet:

1. A stain of dried cat puke that I just recently found. Thanks, Pheobe. Ya Hairball...

2. Purses. Lots of them. Tons of them. I'm a bit embarressed - but over 100 denominations of leather and canvas and vinyl by: Coach, Dooney and Bourke, Louis Vuitton, My Flat in London, Kate Spade and so too many others to name...

3. Shoes. Lots of them. So many pairs that Amelda herself would swoon. I love my Coach shoes, my Kate Spades (to match the purses!) and Jimmy Choos and Manolos and Stevens! Oh my! So MANY HIGH HEELED LOVELIES!!!

4. Ahem. There's also a name tag from my reunion stuck to the wall. I'm smiling like an idiot and look vaguely like a well-manicured cousin It in my high school picture that's so convieniently glued to the tag.

5. A closet floor. I'm sure it's in there. I just haven't seen it in quite some time...

Five Things in My Purse:

1. A brown umbrella, again, from Coach, with tiny little c's all over it.

2. Big Red Gum. It keeps me from diving, face-first, into the candy bowl. Why is the candy bowl always on the fat girl's desk? Hmmmm?

3. Pill Case. Filled with all the lovely things that a gal needs to survive a tedious, mind-numbing job that drives her to the brink of babbling inchoherently on a daily basis: Tylenol, Midol, and Tums. Oh yeah....

4. Kate Spade Organizer filled with unorganized papers, receipts, doctor cards and pretty peices of plastic with my hubby's name on them. Heh heh.

5. Orange floppy disc. I'm still trying to write the "Great American Novel." Right now I'd settle for writing - period.

Five Things in My Vehicle:

1. Three dvd cases of Paula Deen's Foodnetwork show to watch on my lunch hour. Along with a season of Family Guy, Red v. Blue and Smallville. I like my variety during my meals.

2. Napkins. Lots of 'em. If I'm eatin' it - I'm wearin' it.

3. An Xbox with lots of games and emulaters. For when I feel like a little Old School Super Mario Brothers with my Wendy's Cheeseburger.

4. The middle section of my dvd player. Don't ask. it's too tragic to tell...

5. An electric stapler, a ball with two paddles and a tiara. Again - Don't ask.

 

Welcome to my (Wierd/Strange/Odd) Life.

My high school sweetie just called me.

To get my address.

So he can mail me an invitation.

To his wedding.

Next Saturday.

Okay - that in itself is strange, right?

But is it even more weird that not only am I going - but am racking my brain wondering what to get him and his new bride? AND that I feel no qualms about attending his nuptials?

Lemmie give ya'all the background on this ex-beau: We met as Juniors but didn't formally "date" until we were both Seniors. Apparently he had a crush on me (delusions of grandeur - I'm sure) and called me. We talked for four hours. It was puppy love at first ring.

Insert plot twists and other icky things, here.

Fast forward three years.

We're breaking up in a spectacular fashion.

It's another woman/mangirl.

I figure out that being single AND in college is hellah fun and even get to make out with my ultra-lust-object (who was quickly put back on his pedestal after a serious of disastrous dates) and even went to some - bars.

Insert horrible dating experiences and mind-numbingly boring retail job involving - shoes.

I started dating Harry - a sweet, loving guy who didn't care about my over-sized butt or mouth and who - likes to snuggle.

My ex calls me soon after I found this Dating Mecca of Nirvana and tells me that he and "other woman" and divorcing (yup - they got MARRIED).

She totally cheated on him.

Now, many years and in-depth conversations later - we're friends. I continue to be to civil to him and he continues to maintain my air conditioner for free.

Works for me.

So - I should get 'em a toaster? A bread maker? A gadget that is cool to have but never used like a waffle stick maker?

:)?

Oldies, but Goodies

Old people are liars. I'm not sure if old age gives them the right to be bendy with the truth or if they are given a slip of paper with the phrase "Well... I just didn't want to worry you..." written on it that is to be used in case of emergency (or to cover up said emergency).

My friend's grandfather went to the hospital because he "felt strange." Her grandmother repeatedly denied that anything was wrong with him and that she could still meet her poor, trusting granddaughter for lunch. My friend then found out that her grandfather was admitted and was (and still is) being submitted to a barrage of testing. AND is being kept for observation!

My grandmother kicked in the door to the bedroom where my sister was sleeping. "Get up!" she yelled and then turned on the light and switched off her fan. Summer got up, got dressed and stumbled down the stairs. Upon retelling the morning's events to Mom and my Aunt, my granny chimed in with "Well, Summer, I did not! I poked my head in and said 'Get up - we're leaving soon' and that was it!" Summer stood there and laughed. There is no arguing with the insane, the young, or the delusionally old.

Finally, I make it to the lovely little lady who lived on my couch when she injured her arm in a freak iron cord incident. Harry and I will arrive at her house and, upon entering the retro setting, with gorgeous flooring and acoustic ceiling and the ever-impressive orange tree - growing in the house - we're met with a SWOOOSH of hot air. Her house is roughly 1,000 degrees - or more.

"MEME!" Harry yells for his tiny five foot-nothing grandmother. She comes pattering out to the front room, sweating and red-faced from the trek. "Do you have your air on?" His eyes are boring into hers - searching for the truth.

She doesn't blink. "Why, Harry, yes! It's on! It's on!"

The heat is making me hallucinate. Oh. Nope - those really are fake black cougars holding up the coffee table. Yeeeech.

"MEME! The air is NOT on! LOOK - I'm SWEATING!"

She rebuts: "I turned it on! Why, Harry - it's on!"

He examines the thermostat.

You can see a thought growing behind his wide, unblinking, blue eyes. "When did you turn it on?"

She stalls.

She wrings her hands.

"Right before you got here," she admits.

Harry,  a bit shaken - screams on the inside. I've seen this before when we discuss controversial things like religion or politics or Harry Potter.

He sits down on the couch (or passes out from the heat - I can't really tell).

When he finally speaks - his voice is calm and even. "Do you understand that you have to keep your air conditioning on? Do you understand that it's too hot for you to be in this house in this heat? Keep. Your. Air. On."

She waves a hand. "Yes, yes, yes! I understand, Harry! Yes!" She bounces up and down on her worn gold recliner. "So," she says, leaning back and taking a sip of water, "how're ya?"

Rinse, wash and repeat. This conversation happens - EVERY time we go to her house.

Old people, I guess, are given the right to "improve on the truth." Or ignore it completely. I guess that's what I have to look forward to when I'm old and gray.

That and the Senior's coffee at McDonald's.

It's Written in the Stars - in Permanent Ink.

My horoscope is the same today as it was yesterday. Not similar - no - the same.

So - my fortune and future are both so bleak that the only answer is to not even try to make them sound more interesting?

The worse part is - it's not even a good one. It's another one that borders on condescending and ends with - basically - "although you are sucky, dear Virgo, you could be - suckier."

Your thoughts may be a bit scattered and frantic during the earlier part of the day, dear Virgo, but things are likely to settle down for you as the evening sets in (What - when I fall asleep at midnight???) . Your emotions will be more stable (I'm otherwise completely insane), and you will be much more disciplined when it comes to tasks that need to be completed (like making dinner? Yup. I'm ordering a pizza. And I'll be very certain about my toppings.). Make a plan for next week, and be practical about what it is that you can accomplish (Got it. Sit on couch. Mope. Sit on couch some more. Move to new section of couch. Mope. Eat more pizza.). Don't set yourself up for failure by biting off more than you can chew (Cancelling onions on pizza right now...).

 

Sad Entry

On Monday, I found out that an old co-worker of mine had passed away. He worked with me when I sold dead animal skins for a quasi-living (leather coats).

He was 26.

Twenty-six.

They're not sure what happened. He went to sleep with a headache and never woke up.

I'm still struggling to understand. Maybe that's why I've yet to write about it. I don't know what to think. It's a tragedy, for sure, but why'd it happen? What made that moment, as he laid in bed, the exact moment when he was supposed to die? What if we are all living on batteries without much juice in them? What if, when I was created from Adam's rib/alien poop/Big Bang that my batteries were bought from the Dollar General? How can we be sure that tomorrow will come and that all our procrastination will be rewarded? And why are we humans so selfish? Someone dies - someone really great and wonderful and full of life is just gone and all we can do is question our own mortality! How awful is that?!

Sigh...

Jason was great. Always smiling. He made working a crap-hole retail job - fun. And now - he's gone.

I can only pull together what little religious ties I have and attempt to make a pretty bow of realization - I have no clue why, what, when or how this happened.

And I don't think I ever will.

His guestbook is here, should you want to visit...

Inspiring Minds Wanna Know...

I have worked through some plot points on my book, flushed out a new character and even took the time to coordinate some scenes.

Which I wrote down on the back of a piece of paper.

Stuffed in the bottom of my purse.

SIGH.  I'm just lacking in - everything.  I have no drive.  No determination.  No energy.  No inspiration.  Nada.

If inspiration was a drug - I'd be Barry Bonds.  I'd be four-hundred pounds of pure inspiration meat. I could take three words, thrown together at random and produce a poem that would bring tears to the eyes of the world.  I'd make the world cry,  I would, and that woudln't be the amazing part.  The truly phenomenal part of my drug-induced poetry would be the fact that I wrote it - because in the land of suckage - my poetry, as it is today, reigns supreme.

For my English 101 class we were forced at gunpoint (more figuritively than literally) to write poetry.  So I sat on my front porch and tried to write a sonnet about the old tree in my yard.  Utter crap.  I then zeroed in on the rusty, dilapidated fence, once white and regal, now bent and useless.  Yucky.

I sat up, stretched and then noticed something odd.  The hanging plants from the sides of the house were gone.  They were mostly dead (yes - I killed flowers even then) but I was giving it a good watering every now and then - it wasn't all brown - yet.  

A pink houserobe caught the corner of my eye.  Madeline, the 80-year-old woman from across the street was busily replanting her newly acquired hanging pots with pansies("she's a harlot, she is." My grandmother would say.  "Went to school with her.  Hooker.")  .  She sat on her porch with a cigarette dangling from her withered lips and the plants between her legs.  She looked at me as if daring me to come and reclaim my $4.99 foiliage. 

I stared.  And then I started writing:  An Ode to the Eighty Year Old Hooker...

And I got an "A". :)

Reunion Rants and Sycophants

Is it wrong that I'm sitting here contemplating calling up my doc and scheduling gallbladder surgery just to have a bonafide excuse to take time off of work? That's horrible - isn't it?

On to other, more blogworthy things.

My Ten Year Reunion was this past weekend.

Yes - you read that right. I'm just happy to have survived.

And as I sit here in my depressing little office I find that I can barely muster the needed energy to blog about the festivities that ensued during the reunion. It was nice to see that some people hadn't changed. It was funny to see how much others had. My kindergarten boyfriend was there. And he was looking very much the part of a yummy tasty tidbit - and I was beyond horrified to learn that he left with a surgically-enhanced tartlet when the night came to a close. He is forever tainted in my mind. It's sad.

Other than that - everyone seemed happy and married, or re-married or happily single - but it seems that my class was one of immense breeders. I would place a safe bet that 80% of my alumni have spawned. I've yet to decide if that's a good thing.

Sunday was the picnic - also known as the day my face melted off and my hair exploded into flames from the heat. I didn't even venture out to attack others with my awesome badminton skills. I was ready to smack me some shuttlecocks - but it was too hot. I chose to sit - as still as possible - under the shelter and pray for time to fly by.

And now - it's Monday. The reunion is over. My hubby is in the air, flying in a metal tube towards Texas. And my self-imposed book deadline is hurtling towards me like a bullet. And since I made the gun - I guess that makes me suicidal.

Ew. I take that back. I think I have more homicidal tendancies than suicidal.

Like the fact that my motion to shorten the phone greeting back to two names instead of five was dismissed with a flippant comment and a veiled threat.

I've yet to hone my "killing with my brain" skills - but whoo buddy, when I do...

:) Happy MONDAY!

 

I Wish I Could Kill People With My Brain - Or at Least Give Them One Helluva Mirgraine!!!

ME:"Good Afternoon, Thank you for calling (all these stupid names I have to say in a row until pretty stars show up and start dancing in front of my eyes oooh pretty colors!l)!" Holly hyperventilates, hits the floor and bounces back with the greatest of ease!

HIM:"Yes. Mr. Lawyerman please."

ME: "Mr. Lawyerman isn't available - may I have him call you back?"

HIM: "Yes. This is the message: I have left my office. You must call my cell phone so that I can give you the email address and have the documents arrive before my arrival." I got none of that mess. I'll shorten it.

ME: "Got it - call you before he emails."

HIM: "No. That wasn't what I said." This man has no idea that I have access to his business information. I can squash him like an ooey gooey bug. Or at least sic the IRS on him...

ME: "Oh. Okay. What did you say?"

HIM: "He must call me on my cell because I am not at my office so that I can give him the email address where I'll be to send the documents."

ME: "Oh - got it." Oh yes! That's sooo friggin' different than what I said. Oh - there's the difference - you like to hear yourself talk and I don't. At all. Asshead.

Rapunzel Envy

My hair, after a rather unfortunate bad hair cut where I was left with dog ears - yes dog ears - blonde ones, has gotten really long.  I'm about a foot short of sitting on it  and about 14 inches away from looking like pants-wearing Pentecostal.

Sometimes, when one is dealing with long hair such as this - accidents happen.  Brushes get snagged and are lost forever.  Windows become hair guillotine.   And sleeping arrangements get - hairy.  (Hee hee)

Case in point:  Last weekend I woke up in the wee hours of the morning and found myself pinned to the bed. Upon further, somewhat limited, inspection I discovered that my snoring hubby was using the majority of my tresses as a pillow.  I was stuck.

I huffed.  I puffed.  I cried.

I pushed.  I poked. I cried.

Finally he shifts enough in his "dead to the world" sleep stupor for me to grab my hair out from under him.  I'm okay.  No worse for the wear, if you don't count a bit of drool...

Flopping over, I close my eyes and will myself back to sleep. Without warning I hear a soft jingle and flinch as Phoebe lands in front of my face with a purring thump.  Before I can react she has catapulted herself on to my pillow, walks in an agonizing circle before - laying down on my hair. 

"STOP IT YOU TWO!  QUIT GANGING UP ON ME!" I yell. 

I'm ignored.

I get even, accidentally, of course, later on that week:  I'm fighting the tangles in my Holly'fro with one of my "specially made for horse hair" brushes from the Salon Specialty Store.  When the bright orange brush gets stuck in my locks I'm a bit frustrated.  For what I paid for the damn thing it should be brushing my hair by itself!  I tug on it and watch as it flies out of my hand and smacks directly into the upturned, full-of-adoration face of my kitty.

"I'm sorry!"  I scoop her up and kiss her on herfluffy forehead.  "Are you okay?  Do you have a cat-cussion?" 

She sneezes in my face in response. 

I'll take that as "maybe."

Is it Friday Yet?

Wow.  Talk about a busy day.

I went to my doctor's appointment this morning instead of going to hell, oops, I mean work,  and he had this to tell me:  "Well, Holly, it could be a combination of things... We can go ahead and take out your gallbladder if you want..."

Yes.  That's exactly what I want.  I want to be gallbladder-less and perhaps maybe possibly still have this big ol' pain in my abdomen.  Jeesh!

I hate the medical profession sometimes (unless I've never seen you or been treated by you and then - I guess you're okay).

Then Johnny called Harry and said that the (stupid, incompetant, idiotic) adjuster okay'd us fixing our dishwasher and that if I made myself available the plumber would come today.

Needless to say I called into work and waited on the prompt and courteous plumber to come and fix my hot water, dishwasher AND fix the teeny leak on my main valve. 

I no longer have to heat up water on the stove and pour it into the sink - a feat that should guarantee third degree burns for my freckled apendages.

Then, due to day two of my "how much pressure can we exert on the brain before it squishes out of the ears" migraine, I laid down for a nap. 

Which was rudely interrupted by my office calling.  They needed to know how to print out a bill since my constantly MIA Office Manager had called in sick.  She had promised to be in by noon.  They called me at 3:30 because they couldn't get ahold of her.  My theory is that she stays up all night watching Home Shopping Network and ordering "designer" handbags that are such bad knockoffs that I can spot them a mile away.  And this is not an unfounded theory.  This is confirmed by the parade of UPS Brownies delivering crates of the cheap crap every day to her. 

Yeah - I helped my co-worker and I'll probably still get in trouble for not being there all day.  Oh well.  Fire me.  I'll stay home and NOT sit in an office chair all day while my creativity slowly dies like a piece of half-squished road kill on the highway of my steadily shortening life.

Finally I spent the evening with my sister and my niece - who has learned a new trick.  While we watched, she ran around in a tight little circle, her left leg flipping out everytime she picked it up and her butt stuck out.  She looked like a lame duck.  A lame, dizzy duck.  And then she fell off a chair.  Which would've been funnier if she wouldn't have started crying.  She wailed and whined while tears shone in her dark brown eyes. 

"WAAAAH! WAAAAAAH! Can we go for a ride, now?  Waaaah!"  The middle part was said with such clarity and calm that we all started laughing.  Which made her cry harder. 

Kids are funny.

 

Twenty-one bottles of beer on the wall! Twenty-one bottles of beeeeeeer!

Dan's got me thinkin' about my 21st birthday.  I can remember it like it was yesterday - which it soooo wasn't!

I had gone to the local grocery store at midnight, waited a few minutes and then filled my buggy full of liquors, vodkas, beer and wine coolers.

I heaved and hemmed my way up to the registers where a lone cashier stood looking bored and irritated at the same time in his standard-issued blue smock.

He sighed and began slowly ringing up my alcoholic purchases. 

I smiled and waited for him to say those magic words:  "Can I see your I.D.?"

He looked at me and put a hand through his greasy, spikey hair and said:  "That's be [a crap load of money]"

I was confused.  I had waited 21 years for this moment.  This single instant that would cement me into my role as a full-fledged adult and - this was it?! 

This was more of a let-down than when I lost my virginity.

And at least THAT took 2.2 minutes.

"Don't you want to see my I.D.?" I prompted.

"What?  Oh, sure.  Whatever."  He barely looked at the card.

Later that night while the party raged on I was pretending to drink a Zima with Grenadine ( I figured out - a bit too late - that I don't care much for alcoholic beverages) I pondered how my life would now change - I was 21 - no longer branded a teenager or "underage" for such adult things as drinking and - more drinking. 

Just then a gorgeous man appeared in the doorway.  He was raven-haired and had dimples that rivaled that of any screen legend.  He was tall and muscular.  Was this my birthday present?, I wondered to myself.

I opened my mouth to speak to him and swiftly and deftly dropped my Zima.  I spattered myself, my chair, my carpet and the jeans of the cute boy.

My face was as pink as my shirt as I contemplated, just for second, mopping the spilled drink from his nether-regions with my napkin. 

"Luckily" his girlfriend was there to stop me.

And that, dear readers, is how I spent my 21st birthday. My foray into adulthood ended - with me on my knees, covered in pink like a Gwar concert reject and fully sober. 

Wheeee.

 

Training Wheels

I hate training people to do my job. It's not a hard job. I don't have hundreds of extensions and codes to remember. I don't have to do much of anything except sit on my butt and attempt to look presentable from the waist-up as that's all that's visible.

Still - I loathe training. I suck at it.

We just hired (at least I think we did - I'm not sure) a new secretary. She seems nice enough. Recently married. Sweet husband. Occassionally she reeks of smoke - but I digress.

Me: "So you pick up the phone and say all those name right there that I've conveniently taped to the top of the phone, okay?"

Her: "I don't think I can pronounce half of them."

Me: "It's okay - they're not listening to you, anyway. Then you put the call on 'Park' - don't push 'Hold' or it will tie up your phone and you can't answer any other calls- so you put it on 'Park', hang up, push 5 and then page. Got it?"

Her: "I'm gonna get nervous."

Me: "I hung up on people all the time. They got used to it - they called back."

Her: "I need a cigarette."

Me: "I figure."

Shagadelic, Baby!

        My niece is still learning new phrases and enunciation and stuff so when she talks  - sometimes the words get morphed.  Well - I guess she was having a good time one day when I went over to the house to see her.  She came up to me, put a little hand on each of my knees and said - plain as day - "Are you HORNY Hah-wee?  Are you HORNY?" 

I froze. 

I didn't want to laugh in her little cherubic face so I slowly turned and looked at my mother. 

Which inadvertently deflected the line of questioning:  "Are you HORNY, Mammy?  Are you? Mammy? Are you HORNY?"  We doubled over laughing and were lying on the couch holding our stomachs when Sis walked in.

"What's so funny?" she asked, scooping up her precious child-spawn.

Gillian squeezes each of Summer's cheeks and asks: "Mama, are you HORNY?"  Mom and I are now each hornking with laughter while tears stream down our reddened, aching faces.

 

Summer looks at us smugly.

"No, sweetheart, Mama's not - HUNGRY."

"OH! So THAT was what she was saying!"  I managed to get out in between fits of giggles.

"Yes." Summer responded. "What did you think she was saying?"

"Horny!  'Are you HORNY?"  I was gone.  I think my crown about flew from my mouth due to the Austin Powers vocabulary of one tiny girl.

 

Her new favorite phrase:  "That's not funny- THAT'S SICK!"

AHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Rated "M" for Mature

Actual Conversation between a Married Couple

Me:  That was a cute movie.  Different from the book.  But cute.

Him:  You read the book?

Me:  Yup.  "The Devil Wears Prada" - it was okay - weird ending, though.

Him:  I want to have sex.

Me:  Well, okay!  Here?  <Points to parking lot>

Him: No.  I mean, I want to have sex - but I really have to get up early.

Me:  Yeah.  I'm all for having "the sex," but it's 12:30 AM and your flight leaves at five...

Him:  But I want to...

Me:  Me too.

<Moment of silence for dead sex life>

Him:  Well, let's see - how about in a month we do it?

Me:  A MONTH?

<he explains: girl time interruptions, out of town, in Texas...>

Me:  Yeah.  Okay.  A month.

You know you're old when sleep takes precedent over crazy copulation and coital cozies.  You also know you've been married too long when choosing sleep over "relations" actually seems like a GOOD idea.

Hello.  My name is Holly.  And I'm 27-going-on-85!

Oh - and while watching the Cialis Golf Tournament Thingy yesterday ( no one at the BBQ party I was at got up to change the channel) my friend Stacey uttered the following:  "Those men with ED and those people with Herpes have all the fun.  I mean, look at them!" she points to the screen where a man is piggybaking his disease-ridden girlfriend down the length of a beach by sunset, "they're having more fun than ME and I don't have Herpes!" 

 

Send in an IT - STAT!

I'm ready to write.

I've toted along my Kate Spade pink lined paper pad ( a MUST for any "serious" writer) and my pink polka dot Cross pen to work today. I plan on ignoring any accumulating duties here at my job and concentrate on the things that are important like checking out www.hollywoodrag.com and writing the next installment in my soon-to-be-a-big-hit-because-I'm-that-darn-tootin'-funny book.

:)

Trouble is - things at work are escalating into epidemic proportions. Lawyermen are freaking out and preparing to go into high-pitched squeaky voice mode. What's the problem? The computer system that records the over-pricing of their hourly rate - is malfunctioning.

And as I watch another overly educated individual streak by in a blur of panic, searching for the ever-vacant office manager, I smile inwardly.

I think it's funny.

And then karma bites me in my hiney. My AOL Journal won't open. My links don't work and I'm reduced to joining them in the mad office dash of computer-age confusion.

Now, if you'll excuse me...

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeyyyyyyyy!"

Funny Honey!

Sometimes I think my hubby has been reading my blogs too much.

Case in Point: We're in the car on our way to Chili's for lunch (yum - FAJITAS!) and we pass a VW beetle - one of the new ones with shiny paint and cute daisy hubcaps. 

"Aw! I love those cars!" I remark as we zoom past.  I notice a guy in a plaid visor at the wheel.  "Pansy," I say without thinking - which is something I do often like when I was cut off by a chick clutching a Motorola to her wrinkled ear and totally oblivious to the fact that she only gets one lane - NOT two and I rolled down my window, stuck my head out and waived my tiny fist in the air "DAMN FEMALE DRIVERS!!!"

Harry craned his neck to look behind us at the other vehicle and then rubbed his Jeep steering wheel with his large thumb. I am starting to worry that he and the SRT-8 may be more than just "driving buddies." 

"Ya know." he starts off thoughtfully, "I sometimes want to pull up to tiny cars like that, revv my engine and then peel off while it up and pees out its little radiator." 

I grin at him and start rummaging through my purse for my never-leave-home-without-it Kate Spade Organizer.

"Whatcha doin'?"  he asks.

"Are you kidding me?  'Pees out its little radiator'? That's pure blogging gold right there!"  I laugh.

"Perhaps I should have said it differntly," he attempts a backtrack.

"Oh no! No, honey, that was perfect!"  Heh heh heh.

Pickin' it!

I've been PICKED! Never in my life have I been picked!  PICKED!  Remember the days of yore and gym class line-ups for dodgeball team?   Remember the sad looking chubby gal who was last on the line, smiling for all she was worth trying to use charm to woo others to pick her to become a large, easy "outed" dodgeball target? 

That was meeeeeeeeeeee!

Not anymore - I HAVE BEEN CHOSEN!!!

I'M AN EDITOR'S PICK!

WHOO-HOO!

Still there?

Good.

Time for my acceptance speech:  First of all, I'd like to thank my husband of just over three years. For if it weren't for his man panties trails and boring me to the point of suicide-by-keyboard-to-the-noggin' talks of electonic gadgets, gizmos and doodads - I wouldn't have half the blogging material I do now!

And to my sister.  If it weren't for your crazy long fingers and tendancies to talk without pausing - well - we'd all be happier - but that's okay - I love you, anyway!

And thanks to everyone else - Cindy, Stacey, Alison, Dan, Tara, Chandra, Nonojean, Tiffany, Johnny, Mike! 

You like me! You really like me! 

Hee hee.

How I Spent My "Hump" Day

I feel a bit more calm now that I've announced a due date for my silly little book project. And when the phone rang at exactly 9:11 this morning I thought : "Ohhh. That's spooky." And then, when I visited Nonojean's blog and was visitor number 911 I thought: "That's freaky-deaky!" I'd like to think these are pointed instances reconfirming the sheer significance of that date: September 11th.

I had to do laundry last night. I had no choice. It was either do laundry or choose between pretty butt-less panties or Polo boxer briefs. I didn't want to have to go there. Or to Kmart to buy new panties ( I did that once and ended up with a pair of 99 cent undies from Walmart. They fell apart. In four hours. I was wearing the equivalent of a fig leaf while trying to maintain a smile at my Payless job. THAT wasn't easy.)

Summer had decided to come over and keep me company while I worked. She would not be partaking in the laundry brigade due to freshly dried clothes feeling "icky" to her freakish shoestring fries fingers. Oooooookay. So we make dinner. Breadsticks with garlic, pasta with marinara and a fresh salad (leftover from take out from Outback) with bacon bits and bleu cheese.

I "accidentally" made a peach cobbler too.

And then "accidentally" had some.

With ice cream.

Twice.

Anyway, we were picking up our used plates and walking them to the sink (not the dishwasher because it is rendered useless by Home Depot's crackpot installers. I curse them. And their power tools. Grrr.) when Summer belched so loud one of my Tiffany earrings dislodged from my lobe.

I slowly turned to look up at her.

She smacked her gums and tilted her head to the left.

This was her thinking pose.

Knowing it would take some time for a coherent thought to form I decided to take a huge swig of my soda, in attempt to finish it off.

"Tasteslikegreenpepper," she concluded.

There were no peppers in our meal - at all.

I busted out laughing, which wouldn't have been so bad except my mouth was still full of soda and the can was still held up to my lips.

I spit.

It ricocheted off the can and went in my eye, up my nose, down my chin, between my breasts and, yes, even in my bra where it pooled with the bits of stray noodle and lettuce.

I couldn't get too mad at her for making me spew Coca-cola, after all, it didn't come out my nose, only up it and I did make her go to Kmart with me to pick out new potholders. Of which I found none I liked. How funny is THAT? I stood for a good twenty minutes hemming and hawing over pot holders.

"Do you like this one? Or this one? It's by Martha Stewart. Is that good? Does it feel thick enough? Oh - this one's pink! But my kitchen is more Tuscan-y-ish... How about this plain red one? Too blah?"

I kid you not.

This is how I spent my Wednesday night.

D-day!

In the spirit of the Independence Day aftermath and the celebration of freedom, AND in keeping with same vein as my entry before the entry before I killed my plants - I have set up a time line to finish my book.

Yes. I have chosen a "Due by" date.

And that date is : September 11TH.

Now, this date is synonymous with terror - so - in that retrospect it's perfect because the idea of getting something done and actually sticking to a set deadline scares the bejeezus outta me. And twenty-something years ago - I came into this world on that very same date. I am a 9/11 baby. So - there's a reason to pick that date - because before Osama decided to make the Pentagon look like a "half-eaten birthday cake" (Yup - some reporter actually said that while I sat in front of the tv eating white cake that suddenly tasted like sand) it was MY day of celebrating me. What better way than to stress over chapter numberings and grammar and comma splices?

Finally, I was hired as a receptionist in hell on that very same day. And if THAT won't give me incentive, I don't know what will!

So - wish me luck and promise you'll buy a zillion copies when my name appears on the shelf next to MaryJanice Davidson, and Mary Kay Andrews and all those other three-named yet still fabulous writers!

:)

I'm a MURDERER!

I killed them.  Killed them all.  It wasn't pre-meditated.  It wasn't.  It just - happened.

My herbs - are dead. 

I tried not to let them die.

But they insisted.

They didn't want to live.

It was suicide.

Planticide...

 

 

 

Holly v. holly

                                                                    

I don't think I have an inner critic. You know - the little voice inside that tells a person  they're an utter failure and nothing they do is ever good enough, and other general non-helpful things like that. 

Nope - mine does not exist on the inside.  Mine's on the outside.  While others leap towards life with fervor and cannonball into the waters of possibility - I cling to the ladder and hope I can hang on through the waves of others.  My inner critic is on the outside and any time a small bit of inner me, the inner holly, tries to poke through with an encouraging word or a "you can do it!" cheer, outer Holly squishes her like a bug and then eats her. 

So why the tirade? Why the sudden burst of self-realization?  I have a half-written book. It's been half-edited by two very smart and very different gals (Thank you Alison and Summer!) and, I'm told, it's very good.  Funny.  Hilarious, even.  Yet I can't finish it.  I can't bring myself to write on it anymore.  I feel like, even though I've written 140 pages of comic fluff - I can't do anymore.  I'm spent. 

And then my evil critic rears her ugly head.  Constantly flapping her tongue and beating me about the head with her stunning observations of  "Well, you wrote a book, huh?  Watch out Dan Brown!  Heh! Giving Jennifer Weiner a run for her money for sure! What's it about?  An accidental hero named 'Bunny'?  Yeah - THAT'LL work!"  And I can't argue with her.  Holly's always right.   She always wins.  So I put away my notebooks.  I pack away my rough drafts.  I shred my notes and wipe the blackboard clean.

And I sit. 

Someday, a little part of me thinks, "holly will win."  My inner voice will have her day in the sun, so, until then, I will try to forget about the character sheets nestled in my desk drawer.  And I will turn a blind eye to the notes about plot development after the attack of the Dynamic Duo and the explosion at Riverfront Park.  

One day, she will win - and I want to be ready...

 

(Oh - and just so I don't get in to trouble again - much thanks to the Dials for having me and my water-logged hubby over for a cookout.  I'm sorry I ate all your Deviled Eggs, which is a big fat freakin' lie cuz they were Grrrrrrreat! :)  )