HAPPY Halloweenie!

For a book club/Halloween party - we were to dress up as one of the characters of a selection from the past year.  Well, after reading The Dogs of Babel I knew which one:

"Anyway, one of the characters in The Dogs of Babel is an artist--the maker of exquisite masks. She is called upon to make a death mask as a mourning memorial to a 19 year old cancer victim. She makes a mold of the actual face, but the realism stops there. She paints the mask not with the features of the deceased, but with the markers of her soul--the essence of this individual. She paints scattered wildflowers, blowing in the breeze. Only when one looks closely, the bump of a nose is still present...the indentation of eyes, the roundness of mouth. The mask is so beautiful, that she is called upon to make several more. " (--this was an excerpt from a woman's journal entry - I can't find my book. I loaned it to Summer who swears: "IgaveitbacktoyouIknowIdid - right?" )

Side view of mask:

And another one:

It was hanging on the cabinet in my bathroom so I took one from kinda below - trying to make it creepier:

Here's me as "Lexy" in the mask (pretty cool how the green made my eyes stand out). I think it's a VAST improvement:

I let Phoebe try it on - eeesh - she needs her face washed!  But that's Harry's job! Why? The little twerp (the furry one - not the -uh- other furry one) bites me! :)

I think it's LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOVE!

                                  Happy Halloween!!!!

In The Closet

I'm so tired but can't seem to get up enough gumption to walk up the stairs, open the bedroom door, push the chubby Himalayan out of the way and curl up under the pink electric blanket.  Yet here I sit, watching "Family Guy" reruns and wondering if I ate dinner or not.  Yup - there's some bits of tuna stuck to the front of my Old Navy tee. 

:)

Enjoy the pics of my closet.

It still looks good and clean to this day!

Mostly....

 

Freeeeeeeeeeebie! :)

I love free newspapers and my hometown seems to be chock full of 'em.  Why?  Because we're hillbillies and we love our free sofas, mattresses, clothes, tires and glider rockers.  Oh - and Coonhounds.  Oh yeah.....

Things you can get from the "Big Eagle Trader":

Peacocks $250/pair (profits to benefit the Retirement Community at NBC)

Pregnant Pit Bull $150 (Has disgraced family by announcing "Yo quiero Chiauaua)

Adult Raggedy Ann Costume $20 (with wig) (lice is free)

Wanted - Free Coonhound that will hunt (people)

Chainsaw - 16" cut $50 (ad for an adult film star, I'm sure)

Female Pigmy Goats - 3 months old $50 each. (Contact : Troll @ under the bridge .com)

Wedding dress, like new, 1 year old $350 ( No longer white)

Bird cage, large $15 (Bird escaped due to all the whistling/sexual harassment)

Season horse manure: $10 a load, delivery available ( Holy Crap!)

Buying junk cars! No title needed! (Stolen, pilfered and "hot" items welcomed!)

Yellow Bird - 10 years old, talks, comes with all accessories (Big Bird? Is that you? And how did you get out of your $15 Large Cage?)

hee hee.

The Aftermath of Hurricane Home Depot...

It's been awhile, but I took some pictures of how our family room turned out post- Home Depot Leakage.

Sorry - so fuzzy - but I can't seem to take a pic with a digital camera! I'm digitally-impaired!  Anyway - here's the famous Harry Potter wall - minus HP3 (it got wet - had to be reframed - three times).  Dig the new track lighting and furry pillows that Harry picked out!  Oh - and the wall color - "Decadance"!!!

This one's a longer shot and you can see the display cases to the right of the picture.  Those cases are filled with Harry's most precious commodity:  Simpson's figurines!

On the wall opposite my Harry Potter shrine is the odd fireplace and the Blenko fish ( we have a whole school of 'em!).  If you look carefully up the stairs - you'll see our Jim Davis signed Garfield prints mounted on the wall!  We do love our pop culture!

A better fireplace shot - and a bit of our 60" cornea-searing television:

Happy Halloween Eve!

----Holly

------h0llyk911@aol.com

Happy B-day to ME - A Month Later!

I finally uploaded the pictures from my 28th birthday party!   We had so much fun and it made my fast approaching trek to 30 all the much more bearable!

 

 

Blah, Humbug!

I'm sure many of you were downright devestated when I didn't post yesterday - on the brink of suicide, not knowing if you could go on, etc - well - never fear - I'm ba-a-a-a-a-a-ck! 

And with this little tidbit of "fun" that happened to me this morning:

       I had to water the plants today - because as a Receptionist it's one of my many and ever-growing things I "must" do.  Well, no sooner had I filled the bright green jug with liquid and approached the first of the gazillion plants in my office then I tipped the watering can - and watered my leg.

       For the rest of the morning I had to walk around like a chick with a bladder control issue. 

It could just be that I'm sooooo tired today due to the fact that I had to stay up late last night and redo a poetry assignment that I so royall f'd up I had no choice but to cross my eyes, screw up my anger and regurgitate it on to paper.

Lucky for me, the poem was "America" by Allen Ginsberg.  

While I'm discovering this royal screw up - Harry comes up behind me in my recliner and taps me on the head.  He thinks this is absolutely hilarious.

Why?

Because he wasn't using his finger.

Sigh.  Boys come with built-in toys...

                                                      

 

Idle Threats and Idle Minds.

                                                          

Harry and I got into bed last night and I immediately squealed like a pre-pubescent hyenia - Harry had expertly managed to contort his body and place both of his large, size 13 feet square on the small of my naked back. 

It was on.

For the next thirty minutes, while "Miami Ink" played across the tv in the background, Harry and I yelped, wrestled and banged our heads on the brown cherry headboard.  If we were less clothed, it could've been more fun - but there we were - I in my pajamas and he clad only in gray man panties. 

Finally, we come to the end - I'm exhausted, snuggled in his armpit and enjoying the after-glow of physical exertion - or am just red from the Indian Burns now covering 3/4 of my exposed skin.   I go to put my charred arm over his middle when he flinches. 

I pop my fuzzy head up to look at him questioningly.

"Ya know - you're lucky I don't hit you more!"  he said.  I stared.  I knew what he meant  - he's jumpier than a cat on the Fourth of July - but it was the way he said it.

"What?  You mean 'step off bee-otch, or I'll smack ya down!' ?  Or maybe 'you's lucky I don't pop you one right in the mouth!' Is that it? Hmm?"  He erupted into a fit of giggles in which he accidentally smacked me on the head.

And pulled my hair.

I'm planning my retaliation tonight involving:  cat treats, a kitty fishing pole and my furry comrade.  Oh yes.  It will be an eventful  evening.   Heh Heh Heh. 

All Good (and Bad) Things Must Come to an End.

The love/hate relationship I had with my vampire blog has come to an anti-climactic ending.

Feel free to head over to Kat's page and check it out.

I think there may even be a book in there somewhere!

                            

Harry Potter and the Condom Connundrum

Daniel Radcliffe signed up to play a boy scout version of his Harry Potter self on the British show "Extras."  I laughed so hard while watching this very non-PG program that I just had to share! I like how he's not letting "The Boy Who Lived" dictate a squeaky clean existance!  However, I'm a little more than disturbed over the reports of his nudie play debut... Ahem...  Er....

Anyway - if I did this right - here's the episode of "Extras" that debuted back in September!

 

Cursed, I tell ya, CURSED!

I should've known when my alarm went off this morning and I awoke to find the latter part of my head stuck in the crack that formed between the mattress and the headboard that today - would not be a good day for me.

My first task of the day was to empy the "presents" that Phoebe had left in her litter box - which - for any of you out there with pets, kids, or elderly - know this is NO way to start a morning.  I then hopped (stumbled blindly) into the shower where I opted to not shave my legs in hope of creating man-made leg warmers for this cold snap we're experiencing here in good ol' Appalchia.  After the drying of the ten pounds of hair in which my locks keep getting tangled in my underarms, I finally scoot in front of the mirror to apply my face.  I pick up my trusty "blackest black" eyeliner from Cover Girl and twist it to push the product up to use. 

It's empty. The shower-scene music from "Psycho" fills my ears and I stare aghast at the eyeliner in hand.  I dive into my make-up bag in search of my black liquid liner - sometimes tricky - but entirely doable in an emergency situation such as this.  Panic pales my freckled face as I come up empty handed - except for a tube of bright, metallic liner in a gunmetal silver color.  I shrug and carefully apply a ring of the liner around each of my eyes.  I look a bit like an extra from "Star Trek: The Next Generation" - but since the alternative - naked eyeballs - makes me cringe, I leave it on.

Thinking that the worst was over, I ripped open the package on my brand-new tube of L'oreal mascara.  Screwing open the cap I pull to release the brush from its inky depths. 

It's stuck.

I pull harder.

Nope.

I give one final tug and the teddy bear brush is freed- all over my hand.  Somehow, it has been mushed into a ball - I try to straighten it out - but it was no use.  My cherished mascara - was no more. 

Thinking that my bad luck streak would be limited to that of the arena of cosmetics application - I grabbed my phone and headed off to work.  I am working my way through the sea of cars on Route 60 when I decide to call my dad - today's his 61st birthday!

The screen is blank and forboding.

It's dead.

I grip the steering wheel and curse the heavens.  A little blue car pops up into my peripheal with an equally tiny nun tucked behind the wheel.  I smile sheepishly at her in case she sensed my cellular-related outburst.

I'm totally convinced that whatever higher being resides among the clouds would totally understand and forgive my rants.  I mean, c'mon,  you just gotta know that Heaven is in a Roaming area! 

Shake, Rattle and Roll - into a ball.

From my comfy brown recliner below, I can hear footsteps in the kitchen followed by pronounced crashes and bashes and loud booms and bangs.  A plastic bag rustles.  Cabinet doors are slammed.

I fear I'm being robbed of my Pfalzgraf.

No.

Harry's baking.

It's my fault.  I asked him - halfway jokingly - to make me some brown sugar bars.  I'm craving them due to the immense amount of homework that is weighing down on my tiny burnt-out brain. So, being the good husband he is - he sat in his chair for an hour and then timidly asked: "Are you sure you want me to make those bar thingys?" 

I nodded and off he flew up the stairs.

That was twenty minutes ago.

The noise is growing to a fever pitch.

I should go check on him.

And my kitchen.

But I'm scared.

I think I'll just sit in my chair and pretend to write some more on my paper.  Whatever he brings me, I will eat it and smile. 

Even if it tastes like crap.  :)

Update:  The bars didn't get made - but that's okay - all that clanging and banging was from him cleaning the kitchen!  I'll take that over dessert anyday! 

Here is the recipe - should anyone be interested (and YES, of course they're from Paula's kitchen!):

Brown Sugar Chewies Recipe courtesy Paula Deen Show:  Paula's Home Cooking Episode:  The Working Lunch

1/4 cup butter 1 cup packed light brown sugar 1 egg, beaten 3/4 cup all-purpose flour 1 teaspoon baking powder 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract 1/4 cup chopped pecans Confectioners' sugar, for dusting Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Spray an 8-inch square pan with vegetable oil cooking spray. In a small saucepan, melt the butter. Turn off the heat, add the brown sugar and stir until smooth. Stir in the egg. Stir together the flour and baking powder and stir into the brown sugar mixture. Stir in the vanilla and pecans. Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake for 20 minutes. When cool, dust the top with a sifting of confectioners' sugar.

Ice Cream Tragedy - Part Deux

I thought I was safe.

I thought lightening couldn't strike twice and all that mumbo jumbo.

I was wrong.

Harry met me for lunch and then headed over to our usual haunt for two cones of delicious ice cream (the other other other white meat).  I got a smaller scoop this time of peanut butter and chocolate and decided to get a cone, thinking it couldn't explode again on me.

I'm happily licking away and then realize with horror that I must now unwrap the paper from my cone.  Thinking only of myself and pretty dark green sweater, I handed it to my darling hubby who whipped off the white wrapper, took a large bite and handed it back to me.

We're enjoying another episode of "Southpark" where the boys become ninjas after buying weapons at a fair.  All's fun until someone pokes an eye out - with a ninja star.  Instead of taking poor Butters to the hospital, they glue dog hair on him and try to get him to the vet, instead, and miss punishment by their parents.

The episode comes to an end and I have but a bit of cone left.  I'm working my way carefully to the bottom when I see Harry's open mouth in my peripheal vision.  I try to lean away, try to avoid the teeth that arecoming for my precious non-exploding ice cream cone - but it's no use.

While I'm erupting into giggles, he grabs my cone with his teeth.

I fight back by biting the end protruding out of his mouth.  He refused to let go.  Holding my ground and looking a bit like the "Lady" end of the famous "Lady and the Tramp" spaghetti scene, I lose it as he snorts and pulls the rest of the cone from my teeth.

I now have bits of cone stuck to my chest (again) and a huge chocolate stain across my right cheek.
I look over, wide-eyed, at my darling husband who was wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.  "That's gonna make the blog, isn't it?" he asked me.

"Naw," I said, "I wouldn't blog about that - it's just too weird."

So, of course, when he dropped me back off at the gates of hell, I ran into the elevator, plopped down into my seat, opened AOL and typed "Ice Cream Tragedy - Part Deux."

:)

TAKE me OUT to the BALLLLLgame!

I'm currently nestled in a large, over-stuffed leather recliner, two blankets covering my legs and my laptop plopped upon my lap.  I'm trying desperately to entertain myself in order to still "spend time" with my hubby.  However, he seems hell bent on watching baseball.

I'm hell bent on staying conscious. 

It's not that I don't like sports - it's that - oh - fine!  I'm not a sports lover!  I'm just not mentally coordinated enough to learn a foreign language that consists of words like "bunt" and "innings" and am not ready to call anything or anyone a "batter" without having to add eggs, oil and water to it!

But I'm supportive in my ignorance.  I smile prettily when Harry's happy about some crazy catch where a young man contorts his body backwards over a fence in order to score a flyball in his little orange mitt.   I jump when he whoops over a good pitch.  And I tend to pretend to be interested in instant replays - because - obviously I wasn't paying attention the first time the play happened - thus the need for the instant rewind and play.

I'm supportive. 

And I smile.

Because I have no clue what the hell is going on.

                                                

PANIC! At the Parking lot!

                                                  

As I sat in my Christopher Lowell tan chair and gazed out the seventh floor window of my office I breathed a sigh of contentment and bit into my perfect red delicious apple.  I can see the big black elephant Denali nestled into her spot in the parking lot below.  She looks clean and shiny - from this distance. 

And as my eyes are focused upon the mammoth SUV, a tiny little green Cherokee pulls into the spot next to mine.  He carefully opens the door and as I take a large, vicious bite out of the fleshy apple a single thought enters my brain:  Push the panic button.

I smile with glee as I think of my boss, Lawyerman #3 jumping like a scared feline at the sound of the large after-market alarm system rang in his tiny little ears! 

With joy, I smile at this wonderous thought.

And then frown. 

I don't know how to work the "Panic" button.

Somehow my apple didn't taste as sweet after that.

Caution - Schooling May Cause Brain Damage!

My fingers rested on the keys of my trusty HP laptop.  The screen was glowing before me, a Word document filled with a header, my name and the date.  I was ready to assault the page and spew intellectual verbage with skill and ease. 

I spent thirty minutes on the first paragraph.

I spent another thirty staring.

Forty more, and I closed my laptop with a huff and tossed it to the end of the bed.  I was hungry, tired, and sick of summarizing articles that made no sense to me the first, second, or third time I read them.

My eyes crossed, and my brain followed suit.  I was annoyed and flustered, frustrated and on the verge of tears.  So I did what any girl would do in my situation.

I picked up my cell and dialed.  "Um, hello?  Yes, I'd like to order a Happy Meal.  With Fries.  And a coke.  Yes. Thank you."

"No onions?"  my hubby said with a smile behind his tired voice.

"Yes, please," I snivelled.

"Okay - I'll be back in a few."  And with that I could hear him bound up the stairs, leaving behind his tv filled with quarterbacks and centers and terminology of which I can not follow and traipsed out the front door.

I'm a lucky gal, I thought to myself as my knight in shining McArmor returned and handed me a tiny white bag.   Ohh - and a Barbie princess doll, too!   

Moral of the story:  School can wait if there are happy meals present.  :)

Mornings Suck - and other insights....

It's four AM and I'm in a deep, coma-like sleep that I've been nursing since falling asleep and drooling on my poor husband at ten. 

I've just gotten to the good bits in my dream, and had a realization about a plot line so unique, so surreal and so twisted that it would be an instant best seller!  

That's when, from the depths of REM I hear it.  A sound so familiar to pet owners that not even the deepest sleep can be spared.

Phoebe's about to puke.

On my head.

I sit up and - being the loving parental unit I am - scoop her up and toss her to the floor.  Don't judge me!  I  wasn't the one about to yak on Tommy Hilfiger Crest Collection sheets!  I  wasn't the feline who decided that the bestest, most niftiest place in all of the house to hock up a hairball would be on my caretaker's head!  I mean, c'mon!  I've heard of "don't bite the hand that feeds you," but why isn't there some ancient proverb that says "don't puke on it either"?!

I flip on the light, grab my glasses and reach for a paper towel that held the contents of my apple dinner.  Luckily for me, it's an easy clean up and I'm hopping back in bed before too long.  Phoebe looks at me lovingly from my spot on the bed.  Harry, on the other hand, is completely oblivious.  He slept, man panties in a bunch, t-shirt up to his armpits with one hand tucked under his side and the other over his face while lying spread eagle and gracefully snoring.

Two hours later, I'm applying eye liner to puffy eyelids.   "So, how'd ya sleep, babycakeshead?" I postulate to the man curled up in the bottom of the shower.

"Good.  Did you?"  he asked me.  The spray is hitting him in the face a la self-inflicted Chinese water torture. 

"Sure did.  That is, until Phoebe tried to launch a hairball on to my head."

"I don't remember that," he said.

"You slept through it. From beginning to end.  And you snored."

"Sorry," he said, in a voice that was neither sorry nor un-amused.

Good thing I've yet to throw away that paper towel.  :)

Tagged! I'm It!

Rhianna tagged me - so here it goes:

TAG!

 

1. Grab the nearest book. If you are currently reading something, that'll be fine too.    "Of One Blood" by Pualine Hopkins  - it's an assigned reading thing.  I don't get half of it - but I'm trying!

2. Open the book to page 123.  Deal.  Can I close it now?  hee hee...

3. Find the fifth sentence. "Ababdi, Ai, " he demanded, sternly.  (See?  See., why I'm having issues with this darn book?!  Is that even a flippin' sentence?!)

4. Post the text of the next 4 sentences on your Blog along with these  instructions. I have no clue what this means.  I'll take this time to do a jig of happiness in my chair for my good grades and knack of covering up the fact that I'm wearing two distinctly different socks.   Incognito!

5. Don't you dare dig for that "cool" or "intellectual" book in your closet I know that is what you were thinking!  Swear - it was the one lying open in front of me - but I guess I  could've reached PAST it and grabbed onto the phone book, turned to page 123 and be amazed that here, in Huntington, I would still be looking at the listing for "Adkins." :)

6. Tag 5 people Oh - tag yourself!  I'm too lazy and much too burdened with big books about opressive races to tag people.  So in here lies my promise - "You've all been tagged!  All of you - TAGGED!"  HEE HEE - that oughtta do it...

OKay - that was too much fun!

TAG - YOU'RE IT!   AHAHAHAHAH!

 

 

"And how was YOUR weekend?"

Here are tidbits from my weekend, for your making-fun-of-me enjoyment:

1.  I ran over to watch Gillian, my niece, for a few hours on Friday morning so that Summer and Mommy Dearest could go run an errand.  Seeing as how having children has been on my mind more than ever lately, I gazed upon my sweet, elmo-clad niece and asked her: "Gilly - would you like a cousin?"  I smiled at her and watched in horror as her tiny face screwed up to resemble a purple raisin. "Nooooooooooooooooooooo!  Noooooooooooo!  Aghhhhhh!  Noooooooooooooo!"   I'm taking this as a sign.

Of the apocolypse.

2.  Arriving at the outlets on Friday evening, Harry and I scour the Williams Sonoma store until we come up with two wooden slotted spoons, a cookbook about vanilla and two jars of vanilla beans (I like to make my own ice cream on occassion). While waiting to check out we notice that the cashier is on the phone.  I hate this.  I hate when people call a store and demand that an employee run around like a chicken with its head cut off looking for a duvet cover, or a throw pillow or something that was in some ad at some time.  Get off your fluffy deirierre and come down to the damn store and get it yourself!  So I left.  I went outside and left Harry to deal with this squat woman with bad hair.  He tried to joke with her when she hung up the phone :  "Thank you for calling Pottery Barn where you can shop from home!"  He smiled at her.  She handed him his change and handed him a bag.  "Well, she had personality," he snarked when he met me outside.  "I was getting mad, I had to leave before I smacked her with a discounted, slightly damaged table and then ask her politely to get off the f'n phone!" I said.  "I kinda wish you would have," Harry said, peering into our bag of $20 treasures and perhaps wondering if we'd been "retail raped."

3.  In Columbus I found a perfect-if-not-slightly-inaproppriate bridesmaid's dress.  It's black (obviously) and really low cut and then has a peep out that shows off my rounded tummy.  I'm covering the peep hole.  Or coloring my skin with a black magic market.  Whichever's easier! 

4.  We headed to "Filene's Basement" which, for those of you not in the know, is a place where one can buy designer duds for a discounted price.  Jones of New York, Coach, Kate Spade, BCBG - everything is there and marked with a large yellow sticker.  Love it.  We walked out with a set of pink Victorinox luggage for Harry's grandmother (for next summer's Hawaii trip - the sequel) and a pair of Blue and clear jelly heels by Kate Spade for me.  Yes - you read that right.  Jelly heels. And they're damn cute. 

5.  We arrived home late Saturday night ( a full day earlier than expected) to find a house so cold you could hang meat in it.   I rushed to the bedroom, worried I was to find Phoebe frozen solid to her little purple food bowl.  I then cranked the heat to 75 degrees, slept for four hours before I woke up in the midst of a heat stroke.  I looked over to find both Harry and Phoebe, spread-eagle, on top of the red comforter.   Sighing, I got up, turned off the space heater, the electric blanket and turned down the thermostat and flipped on the fan.  An hour later I was awakened by a cat wanting to be petted and a cold hubby wanting to cuddle.

Okay - so nothing really exciting happened - but I had a great time and am now planning for my 6/07 trip to Hawaii!  I'm so excited! Earthquakes be damned!

:)

 

Always a Bridesmaid, Already Been a Bride(zilla)

Tomorrow I will not be at work and therefore - no blogging - so  - if ya miss me - drop me a line at h0llyk911@aol.com otherwise - I'll catch up on Monday!

Ya see - I'm heading to Columbus, Ohio on the holy grail quest of trying to find a pretty, simple, black bridesmaids dress that doesn't make me look like a giant raisin/prune or has so many frills that even Madonna couldn't figure out how to get in it!

Harry's going with me on this quest.

Poor bastard.

Wish me luck!

 

Anthrax, The Navy, and Yours Truly

Summer, my dear sweet, ADD-riddled sister, called me at work yesterday: "Youjustgotacreepyletter.  Ithinkit'sgottheAnthrax."

My response: "Huh?"

"Someonesentyoualetterbutit'sopened.  It'sempty. NowI'mitchy.  It'sgottheAnthrax."

I'm at work and trying to figure out 1) what the hell she's talking about and 2) who would send me a letter at my parent's house with my maiden name on it.

"It came empty?"  I felt like I was playing twenty questions.  And losing.

"YesitcameemptyandI'mitchy.  So - whowantstokillyou?  Creepy!" 

I hung up and stared at the name and address she'd given me : Robert Conn 727 3rd Avenue, Huntington WV    304-523-2105.  I'd gathered that most psycho stalkers generally don't 1) include their return address and phone number and 2) usually employ stalking techniques against much prettier, much skinnier and much less attainable objects of lust than I. 

I decided it must've been hate mail instead.

I go to www.superpages.com which instantly locks up on me. Finally I get www.yellowpages.com to load for me.  The anticipation of finding out where this came from is killing me - so I dial the number provided while I wait for the screen to load. 

It's busy.

Very forboding. 

The name finally pops up:  NAVY RECRUITING STATION.

I laugh and giggle and then call sis back and tell her the good news.

"So - thenavysentyoutheanthrax?"  she asked.  "Thegovernment'stryingtokillyounow?  What'dyoudo?"

And THAT my friends is why flouride should be removed from tap water - and Ritilin added.

:)

 

You'll Poke Your Eye Out...

Four pairs of eyes were glued to the table top as the glossy pictures glinted in the glare of the Tiffany light hanging above.  Summer picked up a card and looked at it intently.  Stacey poised her pen above her paper, ready to write.  Tiffany stared blankly around the room - wishing to be anywhere but there.  The chubbiest one of the group, the one most unlikely to be seemingly teeming with creative juices suddenly burst forth with giggles.  All broke into wide smiles as she recanted her latest caption: " Stacey has left me for another man, the worst has come to pass.  Now I set here, a broken man, on bricks that hurt my ass!"  She giggled and carefully copied the words from her scratch paper to the bottom of the card where the naked man was poised next to a pool.  He seemed to be watching her intently, daring her to gaze upon his groomed nether-regions and beckoning her to join him for an interesting game of naked water polo. 

They were in full bachlorette party mode.  The invites had all been addressed and properly captioned with naked men longing for the loss of one of the lovelies from the shores of Singletonism.  All were sad and down-trodden  - from the waist up.  All four girls contributed captions and headers and made jokes involving forgotten underwear and 8-balls.  The merriment continued into the wee hours of the night.  Twas nearly ten o'clock and way past the chubby one's bed time when the posse finally parted ways.

When the chubby one awoke this morning at six AM- she pushed her purring feline out of the way and slapped at her alarm clock.  She slept in the shower, eyes barely open while sudsing up her long, hair that seemed to be falling out in chunks as of late.   She blamed stress.  She dried off and then put her hair in pin curls and went to watch the rest of Buffy the Vampire Slayer - a morning ritual as important as most people's morning coffee.

And then it happened.

With five minutes to spare she went to put on her jewelry and realized with a start that she must've had a total mental breakdown somewhere between waking up this morning and this moment that was occurring between herself and her stark reflection in the mirror.  

She forgot to put on her make-up.

Having not left the house without her face on since the early eighties, she rushed into the bathroom, threw open her case and deftly applied the works:  foundation, eyeliner, dark green eyeshadow, mascara and sunny pink lipgloss.

She stared at her reflection and contemplated the cost of Prozac. 

And clown school.

                                             

                                 

Three for all!

I decided to get my numerology forecast for today from AOL since 1) I'm bored and 2) I'm avoiding reading my "Of One Blood" book for class (due on Wednesday).

Your Daily Number: 3

Look out! You yield enormous power to influence others today, and may even appear more attractive than usual whereas you normally look like a steaming pile of regurgitated cow poop. Congrats. You're upbeat and playful, and the world knows it. If there's a deal or project you've been waiting to close, now is the time to do it. Make sure you're organized, because there's also a tendency to be a bit scattered and forgetful.and don't forget nasty.  Like cow poop- remember?

Is it just me or are the implications in all horroscopes and numerology reports a bit like vieled threats?  I've taken the liberty to add these supposed "threats" in red and I think they fit in quite nicely. Now - I'm going to go have cheese sticks for lunch since I'm so attractive - the extra calories won't matter today.

:)

---Holly aka the "formerly unattractive steaming cow pile"  

No Use Crying Over Spilled - Ice Cream

                                         

Harry met me for lunch today and after we consumed our heavenly and delicious meal of hamburgers, shoestring fries and buckets of soda, we (or more accurately, ME, I, myself) decided that the perfect follow-up for such a health-conscious meal would be a large ice cream cone.

We mosey on down to Baskin and Robbins and peruse their sweet selections of 31 or more flavors.  I finally settle on the classic Prailines and Cream while Harry defied gravity with a double decker of chocolate chip.  As I am delicately slurping on the sides of the cone that I have paid for with my hard-earned money (that I probably stole from Harry) , I look over and notice that my dear hubby has chowed down and only has .5 of a single scoop left while I'm still balancing a large bauble of ice cream on my sugar cone. 

"My God! Where'd your ice cream go?!" I pointed at his tiny cone and laughed. He carefully peeled away layers of paper and started eating the cone as well.

"You just don't eat fast enough."

"I want to enjoy my ice cream. I want to savor it.  I want -" That's when it happened.  I had begun to peel off my own paper wrapping when my cone exploded and showered my black sweater with sugar cone schrapnel.  "Uh, uh - uh." 

Harry looked over and popped the last bit of his cone into his mouth.  He then leaned on one arm and began systematically picking the bits of cone off of my breasts and eating them.  I rolled the last of the prailines and cream onto a napkin - the only one I had - and sat there as he continued to pick my shirt clean like a monkey with a head full of lice. 

"Uh - thanks?"  I questioned him as he was brushing my chest off with his hands - concentrating a little too much on my vuluptious regions.

"No problem.  Ooooh - lemmie go get you another one." His eyes sparkled with mischief. 

"No - I'm okay, thanks," I said.

"No - really - lemmie go get you another cone.  I wanna tell the lady that you exploded your ice cream cone all over yourself,"  he hopped out of the car and nodded to me in pure happiness at my misery.

I was sticky.

"GET. IN. THE. CAR. NOW!"  I said lovingly - and at the top of my lungs.

Harry reluctantly got back into the car and pouted.  "Ya know, you're supposed to peel it from the top..." 

I gritted my teeth:  "It EXPLODED.  Even if I were to have taken my time and peeled it from the top - it still would've EXPLODED all over me!" 

He chuckled and chose wisely to end the conversation at that moment. 

Half-baked

Okay - so I snorted out loud at work while reading Dan's latest entry on his crazy kitties.  Which was a great way to start out a Monday morning since law firms DO NOT celebrate Columbus Day.  When I informed one of the lawyer men that many other businesses were closed today to observe the wonderful accident of Columbus reaching the shores of America - he said "Oh, well, I guess they have to be closed since the stock exchange is closed." 

I bit my tongue.  I really wanted to say "Well, we're a law office and the court houses are closed today." But since I kinda need my job - I decided not to pick a fight with someone whose name is written in pretty gold letters above my head - which is forboding enough as it is...

Next weekend, Harry and I are traveling to the wonderful city of Columbus Ohio where we will have much fun picking out a plain black bridesmaid dress for me to wear in Stacey's wedding.  I am very happy with her choice of matching coats and different dresses - what I am not looking forward to is the trying on of dress after dress in double-digits that makes my innards cringe - and crave comfort food - tis' a vicious cycle!  

Keeping this in mind, I woke up early on Sunday (after futile attempts to snuggle with hubby who preferred to keep his distance by snoring/hovering on the edge of our king-sized bed to prevent my snuggles from reaching his sleeping body) and walked on my treadmill while watching Alton Brown episodes.  I then swore off carbs until the wedding on November 11th.  Which lasted just long enough for me to make a DiGiorno's pizza for lunch. 

Will power - I think I lack it.  Or else it was replaced with something much more useful, like the ability to separate laundry with a flourish, or the knack of always spilling food on me when I eat - bullseye on the breasts! 

Wait a sec. I think I want a refund...

Ob-la-di. Ob-la-da...

I sat on a broken-down flesh-toned sofa with a low back and cushions so squishy I felt my butt hit the springs as I lowered myself on to the furniture.  The pastor began his sermon, and as he droned on about mountians and holy beings and psalmists, I stared at the floor.  I let my eyes cross as each carpeted square morphed in and out of my line of vision.  I didn't want to listen. I didn't see myself as really sitting at the funeral of a man, not aged 28 years who had ended his life along with his wife in such a dramatic fashion that left a child of fifteen months orphaned. 

A woman with short dark hair and high-water pants up to her knees pulled a palm pilot from the depths of her Kmart handbag.  She nodded as the pastor talked about redemption and put the tip of the stylus in her mouth.  For ten minutes my eyes could focus upon nothing else but this orally fixated woman.  

The small wooden and leather chairs lined up behind the pews like soldiers for battle.  They creaked and groaned as people shifted in their seats and burdened the small chairs with their physical and emotional burdens.  

I hate funerals for the reason that they rarely celebrate the person's life and that they always bring our own mortality under a microscope. 

Nermal's Nemesis

This is my kitty, Phoebe:

She is at her happiest when trying to wedge her little furry body between me and my often absent hubby.

This morning at 6:30 AM she walked up my legs and stopped.  I could feel her tiny beady eyes boring into my forehead, but I chose to remain motionless, snuggled against Harry's back.   Phoebe purred loudly and contemplated her next move. 

And then I made the mistake of opening one eye.  Phoebe shot like a Torpedo up to the top of the bed, turned two circles - and plopped her big furry butt down - on Harry's head.

"What the - ?"  Harry murmured and fell back to sleep.  His even snores drowned out by the loud purring of the she-beast sitting atop his head like a furry turban. 

I could've rescued him.

But didn't.

They made up later - Phoebe offered him her nice sofy belly to rub - and he obliged.

And then she bit him.

AHahahahahha!

(F) U-Connect

Harry met me for lunch this afternoon and took me to Jim's, the local spaghetti house so that I may eat (and wear) a delicious and hot meal on this dreary and weary Friday. 

Afterwards, we're driving around in the Jeep and Harry says :  "Can I see your phone?"

I pull my Pink Slivr from the confines of my "oops-I-forgot-I-owned-that!" red suede Coach purse and hand it to him.

He pulls over and starts to set my phone up to connect to the Jeep using bluetooth and U-connect. 

How cool.

How sucky.

The automated woman has an attitude problem that a penny in the cigarette lighter just might fix.  First of all - you are not to speak if she is speaking.  She rattles off menu after menu of "phone book" or "add an entry" and "pairing of phone" and all in her vaguely British sounding voice (which I'm pretty sure is a fake accent).

I get to the point of adding a contact and I'm red-faced, yelling at her trying to get her to understand "Harry."  "HARRY!"  I bellow into the speaker above my hubby's head. 

"Did you say 'Meme'?"  she asks in a sarcastic, metallic tone.

"No!" I yell.  "HARRY!" 

"I'm sorry. Did you say - 'Meme'." I'm pretty sure the robo-bitch is mocking me now.

"Haaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrryyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!"

"I'm sorry.  Did you say 'Cancel'?" 

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!" I scream and Harry shakes with laughter as I wail and cry at the slow torture being inflicted upon me by a car - and my husband who insists I set up my own phone.  With his help, of course. 

"I really didn't think it would be this complicated!"  he says with sincerity - or what could pass as sincerity if I wasn't hopping mad and purple with rage.

A few minutes later I finally get the finicky female to understand me.  As we're pulling up to the building, Harry turns on his phone, and says 'Call Harry."  The sexist, male-loving, automated car whore with vd of the sound system hops right to it:  "Calling Harry."

"Well, huh.  I guess you didn't actually have to set that up yourself.  I guess I could've done it." I hop out of the car and barely resisit the urge to wound my cute "oops-I-forgot-I-owned-that!" red suede Coach purse around his neck as I storm into the office building with a pink-cheeked, tear-streaked, set face.  

This is why you should buy foriegn.

You kinda expect them to not understand what the hell you're saying...

And All The World's a Stage...

Apparently "Big Top Pee Wee" aint got nothin' on me - I was chosen (pity vote? Don't care!) to be in CarnivAOL!  Yup - it's linked to my journal entry about "They Who Shall Not Be Named" (no - not Home Depot - think more country - no - no - okay -FINE - it was SEARS!).

But that's not why I'm writing.  I simply must share with ya'all this tasy little tidbit from my family life:

I spent last night yucking it up with my friend Della who shared dinner with me and then went to peruse the writing journals (anyone know any good publisher's wanting a zany chik lit story by yours truly???)  and to just hang out.  Well, after attracting a swarm of crazy people that would make Tom Cruise himself insane (more so than he already is) we called it a night and headed home.

I went to my parent's house to drop off a copy of the Pink Panther theme song I had recorded 20 times in succession for my mother. 

Don't ask.

Dad came up to me, white mustache twitching and was grinning like Peter Pan on Fairy dust:  "Like my shirt?"  he pulled on the tee that was stitched with the words WORLD'S GREATEST GRANDPA across the front in bright red block letters. 

"Yes, Daddy, I do.  Where'd you get it?"  I asked.

"Someone donated it up at the Veteran's home!" he was proud of his bargain - and beaming like the happy grandaddy that he was (is). 

Everyone else in the room was happily watching NCIS and trying to ignore us.

I started sniggering.

"Uh - dad?"  I asked.  "Where  did you get your shirt?"

"At the home," he smoothed down the front using the palms of his big hands.

"So, um, it was donated?"   At this point my mother has caught on to my line of questioning and had dissolved into a fit of silent giggles.  My sister was mesmerized by Mark Harmon's awful facial hair.  "And, um, what happen to the donater?"

He looked perplexed. "What?  They donated it."

"Yes, Daddy, but where  is the original 'WORLD'S GREATEST GRANDPA'?"  The rest of the room is now snickering and trying not to burst into laughter as my dad struggled to connect the dots.

"Well, he's - uh..."  he furrowed his brow and stared at the upside down letters on his belly.

"Dad - the original 'WORLD'S GREATEST GRANDPA' is dead."  He grinned at me through his mustache.  "And you're wearing his shirt."

 

The Three Amigas!

The picture above was taken a while back after one of our infamous wine and cheese parties - where topics range from waxing methods to sex toys ( not to be used simultaneously).  

If you look closely - you just may be able to make out my eyes past all the chubby cheek that is blocking its peepers. 

Just looking at the smiling, red-faced jubilant mugs of the chicks in that photo makes me realize how much friends are really important to one's sanity, life, and laugh lines. 

And how much I need to lay off the wine and cheese - Yeeeech!  I look like Holly the Hut!

Okay - off to pretend to know more about poetry - so far so good - the cover of my complete and utter ignorance is still intact and I'm half way done with the entries.  Now - how to bull a 10 page paper on Stephen Crane without giving away that tasty tidbit of info?

Hee hee. 

Why Men Hate Weddings

I should've never left my hubby alone on our wedding day.

That whole nonsense of not seeing the bride before the wedding was so that the groom and groomsmen can do things like this with unsuspecting fruit:

Meet the three stooges of WV:  Harry, Mike and Ben.