"It's coming right for us! Shoot it! SHOOT it!"

Why is it that a little thing like changing your wallpaper and screen saver on your computer makes you feel refreshed?

I've been at work for ten minutes now - and I now have the cutest picture of my niece staring at me from the desktop ...and a brand new scrolling screen saver: "Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow! Please?" Reason being - it's 70 degrees today. It's the last day of November and I'm sweating in my cute brown sweater with satin cuffs!

Could be, too, that my swiftly approaching deadlines for my whopping two classes are encroaching on me like big game hunters. And I, the gimpy gazelle with too much winter weight. In other words - I'm an easy target and I've made myself that way with my excellently polished skills of procrastination.

So - for the next few days my postings will be slim, my brain will be fried and my fingers will be furiously formulating fun words on to blank Microsoft Word pages.

Wish me luck!

 

Sucker Thingys

My kitchen, post-water damage, is now the most delightful shade of green.  The paint is smooth, the lines are crisp and everything is perfection.

So you can understand my horror when I come home from Black Friday shopping to find my cousin staring up at the light fixture in my kitchen - watching the water droplets fall.  "Hey - you got a leak here." 

(Pictured: Harry and my water-lovin' cousin)

 

Harry commenced utter freak out while I started calculating the possibilities of what actually happened to what my cousin is telling me happened.  The guest shower which does have a small, miniscule, crack in it  - is right above the kitchen - but not enough to cause the geyser gush that was occurring down the tiffany glass light.   We went upstairs to inspect - me walking calmly up the stairs and down the hall to the squishy floor of the bathroom and Harry flying up like a four-legged mere cat on acid.  "We can't afford this! Not ANOTHER water damage!" cried my beloved as he clutched at his chest, Sanfred style. 

Translation:  "I just bought an $800 camera and I don't want to take it baaaaaaack!"

I look at the wall and notice the water drops are very close to the edge of the wall and are peppered throughout the ledge of the tub, too.  The floor in front of the bathtub is soaked. 

"Are you sure you got the shower curtain in, man?"  Harry ask him -hands running through his hair at Mach ten like a man with a "thou shalt not kill wife's cousin" tic.

"DUDE! I know how to take a shower!"

Twenty minutes later my cousin admits that the curtain may not have been entirely inside the tub before he took his shower.

"Well - I need to get a better shower curtain, anyway.. that one was, like, a dollar..." I say, trying to make the situation less volatile. 

"Yeah, you really need to buy better shower curtains.  Ones with those sucker things on the bottom," he said with a serious look on his face. 

I tried again:  "Well, the one I bought, I was in a hurry and at Gabe's - it was only a dollar.  I wasn't expecting good qual-"  he cuts me off.

"You needed to buy the one with the suction cups - only get the ones with the suction cups!" 

So - if someone is at your house and they take a shower in your tub -make sure you have a curtain with heavy duty suction cups - otherwise - it WILL be your fault.

Merry F'n Xmas!

:)

 

 

Woe is Me - A Lot.

Okay - so  I'm a slacker.

I'll wait until ya'all stop gasping. I'm sure the realization of my slack-a-tude is something that is both unexpected and unimaginable, however, I can assure you that it is completely true.

So I'm not really sure how I convinced myself to go to Graduate School.   I gathered papers, applied, e-mailed, begged and pleaded until they let me in.  I even took the damn GRE with its confusing questions that may or may not be trick questions and math problems that would've made Einstien break into cold sweats.   Now - with three classes left to go in my American Lit class I'm told "Hey - you Grad Students have to give a short presentation about your topic for the class next Monday."

Great!

Only - I've yet to pick a topic.

The small, tiny-handed professor decided that I was to write a paper proposal about Stephen Crane's novella "Maggie" and how it pertains to feminism literary criticism.  I didn't want to do that - I'm not exactly even sure what theories one would apply when approaching a work like "Maggie" with a feminist slant.

So - here's my call for help.

If ya'all have any ideas for me - short of running over my Professor with my car - too traceable - then please let me know!

UGH.

 

Thanksgiving me a headache!

Thanksgiving is a time to be thankful for what we have, grateful for friends and family and - to discover what is really precious to us.

Like grandchildren.

My mother gets it into her head that she needs to teach Gillian (age 3) and Sammy Jo (age 3 going on 30) how to play "Candyland."  It was like watching someone herd cats.  Sammy caught on pretty well, her small round mouth turning up into a smile when she got to move "Dora the Explorer" onto a purple square.

Gillian, on the other hand, picked up the monkey, "Boots", and popped him in her mouth.   Mom plucked the plastic footwear-sporting monkey from her grandchild's mouth and replaced him on to the board.  Gillian then went for the unattended "Dora."  This repeated until mom was bouncing on her ottoman in frustration while Gillian continued to draw cards out of sequence and Sammy sat prissily back just relishing being "The Good One."

Finally, it all came to a header.

Literally.

"Gillian, look, hey, Gillian!"  Mom pleaded with her only grandchild to pay attention to the rules, "Gillian, KNOCK, KNOCK!" she tapped her lightly on her tiny, curl-ridden forehead.

Harry erupted into peals of laughter, Summer snorted and I said "GREAT teaching skills, there, Mom!  Is that how they taught you to do it in your Master's Program?"

Gillian smiled at all of us, stuck a card in her mouth and toddled off - she'd had enough "fun" for one day...

My sentiments exactly...

Reverse Narcolepsy?

I couldn't sleep last night. 

I tossed and I turned and I aggravated my dear husband by poking him suggestively and groping him with the innocent exclamation "Well - that's NOT Phoebe's, is it?!"  For some reason - when I can't sleep - I instantly start bugging Harry to "put out."  Even if I'm not in the mood. 

Now, don't get me wrong, if I went about it in a different way, it may be sexy and fun - but I attack him like a sex-starved "Lolita" - just for my own amusement. 

He rolls over and fakes a snore. I retaliate by grabbing a handful of his Polo Man Panties-clad bubble butt.

He pretends to not notice. 

I go for the two-handed handful-o-buttcheek approach.

He still ignores my immature cannoodling.

I take a more active stance - I give him a "reach around."

He hops up, rolls over and yanks all the pillows out from under my head.  In one fail swoop, I've been incapacitated. 

But I'm still not tired.

Seeing as how I would find no release for my over-worked mind, I rolled over in a fit of motion - and felt my leg contact with something warm and fuzzy. 

I punted Phoebe off the bed.

Bad move.  Now, I'm sure I'm not going to get a good night's sleep seeing as how I'm going to have to keep one eye on my hubby who will be looking for vengence and the other on his short, pissed-off accomplice.

I plan on going to bed tonight with the tv on Sportscenter and a bag full of kitty treats in my hand just to appease my victims...

Act Your Shoe Size!

HBO has aired some spoler-iffic scenes from the next Harry Potter movie - I've been giddy from it all day!

And even though a swarm of people have just descended upon my office smelling like moth balls and stale smoke - I'm still elated at this cool new video!

tee hee

GREat (T)ex(t)pectations!

I took my GRE test for Grad School on Saturday morning.

The night before, Harry helped me cram for the math portion by "relieving my tension" with some coital bliss and then , in lieu of cuddling, we cracked open some mean Algebra.  He didn't mind - he loves numbers - so - really - if sports would have been on during the more intimate points of the evening - he would've been in testosterone heaven.  Wait a sec - IT WAS ON!  DAMN YOU SPORTCENTER!

Anyway, when we got to the Geometry review - I brushed it off "Nah - I hate that stuff - they won't ask me that..."

I wasn't too concerned - all I had to do was score something on the test to fulfill my English Grad requirement.

I arrive a full 45 minutes before the test starts and find a sweet corner spot in which to park my car.  I walk around to the back of the old Morrow library on campus and pull at the door handle.

It's locked.

Apparently - only ONE door can be used - and this was not it.

Twenty minutes later I arrive in the funnily smelling basement of the library.  I'm given a locker key and told to remove my purse, umbrella, paper pencils and coat and put it in the compartment.  I'm then strip searched, cavity searched and patted down before I'm allowed into the camera-filled room in which I am to test (okay - maybe it wasn't THAT bad - but I asked if I could keep my coat and they looked at me like I had just asked if I could pee in their dying houseplant). 

I have just made it through the majority of the written portion and can hear nothing but my own, phlegmatic, deep breathing ( I hate ear plugs) when I notice a small speck creeping towards my hand.

I look just as the tiny, crazed spider lunged for my index finger. I stifle a scream and instead smack it with the ear plug wrapper while jerking like the computer didn't like my answer and had chosen to retaliate with electroshock therapy. 

Getting through the essay portion was cake - now on to the word association. 

I stared at the grainy dark screen at two completely unrelated words.  Five more followed in their wake.   It was horrible.  I had no clue.  It was like:  abomination: chair and turkey: stapler.  I was shocked.   So - I just started clicking away. I just wanted it to go away.

I shouldn't have.

The next section was math.

I winced as I read thefirst problem involving a farmer, his fencing needs and something about the perimeter of the field.   Okay, I can do this.  P=135,  I wrote neatly on my provided yellow paper.  I glanced at the answers to try to gleam some clue on how to solve it.  No help.  I looked back at my paper.   Sighing I drew a rectangle on the paper, a stick figure with a pitch fork and then lined the rectangle with a picket fence.  I then looked back at the answers and then at the clock. 

I picked "c" and moved on.

Every single one of the math problems had the option to answer with "cannot derive an answer based on the information given."  It was very tempting to answer them ALL with this completely logic statement.  After all, I could not solve the problems with the information given!  

Somehow - I don't think the angry, short, white dudes who made up the test would agree.  

I got home and Harry asked "So, how'd ya do?"

"I think I bombed it," I said in a poor-me-who-didn't-even-remotely-study voice.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I bet you did fine!" he said and then hugged me, "hey -wanna go find out how many Wii's Kmart is getting?" 

And the rest is (me-kicking-my-hubby's-ass) History!

 

"Wii" Are the World... "Wii" Are the Children!

I should've known better.

I tried to be a supportive wife. A "cool" wife.  A good wife.

And where did that get me?

Standing out in the cold.  With no coat.  No gloves.  No husband.

He'd left me.

In the cold.  With no coat. No gloves.  Nothing.

Why?  Why was I being subjected to the dwindling temperatures and the exposure to mild hypothermia?

Because - the Nintendo "Wii" was being released - the next day!

Oh, bestill my Koopa Trooper steeled heart! (snort!)

Okay - I will admit to thinking the darn thing looked cool - but standing in the cold for twelve hours to relive the glory days of Nintendo - did not.

When Harry arrives at 10 PM and starts wrapping me in coats, hoods, gloves, blankets and other hypothermia protective gear - I'm relatively okay.

I make it until 12:30AM - the parking lot is dark and the ten or so of us huddled in the front of the red-glowing store. I'm on my third episode of "Scrubs" and even though I'm a HUGE Zach Braff fan - not even his fantasy cut scenes could keep the bitter cold from slicing through my jeans and making me shiver like a non-caffei caffeine addict. 

So I left.

I'm home for forty-five minutes when my cell breaks into my fitful dreams.

"Uhm, hello?"  I say.  The room is spinning - that can't be good.

"Hey, can you come get me?  I'm going to go get hand warmers for everyone - they'll hold my place in line."  It was two in the morning and Harry sounded chipper.  He was lucky he was on the other end of the phone...

"Yeah, yeah. Now?"  I stupidly ask.

"Uh -yeah.  Nowish would be good.  And can you grab me an umbrella and another pair of sweatpants?" 

"Yeah, yeah...  What?  An umbrella and what?"  My stomach is turning and the drool is still wet on my cheek.  I'm too tired to understand simple orders.

"Sweat-pants," Harry says slowly.

"Sweatpants?  Why?" I'm not making any sense.  And I know I'm not making any sense - yet I ask - or stall for time...

"To wear..."  He's ready to kill me.  I know this.  And with good cause. I mean, what else would he be doing with sweatpants while standing out in frigid temperatures?  Using them as a hat and wrapping the legs around his neck like a scarf?

So I yank myself out of bed - throw on pants (I slept in my bra and shirt) and head out the door. 

Hours later, I have a comatose hubby and a brand new "Wii".

Yay.

But that's not where the fun begins.  Later, we open the box and set it up in less than five minutes.  He hands me my controller and my "nunchuck."

We're ready.

"What do you want to play?"

I look at him and think of last night - "Boxing" I say quickly.

He stands up and starts flailing the controller around like a two year old in mid-tantrum.  I remain seated - and kick his ever-lovin' ass! 

JAB! JAB! PUNCH! DODGE! PUNCH COMBO! PUNCH! KO! KO! KO!

I scream like a woman who's just beat-down her much-more dextrous husband and we play again.  I win a whole bunches more - Harry sucker punches me and wins one. Whatev.

"Tennis?" he asks.

"Sure," I say, red-faced with sheer exhilaration of the fight.

I winnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn!

"Bowling?" he asks, cheeks flushed with indignation at not only being beaten by a girl but by his clumsy, ill-coordinated, sports-phobic wife!

"No - thanks, anyway."  I sit down and remove my controller strap.

"C'mooooooonnnnnnn," he whines.

"Okay!" I hop up and bowl like I've never bowled before - with a small white stick.

Well - I don't really want to go into the details - because it's not about who wins (me) or who loses (Harry) - it's about how you play the game.

And about making your huband your bitch.

:)

Staff Meeting "Fun"

I had to be at work at 8AM this morning for a staff meeting.  I somehow managed to pick "the seat of death" also known as the one next to the Managing Partner.  This "hot seat" is bad for two reasons.  One, I have to try to eat a very messy, slightly cold biscuit  while not spilling any crumbs down my low cut sweater and thus having to spend most of the meeting trying to subtly dislodge the bits from between my boobs.  Two, I don't feel as free to lodge my complaints when the "Supreme Lawyerman" is sitting within head-smackin' distance. 

So, while he discusses things like smoke breaks (don't need 'em) and overtime (don't care enough to stay long enough past 5 to earn it) and busy end of the year stuff (YAWN!) I doodle on my sheet of paper.  While I'm half-way through drawing a cute, bobble-headed kitty with large black eyes, the tiniest secretary pipes up.

"What about Christmas?"  she asks, sounding very much like Wendy Lou Whoo. 

The "Supreme Lawyerman" jokingly references the Grinch and we all laugh good-naturedly and like our jobs depended on it - because - well - it does.

Silence.

"Anything else?" he says while not answering Wendy Lou Secretary's question.  She looked puzzled - or hungry - it was hard to tell sometimes.

"So...." I said without thinking, "we've successfully avoided the Christmas discussion, then?"

Poison daggers are shot at me from the watery eyes of the ancient office manager and from the bug-eyes of Lawyerman - who switches quickly from Mr. Hyde back to the jovial Dr. Jeckyl before announcing "Well, that will be decided later..."  Good thing since it's MID-NOVEMBER AS IT IS!  

And - my last gripe of the morning - why is it that when men think they're being quiet while their wife is sleeping - they're actually making more noise than usual?  Last night, in the midst of video game warfare, Harry "snuck" into the bedroom, slammed the door, wrestled loudly to wiggle his Xbox out from under the television and then left the room, slamming the door again and leaving me sitting up, glaring at the back of his "quiet" head.

"Babe, do you even KNOW how loud you were last night?" I asked him this morning while he wiped the drool from his face with the back of his hand.

"Huh?" was his prompt response.  In the realm of the "Marrieds" this is a classic response from "Avoidance 101."

"You.  Last night.  Were soooo loud!  Can you not be quiet when I'm sleeping?" 

"I wasn't loud!  You didn't even wake up!"  This was from "Defense 302".

"You came in, slammed the door, rustled around under the tv unit, grabbed the system and then left, slamming the door again while I sat up in bed and glared at you,"  I pointed out.

"Oh." He smiled sheepishly, "was I really being that loud?"

Marriage 101 also taught me this:  I can milk this for days!  And it's a weekend!  Whoo hoo! 

:)

AND THEN:   I needed to call a judge's office and tell them that an attorney of mine was running a few minutes late, so I found a number, dialed and listened to the answering machine list off about 30 extensions.  Finally I hit one, figuring SOMEONE could just transfer me:

"Judge Chambers, how may I help you?"  a friendly woman answered the phone.

"Sorry to bother you but I was trying to reach Judge OddLastName - can you tell me his extension?"   I pleaded my case. 

There was an enlongated pause as I tried to figure out how I'd managed to piss off a yokel in three point two seconds.

"Ma'am?  This is Judge OddLastName's office.  It's the Judge's chambers," she summed up my mental defection with her cunning sarcasm.

It was my turn to pause.

"Ohhhhhhhhhhhh. I get it!"  The lightbulb appeared above my head with an inaudible ding! 

So - if there was a Judge Chambers - would his office be Judge Chambers' chambers?

ahahahhaha! 

(S)mothers.

                                           

Moms can be great.

Mine is no exception.

Through financial woes and times of frightening "we may lose the house" instances- she always managed to pull through.  And even now, with rheumatism racking her fragile body, she's still willing to come to my house and help me clean in preparation for party guests and to run after my niece in all her three-year-old hyper glory.

But then we have conversations like these where my definition as the family "accident" comes very much into play:

"I don't think I'm going to go back to Grad School next semester.  Just don't think it's for me,"  I said while twirling a lock of frizzy hair in front of my eyes.

"I never thought it was.  I never have thought that English was your strong point, that being a writer was something you were meant to do.  I mean, you're good at it, but it's not your strong point," she said.

I was stunned. 

"Well, then, what do you think I should be doing?" I asked, waiting to hear what she thought the fates had in store for me. 

"I don't know - but certainly not writing..."   she trailed off.

Frankly speaking, I'm not worth much.  I'm not the life of the party, I don't have culinary skills that would wow Rachel Ray and her cheatin' hubby, I do not possess the mindset to be able to become a chess prodigy, nor do I see myself discovering the cure for cancer or baldness. 

But I'm funny.

And I can write things that, on the occasion, people find amusing.

So how is this not my strong point?

How is something that I love to do - not what I'm "meant" to do?

And why, at 28 years young, do I still care what my mother thinks of me and my occupational destiny? 

Now, sitting at my crappy desk, facing the crappy elevator shaft and wallowing in crappy self-pity I realize that I've done all of this to myself.  I've convinced others that my self-worth is that only slightly above a wheat penny and that I'm of no consequence. 

Would Freud blame this on my mother?  Maybe.

Would he be right?  Maybe.

Well, huh. Perhaps THIS is the perfect example of why I'm so hesitant to spawn...

Telephone!

Summer called me last night to relay the following incident that happened at the humble abode of my parents.

For sanity's sake and for the ease of reading - I have inserted spaces into my sister's dialogue - only - I can assure you - there were none.

"So I was sitting in the chair next to the t.v. and was being lazy and not wanting to get up to get a drink and I ask Mom 'Hey - what's dad doing?' to which she looked over and down the hall to the kitchen.  Mom then said, 'He's sitting in his chair, making a mess, playing with a model - something.  And now,  he's got a lighter out, probably gonna burn down the house and he's-' And then, from the kitchen I hear: 'OUCH!' as dad caught his finger on fire!" 

She then laughed so hard she snorted, and I snorted and Harry looked at me as if I'd gone insane.

Again.

:) 

I Am Not Responsible for My Actions...

If the powers-that-be would invent White Out - Life Edition - then I would've liked to have bought a bucket and slathered it on the day that was yesterday.

It started out with a rather uninspiring job interview where I was asked to work too many hours for insulting pay (having a college education does NOT a good job applicant, make!) and then went to work at my current crappy job (where I'm asked to do too much work for insulting pay).

I then had a "Conference" with my tiny-handed-Professor who informed me that I was to have brought print outs of my sources for the Graduate Proposal that I am working on for his class.  Even though he never mentioned this as being an important part of the conference  - I was expected to have it handy. 

I then told him that I was having issues finding articles and sources related to feminism critique and "Maggie" by Stephen Crane.  He scoffed and pulled up Marshall's webpage and started typing and clicking away.  Fifteen minutes later I was still staring at the back of his greasy head while he found one source.  Thanks for that, PhD man!  He then insinuated that I should find other sources on my own and to consider changing my topic and conference as well. Um, no. 

But around every dark, stormy cloud, there is a silver-plated lining.  This morning I opened my e-mail to find a note from my editor asking if I'd consider taking her Press Pass and do the cover story for the "We Are Marshall" movie premiere, should she not be able to attend.

I did a happy dance in my chair, came dangerously close to falling out of it, and then emailed her back, letting her know, in no uncertain terms - that I'd be happy to be the "Robin" to her "Batman"!

Wish me luck and stuff!

 

My Christmas Wish...

Since the Holly-daze are swiftly approaching like a speeding train with no brakes - I will depart on to you some wisdom from a seasoned retail sales clerk"

THINGS TO REMEMBER WHILE SHOPPING THIS SEASON:

1.  Shopping carts and Baby Strollers are NOT to be used as battering rams!  This includes when a slow-moving person in front of you is hindering your path to Bath and Body Works.  Trust me - the overpriced, olfactory-assaulting crap will be there when you arrive, no matter the time.

2.  Do NOT call a store and demand that the sales associate run all over the store and look for items for you.  This is called "SHOPPING" and you can now do it on the greatest invention ever:  The World Wide Web.

3. However, should you decide to make a sales clerk run from one end of her store to the other to find that perfect pair of sparkly, peep toe pumps, make sure you know Aunt Sally's size for sure AND that you actually come pick them up!  

4.  DON'T eat mall food.  They foodies are as disgruntled as the next retail clerk. And they will retaliate. 

5.  Don't wear Christmas sweaters with reindeer prancing across your bosoms.  Just - DONT.

6.  Don't try to make conversation with the poor girl with her name tag on upside down and hair pulled up in a sloppy bun away from her flushed cheeks.  She WILL kill you by afixiating you with a plastic shopping bag - all the while singing "Jingle Bell Rock."

7.  Buy Gift Certificates. 

8.  Do NOT take your kids shopping with you.  Leave them at home with their father(s).  Or at Day Care.  Or a Kennel.  Whatever - just DON'T bring them with you - unless they are on those inhumane little nylon leashes.  No, wait - just leave 'em at home.

9.  Make a list - get what's on the list and get out.  This is not a drill.  This will be the real thing.  Be aware that you may lose a limb to get to the single TMX Elmo left in all of the United States.

10.  And finally, while you are shopping - say nothing. Do not speak.  Do not wish anyone "Happy Holidays" - pretend to be mute.  It will make those of us who were stuck in retail drudgery for YEARS that much happier when we are forced to enter the dreaded "mall" and be pleasantly surprised by the massive quiet that descends. 

 

                                         

The BIRDS!

I have only seen pieces of the masterpiece "The Birds" by Hitchcock.  However, as frightening as that may be - NOTHING can beat the sound of thousands of tiny, confused birds flitting from tree to tree and fighting over territory like gangs of little, feathery hoodlums (The Beaks and The Claws?).

I awoke early this morning to head to an appointment, and after leaving the bathroom, turning off my radio and hair dryer, I stepped into the darkened bedroom to find my hubby lying on my pillow with a kitty wrapped around his arm. I paused as a strange noise filled my freshly cleaned ears.

'Is that-?  Are those-? Is that sound from all those birds?"  I asked him incredulously as a loud boom of peeps, chirps and caws broke forth.

"Yup," he said sleepily and stretched one hairy arm up into the air, "I think they're confused."

"They're scary is what they are!"  I sat down on the bed and thanked my lucky stars that I parked in the garage.   The big swarm of feathery, flighty friends have taken residence in the three tiny trees in our front yard.  Once bright green, these little trees have faded with the season but appear to be completely black due to the amount of tiny creatures living in them.   When we go to get the mail, or just pull into the driveway, they swarm up and out in a large looping circle and attempt to play chicken with one another as they swoop lower and lower to the innocent humans just trying to get the junk mail from Ed McMahon. 

"They're after me..." I whisper to no one as I pull carefully out of the garage and try not to glance into the rearview at the growing black crowd of angered birds.  

They know me - and I think back to that fateful day when, in an open-aired mall in the heart of Paradise - I got pooped on.

 

Feeling Flushed?

This video, although a bit fuzzy, is HI-larious!

hee hee....

 

Bachlorette Parties are FUNNY!

After finally arriving at the Ashland Plaza Hotel with a snazzy "I'm Not Really a Waitress" nail polish manicure, the fun began.  The "naughty tupperware" party began and we all had to do "truth or dare".  Some dares were stupid, others were downright orgasmic - either way - I was happy when it was over and I could wash all the "fun" sticky sweets off my body (we tested ten different "edible' body paints, glitters, stimulators and such).   Don't get me wrong - it was too fun and Tffany had taken the time to pin up Playgirl "hey - look - there's my penis" pictures all over the room and under each toilet seat. 

I was going to stay and  enjoy some more fun times with the girls, but I decided to pack up my little blue suitcase and come on home.  At 2 AM I end up in the middle of a DUI checkpoint.  Seeing as how I'd only downed sodas - I wasn't concerned.

Cute officer man looked at me and said :  "Hello, ma'am- would you like to take some time to answer a few questions about underage drinking?" He was a hottie and before I could start penning my letters to penthouse, I said: "Do I have to?"

Cursing my lack of wit and hoping he didn't notice my face, glinting with moonlight and - no make-up.  "No, ma'am.  It's strictly voluntary."  He said politely.

"Oh - well.  I think I'll skip it.  I'm not even wearing a brasierre!"  I chuckled and felt the fire burn my face.  I hadn't even considered that confessing my lack of "over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder" might actually get me frisked (hmm!) but the fact that I shared this fact with a copper and used the elderly term of "brasierre"!   UGH!

So - he patted my hand, much like he would to his grandma and said "You get on home..."

I must face facts - I'll never be in Penthouse Forum...

Sigh....

Unless...   Okay - I'm off to call a tv repairman, a plumber and a pizza boy!

"A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to My Class"

Three odd things happened in my class last night.

1.  My new (and first) fellow Grad Student friend asked if I would mind to meet her parents.  I had been waving "Hi!" to them as I left class and they arrived to make sure their daughter Nicole made it safely to her car - and didn't get attacked - which - I think - is WONDERFUL!  Nicole said, "Well, I want them to meet you since - well - I've been a Grad Student for years now - And I've never met anyone like you!"  She blinked her purple eyelids at me.  I didn't know what to say.  I was pretty sure she meant it in a good way, and not in a "Hey- you're weirder than the tiny-handed Prof that teaches this class!" So I smiled and said "sure!" 

"You're just so different! I mean, most other Grad Students try to outsmart each other - and you're not like that at all!  You're so bubbly and down to earth!"  And that, my dear readers, is like gold to a chick who feels like a very round, very pronounced peg in a tiny little square hole. 

2.  I finally had an in-group discussion with the other Grad Student in my class. She talked over everyone and was so opinionated and overbearing that, in a moment of weekness I found myself trying to mentally make her choke on her piece of minty gum that she was smacking while we were discussing "House of Mirth."

3.  I walked out of class with two very attractive, very much thinner than me and very smart girls.  They then both took turns telling me how pretty I was.  Smiling graciously and thanking them profusely I got into my Denali and pondered this:  "Is it better to have a pretty girl tell you you're pretty - or an ugly one to tell you of your beauty?   And if a pretty girl proclaims your attractiveness - is it a farce? Do they mean it? Or are they inwardly saying either "NOT!" or "...but I'm prettier..."   I decided to, instead, launch  a crooked smile into my rearview and take the compliment as it was given. 

School has been going very well - other than the occassional mental break-downs and nail-bitingly close deadlines. 

But I'm almost done - and then- well - that's still open.

I think I had to go to Grad School to realize a few things:  it's not for me; I'm not that old; and I'm still smart.  

Yay me - and stuff.

:)

"Fangs" for the Memories! heh heh heh

How funny is my subject line?!  ahahhahaha!

Anyway - as of today - I'm yanking Kat Freeman from the cyber world - her blog is being pulled and has been sent off to an e-publisher in hopes of getting a teeny bit of recognition from it and being able to put "semi-quasi-published author" after my name!

So - thanks!  (FANGS! ahahahah)

 

PS. After pulling up my AOL, signing in and then trying to update my journal - I had to sign in TWO MORE TIMES to get to this screen!  Geeesh!  Anyone else having issues with this? 

                                                        

Construction of Annoyance

Holly Rants of November 8th, 2006:

1.  My sister calls me last night sounding overly dejected because she has a divorce hearing this morning -understandable.  So even though I have more to do than most football teams, I invite her over and even promise that I'll help to dye her hair (which I hate to do - messy!).   So - she shows up and eats her Taco Bell and all the while hacks and coughs all over my house like a one-woman influenza parade.  The doorbell rings.  It's her boyfriend - she invited him over.  I'm in old ratty pajama pants and a sweat shirt - sans bra.  We all go about talking and dying Summer's hair and while she's sitting next to me and letting her hair air dry and discussing the real world version of "The Old Man And the Sea," I interrupt her and role reversal steps in:  "OHMYGOD,Summer,yourhairisturinggray!"

Sure enough - the dye didn't take on the blonde part - it's red on the roots and gray on the ends.  And Stacey's wedding is this Saturday.

Then, and I'm not sure if the dye had seeped through or if it was just a lingering "blonde moment" but during Harry's re-telling of a story of  a man who ran fifty marathons in fifty states, back-to-back, Summer chimed in:  "Well, wonderifhecamethroughWestVirginia?"

Harry stared at his sister-in-law like a man confused - and a little scared.  "Well, since there are only fifty states,  I'm pretty sure WV was one of them..."

She looked at him blankly and then burst out laughing and snorting. 

We continued to stare at her in confusion and horror.

But it could've just been the bad dye job.

2.  My office manager is sick again - so that means no one here can function without buzzing me at least fourteen times a minute. Case in point:

"Holly, (Incapable, Older-than-most-buildings, Office Manager) and I were to have a meeting today - can you take care of that?"  Lawyerman said.

I pause. I have no f'n clue what he's talking about and have to find a delicate way of telling him that not only has his train of thought lost direction - but it's derailed at the station.  No survivors.

"Okay. What exactly would you like me to do?" I asked as politely as I could while crossing my eyes and flipping off the phone on my desk for good measure.

"Well, call her and ask her if she'll be in and whether or not we need to reschedule." I'm assuming he wants me to call my "sick" co-worker and get the details.

"I'll figure something out!"  I say to him cheerfully before slamming down the black, shiny receiver and counting to ten while envisioning a happier place.  Like me, at work, with a large, shiny chainsaw.  VRRRRRRRRRRRM!

3.  The construction workers that are jackhammering the pavement RIGHT BELOW MY OFFICE WINDOW have a death wish.  They do not know that seven stories above them - I am peering at their, tiny, helmeted heads and again practicing my telekinesis.  With any luck - the one driving the back ho will soon turn on his cronies - and all will be according to plan....   And if that doesn't work - I will have to do what any other chick would do in my place.  I will simply ride the elevator down, open the door, cross the street, unzip my pointy boot and start whapping them about their much unprotected nether regions. 

4.  AND THEN my building has the entire sidewalk, street and door marked off with "CAUTION" tape.  A large cherry picker is parked on the sidewalk.  I walked up to the tape that was strung across orange barrels and adjusted my bag, changed hands with my umbrella and plucked the tape off the barrel.  I then stepped over the tape and strolled right into the building, obviously heeding no "CAUTION" to the yellow, useless tape. 

Here are some pictures I took at work:

This one is my desk and me updating my journal:  

The dreaded "Phone-a-sauras-Rex" not seen since ancient times....shhhhh be very, very quiet...

Two views from my window - PRE-Construction era:

5. After class tonight (in which we will be discussing the rather mirthless House of Mirth ) I am to go home and assemble the treats for the Bachlorette Party tomorrow night.  And:  fix my dress for the wedding, find my checkbook for the "naughty tupperware party," clean crock pot, add ingredients to my Amish Friendship Bread, try to figure out how to get 10 lbs of hair into a decent wedding 'do, and pack an overnight bag.  AND then - after that - I will have to stand on a street corner with a sign that says "Crazy.  Need Help. Give Prozac." 

:)

Update:  Well, seeing as how the "Naughty Tupperware Party" was supposed to be a surprise and that Stacey is a faithful reader of my blog- Tiffany immediately accosted me before the first ingestion of cheeseball:  " Yeah, Stacey read your blog and figured out what was going on - she found out about the sex toy party."  My first reaction, as a friend, and fellow planner of the shindig was "Holy Crap - I didn't even realize I did that!"  My second reaction came from the (majority) of my self - the writer:  "I WILL NOT BE CENSORED!" 

Mis-diagnosed? Maybe?

Well- all my pre-teen lusting (again) was in vain...

Oh well, as long as Fred Savage, Kirk Cameron, Eddie Furlong, David Moscow and Christian Bale are still playing for my team, I'll be okay...  

I SCREAM! YOU SCREAM! WE ALL SCREAM FOR ICE CREAM!

I decided to write a bit about the exploding ice cream cone incident for the "VoiceboxX" -it's a rehash of my journal entry - but could be entertaining - or fair warning - for all of you who may come in contact with milk products today -- Beware....

On a better note - Harry and I made homemade ice cream in our handy dandy ice cream maker on Sunday morning.  I love breakfast!  AND it didn't explode on me!   Harry, however, was not so lucky:

 Um - Harry?  You've got a bit on your - um - well - never mind! Enjoy!

Harry helps me "clean" the bowl...

Previous to the above ice cream making event I had a bad dream- a very large bug had flown down from the ceiling and had attached itself to Harry's pillow.  I screamed and started beating at his head, trying to keep this massive winged bug away from my hubby's head. 

"Buuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuug!"  I screamed like a banshee in heat.  "BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUG!"  I turned on the bedside lamp and looked at Harry who was sitting up, clad in boxers and a white Polo tee.  He had an odd look on his face, one that was a mixture of astonishment, concern and sleepiness. 

"There was a -uh- bug?"  I half-asked, half-explained.  I didn't have the heart to tell him that I had been completely asleep  up until the moment I flipped on the light and found myself nose-to-nose with a pissed off Himalayan and a scared out of his mind husband.

"There's no bug," he said and tried to lay back down.

"Yes! There was a bug!  A BIG BUG and it was on your pillow!"  I yanked the pillow out from under his head and searched it thoroughly. 

Harry banged his head on the mattress in defeat while I continued to search his pillow for bugs. 

See why I have to give in and make homemade ice cream and wash his man panties and watch the occassional game of football?  Cause I'm completely NUTS!  And he loves me anyway.  So there. :)

Welcome to my Life - Can I have yours, instead?

My weekend started out bad and quickly accelerated into "really f'n bad" in a short time. 

1.  I found out that my paper that I had worked on and slaved over until I finally puttered out ten pages - was done completely wrong. 

2.  Friday I found out that Gillian was in the hospital with some crazy high fever and that they were leaning towards giving her a spinal tap - lucky for us - they didn't - but still - it was scary there for a bit.

3.  Stress levels reached an all-time high while at a shooting range on Saturday.  While trying to learn how to properly shoot a gun, I got the fleshy part of my finger caught in the action and commenced an immediate melt-down.  I immediatly had Harry to take me home and then begged and pleaded for him to take me to the local crazy house.  I wanted a penthouse suite at HCA - but decided against it when he told me that their sheets were less than 200 thread count. 

4.  I decided that at almost 30 years old - I was never going to learn how to use a (ALL MEN SKIP THE REST OF THIS ENTRY AND GO TO #5) tampon.  I tried it again and had the distinct and rather unpleasant feeling of having a piece of cotton jammed up my "no-no" region.   Sigh.   I have determined that I am the proverbial "old dog" who cannot be taught "new tricks." 

5.  Now, it's Sunday and I'm in my snug recliner and feeling anxious but a little less stressed since I'm slightly ahead on my Graduate Poetry class (can't work on it Thursday - I'm Bachlorette Party Bound!).  However, I'm a bit worried that I may get "tapped" again and my head is feeling a bit too exposed at the moment.

Here are some pics of Gillian from when she was feeling better last Tuesday, Halloween. She was supposed to be Tinkerbell or Strawberry Shortcake- instead - she looks like a "Naked Jedi" which morphed, later, into "The Streak." Boogedy, boogedy!:

Play that piano, Jedi Streaker!  :)

And when she was not feeling so well:

She's better now!  The fever is gone now - after three days...

 

So - here's hoping that this week - the week that marks my bud Stacey's last few days as a Sassy Singletong - will be fabulous.  If not - well - I think the nuthouse still has my reservations...

 

 

Travelin' Man

Generally,  I hate it when my hubby travels for many reasons too numerous to list here (lonely, leaves me to find solace in a cat with sinus problems who likes to sleep on my head, boogeyman...)  but sometimes, just sometimes I can see the silver lining - and it looks like this:

                                     

             Pretty, pretty shoes for my pinky, dinky toes!   Okay- so his traveling sucks toe jam on the frequent occassion but some of these podunk towns have - wait for it - OUTLETS!  From which a lovely pair of Coach flat patchwork shoes were acquired for me!   I LOVE THEM and will wear them until they fall apart and I have to patch them for real!  

             Yeah, I'm spoiled, what of it?   I wash his "man-panties" ya know!  :)

Dear Santa, All I want for Christmas is the ability to set people's ears on fire with my brain...

Yesterday, I was watching the clock as it was slowly ticking towards Five PM - a.k.a. "The Golden Hour" when I would be able to escape the Legalease World in which I'm trapped for 7.5 hours a day, five days a week, too many days a year - when up strolls one of my elderly co-workers.   Now, at first glance, you cannot tell that she is of a mature age.  Her hair is dyed to the color of snow that has been colored by dog urine, her face is dewey with expensive QVC moisturizer and the fine lines that ring her mouth is masked in lipstick bought from the dollar bin at Kmart.  However, as she approaches, one can tell that her age is not only edging on Senior Citizen, but has surpassed it, smacked it on the back of the head and is now comfortably resting with one Payless pump in the grave. 

She had beef with me.

"What is your problem with this entry?"  she spat and waved a paper in front of my face.  I calmly took the paper from her and inwardly resisted the urge to cut her like a Paper-cutting trained Samari for two reasons.  One, it was almost time to leave and two, a Lawyerman was standing at my desk, in mid-polite conversation about the joys of trick-or-treaters in the "nicer neighborhoods." 

"Well, it was an 'expense' entry and I wasn't sure if deleting it would cause any problems with the books or something," I explained and then smiled at Lawyerman to make sure he knew how ridiculous this Q&A was.  

"Holly," she said in a tired, irritated voice that comes from people who arrive an hour late every morning, take extended lunches and leave at 5:01 everyday, "if it's marked out then you delete it."  I wanted to kill her.  Murder her with the ease of pushing a button and then picking up my keyboard and striking her over and over until her face slides off  and reveals the evil alien pod within.

"I've learned it's always best to ask questions," I said in a very happy and cheery voice and winked at Lawyerman (who was still hovering). Actually I was trying very hard to talk myself OUT of ripping off her bulbous nose with a letter opener. 

"I think that's always a good plan!  Best to ask!" Lawyerman agreed with me and went back to making notes on his yellow pad.

Smoke billowed from my ancient co-worker's droopy ears.  I feared the steam would melt her gold-plated earrings of early 80's origin. She flung the invoice at me and stormed off.

It was priceless,  I tell ya, priceless.

:)