Oh No, not LOWE'S!

Last night Harry and I ventured, once again, to the big land of home improvement  - Lowe's.  

I've heard that 70% of marriages that involve building a home end in divorce.  Makes me wonder how many couples navigating a home repair disaster end in - homicide!

"Holly!  HOLLY!" Harry has found something.  And from the urgency in his voice  - it's the home repair equivilant to the holy grail.  He drags me to a small stainless steel appliance.  He's beaming. I'm trying to figure out what the hell it is.

"It's an ICEMAKER," he says. 

"It's twelve-hundred dollars," I jab a nail-bitten finger at the large black and white sign. 

"Yeah, but it - makes ice."  He's so happy.  I hate to burst his bubble.  But I'm his wife and, heck, I'm pretty sure it's my job to kill his dreams - er- or something like that. 

"Honey, you want to replace our trash compactor with an ice maker even though our brand new fridge has filtered ice and water?"  I say it gently, thinking he'll get the point.

"Yes.  It fits perfectly."  Uh-oh.  I'm in trouble here.  Send in Nanny 911 - we're about to have a 26 year-old tantrum in aisle four...

"Why don't we just get a cabinet to go there... Maybe one with a filing system in it?"  I try to reason with him. 

It's no use.

His eyes are glazed over with thoughts of ice-filled beverages.

I've lost him.

 

Needy me...

I just saw a survey over on Myspace that said "Go to Google; type your name and 'needs' and see what  pops up."

Curious - I did it.

And this is what came up:

Holly needs some more details to fireup her own fantasies.

Which is pretty darn funny on its own, but this was next:

 Holly needs both male and female plants for maximum berry production.

A Very Memorial Weekend...

How did my weekend suck? Let me count the ways:

1. My sis' soon-to-be ex showed up to "take Gillian for the weekend." Whatever, dumbass - go home. And he did. Tiny little tail tucked between his non-existant nether-regions...

2. On a scale of 1 - 100 - with 100 being "holy crap - you have the most rockingest Gallbladder EVER!" - I apparently scored a nine. A MOTHER F'N NINE!!! For the first time in my life I failed a test (besides my lerner's permit - and really- who gives a crap about THAT?!) and what does it cost me? My innards.

Sigh. And for those of you who haven't guessed by now - I'm a surg-a-phob. I don't like needles - so you can guess how I'm gonna react when they come at me with shinier, pointier things... As of right now - I don't know when my - gulp - surgery is going to be - but I'll keep ya posted... UGH.

3. Harry and I drove around, glass-top removed, in our pretty white 'vette. We stopped at the 'rents home where Harry tried to commit wifey-side by DROPPING THE FORTY POUND GLASS TOP ON MY FRICKIN' HEAD!!!

Now, at this point, I am still reeling from the idea of my insides coming to the outside - something I think is quite barbaric and I'm ONLY twenty-seven years young (shouldn't SOME of these parts of mine still be under some warranty??? C'mon - they're barely USED!!! ) so I start to bawl. Sitting in the pretty car with the pretty red interior - I cry - a lot.

"Quit tryin' to kill me!" I yell at my poor hubby as he fights to figure out which he should do first - put the top back in the trunk or check on my swelling concussion. He chooses the former and then comes over to me and keeps apologizing.   I can't stop sniffing and snotting and dabbing at my running mascara with the tips of my sleeves. "Take me home," I finally get out.

He does - and I still can't stop. I'm off and running now and there's no stopping the waterfall of tears that's streaking my freckled face.

And then he takesoff his shirt.

And he's wearing a wife beater tank top.

I'm laughing, holding my head, and still crying.

4. Saturday morning (yes - we're only to Saturday) I run downstairs in my skivvies - hoping to God I've remembered to close the hideous powder blue blinds that over-look the neighborhood while I make my way to the laundry room to iron my dress pants. I have been suckered into judging a "Beautiful Faces" pageant and have no way out - so off I go - Wait - what the heck is that on the ceiling? It looked like a shadow - but then I noticed the water dripping and my signed Harry Potter posters (yes - I'm 12 - what's it to ya?!) were hanging off the wall - soaked as well.

I go flying up the stairs like a half-naked banshee screaming "HARRRRRY! HARRRRY! GET UP! WATER! WATER!"

Turns out the morons from Home Depot installed our new fridge so well that it crimped the water line and flooded our basement.

At this point - it was almost eleven and I had to be in Nitro at noon.

"Good luck" I said to my hubby and ran out the door.

Remembering at the last second to put on my pants.

5. On to the pageant from hell. I'll keep this simple. The kids were creepy. The mothers made typical pageant moms look like saints. And the director - with her tattoo of a bat holding a heart in its dripping mouth - was not impressed with us. "She shouldn't have won. And this girl can't win overall total - she's too young. I'm going to be shot in the parking lot." So she made up her own scores and then dragged my sis up on stage to help crown while shoving a digital camera in my face. Three hours later and a brush with a rabid lab - we were outta there. My only regret? I didn't tell the mom -IN LIME GREEN HOT PANTS - that her kid - the four year old - should never, ever, perform a stripper's routine - in patriotic wear.

6. I had to go to Sears. With Harry. 'nuff said.

7. Oh- yeah - and Friday night - I went to see XMEN3 - it was awesome - except for three little things. My side was still aching, they had the a/c cranked to "freezing of the asses off" and someone decided not to shower. Ever. In their entire, stinky life.

I think I'm going to change all the stickers on the outside of all public places to: "No shirts, no shoes, no deodorant - no service." I think it would be well-received - from the non-b.o. majority...

How was YOUR weekend?

Hidescan - and go seek - a bucket.

Well, the exorcism was a success! Kinda...

I went in to the hospital to have a scan done of my galbladder - I was going to go it alone but my sister accosted me Wednesday night: "Youcan'tgoaloneI'llgowithyouwhattimeareyougoingtopickmeup?" I stared at her - mentally separated her words in my mind and then insisted that I'd be fine alone. "NopeI'mcomingwithyouwhattimeareyoupickingmeup?"

I gave in.

So I leave my house at the crack ass of dawn, blasting my new Dixie Chicks cd to try to take the place of a nice caffeine-laden soda ("no food or drink after midnight" - less your stomach turn into a pumpkin during the scan) and picked her up at 6:50 AM.

At the hospital, we sit for a good forty-five minutes while I wait for them to call me back. I insist, again, that my sister need not accompany me back to the scanning room and I march bravely through the automatic door and into the darkened office.

"Okay, sit here and we'll start your injection." A very nice nurse smiled at me.

"Injection? You have to inject me?" I wasn't following. Okay, so I was following - and stalling.

"Well, honey, how else are we gonna get it in you?" she smiled as if I was so incredibly stupid.

Fine by me. As long as no needles were near me - I's good as can be!

Suddenly, and with very little warning, I regress into a four year old: "Can I please, please, please, go get my sister out of the waiting area? She's good at keeping me calm during those few times I get stuck with needles."

Another nurse appeared. "Sure, honey, go get her."

"You have nice linoleum in here, " I said,"just wanted to make sure before I end up on it later." I then ran down the hall and popped my head out the door. Summer saw me, laughed and gathered up her things.

"Iknewyou'dbeback." she said.

They laid me down on a weird table and then went vein hunting. I'm a chubby girl but my veins are quite slender and delicate. Yeah - that's fair.

I teared up when the I.V. was put in - but I didn't pass out. Even when the blood started spurting. I didn't look. I had no arm. I refused to look. NO. ARM.

"Okay, this will take an hour and half, we'll come in to check on you. Try not to move." A nurse said to me and then brought in a better chair for sis to sit in. "Then we'll give you the second injection and a half hour later - you'll be all done."

I was petrified, sore, but relatively okay until we came to the second half of this horrible game they were playing with my insides.

"You may feel a little sick - but don't worry - no one actually throws up." Famous last words.

As they were finishing up injecting the mediciney stuff into my I.V. I gagged twice and then - puked neon yellow crap all over me, my shirt, my three nurses, the floor and maybe my poor sister.

They moved the large camera/scanner thing from over top of me just before my recreation of Linda Blair's famous "pea soup" scene and pulled me to a sitting position.

"Everyone all right? Everyone okay?" I asked in a stupor. "Please tell people, next time, that when they're coming to have this done - NOT to eat Mexican for dinner. NOPE. DON'T eat Mexican food!" I have no clue why I was ranting. I blame the fact that I hadn't vomited in six years and now I could easily replace the machine that slimes people at the Nickelodeon Kid's Choice Awards.

A half hour later they let me go.

The alien was still in my tummy.

My sister was still by my side. "Doyouknowthatwhenyou'reabouttogetsickyougoalltranslucent? Yourfrecklesevendisappearandyoureyesturnasgreenasastoplight!"

See why I keep her around?

Comforting.

Yakkity Yak, Don't Talk Back!

I'm a horrible person. The office manager's brother is in here and he's sitting on the couch trying to make conversation.

I don't like her - so ergo - I don't like her family.

But it's actually more complicated than that.

Her family calls ALLLLLLL the time and asks the assanine questions that all receptionists loathe: "How long has she been on the phone?" "How much longer will she be on the phone?" "Wonder how long she's been gone?" I bite my tongue, resisting the urge to shout at them "I'M NOT F'N PSYCHIC YA DUMBASS!" and tell them to call back.

"What - ya had a leak or somethin'?" he asks me in that too thick accent of his (and that's saying a lot considering where I'M from).

I have no clue what he's talking about.

"Huh?" I ask - barely looking up from my computer screen.

"Do you have a LEAK?!" he yells at me, pointing to the fan in the 1000 degree conference room.

"Uh, no. It's HOT in there. That's why there's a fan. In there. Because it's HOT." So take off all your clothes! ACK! NO! Where the HELL did that thought come from?! Ewwww!

Finally, after fielding twenty questions coming very close to "Why's the sky blue?" he finally moseys back to his sister's (? one can't be positive...) office.

And leaving me here - angrily typing out a post to my blog. Simultaneously living up to every single receptionist/office worker stereotype out there.

Now - where's my nail file???

Lover's Lament

Cindy, a friend of mine, has got me thinking about lost loves.  Those loves that parted from us, never to return.  But what happens after a love is lost?  What are we to do?

Being married - my biggest fear (besides hair spiders and attacking Himalayan kitties) is that my hubby will leave me for a better person (something I have never claimed to be) who knows how to make chicken without a gallon of frying oil and who can do laundry without forgetting about clothes in the washer (ew - stinky!). 

In reality, though, I've only ever been dumped once.  But it was a doozy.  He was not worthy of my time, but I kept trying to make him into something - else.  For three years I attempted to sculpt him from a skinny, chip-toothed, redneck into a khaki-wearing preppy redneck.  Didn't happen.  And I can see now that trying to change a person into what you want rather than being happy with what you have - never works.  Anyway, I was in college and he came to my house, told me he was a gi-normous liarhead and that he was seeing someone else - and her kid.

Devastated - I tossed an 8x10 at his head.  In the frame. 

Took me awhile to get over that one.  But I will admit - when he called me outta the blue a year into his marriage to the lopsided tramp who broke us up and told me she cheated on him - I was gleeful. And then a little sad - for him - since I was sooooooo completely unavailable!!!

At this point I was in  wonderful relationship with a loving, caring, funny man who liked me for me and who didn't need to be molded into anything.  I loved him and his crazy long hair and Metallica obsession.  He liked fast cars. He liked good food.   And he really liked me.  

I was happy. Am happy.  Even if he can't decide on what knobs to put in the kitchen: "Do you like the white ones? These? How about these? Colors?  Whattayathink? The white?"  hee hee

Stains, Pains and Lots-o-Shame!

I really should not be allowed out in to public. At least not without armor of some sort. Ooooh - or a bubble. Yes, I need a bubble. Bubble Girl of WV - that's meeeee!

I got to work and managed to peel, slice and eat an apple with only minor bloodshed. Pretty good for a chick with accident-prone tendencies, huh?

Then I did it. I reached for my felt-tipped pen. My beloved. My writer of the bold lines, excellent doodler apparatus and a classic papermate - it's my favorite work pen. It flipped, slow-motion, outta my chubby little hands and looped towards my keyboard which I smartly shoved out of the way so that the felt-tipped devil would land square in my crotch.

My crotch now has a big black mark on it (stop sniggering - you KNOW what I mean!).

Sighing a big sigh heard 'round the world I opened up my side drawer and pulled out a Tide Pen. I was trying to keep that stupid singing commercial outta my head ("HEY, HEY, HEY GoooodBYE!") when I noticed a rather putrid aroma. I sniffed the air and then, warily, put my nose near the Tide Pen To Go. I recoil and decided "Yup, it's gone bad" - something I didn't think a cleaning agent could do!

Oh well - I have bigger problems now. The stain is now gone from my pants - but has been replaced with a smelly spot.

Yup - my day officially sucks stinky Tide Pens to Go.

So I try to wash it out in the bathroom - but the German imported paper towels just ball up and stick to my pants - making it a fuzzy, stinky spot.

I then go to the kitchen to get a towel and some water to try to remove fuzzies. I promptly pour water down my leg and now have to crouch and run all the way back to my desk with my head held down in shame.

I think I should just go home. Yes. Call it a day at 10:26 AM and go HOME.

Now, lemmie just get my trusty pen here and write them a note...

:)

Goodbye, my Deep-Fried Friends... I Shall Miss You Most of All..."

Earlier today I opened up pictures from a fashion show my niece was in earlier this year. She looks adorable, as usual, my sister - gorgeous, my hubby - delectable, and me - poofy.

No, really.

POOOOOOFY.

I really wondered what the heck was sticking out the back of my Seven jeans until I realized - THAT'S YOUR ASSSSSSSSSSS!

My shirt was riding up in the back and my jeans were hugging curves where there should be none.

I don't get it.

So what if I enjoy the occasionally rice krispie treat - or entire pan?

So what if a hot-and-ready pizza is usually slurped, dipped, scalped and devoured within ten minutes of purchasing?!

So what if I can empty a six pack in less time than it takes to say "sugar high"?

And so what if I consider food to be the greatest reward next to anything that goes VRRRRRooom and rides on four wheels?

Does that make me a fat ass?

Why, yes, Holly, it does!

Okay - so here we go - I will admit how much I weigh in an attempt to lose the weight through public humiliation. I will go on-line and hang myself out to dry until I lose thirty, um... no... twenty, yes TWENTY pounds!

Okay.

I'm gonna tell ya...

Okay.

 

I weigh - (has been omitted due to shock factor. The author worried that many would pass out on to their computers, spilling their coffee in the process, causing a blackout, wide-spread panicking and looting upon learning the true number of her poundage. So it was removed. For your OWN safety, of course...)! See now that's not THAT much now is it! Okay - dieting here I come!

:)

Tomorrow.

 

Fashionista Follies!

 Today is going to be a good day.  I have refrained from throwing my stress ball at anyone's passing cranium and I have managed to get to work looking semi-decent. 

I am wearing black pants with a hot pink pinstripe, black sandals, a freshly laundered white shirt and pink vest.  My Coach bag boasts my ability to coordinate to a fault with its multitude of pink c's.  Even my book, "A Dirty Job" by Christopher Moore matches my lovely outfit!  It's black with bright pink lettering! 

My only downfall is my non-visible, non-three-legged undies - alas - they are purple. 

And now that I've enter the land of "TMI" I shall back away - slowly.  Stress ball clutched in my meaty little hand...

A Case of the "Mondays"!

I'm frightened.

My sister is home, alone, at my house with the appliance install guys.

And Gillian, aka "Hurricane Beans" is on her way over.

I fear for them.

Not Summer and Gillian.

Nope.

The repairmen.

Pray for them.

Apparently - the dishwasher has already tried to eat one of the men.

Oh, dear.

"Workin' 9-5, What a Way to Make a Living..."

It's funny, really.

Just when I think that I'm not a peon, not some insignificant peice of employee dirt that is best unseen by incoming clientele, I get an implication - full-faced: "You mean nothing."

"And straighten the damn rug."

 

Blame It on the Dog

I think my feet are stinky.

I promise I showered this morning but my shoes - well -they're Payless and made from synthetic-not-found-in-nature-or-in-the-universe material.

I think that's what's making them stinky.

If I am stinky - am I?

I'm testing this - I am going to walk down the hallway - should two of the three secretaries pass out on to their keyboards - I will know - without a doubt - that I do possess stinky feet. 

Wish me - and them - luck...

 

T.G.I.T.!!!

If it wasn't Thursday  - I'd be heading over to Ernie's Gun and Pawn to buy me a new, shiny, rapid-firing toy.

I walked in, opened the doors, turned on the lights and hadn't even sat down at my prison, oops, 'scuse me,  desk when an evil lawyer walked off the elevator.  He slinked to my desk, oozing slime and destruction in his wake : "Do I have the conference rooms today?"  he asked.  I glance at the clock and it glares at me in insolence:  8:27.  I have three minutes before I check my soul in for consumption.  Three minutes of MY time left. 180 seconds left of freedom and he's already making me WORK. 

I reach in my purse and pull out my Kate Spade case so that I may place my sunglasses in their proper home - I'm also stalling - I want my three minutes - FREEEEEDOM!

He stands there - unblinking and unfased at my "I CAN'T HEAR YOUUUUUU!"-NESS.

"Let me check that for you."  My purse falls over at this time.  Off the desk - on to the floor and spills it's contents, feminine products, secrets and a bit of my dignity on to the stained carpeting. 

"Well, crap!"  I say with maybe a little too much venom in my voice.  He's shaken. 

"I guess I could just look myself..." his voice trails off as his eyes lock on to my Dooney's innards. 

"Nope, I'll do it for you."  I put my sunglasses down and then throw the case to the floor to pile on top of the rest of my life - laying out in full view of passerbys.

He then walked off and left his keys on my desk.

OH - the possibilities!  muah-ha-ha!

Get In Line So I Can Kill You, Too.

It's not even 9:30 in the morning and my brain is on repeat:  KILL! KILL!KILL! 

 If I had a machete, a chainsaw, a shotgun or a large, blunt object I would've already flung, chopped or mutated someone or something. 

So far - I've been accused of NOT doing the office manager's job, NOT doing the runner's job and NOT doing a various amount of other duties that were NOT mine to begin with!

On top of that - the ever-non-present, designer-imposter, non-punctual "injured in a car wreck" office manager also grilled me as to the whereabouts of a member of our staff. 

"What's HER problem?!" she yelled at me this morning as her wrinkles flapped and waved in response to the hot air coming from her foul mouth.

"Uh, she's sick."  I responded.

"Well WHAT'S WRONG with her?"  she flicked a finger at me. 

Resisting the urge to gnaw her finger off above the CZ laden knuckle, I said:  "I don't know.  I didn't talk to her.  She's sick."

"Okkkkaaaaay," she heaved a heavy, "oh-woe-is-me" sigh and waddled back to her office, dragging her high heels on the stained taupe carpet.

"NO REALLY!  SHE JOINED THE CIRCUS! YES! THAT'S IT! SHE SAID TO TELL YOU 'I'M LEAVING TO MARRY A CLOWN,  AND JOIN FORCES WITH BARNUM AND BAILEY AND HOPE TO TRAIN MONKEYS!'  SEND HER MAIL CARE OF THE BIG TOP AT KISSMYASS SQUARE!"   I silently screamed as my nostrils flared and I smiled wildly.

To get even - I've turned all the commas upside down on the wall behind me that boasts the name of my firm. 

Yeah - I'm vindictive.

I've Seen Office Space Too Many Times...

If I leave work today without killing anyone and/or setting anyone on fire - it'll be a good day.

If not - well - please make bail checks payable to "holly in cell block c" c/o Cabell County Jail, Huntington, WV.

It'll get to me.

Or my bitch.

 

Say "I' and spell "cup."

 

Last night - Harry and I crossed a line.

We can never go back.

Our relationship has been forever - altered.

It happened suddenly and without warning - I had gone upstairs, leaving Harry to watch the end of "Four Rooms", an odd yet entertaining Tarantino film. I walked into our bedroom, opened the two doors that lead into the bathroom area and closed them behind me. I decided that a quick tinkle did not merit closing the additional door to the toilet area, so I sat down and was half-way done emptying my bladder when - the little doors were pushed open.

"Phoebe?" I ask. She likes to keep tabs on me at all times and often thrusts open the bathroom doors - leaving her eye gook stains as reminders that she was shut out of a place she rightfully belonged.

"Whatchadoin'?" Harry poked his head through the door and looked at me, perched and pigeon-toed, on the porcelain throne.

"I'm - I - uh - I'm PEEIN'!" I stutter.

We've been together six years - been married for three and he's never seen me go to the bathroom. I have always thought that couples who go full-frontal on each other when nature called took some of the mystery out of the relationship. I also held tight to my belief that even though we were dubbed "man and wife" - some things were still to be done alone. Away from prying eyes.

He giggled and backed out of the doorway.

I couldn't even finish. I just sat there with a shocked look on my face.

I eventually emerged and he was standing in the bedroom doorway, doubled over in laughter.

"You - you - YOU THOUGHT I WAS PHOEBE!" he barely spit out.

"Yes! I did! You weren't supposed to see me pee - EVER!" I lovingly beat him about the brow and back.

"I SAW YOU PEEEEE! I SAW YOU PEEEEE!"

And he wonders why I have a complex about it.

Hmph.

Why do men insist on following us into the bathroom? Is it a perverse desire to watch us urinate? Or is it just because we are in a state of undress and they may be able to see things we do not make readily available to be seen unless jewelry or an expensive dinner is presented?

Hulky Holly

Things around my office are - tense.

If one could actually SEE negativity - then there would be a big, black cloud of infectious smoke forming in the middle of the office arena.

Yet I am out front, happily be-bopping away and thinking about dinner plans with dear hubby (who's NOT out of town for once...).

There was a meeting - one I was not invited to nor wanting to attend.  Supposedly - members of the staff have been "wasting time."

This is the part where I look to the ceiling, whistle an innocent tune and twiddle my thumbs.

But it wasn't me - the surfer of the net, the blogger of the blog, the writer of the book or the emailer of the emails - no - they dubbed the secretaries as being "inefficient" and time wasters."

Oh, dear me.

So now they must track their time. Every minutes is to be accounted for. Every hour must be documented and every task must be accounted for.

"Forgive them, for they know not what they do..."

I'm trying to brighten up the mood by sending them happy, witty emails - but am saddened by the non-response.

They can't respond.

They are forbidden.

This makes Holly angry.

They won't like me when I'm angry.

GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.

Update:  I just received a high score of 2060 votes on www.taylorhickspacman.com  - it's too fun and addicting!  It really puts the whole "American Idol" craze into perspective...  Heh heh - and you get to gobble up Ryan Seacrest - which is - disturbing.

Divine Intervention?

Driving down Third Avenue this morning, cursing my choice of white socks with brown pants and shoes, I notice a billboard that reads:  "Does Government Have the Right to Change God's Words?" 

Being the cynic I am, I scoffed and turned my head to the right, away from the religious billboard and began to ponder the true meaning of "seperation of church and state" when it happens.

I look at the person in the little blue car next to me.

It's a nun.  An honest-to-goodness-wearing-a-habit-on-her-cute-little-head NUN!

Is this a sign?  Or is it a Divine Answer to the billboard?  Or is it just funny?

I'm not sure  - but I'm taking Fourth Avenue from now on - just in case...

 

One Man's Trash...

I have a problem.

I just noticed something - odd - about my undies.

There are three leg holes.

Last time I counted - I only had two legs - so - I guess I must admit that I have a hole in my too cute flower-patterened panties.

They're still doing a fine job - still staying put - still keeping my jeans from chaffing delicate parts of my anatomy. And I'm pretty sure, should I jump about or break into an Irish jig - they would stay put.

So herein lies my dilemma.

Just because one's underwear becomes holier than thou - does that mean it is to be thrown to the trash can?

Does one, tiny, three inch hole really constitute the dismissal of an entire pair of undies?

And, this being said, what will become of its mate? The matching brassiere?

A connundrum, for sure...

Waking Up on the Wrong Side...

I rolled over in bed this morning, shoved the cat/pillow out of my fuzzy view and smacked the alarm clock.

7:15 it glowed at me, rather obnoxiously.

My first thought on this glorious, dreary, rainy, wet, miserable day?  "Sh*t!" 

I had exactly forty minutes to get up, get ready and get the heck outta dodge.  So I sat in the floor of my bathroom in front of the shower door mirror while a pudgy Himalayan pawed at my backside. 

I applied eyeliner - and felt a poke as Phoebe massaged my left butt cheek.

A sweep of translucent powder (it's cooling - too cool!) - and Phoebe tenderly swatted my right butt cheek.

Jumping up, I run to find a shirt to wear - and there's Phoebe - in mid making-out bliss - with my new hairbrush!  I had searched for months to find the perfect combo of blow-drying and anti-static paddle brush and there she was - rubbing on it like some furry harlot!    This is how she stole my last perfect brush.  Hussy. 

I wrestle it away from her, wipe it free from drool and then watch as she looks at me with huge, sad, blue eyes.  At this point I know I have two options:  Give in and deal with the cat drool (it could be pomade-ish...) or don't give in and find something else for her to carnally delight in... so... I pulled open the drawer and gave her my old "perfect brush." 

She sniffed it, looked at me, huffed and walked off - tail high in the air.

Yeah... that's my cat...

Move along, Move along...

Harry just called.

Apparently the fact that my sister hasn't packed a single thing is surprising to him.

Huh. 

And I have a prediction.

My mother - who's down there "helping" Summer pack -  WILL make it home.

In a box.

Sealed with packing tape.

Lots of it.

 

A Presciption for a Pathological Liarhead

I don't know what my deal is.

I can't help it.

I just do it.

I LIE TO DOCTORS.

"What seems to be the problem, Miss?"  They ask me with their starched white coats and cold stethoscopes at the ready.

"Nothing!  AB-solutely fine and dandy!" I say through the pain, the blood, the cracked teeth- whatever it is that is ailing me.

I did this today.  I totally lied:  "I'm feeling much better!"

"Well, your test did come back negative... Maybe we should wait to do the scan?  See if it improves?" 

"Sounds wonderful!"  I say, full of spunk and chipperness.

"Okay then, just hop up here and let me look at ya for a minute..." 

She pokes me. 

I wince. 

"Okay then, what time shall I schedule the hidescan for you?" 

Drats.   Foiled again...

Onstar Gallactica

My husband is leaving today with his good bud, Mike, to travel the six hours to Richmond to pack up my sister's lifelong treasures and bring her, and my niece, home.

I couldn't be happier!

However, he is taking my more - um - rustic- vehicle and leaving me with his shiny, musically-enhanced, one. Which is great.

Really.

Superb, even.

Okay, FINE.

I can't work it. He's done so much after-factory stuff, that when I was driving home the other day  - I couldn't get the XM radio to function, nor could I manage to get the cd changer to, well, change!

I felt like a failure.

I felt uneducated.

I felt like committing hubby-cide.

So I call him: "Hi, babycakeshead!" I launch into him. "I've just noticed two things: Number one: Harley Davidson people wave at each other like the corvette people do, neat-o. Number two: HOW THE HELL DO YOU WORK YOUR CAR?!"

He, as always, laughed at my misfortune and informed me that the cd changer was temperamental and that XM can be easily fixed by hitting the Onstar button and then turning off Onstar.

Well, duh.

Why didn't I think of that.

So I hit the Onstar button and then try to turn it off.

It starts dialing.

I start panicking.

"Hello, welcome to Onstar. How may I help you today?" a very pleasant woman answers.

"I DIDN'T MEAN TO CALL YOU! AGH! I HIT A WRONG BUTTON! AGH! I'M SORRY! AGH! NOT MY CAR! AGH! WRONG BUTTON! AGHHHH!"

The woman laughed and said "Alright, I'll go ahead and disconnect the call for you. You have a nice day and thank you for using Onstar!"

"I'M SORRY! THANKS! AGH!" was my cultured response.

"You're welcome" she said, still laughing.

I think I just made it on to their radio commericals.

AGH!

I called Harry back: "Hey, babycakeshead - those Onstar people are nice!"

"You weren't supposed to actually call them," he said, a bit dumbfounded by the sound of it.

"I'M SORRY! I HIT THE WRONG BUTTON! AGH! I DIDN'T MEAN TO CALL! AGH!"

Needy, needy me...

So, day two of me not eating solid foods has now come to actualization and I have two words to say about this:  FEED ME!

I tried to eat last night and was rewarded by having stomach spasms that left me freaked all the heck out.  Coupled with the non-retreating pain in my side - I'm done.  Stick a fork in me.

Preferably between my eyes.

100 Is An Awfully Big Number... Here's 15!

Things that are happening RIGHT NOW:

1.  My toes are becoming more and more frozen, as each minute passes, my piggies become less like body parts and more like ice cubes for festive, yet scary, drinks.

2.  A man wearing a black parka, baseball hat, jeans and carrying a large tote bag just walked into the music store across the street.  He's either robbing it or is cold-blooded.  It's 75 degrees outside.

3.  One of my boss' is in the large conference room bouncing suggestively in a large, wingbacked chair.  He doesn't seem to notice that his nervous tic is gross and offends me.  Am thinking of enlightening him by launching club crackers at the windows.

4.  My eyemakeup ( all ten pounds of it) is oozing down my face.  Tammy Faye - eat your heart out.

5.  My large sprite from McDonald's is sweating on to my S.B.A. coaster.  Sprite and crackers is my lunch due to a bad incident with Olive Garden last night has left me spinning.  I really think that crackers and sprite could probably cure any disease - if applied correctly.

6.  I'll bet that someone on Days of Our Lives is either dying or falling into a coma as I write this.  I hope it's Hope.  She of the horse face and lips made of small sea creatures.

7.  My tummy just gurgled.  I think it just ate the alien that was living in my rib cage.  Oh, goody.

8.  My hubby just sent me an email that said:

Could you please refrain from using the F word in you blog, I really can’t go and read it here at work if you do and I do really enjoy reading them. They make my days go by quicker. Thank you

A concerned loyal follower

9.  Even though it's tempting to do the opposite - I will keep my F-bombs to a minimum.   Only using them when absolutely f'n necessary... hahahahahaha!

10.  The bouncing boss just offered to have my co-workers poem to her mother printed in color and professionally - on his own dime.  He's either doing it for the face value of being a "cool boss" or he's doing it because he really liked the prose.  Either way - it's a nice gesture - and I will not call him a "cockroach with hair" ever again.  Or - at least not for the rest of today.

11.  There is a man in the office using one of those bluetooth earpieces.  Although I understand their usefulness when driving - sticking a large Borg-ish type electronic device in one's ear and walking around town does not make you "technologically advanced" it makes you psychizoid. 

12.  All my desk calendars are on May 2nd.  All five of them.

13.  A secretary just paged an attorney to her line and they buzzed me instead.  This happens.  Every. Single. Time.  My extension is : 0.  Everyone else's: not freakin' zero!

14.  I still think the plant behind my desk will eventually eat me.

15.  I have to go change one of my entries so that my hubby can read it - apparently the "F-bomb" will crash his computer... so tempting... so tempting...

 

Zombies! ZOMBIES!!!

I decided to enter a contest on-line that is being held in order to help one of my favorite authors, MaryJanice Davidson overcome her fear of zombies.

Here's my 12-steps!

                 "12-Step Guide to Complete Zombie Annihilation"

1. Determine whether or not supposed Zombie is in fact, a member of the walking, moaning, smelly undead by playing any Mariah Carey song from the early 1990's. Should the "person" in question not shriek in pain or flee in terror then they are, in fact, a zombie.

2. Now that we've established zombie-hood - now it is time to get the undead dude under control. This is relatively easy. Play "The Hokey Pokey" on repeat. When they "shake it all about" it is inevitable that limbs will fall off making pursuit of you even harder.

3. Now is the time to determine what the zombie wants. Ask him/her/it in a clear and controlled voice "What the HELL do you want?!" If the answer is: "I'd like a Marshmallow Peep, please," then give it willingly. However, if the answer is, regrettably, "BRAINS!" then you must whip out a machete and hack a way during the second "Hokey" chorus.

4. At this point you should be feeling more in control and also happier with yourself for taking charge of the zombie-infestation that has happened upon you. Take a moment to reflect on your joys and accomplishments, all the while remembering to keep your large and shiny machete at the ready.

5. Zombies don't like water. So if you are near a pool, or a lake, or even a hot tub - jump in! Unless the zombie was an Olympic swimmer in its waking life and then, well, you're a tad screwed.

6. If you are being pursued down a dark alley by a horde of male zombies, hell-bent on making your ass a tasty spam-like treat, then simply remove your cell phone, dial your mother and turn on the loudspeaker. No man, alive or dead, can handle the voice of possible mother-in-law.

7. If you are being pursued down a dark alleyby a horde of female zombies, hell-bent on making your ass a tasty spam-like treat, then simply cup your hands over your mouth and yell: "CLEARANCE SALE AT MACY'S! THERE'S A CLEARANCE SALE AT MACY'S!" No woman, dead or alive, can resist a clearance sale. Especially if it includes shoes.

8. Your level of comfort at this point in your "Zombie Annihilation" training should be downright euphoric. You should be able to hold your own against zombies, undead walkers, and some, more lethargic werewolves.

9. Should you be chased into a convenient store by a pack of degenerate zombies, quickly make a fort out of toilet paper, Dial Soap boxes and moist towlettes. Zombies fear good hygiene and will flee from it if its presented in vast quantities.

10. Although tempting, chopping the heads off of the moaning, groaning body of a zombie is not always the best move. Using your handy-dandy machete, chop at the knees and then proceed to julienne the arms and torso - the head can be saved for last and garnished with what's left of the insides.

11. Zombies are exceptionally slow so it may be tempting to stop and have a cup of coffee while waiting for the pursants to catch up with you, the pursuee - but resist the urge. Or else your foamy Mochachino could be your last.

12. Congratulations! You have reached the last, and final, number in the "12-Step Guide to Complete Zombie Annihilation" Program. You should be feeling more confident, more in control and a little like putting "your left foot in, put your left foot out, you put your left foot in and you shake it all about."

 

Aliens! ALIENS!!!

   When I left my doc's visit last Thursday, I was under the distinct impression that I would be attending a 7AM MRI this morning.  Now, not that I don't enjoy waking up at the crack-ass of dawn, but I didn't really want to go and be made into a, as my friend Cindy put it, "Holly Manicotti."  However, after a rousing game of morning "Who's Got Your (Insert Body Part Here)?"  with my dear sweet, understanding hubby left me crying and holding my ribs and - worse yet - unable to - ya know - fully compete to "win" (Harry's comforting words: "Hey, at least one of us did!"  Grrr.) I have decided that I need to get this - whatever the hell it is - fixed.

     So I arrive at St. Mary's and head to their "Outpatient Services" building.  I stand in the lobby and look at the marquee.  I guess I'm searching for some sort of a large arrow or glowing sign that says "Here is Where Holly Needs to Be."  Seeing none - I do the next best thing - I accost some poor chick who's walking by in lime green scrubs.

     "Do you work here?"  I ask, holding my "A Dirty Job" book by Christopher Moore in one hand and my slip for treatment in the other.

      She looks down at her scrubs, her id tag and then at me: "Uh, yeah."

     "Can you please tell me where I need to go for this?" I thrust the paper at her and she, even though it was so early Roosters were still napping, smiled at me.

    "You need to go to the first floor," she explained slowly as if I was insane.  Which - before 8 AM - I kinda am.

    I looked at the glass doors behind us and then at the elevators. 

     "This is the 'Ground Floor.'  You need to go up."  She even got the elevator for my dumb ass and then grilled me to make sure I hadn't eaten anything past midnight. 

      Two pagers and an armband later, I'm lying on my back with my shirt pushed up under my armpits thinking "What?  Not even gonna get breakfast first?" while a nice woman, Angela, covered my robust tummy with goo.

      "Hey, Angela?"  I ask as she smoothes the jelly-like substance over my belly. 

     "Yes, dear?"  She says.

      "Will you please let me know if there's anything bad in there?  Like anything with tentacles, claws or googly-eyes?" 

       "Of course, dear. Of course."  

 

Things I Will NEVER Do Again.

And this is just from today:

1.  Wear a low cut shirt while:  eating a muffin, drinking water (spillage) or ordering Mexican food.  It's just wrong.

2.  Get a DQ Freeze after lunch.  My teeth are pink and it looks like I'm chugging frozen Pepto.

3.  Paint my toes gold.  Foxy Cleopatra wants her bling back.

4.  Try to talk humanely with lawyers (excluding a few and you know who ya are!).

5.  Match my purse to my undies.  I've just come to find out - this is weird.  (And they're purple  - in case you wondered)

 I'm trying to write a query letter to an agent.  I would like to add this to the list of things I never will do again - but considering I can't even find enough creativity in my little pinky to come up with a smart, intelligent, quirky and to-the-point letter - I figure this will be added to the list of things I "Never Did and Kinda Tried" to do.

If anyone has any tips, pointers or tequila - all are welcomed!

 

Ding Dong, the Bitch is Gone

So while I was gone to yet another Doctor's appointment to figure out why my side hurts so friggin' badly - there was - DRAMA- at my office.

And I missed it.

Anyhoo - apparently the runner, he of big-hat-wearing fame left for lunch and didn't come back.  The big wigs here noticed that he was MIA at about - um - let's see three o'clock!  How funny is that?!  I'm up outta my chair for two mins and there are APB's on my location - he leaves and is gone for hours on end and no one notices!  Whatever!

So the office manager calls him at home - he says "Yeah, I quit."   Eloquent, huh?

And how cowardly is that?! He just left - no notice, no reasons, no warning - just POOF - gone.

And I couldn't be happier.

The guy was a real dote.  The kind of person who makes sure you know that they know EVERYTHING about EVERYTHING.  In the short time he "worked" here (his work ethic was worse than mine - and I didn't think that was possible) he told me he was a landscaper, a bartender, an army man, a farmer, a mechanic, a car fabricater, an animal tamer, a cattle trader, a horse purchaser, and a big ol' asshole.  That last part I figured out for myself when he didn't return emails and walked in and out of here like he was God's gift to the legal profession.

Needless to say. I didn't like him very much.

So - you'd think today would be a joyous day, a day of partying and celebrating and happiness, right?  Nope, the office is eerily quiet.  I'm thinking of getting on the loudspeaker and initiating a rousing chorus of "YMCA!"  but I think only half would even know the words.

Sigh.

 

So THAT's why they call it a catapult...

Harry read my blog and called me to say "It's okay - we don't have to have a romantic dinner and - that other stuff  - since you're in pain." 

How sweet.

Aint gonna happen.

I want my date night - if nothing else but because I am still frightened by my "substitute hubby."

I went to the doctor today and was basically told that they had no f'n clue what was wrong with me.

Comforting.

So I came home, took a Loratab and passed out.  I woke up three hours later when Phoebe used my back as a catapult to get to the other side of the bed - twice.

It hurts when I laugh.  And that sucks beyond belief.  I'm a laugher, a giggler, a sniggler a snickerer and a chuckler. Take this away from me and all you have is someone who wears a bit too much eyeliner and smiles a smile that's a little too crooked for conventional standards. 

I'm gonna laugh, anyway.  :)

My cat just licked my knee.

Okay - I'm gonna go to bed now- and hope that no felines will use me as a diving board in the middle of the night...

The END.

So, this is how it ends. I thought to myself as I looked at the dusty canopy top of the bed and the white ceiling peeping from between.

This is how they'll find me - dead - stuck like a turtle in the middle of a king-sized bed. No escape in sight.  No wiggle room.  And an overweight Himalayan poking my arm with her overly slimy nose.  No one should have to go like this.  No one. 

I tried to roll over again by grabbing the sheets with my left hand and pulling my self over to the side.  I figured I was rotund enough to roll to an upright position, instead, the sharp, invisible knife struck my ribs again and I halted my escape plan.

"Phoebe?  Can you call 911 for mommy and tell them that I'm stuck in bed and to bring help. And dinner?"  I looked over at her.  She blinked, purred louder and snorted.  I'm taking that as a "no."

I lay there for another thirty minutes with the television stuck on the fake boobies of Sandra Lee on FoodNetwork. 

This is hell.  I thought to myself and waited for the tv to continue its torture by next showing scenes from "Mayberry" and then any reality show (they're all quite sucky in my opinion).

Finally, I manage to gather the strength I've reserved and launch myself, Tomb Raider-ish from the bed to the wall near my closet.  It hurt like a bitch - but I was free to hobble around now.

And then I sneezed.

And then I cried.

And then I called my doctor.

 

A Love Like This Can't be Thong, oops, WRONG!

My knees are bruised.

I will wait as you make your suggestive innuendos and flap your eyebrows and smirk at the screen like you KNOW why my knees are purple right now.

But you have no clue, now do you???

Because of the yard work.

Yes, we're back on that topic.

Please keep up.

Anyway, my knees still hurt from groveling,ooooops, I mean - GARDENING last Sunday. And -horrors of horrors - I may have to do it again this weekend.

I may, however, have found a way around this. I have asked for a "Romantic Date Night." By asking for such I am guaranteeing myself, my fingers and my hurting knees time away from the flower bed. Unfortunately, this also means that there is a chance that I can be found in the bathroom after dinner, groaning and moaning and wretching. No - I'm not bulimic (have you SEEN my picture?) but I will be wrestling my chubby cheeks into some kind of lacy, corseted contraption that peaked in popularity in the 1800's.

All so I wont have to pick up a hoe.

That's with an "E" people!

HOE! NOT "HO"!

 

Trash for Two...

In the parking lot across from my building there is a large dumpster.  On this blue monster of debris someone has sprawled "KARMA" on it in white, faltering spray paint.

I used to think that whomever did this, the brave soul who picked up a can of paint and decided to make a bold statement on life - had to be an incredibly deep individual with a pained and reflective soul.

Then I noticed that he had also tagged the building and wrote "back door" on the back door.

Well, huh.

 

"B-U-T-T - phone home???"

My cell phone rang while I was at work yesterday evening. This annoys me because, number one, it's always Harry "forgetting" to call me at the office and, number two, Harry Potter starts asking me to the ball - repeatedly (my ring tone was changed by an evil man and I can't figure out how to change it back).

"Hey, dork! Call me on my work number!" I say into my phone in lieu of a greeting.

Nothing.

"Helllloooo! Babycakes? Harrrryyyyy! Hellllloooo!" At this point I'm being quite loud, thinking that the connection in Morefield, WV has got to be something akin to two cans and some twine.

Still nothing.

"Harrrrrrrry! BABY! HELLLLLLLOOOOO?!" I'm yelling now.

Nothing - then - I hear rustling and - he hangs up on me.

I'm fuming and ready to fashion a hubby-like voodoo doll out of post-its, an old beanie bear and some tape when he calls me back.

I answer the phone at work and before I can even spit out the five names that I must repeat a zillion times a day - I hear laughter. Loud laughing, sniggers and out right peals of it are pouring through the receiver.

"I sat on my phone and it called you." My hubby says to me.

"So... your butt called me?"

"Yes. My butt called you," he confirms.

The laughter in the back ground reaches a fervor. "We were all sitting here and all of a sudden I heard a woman's voice. We looked around to see where it was coming from - and-"

I cut him off, "It was coming from your pants."

"Yes," he said sheepishly. "I'm going to go now. Everyone's laughing at me and I'm turning red so - love you!"

"I love you, too" I can't help but laugh - no one's ass has ever felt the need to "reach out and touch" me before.

I feel special.

Oh - and this blog is dedicated to Tiffany and Stacey who, after cunningly trying to destroy their phones with beverages, still couldn't get out of helping me paint last night!  Even when my grandmother reached out for Stacey's leg, pulling it backwards so that she looked like a tanned Flamingo to get the paint off of her foot, "I'm shoein' a horse!" she said with glee.

And - Kudos to Stacey for not dumpin' the cup of paint in her hands over my granny's 98 lb form and 10 lb hair.

Oh, Go Prune Yourself!

Another incident occurred during our days of Yard Work.

I do not really wish to share it, to confess my sins, but, I must.  I feel compelled to purge my demons onto you, my faithful readers.

It happened innocently enough.  I had the hedge trimmers and was cutting off some dead branches of the little mini-tree thing next to our front door.  Snip, snip.  It looked so much better! So I cut a little more.  And a little more.  I was like a woman possessed!  The clippers had a mind of their own! I was no longer in control of my actions as the trimmers edged up the side of the little tree - until - Harry caught me in mid-snip.

"What the hell are you doing!"  he yelled.

"Trimming."  I said, timidly.

"You've butchered it!"

"No, I haven't!"  I stood up and collected some of the branches from the ground. Then I started stuffing them back into the lopsided tree. "See?  All better!" 

"We'll have to take it out," he said, speaking like a surgeon to a future amputee.

"No."  I said.

"Yes."

"NO! And WHATEVER! I was ONLY trying to HELP!" I took off my gloves in a flurry of leather and cotton and flung them up in the air.  "FINE!"  I bellowed at him and picked up the jar of "Shake-n-Feed," "YOU do it!  YOU don't need my help!"  I tossed the jar at him and watched as the little green pellets soared through the air and landed like a rotten tambourine at his feet.

Then, tantrum having commenced in plain view of all our "normal" neighbors, I turned, pouted and stomped past the lopsided tree and into the house, slamming the door for emphasis.

"Hey!" Harry came in a few minutes later to find me, red-faced and fuming sitting at the kitchen table.  I expect him to chew me out.  To tell me I was being a brat and a princess and to get my ass back out in the yard to help.  Instead he pats my head and says "Wanna go to Lowe's?"

I love my husband almost as much as I hate Yard Work!

Observations From the Front Yard.

My forray into yardwork was not a pleasant one, I'm sad to admit. I whined, I moaned, I plopped on to the hard ground and felt my low-rise jeans slide below the Equator line, mooning my upper-class neighbors and further cementing my place as the "black sheep" of the neighborhood.

"Hold this bag open," Harry asked of me. So I pried myself from the brick patio and huffed and sneezed over to where he stood, arms full of mulch and Oakley's masking his expression of (probably) disdain for my lack of love of nature. I grasped the large black trash bag and leaned over. Harry promptly stuffed the old mulch into it - and down the front of my shirt.

"Aaaagh! YOU MULCHED MY BOOBS!" I yelled. The kid across the street stopped in mid-swipe of his daily auto washing to look at us, the unlikely couple covered in mud, dirt, bugs, and mulch.

"Sorry," Harry said, grinning and looking very much un-sorry.

He made it up to me later when he - WARNING - RACY MATERIAL AHEAD! - fulfilled his manly duties with a rabbit-like fervor that I quite enjoyed - UNTIL HE ALMOST RIPPED MY BOOB OFF.

Why is it that it's sometimes forgotten - in mid-coital bliss - that those things - those "happy fun bags" - are ATTACHED?! You can bet that if we, as females, would "forget" that their member was attached, we'd have hell to pay and our visiting rights would be revoked faster than Kate Moss' modeling contracts after her "surprisng" cocaine bust.

"Aaaaaagh!" I screamed, "That's attached, ya know!"

"Sorry," he said again, still looking very un-sorry and switching to the other, less injured breast.

And who says that chivalry is dead?