Wednesday, August 29, 2007

20lb Jar of Artichokes? Don't Mind if I Do...

Today after work Sis and I traveled across state lines to the food warehouse known as "Sam's Club."  Summer's new credentials as a peer lactation consultant afforded her two memberships which she shared with me. 

We strolled the aisles looking wildly out of place with all the fast-moving, loaded-to-the-top-of-their-buggies people.  

We looked up the aisles and beyond and had the strange sense of being a Lilliputian in a land of Giant - Condiments.   Need a large can of Nacho Cheese Sauce? No problem.  Need a ketchup bottle that has to be lifted with two sets of hands?  Got two different sizes.   Large tray of croissants?  Beef?  Cheese wheel?  The possibilities of over-sized food was endless and we were more than a little overwhelmed.  

When I saw Summer staring, transfixed, at the sight of a huge can of Poppycock - I knew it was time to leave.

We took the Poppycock with us.  


Tuesday, August 28, 2007

"Candy" That's Actually Good for You!

When Mandy Moore first popped up on the radar I couldn't stand her.  Or her stupid sugary song "Candy."  I wasn't biased - Mariah, Britney and Christina fared nare too well along side her.

Then I saw her act.  And hated her a little less.  Saw her as a bible-toting freak in "Saved" and a fun girlfriend for JD on "Scrubs" and started to like her, but just a bit.  Then, I saw "Because I Said So," a phenomally "not good" movie but one in which she was really, well, normal.

But then I heard she was releasing another album and the cringe-worthy pop putter "Candy" popped into my brain.

Luckily there's this really cool version to correct the damage done:  Enjoy!



At my new job I am expected to log on to about seven different company programs and ten different HR related ones.  Since my hiring date I have been the equivilant of an IT nightmare.  I was denied access to the majority of the programs and for some reason I didn't have the program where one could enter their time and, I dunno, get PAID!  So today when I entered yet anothe "Oh, good LORD, help me" IT ticket to the smarter-than-me computer dept I could hear the exasperation in the guy's voice when he called me to yet again correct some crazy problem.

"My Instant Messenger closes itself and won't let me log back on," I said.

"Oh.  Really?"  I stumped him.   He then took over my screen and had no clue why it was shutting me out of the program.

"Maybe I have Gremlins!" I chirped.  And waited.  No response.  "Heh, heh, heh."  I tried.  NOTHING. 

I'm sure he was laughing on the inside, or really concentrating on the task at hand, or something.  

Once he kinda corrected the problem, I opened my email and watched as it crashed and froze. 


Ten minutes later I'm back on the intranet but wary.

I should've known better than to get on my laptop when I got home.  I downloaded the HPupdates and my computer freaked all the hell out!  Jack from "Newsies" (Christian "I am Batman!" Bale) channelled Max Hedroom as he stuttered "Santa Fe" through the speakers.  I tried holding down the power button, hitting a combo of keys a la Mortal Combat and finally, as the music volume refused to cease and as my black screen of death started me right in the eyes I flipped my laptop upside down and pryed loose the battery.

The music stopped.

Damn gremlins!


Monday, August 20, 2007

My Minty Migraine

    My whole family and I are sufferers of migraines.  So when I arrived at my family’s humble Barboursvillian abode with a mind-crushing headache they instantly rallied around me offering neck rubs and support.   Sometimes, when I’m lucky, I can fight the pain, pretend it’s not really a migraine and go about my day like a semi-normal person.  Then there are the times that the pain will win at all costs, no matter to my vision or ability to operate heavy machinery.  On these occasions I crawl into my darkened bedroom, pull the heavy blankets over my pounding temples and wish the agony to end.

      I was almost to the bed-crawling stage when I slowly meandered up the back porch steps of the wonderland that is my parent’s backyard.  There, surrounded by beheaded fountain sculptures, giant metal ants and disgruntled and overfed squirrels, I collapsed into a green rocking chair.  

      “Here, baby, let me rub your neck,” my mother cooed as she approached me.  I instantly tensed because as bad as my migraine is, I know that my mother’s talons were going to be worse.  I’m in no state to defer so I scoot to the end of my chair and wait for her to rip my shirt and back tendons to shreds.  It’s not her fault.  She grew up in the country where “massage” meant “beating the crap outta each other” so I knew my neck rub was going to get lost in translation.  As her fingernails speared the base of my neck and instantly transformed my ears into finger shish kabobs, all I could think of was the pain that had settled into the hole behind my right eye socket.  I had begrudgingly named these headaches, the ones that hung around for days and made me clumsy and more than a little stupid, “Icepick Headaches” after one of the Die Hard movies in which Bruce Willis uses an icicle to disarm (dis-eye?) a man who had wronged him.  Or tried to kill him.  Or steal his parking space.  Honestly, I’m not sure.  I paid very little attention to the plot after the whole-icicle-through-eye thing.

      Next, my sister, the possessor of skinny fingers that are pale and needle-like, takes over the therapeutic and migraine-reducing job of rubbing my back and neck.  Keeling over dead on to the granite kitchen table nook, she giggles over my lifeless body and asks in her monosyllabic speak:  “Oops! Wasthattoohard?”  Her rapid non-pausing language and fingers wriggling somewhere in my chest cavity makes my eyes cross in horror.

      “Maybe a bit,” I say as I upright myself and try to slow my rapidly beating heart. After a slight adjustment my sister is slowly kneading away the pain.  But, like many suffering from ADD, she is quickly distracted by her child, or dinner, or bellybutton.  One can never be sure. 

      “Move over,” my dad’s voice boomed through the kitchen.   My eyes widen as he snaps on a pair of white rubber gloves.  I fear the worst. 

      “What’re you-?” I start and then am filled with dread which mixed with the pain from the horrible migraine feels a bit like a cold egg being dropped on one’s unsuspecting head.

      “I’m going to put some Ben Gay on your neck.  It’ll make it feel better.”

      It’s not in me to fight.  “Okay,” I agree.  At first, the warmth is soothing.  I feel my skin heating up and my muscles start to unknot.  The gyrating pain in my brain is momentarily silenced. 

      “ARGH!”  I scream.  Dad, my father figure and caretaker of my well-being smiles at me from the sink.  “ARGH!  WHAT THE -?!  I’M ON FIRE!”  My sister laughs heartily and I can hear mom cackling from the couch in the other room as her youngest is engulfed in Ben Gay flames.   All involved apparently find the chubby pained girl hilarious when her head is on fire.  “What is in this stuff?!  And – I SMELL LIKE VOMIT! I SMELL LIKE WINTERGREEN!”  My elder sibling folds an arm over the front of her brown wrap dress and doubles over laughing as I continue to scream about the fact that I now smell like the sawdust that they used at Barboursville Elementary to clean up regurgitation spills in the hallways.  

      “Why did you do that to me?” I yelled at my daddy dearest.  “Why in the world did you think that would help?”

      “How’s your head?” he asked.  I stopped my tirade about burning flesh and vomit long enough to think.

      “Better,” I said sheepishly.  I guess it just goes to prove that sometimes, on rare occasions and when watching Final Jeopardy, that fathers occasionally do know best.  Or else they just like to torture their daughters with foul-smelling cream that lasts through two showers.  Either way, my head feels much better and I will go on to live through another (albeit slightly minty-smelling) day. 


Thursday, August 16, 2007

Supposedly i can blog from my cell. Hmm... And not wreck? ;) -- ================================================================== This mobile text message is brought to you by AT&T

Wednesday, August 15, 2007

MOAN and Groan

Curiosity got the best of me tonight.  I settled before the television, pizza box on my legs and a cold coke in my hand.  I clicked "play."

Christina Ricci's chained body popped on the screen followed immediately by a naked version of herself. 

Hmm. I thought to myself as I tucked into my oh-so-healthy dinner (that thankfully smelled nothing like cat laxative).  Perhaps I should've waited to watch this psuedo adult film with Harry?   I'm sure he would've  ( a flash of breast ) , yes he would've liked this flim.

Justin Timberlake's butt cheek made an appearance in the lower right hand corner of my screen. 

Scratch that.  This movie is all for me!   

I didn't expect to actually like the movie.  I thought it would end up being one of those flicks that were watched out of "you-MUST-see-this-movie-laden-peer-pressure." But it was funny and endearing and, yes, weird.  

AND with that being said, I'll move on to the good news.  I don't have TB!  Yup.  My test came back negative!  

We were tested on Monday.  I walked back into the conference room and about tripped over my own feet when I noticed the large box of syringes lying on the folding table in the front. 

Crap, I thought.  And said.  Loudly.  And less PG-like.

But I needn't have worried.  First I had to watch an entire video on Blood-borne infections.  Over and over the screen displayed syringes, rubber band cord thingys and "bodily fluid" cleanups.  After the fourth blood splatter I was seriously rethinking my lunch - pizza.  And it was rethinking staying in my stomach.  Resisting the urge to purge, I hopped in line bravely, wishing to get pricked and get it over with. 

Grabbing on to the tiny woman's arm with a vice-like grip worthy of any GI Joe toy from the early 80's I figured I'd just take her with me as I hit the grimy linoleum floor. 

And it was over.

I survived.

And, I have the test results to prove it. :)

Tuesday, August 14, 2007

And THEN....

After much hemming and hawing I decided to embark again on full-time gainful employment and started my new job as an Employment Specialist at a non-profit group here in Huntington.  It's a nice place but I have to undergo TONS of training.  Today's lesson began like this:

"Here's how you turn on your computer!"

Ugh.  Choke me with a mouse cord.  If you can figure out what that is (if not - come join me for tomorrow's training:  "How to catch your Mouse.")

First thing on the "DO NOT DO" list was "DO NOT DOWNLOAD AOL."  See,  AOL? Even the smalltown places are on to you!  So that means that I will not be blogging during work hours.  Drats.  I hate that - I mean - c'mon - what am I supposed to do - work?  Uck. Perish the thought!   :)

I came home today from work and made a skillet of frozen stir fry. I added oil, tweaked the pan up to "high" and sat back to watch it sizzle.  Opening the packet of sauce that accompanied it, I blanched as the aroma filled my nostrils. 

It reminded me of -  something.    I took a larger sniff, careful not to drip the brownish goop on to my new white tee.  What is that?  Beef base?  Soy sauce?   With a sudden realization I jerked and almost dropped the plastic implant looking package on to my Coach Valeri shoes. 

"Holy crap! It smells like Catlax!"  Yes.  The sauce that was destined to cover my stirred and fried veggies smelled identical to the goo that I spread on to Phoebe's shaved paws to ensure that hairballs fly out the bottom end instead of the top. 

With that lovely mental image fresh in my frontal lobe I doused the veggies and pretended, hard, to enjoy the aroma. 

I ate one piece of broccoli.  Chewed.  And spit it out.

Sighing, I got up, tossed my plate in the sink along with the rest of the CatLax Stir Fry in as well.  Getting out a can of tuna, I poured it into a bowl, licked my fingers clean and took it into Phoebe who is still not feeling well and was fed dinner in bed.

"Figures," I said to her as she stuttered and purred and struggled to her little shaved feet.  "My cat eat betters than I do."  She coughed at me in agreement. 

In her defense, even as emaciated and shaggy as she is - she's still cuter than me! 

Tomorrow's training:  Pharmacology 101.  "This is a pill."

Saturday, August 11, 2007


Ten minutes into the much-awaited sequel in the "Bourne" series and I still have no clue what's going on. It's not that I'm unable to follow the plot or even that I'm having trouble concentrating due to Matt Damon's cuteness over-stimulating my senses, nope, I'm having difficulty focusing on the large movie screen because some ARSEHAT HAS LEFT IN HIS STUPID BLUETOOTH EAR PIECE!  Every three seconds I see this blue light flash in the corner of my eye. 

I try to ignore him.  Try to position my feet so that his flashing ear is no longer in my sight and all the while I'm seething at his rudeness.  Then I feel bad.  Perhaps he doesn't realize it's on?  Perhaps he flopped into his seat with such excitement that the bluetooth ear bud is quickly forgotten.

Then I watch as he lovingly strokes and readjusts his flashing-in-my-face bluetooth.

I look at Harry who is staring at the back of the man's head in such a rage that I worry my hubby is two seconds away from making the rude man an impromptu popcorn bag hat. 

Harry lunges over me and taps the man on the shoulder.  I can't hear what they are saying but the man looks affronted as he sighs heavily, shakes his head and slides the button on the side of the device to the off position. 

"Thank you so much," I whisper loudly to Harry.  "That was driving me nuts!" 

Just once, I'd like to go to a movie theater and not be surrounded by idiots, weirdos, stinkys and psychos!  Hmm - is this why people illeagally download movies off the internet?  :)

Boo. I'm (not) Death.

I love Christopher Moore.   I am officially addicted to his books and after having finished "Lamb" I am more convinced than ever that he is either insanely creative or creatively insane - either works for me, really.  

So, according to this quiz, I am most like "Lily" from C.M.'s book "A Dirty Job."  I knew my days of wearing thick eyeliner were not wasted! :)

What character from "A Dirty Job" are you?


The Goth Girl. Nothing totaly cool happens to you, ever! You envy Asher's position of Death. you can be a real bitch, and you aren't afraid to admit it. but still have a small ray of affection shining through.

Click Here to Take This Quiz
Brought to you by quizzes and personality tests.
(oohh - "totally" is spelled wrong.   Oh well.  I still like it!)

Friday, August 10, 2007

10 Things...

Following in the bloggy shoes of Dawn and Cindy, I shall tell you Ten Things I Have Done Today:

1.  Woke up and put on too much eyeliner, a black striped tee and jeans and headed out the door. 

2.  Met Stacey for a healthy breakfast of French Toast with butter, biscuits with butter and some butter with more butter.  We discussed everything from the scary fact that she's an Engineer and I'm, well, I'm just evil.

3.  Perused the shelves of the local bookstore before picking out three selections of fiction and one much-anticipated copy of "Buffy" the comic book, Number 5. 

4.  Stopped for gas where I simultaneously melted and fought with my swirling mass of hair (like Drew Barrymore in "Firestarter" but without the balls of fire) while trying to get the nozzle into the gas tank.  At one point I felt like a very confused and very dangerous version of Cousin It. 

5.  Stopped by Gamestop to put $50 down on the new XBox 360 Halo edition coming out in September.  The things we do for love.  And free foot rubs.

6.  Met Harry for lunch where I realized the my patience for food service workers is only rivaled by my patience for the automatic car wash (TWO rinses?  Is that REALLY neccessary?)  Harry called XM again to try to set my radio again - I wasn't getting half the stations and I was really missing my boys Opie and Anthony on 202.  They're crude, they're rude, but I can't help but love'em!

7.  Watched an episode of "Firefly." Mmmm.  Nathan Fillion.  

8.  Called my aunt.  Worried that she may be more than a little suicidal in these days following the "Wedding Brawl of 2007."  There was no answer.  Left a hopeful message.

9.  Typed up this blog.  Realized I am a very boring person who has done very little with her morning/early afternoon.  

10.  To be Announced.

I do have some fun stuff planned for this evening.  Harry and I may be meeting some friends for dinner and a movie (Bourne!) and tomorrow I am heading to a baby shower, a baby's party and, on Sunday, Gillian wants to see the "big monkey" at Billy Bob's Pizza. 

Wednesday, August 8, 2007

High Expectations thwarted by Naptime

I had the whole day to myself on this fine Wednesday.  I got up relatively early, rolled out of bed, showered, picked out a cute outfit (tie-dye tee that I knew my best bud, Tiff, would LOVE and jeans) and headed down the road to meet Harry for lunch.  An hour later I'm heading home singing along with the "Josie and the Pussycats" soundtrack (WHAT?!  It's peppy and fun and I, for one, LOVE it!).  Arriving home I take one look at my still ailing kitty staring at me and purring in stuttered bursts from the bedspread and I'm hooked.  Soon after we're snoring away and my day of productivity is halted as trash is forgotten and tasks of cleaning are pushed to the wayside.  

As if on cue, or like she knows I'm writing about her, Phoebe walks over to my laptop, steps on my hands and looks at me imploringly.  So, I guess we're taking another nap!  

Happy Hump Day from the Napping Duo!

(Yup - her arm is still shaved.  They both are, actually - and not growing back!  Do they  have Rogaine for Kitties?)

Monday, August 6, 2007

Going to the Chapel and I'm Gonna Get Beaten...

This past weekend Harry and I ventured to Columbus to attend my cousin's wedding.  I would've rather stayed home.  Or stayed on a deserted island.  Or an island crawling with lobster and lepers (both of which I find creepy).   Plates were tossed, dancers accosted, underwear revealed, and lunch regurgitated with gusto.  It was a night to remember.  Or try really hard to forget.   I won't post pictures of the "happy couple" but here are some from the rehearsal and reception that cracked me up!


(Holly and Harry snuggle while the Pope plate looks on disapprovingly)


(Summer and Brian mug for the camera at the Rehearsal Dinner-O-Death)


(Nan-nan, my grandmother, makes her presence known in this shot that made Summer laugh so hard that her mascara ran down her face in thick black streams!)

  (Summer's joyful expression sums up the culmination of a betrothement that almost ended in bloodshed, many, many, MANY times!)





Thursday, August 2, 2007

Can I Get a Funnel With That?

I sat in my car and nervously picked at the pages of my novel du jour (Wally Lamb's "She's Come Undone).  I didn't want to go into the little office with the blue writing on the glass door:  "LABCORP." 

Breathing deeply I gathered my things and pushed open the door.  I walked up to the little window and announced to the woman behind the glass:  "Hello.  My name is Holly.  I'm here to take my drug test."

Now, although past blogs may suggest differently, I am not a druggie.  Nope.  Never did care much for the stuff.   So it wasn't that I was worried of failing.  No, I worried more about my, well, aim.  And my fears doubled when the slight blonde nurse handed me a vial that was no larger than a pill bottle.

"Are you kidding me?"  I blurted.  "Do I get a funnel with this?"   The two nurses paused and burst out laughing.  "I mean, seriously, do you really expect me to be able to hit the mark with this?" 

I was handed a larger beaker.  "Here," she said, beaming at me in her pink polka dot scrubs, "try this one."  

Why can't the medical profession, with all its wonders in technology and advancements in medicine, make something that makes peeing in a cup easier?