Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Becoming a psychic on my sixteenth birthday was horrible. Trying to get my driver’s license while listening to the instructor’s thoughts about my ass, well, that was worse. My grandmother, clad in head to toe Jones wear, sat me down on a stretch of white couch and broke the news about my heritage.
“You’re a pshychic. Or, you will be, in about three days,” she said, sitting back and crossing her long legs.
“Is this when you tell me I’m descended from a long line of witches and we have to dance around in the moonlight all naked and stuff?” I was being flippant, but who could blame me? My normally sane grandmother had just told me I was a psychic. I steeled myself to learn more. And to face the fact that Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny may be real.
“No, don’t be stupid,” my grandmother Charlie said with a note of disdain for me which wasn’t all that unusual. Grandma Charlie had always been harder on me than the other grandkids. Now I knew why.
“You were the second-born female born to the second born female of me, therefore, you are the ‘Chosen One,’ per se.”
“Wait, wouldn’t a first-born make more sense? As far as a heritage line goes? Like with royalty?” I asked, popping off my clogs and tucking my pale legs under me on the couch.
“No, well, maybe.” My grandmother sighed and then cast me a disapproving look for putting my feet on the couch. I had bigger things to worry about than dirt on her stupid furniture.
“Like I was saying,” she continued. “On your sixteenth birthday you will be given the power of psychic thought. You will be able to hear what people are thinking, see what will happen and feel the presence of those wrongly forced from this earth.” Grandma Charlie stared intently down her straight nose and I felt her pale blue eyes bore into my matching ones. She seemed to be trying to impart on me the importance of this great revelation.
“So,” I said, squinting my eyes at her and tilting my head to the left, letting my unruly and thick brown hair slide over my shoulder, “no car, then?”
I sat awake on my bed at 11:59 PM and steeled myself for the coming change. I didn’t question my grandmother too much when she announced my impending change. I had always known I was different.
Not exactly my best work but I still think it was pretty funny.
My next tragic installment of "The Fiction that Never Was" was inspired by a conversation told to me by a friend. Apparently her boyfriend's friend was convinced he was being stalked by the Irish Mafia. I found it a hilarious opening and had to relate it to online dating to try to appeal to the world of "smut' as Harry calls it:
“Do you really think that the Irish Mafia is after you?”
“Yes. I’m sure of it.”
“Wait. Is there even an Irish Mafia?”
“Yes. There are all sorts of Mafias.”
“Mafias? Mafis? Huh. I thought there was just one.”
“No. There are many Mafias. Irish, Asian, Italian-”
“So there are just as many Mafias as there are communities? One for each one?”
“Yes. I’m sure West Virginia even has a Mafia.”
“What about the Amish?”
“Are you kidding me? They have everything to be disgruntled about. No ‘Wii’, man! They don’t even have ‘Wiis’!”
“Yeah. So the Irish mafia, huh?”
“That’s what you say to a guy being stalked by the Irish Mafia? ‘That sucks’?”
“What should I say? ‘Sorry little green men wielding pots of fake gold are after you? Better watch out or they’ll shoot their lucky charms into your bloody chest!’”
And that’s how my last boyfriend broke up with me. Gathered up his Wii remotes, stopped in the peeling paint doorway to shoot me a look of pure disbelief and then walked out, leaving me sitting in the floor wondering two things. The first of which was “What just happened?” and the second being “Is Walmart open? Can I get a new Wii there?”
Thus ended my dating career in what many would call its premature stages. I was twenty-four, a Senior at University and awaiting graduation in a highly rewarding field: Communications. Of which I, apparently, lacked. Rusty never called me again. I never saw him again. For all I know he was killed in an alley the next night. A victim of the Irish Mafia and their Kiss of the Irish of Death.
I went on a few dates in the year that followed the mafia conversation. But after the third guy showed up with his walker in tow I stuck to the internet and meeting men who were hopefully not married. It took me awhile to get the hang of dating on the internet. I had to weed out quite a few individuals who were interested only in my cup size and could care less if I watched CNN.
Until I met WV4VW.
We were both part of an online book club that met online once a month to discuss the latest best-seller. He liked Christopher Moore. I liked Christopher Moore. He liked tomatoes. I liked tomatoes. He loved winter, my name is Noel. Perfect. At least that’s what I’m telling myself as I raise my hand to knock on his door.
And that’s why you’re ready to have crazy wild monkey sex with a perfect stranger who is probably not a crazy psychopath unless he is and then, well, at least your death will be featured on America’s Most Wanted or a Lifetime Movie of the Week entitled: WWW.deathbydating.com.
The door swung open.
I really should’ve asked for a picture.
Or a background check.
“Come on in! You must be Noel!” the short man said from my kneecaps. No, really, he was probably perfectly average but me, the freakazoid, was a good 5’10” in flats. Which I wasn’t wearing. He was adorable, though. He held out an arm and directed me to a leather couch (groan! Why do all men have leather couches? Grrr!) and took my sensible light weight coat and put it on the back of a ratty recliner.
Brad looked at me. I stared at him and tried to manage a convincing smile. More for him, than for me, I thought as I studied his perfect teeth, perfect blonde spiky hair and perfected fitted tee that showed off his perfect tiny swimmer’s physique.
“Brad!” Brad bellowed. “Noel’s here!” Brad shrugged at me as he plastered a “whattaya gonna do?” grin on his face.
I was gonna run, that’s what I was gonna do.
I stood up and started to rush the door but instead collided with a very large, very masculine chest.
“I’m Brad,” said the chest.
And finally, here is my third installment of Fiction Crap du Jour by - me.
Most chick lits and romance novels I read today start out with a woman who has issues and quirks and imperfections looking for love and finding jerk after jerk to look for self-meaning until Mr. Right falls in her lap from right under her nose. So - I thought it would be funny to start off with someone "perfect" and destroy her self image, confidence and life and then make her find her actual self. We've all met people who were so fake they were shiny- I wondered what would happen if they suddenly had to be "real" like the rest of us...
I have the perfect life.
No, really, I do.
Let’s take my boyfriend, for example. When I first found him, perched on the edge of the school memorial fountain, faded levis and a crumbled Wrangler hat in his hand, I knew I wanted him. He was what you might call – a fixer upper. He had potential. I just had to find it. So, I fixed him right up and made him into the quintessential man (think Patrick Dempsy, post-nerd transition in “Can’t Buy Me Love” - they could be twins!). Ryan went from being addicted to smokeless tobacco to addicted to the works of Rob Thomas. The change was complete and he was mine. Is mine.
I go to the local university studying Mathematics, which, I know, is instantly thought to be an uncool thing, like being a Trekkie or a Harry Potter fan, but numbers are really fascinating to me, and, I make it work. My classes are going well this semester, my teachers all seem to connect with me and realize that I am here to just get a degree until Ryan and I get married and get done to raising our 1.5 kids. It’s the week before finals and I am lounging by the pool in an adorable green polka dot one piece while the rest of my chums are at the library, studying and pouring over books that haven’t seen the light of day – ever. I repeat, I love my life.
That’s odd. I’ve stressed to him, repeatedly, the importance of being punctual even if it’s just to a casual meeting. Not that this is something of utmost urgency – but I do want to see if he likes my new suit before it gets shipped off to senior week with me and the gals in Cancun, I think to myself and giggle. He has nothing to worry about though. My heart belongs to him and him alone.
I smooth some coconut scented lotion on to my long bronze legs. I have to admit that, besides my eyes, which are the color of new moss, they are my best feature. I don’t work out seven days a week for my health! I do it for Mr. Ryan P. Freeman the second – if he’s going to be a well known dermatologist by the time he’s twenty-five, he must have the appropriate trophy wife to match! Plus, he detests chubby girls. He’s told me so many times. I nodded to myself, readjusted my white Coach hat and glanced again at my watch lying on the table. Fifteen minutes past noon. Five more and I will have to call him on his cell. I hate cell phones – so impersonal, you know.
“Kiki?” I heard a smooth male voice come from behind me. Whirling around, I saw Ryan, standing with a rather short girl with mouse brown hair down to her thick waist. I looked her over, decided she must be a sister of a friend from med school and got up to greet them.
“Hi!” I beamed my best pageant smile at her and strode purposefully towards them. Shaking her hand I wondered how she saw over the steering wheel to drive. She couldn’t be more than five feet tall. In heels. Which she wasn’t wearing. Good lord! Were those Birkenstocks??? EW. “I’m Kiki, and you are?” She squeaked at me, dropped my hand and ducked behind Ryan. Sometimes, I have that effect on people. I don’t find it to be a bad thing.
“Kiki, this is Linda, from school, remember? I told you about her. She was my lab partner in Organic?” Not a clue. He probably mentioned her, but I wouldn’t recall it mainly because I tend to blank out when he discussed his school. The stuff he does there! I find it better to nod, smile, and practice my long division – something I shamefully do when I am in a situation I detest.
“What?” I had just missed half of what he said – but I am sure that what I did hear – I heard wrong. Something about he and Linda getting an apartment together? No – that can’t be right.
“We’re moving in together. We fell in love and thought we should tell you in person. I’m sorry, Kiki.” He moved to pat me on the shoulder. I began computing. 5 ( her height) minus 5.75 (my height) plus 6.3 (his height)… I knew my smile was straining. I could feel my cheeks hurting. I said nothing to the happy couple. Linda squeaked at me again. Her eyes bulged at me from behind enormous Walmart frames. I nodded… 1 divided by the sum of the former is equal to or less than…
They walked away then. Ryan looked back at me and tossed me a small wave. I smiled at him lamely. Two minus one equals one. That one was easy.
I hate my life.
Three weeks later I was still in bed. My pink comforter was littered with chocolate stains from the Snickers ice cream bars that I had devoured with reckless abandon. Cancun had come and went. Janice came to borrow my polka dot swimsuit since she said it would at least do some good for some of my wardrobe to see the light of day again. Luckily for me, my parents were still in the south of France, taking too many artsy pictures to worry about their only daughter and her pathetic existence.
“I was his life. I made him who he is. He was supposed to be my husband.” It had become my mantra. A not so healthy mantra, but mine, at least. I drug myself out of bed and crawled to the shower. I turned on the faucet and let the water spray me and my blue silk pajamas. I knew that insanity was closing in on me. The housekeeper had told me as much – although most of it was in Spanish – strangely I got the drift. She had taken one look at me in my chocolate cocoon and taken the week off. I threw an empty carton of ice cream at her as she left.
Oh well - I guess you have to start off writing crap and then work up to the good stuff, right?
If not - that's okay too. I got called the "nice" HR chick today.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Go to Google.
Type in "Google Gothic" and hit "I'm feeling lucky."
Type in "Ewmew Fudd" and hit "I'm feeling lucky."
Type in "Google Easter Eggs" and hit "I'm feeling lucky."
Hee hee - fun with Google is, well, FUN!
I found this on a link on YouTube - there are others - just go to www.youtube.com and search "Google Easter Eggs."
HAPPY ALMOST EASTER!!!!
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
That's how long it took me to pick up Harry's camera tonight from Best Buy. First, it was my fault for going to the wrong counter. I went to the Customer Service desk where a girl wearing a headband and a long duster sweater that made her ass look ginormous waited on me out of sheer annoyance. "You need to go to the other side," she whined while she blew her bangs out of her face which made me want to slide across the counter and slap the headband on her head properly to fix the heinous hair issue.
I instead looked at the round desk and tried to figure out which side was the "other" side.
A small man leftover from Monday's holiday hopped up and said "I can help you! Name? What do you need?"
"Oh, okay. I need my husband's camera. It's an XTI or something. With more letters and numbers in it, I'm sure!" I giggled to myself since Junior had already flown through the plastic curtain.
"Is it this one?" he asked referring to the little black bubble-wrapped device he was holding.
"Er, I don't know - is it an XTI?"
"No," he went to the backroom again and came back empty handed.
"I'll have to look it up for you," he said and ran to the computer terminal. I was getting mad at this point and felt my face flush when he started helping someone else. But I was there to pick up the damn camera not to make friends with little fleshy Leprechaun-types.
Ten minutes later he looks at me and I give him my best "I will set you testicles aflame with just my look" look (ask Harry - he's seen it) as he then pages a manager.
Within five minutes a blond guy my age appears and starts to look all over for the camera - grilling me on the voicemail that Harry got that assured him his precious camera had been returned with a fixed flash.
"I didn't hear it - my husband is in D.C. so I'm here to pick it up - his camera. We have a wedding this weekend. I really need it," I said. I was hoping to guilt him into just giving me a new one. Hey - weirder things have happened.
Five minutes of me sitting on a tiny plastic chair had passed when Manager Boy stepped from behind the curtain holding a bubble-wrapped camera.
"Hey - she said that one wasn't hers!"The Leprechaun protested.
"How'm I supposed to know?" I was beyond offended! Dude was calling me out because I didn't recognize my HUSBAND'S camera from ten feet away while it was wrapped in bubble wrap???
"I told you it was a Canon XTI-"I started but little dude was having none of it. He stopped helping his new customer (a theme?) to point out to his new manager "She said it wasn't hers. I said 'is it a Rebel?' and she said 'no'."
To quote lots of attitude-havin' women: Oh no, he didn't!
"Excuse me but I said it was a Canon XTI, I didn't know it was also called a 'Rebel.' And hey, you're on the Geek Squad aren't you supposed to know all this electronic stuff ? I'm not. I'm in HR. However, I can get you a job you're more suited for, if you find this one too hard."
The manager busted out laughing behind me as he finished ringing someone up as did all of the Leprechaun's co-workers.
Somehow, though, he didn't seem as amused.
Hey - you keep me waiting for thirty minutes to pick up something that was already mine in the first place - what do you expect - a frickin' cookie?
Whatev's Geek Squaud! Go play with your D:\\ drive!
Sunday, March 16, 2008
I decided to hook my phone up to my trusty Mac and download all the shots I've taken since getting my little pink Razr.
This is what I found:
Yes, that's right. I made blondie brownies with chocolate chips - Garfield helped.
Proof that the pot of gold really does lie within maple syrup...
Sometimes it's just impossible to find a quiet place to take a nap...
Actual billboard on one of Huntington, WV's main streets. I don't know about you but if THAT'S what the animals look like when they leave Bert's - well - he can just keep 'em!
Sometimes, you just really want to let them eat cake... A LOT of cake....
Remember Rollllland? Well - turns out he came back - as an O'Charley's roll (I really hope you guys can see the smiley face. The waitress gave me a really weird look when I told her that he must not be tossed!).
Still miss her...
The absolute last time I will EVER buy a black car... I MELTED that day!
Summer and Harry show off their amazing skills at a local Cracker Barrel. Not really sure what possessed them to stick these animals to their foreheads, nor why they insisted on wearing them around most of the store frightening old people and youngins' alike!
Harry was UBER excited about the release of the 7th Harry Potter book and the resulting three hour que to get it!!!
Silver Mercedes, my mom's cat before his blindness. Yes, he's still regal, but it's a little hard to retain one's dignity when one gets trapped under tables and chairs at frequent intervals.... Oh -and he's, like, 20 years old!!!!!
Number one rule of marriage - NEVER be the first to fall asleep....
Second rule of marriage - NEVER leave your milkshake unattended....
There were 126 other pictures stored on my iddy-bitty phone but I figure these were enough for now! Hope everyone had a wonderful weekend!
And - just so I won't disappoint Gaz: PENIS, PENIS, PENIS, VAGINA, VAGINA, VAGINA! hee hee
Bye for now!
Saturday, March 15, 2008
However, I think that whomever is in charge of uploading the advertising bits should have paid a bit more attention to which ad was being connected to which news story.
Go check it out here, and tell me if you agree...
On my screen I was greeted with happy men and guitars singing "VIVE! VIAGRA!" Hoping and praying that it was a fluke, I opened up a new window and saw a man ecstatically driving up into the driveway to surprise his wife. "Oh good," I thought, "a car commercial...." And then the voiceover stars talking about E.D. Erectile Dysfunction.
Now, I've never claimed to be a genius - but how completely inappropriate was it to have this precede a news article about a sexual assault on a child?
Okay - rant over, soapbox kicked to the side.
Never mind (climbing back on) - I'm emailing CNN!
Friday, March 14, 2008
What do two young, hip and utterly groovy young persons do on a late Friday night in Mid-march? We sit up on separate laptops and watch "Good Eats" while steadily avoiding any iota of romance.
But in my hubby's defense - he has popped up and is now standing behind me reclining my chair and nuzzling my neck. In my defense - I'm wearing REALLY ugly panties, hot pink and Hanes and may be circa 1996. Wait - I have no defense! hee hee
Just wanted to tell ya'all that my new vagina-mug shots came in and she's all shiny now so - yay! No more lumpies. Then they took away my birth control pills again due to my Exorcism-like Migraines. Not so 'yay'.
Still - happy Holly!!!
Friday, March 7, 2008
A boy in my art class was the epitome of teenage angst. He wore his hair long, was never without his black leather jacket to which he was constantly nibbling on the sleeve like some orally-fixated Jared Leto-type. He was beautiful and imperfect, like a half-finished painting. And not too bright. More like a half-finished paint by numbers, but still, I liked him as much as any ninth grader could.
A few months later we started dating and things were going well if not a little awkwardly. A girl I was mildly friends with slipped me a note in my Social Studies class: "How're things going with him?" I peeked at the pompous teacher at the front of the class as he went on and on about the effectiveness of deodorant (I'm still unsure of the relevance of that topic to Social Studies) and hastily scribbled "Yes! I think I'm in LOVE!" before passing it back to her.
Two days later we broke up. Two and a half days later found him and his new folically-challenged girlfriend making out on the wall outside my Spanish class.
Luckily I didn't have to see him much after that gut-wrenching experience.
Until my sister started dating him, that is.
I guess that's how we find out who our real friends are - PLUS - you've got to date a lot of bad guys in order to find the good one, right?
Speaking of which... Harry and I really wanted to see "The Bank Job" which came out today. Problem is we wanted to make it to the 6:50pm movie and wanted to dinner too. Our solution - Hillbilly Hotdogs and their kinda fast drive thru. We sped away with a bag full of deep fried fries, a chicken sandwich and deep fried hot dogs. Oh yeah. ROMANCE! We then parked in the movie parking garage and stuffed the food in our face trying to ration the small soda we were sharing and holding the steaming hot food in front of the air conditioner vents in order to cool them enough to stuff into our waiting mouths. I was still chewing up the last bit of spicy sauce-covered bun when we dashed from the car and ran down the stairs and out in the rain to get ice cream to smuggle into the movies. Five minutes and a purse full of illegal outside food later we were waiting in line where Harry bought me a HUGE bag of popcorn, a cherry icee.
I'm still not sure what I ended up eating tonight.
And how much of it will make a return visit before the night is over, however, I almost found out when a scary trailer appeared on the large screen. A man takes a picture of a killer on a subway train and tracks him back to his job at a meat-packing plant.
And what did they decide to call this thriller?
This horror movie du jour?
"The Midnight Meat Train."
What's worse is that it's based on a short story written by Clive Barker.
I tried to hold in my giggles as the title flashed on the screen but I kept sputtering and saying "Are they serious? The Midnight Meat Train? Really? THAT'S what they came up with? It sounds like a porno. And not even a good one!" Soon the girls in front of us were laughing too.
So that's my evening and now I'm going to bed.
Thanks for putting up with my strolls down bad memory lane.
Have a great weekend ya'all!
Thursday, March 6, 2008
I tend to stick close to home, have never met a stranger and can hold my own in nearly every type of social event that requires smokers to be on a porch or different area. I'm more likely to tell you the truth about that hip hugging pair of jeans that makes your mid-section look like a striped muffin and will let you know when it's time to get a new bra when the girls are orbiting the bellybutton - but I don't see how that warrants me as being mean. If you ask - I will tell you.
With that being said - I have to admit that I'm sensititve.
No one likes being called "mean."
No one relishes the word choice when someone whips out the ol' "judgmental" one and flings it at you like a sharpened rhetoric-shaped frisbee.
And since when did it become okay to not be polite to your family? Co-workers? Friends?
I can remember being in second grade when I first realized how truly heart-breaking it is to care about a member of the same sex. A very plain girl with too-big bangs, bucked teeth and an unhealthy repeated wardrobe of multi-colored tank tops befriended me. A few months later, on Valentine's Day I got a Superman card from my then beau: "You're SUPER!" it said in large red letters over a blue-clad flying man. My new friend rushed to me to show me her card from him "You make my heart SOAR!" it said in the same large red letters. She then giggled and ran off to share paste with my ex while I was forced to sit at my desk and pretend to draw mermaids while my young heart broke like an over-used red crayon.
Many years later found me at a party in a newly minted state of virgin-like singleness. I had just gotten out of an overly long relationship that had stunted me in more ways than one. Spotting my crush-to-end-all-crushes across the room holding on to a bottle of Miller I did what any girl would do.
Hiding in my friend's room and wishing that I could escape through the painted shut windows I hear a knock at the door. My breath escapes as The Guy walks in, sits in a rolly chair and begins talking to me like a normal person. I begin to think that being single was not only possible - but may also be fun. Just about the time that amazingly plausible idea floats across my brain a girl walks in. She's bottle-blonde and, of course, thinner than me and with boobs that would make even post-surgery Dolly Parton drool with envy. She giggles, flaunts and then, to my complete shock and horror, walks over to The Guy and pretends to give him a back rub---- by dropping one large breast on each of his shoulders. The worse part was not the peek-a-boob that The Guy was now playing with me, nope, the worse part was that this bottle-blonde with the DP boobs was a friend of mine who knew of my situation and hopeless crush on The Guy.
Tragic, to say the least.
Not too long after that I was at a friend's house and was having a wonderful time as we often do when we get together. While she flitted around the house and gabbed on the phone another friend and I fake whispered to each other when she'd come near complete with over-dramatized "wshswshswshs" and stage-like cupped hands. Somehow, in the course of "fun" it became clear that she was mad and it was my fault. Huffing on to the couch and then running around like she was way too busy to have me over, I soon left. I said nothing wrong. I did nothing wrong and yet here I was - fodder for anger. To say I was hurt would be an understatement. To say I felt stereotyped into being the token "bitch" would not be.
I do have opinions.
I will not be nice to you if you don't deserve it.
Don't snap at me and expect me to "understand" when you don't.
Don't ask of me what you wouldn't return as a favor.
Don't be ill-mannered.
I will tell you what I think.
I will continue to not enjoy social clubs yet will continue to be disappointed when not included.
I will still look at babies and wonder "what if?"
I will still have issues.
So there you have it - Holly's unfunny and completely true account of the woman's psyche as told by someone with a lumpy uterus, more periods than most novels and hormonally-charged migraines that make Linda Blair look like an amateur.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
"Sure you can. If Ben can do it - so can you!" Harry cooed from his perch.
"Well... okay... if you're sure...." And with faltering breath, I raised it to my mouth, took a deep breath and -
ROCKED OUT LIKE NOBODY'S BUSINESS!!!!
"ROCK BAND" for those of you who are not hip to the game system scene comes in a large box packaged with a fake guitar, a fake drum set and my forte - a fake microphone.
While Harry sweatily played the Simon-says-esque drum kit I concentrated on hitting notes that no woman should be able to hit.
"Today is gonna be the day... Cause you're my Wonderwalllllllllll!" I bellowed into the mike - loving the fact that I sounded like a complete idiot.
"AGAIN!" I screamed as Harry selected "Roam" by the B-52's - which I totally nailed. That's right. 100%. I am a Rock Star.
But ya'all already knew that, didn't ya?
On a different note (heh heh heh) I have to share this instance of wedded bliss with the world. As we were gathering up our laundry to carry up the stairs to the bedroom, Harry grabbed the overflowing basket and stopped at the foot of the incline. "Hey, hon - wanna play Charades?" He then grunted and groaned and dragged one leg to the second step. "Ugghhh," he said and then pulled the other leg to the step.
I stared at him realizing with complete horror that he was making fun of me and my physically challenged limbs.
"Are you making fun of my disability?" I said between chokes of laughter. I was completely appalled but couldn't help but find his lack of boundaries insanely hilarious. "Are you really making fun of the fact that my legs hurt so bad sometimes that I have difficutly walking? Are you serious?!"
"What?" he said. "What?" he repeated in a tone that said clearly showed he saw no wrong in his actions.
At this point I was blubbering and giggling so bad that I feared my eyelids would flip inside out and pop my contacts out on to the carpet so I just shoved on his behind until we were safely up the stairs.
"What?!" he kept saying.
To prove how NOT wrong it was to make fun of his wife's lofty limitations,my dear sweet husband then, in this order: pinned me by my wrists in the kitchen, put me in a headlock in the living room and then steam-rolled and mounted me in the bedroom (and not in the fun way either) until I told him I was not mad at him for making fun of a handicapped person.
So there you go, honey. As we drove around in your car tonight, over the hill and through the woods to Grandmother's house we'd go to pick up your Halo 3 action figure you turned to me and said "Well, I had to read the Herald Dispatch today because someone hasn't posted a blog since 'Matt v. Ben'!"
And here endeth the lesson: Be careful what you wish for because you just might get it....