Error? ERROR?!

I turned on my Mac and opened up a page.   I clicked on Itunes - and - nothing.   Click.  Click.  Clickety-clickety-clickety!  I'm not sure why I thought that by clicking more on the icon and clicking harder on it would magically make it work - it didn't. And no matter how many times I "force quit" the damn thing just kept mocking me with its slience and that stupid little light on under the Icon.    

So I decided to give up on the fried apple and move on to my camera. Wanting to capture some more Blenko Glass pieces to send in for a local glass blogger I picked up my camera and turned it on and furrowed my brows as it beeped, flashed green and turned off.  I hit the power button again. The lens opened and the light flashed and it turned off.  So I jammed the button repeatedly until now, even after I've taken the batteries out and replaced them - it's stuck in a dead and opened position.  

Sucking a breath and trying to calm down I seek solace in the Wii Fit.  I kicked off my gold ballet flats and grabbed the pink Wiimote.  Settling in on the balance board I pushed "on" on the tv remote and stared.

"You've got to be kidding me," I said to no one as an Error message from Nintendo filled the screen. 

So, based on my luck with electronics tonight I'm betting you guys have two point three seconds to read this before my laptop goes dead and I'm found four days later, in bed, still pounding on the Control-Alt-Delete buttons.  

 

Watch Me, Watch You

Harry took off his watch and ring to go work on his car or in the yard - or something - I'm not really sure as I was busy pretending to listen to what he said.
"Here," he said.  "Take these and don't," he slowed his voice down and made me look into his eyes like a Ritilin-deprived eight year old, "lose them."
I'm sitting at a desk checkin' my email and looking up freelancing jobs (tee hee - someone is looking for an Adult Movie Reviewer - wtf??? What would be the complaint "Debbie does Dallas XXXIV" just didn't seem to have the climax that the prequels had..." ahhaahah).  

But then my watch started rubbing the keyboard (pet peeve) and my rings started twisting  on my finger so I tossed them next to Harry's.  

Then they snuggled:
                    I just liked the look of it - his big ol' watch and my teeny one.  
So cute.
Or maybe I'm really tired tonight.
Take your pick.

Have a great three-day-weekend ya'all!  

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Wii Skii!!!

I'm watching Harry Wii Skii on the new Wii Fit that I just had to have - but won't get on. After listening to the damn thing chirp out Harry's weight and BMI I think it's best something I climb on when alone.  And with all the lights off.  And the curtains drawn.  

So far - he loves it.  He's screamed "SHENANNIGANS!" at least four different times while on the soccer game and is now perfecting the art of virtual skiing while balancing on a tiny pseudo scale with his Size 13 feet.   With his sock-clad toes curling over the edge and his brow furrowed in concentration as his mini mii, Harwii, hurtles down the slopes all I can think of is, "We've been married for almost five years now - and I still think he's hilarious!"

And - I took a picture: 

             ahahahhaha!

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All's Quiet on the Blogging Front

It seems like a lot of people are taking breaks from their blogs as of late, myself included.  It's not exactly an easy thing to do.  I can easily spend hours perusing the blogs of my net-buds and then - forget what I got on the computer to do in the first place.  Bills go unpaid.  Word count is unmet.   Harry Potter sites unvisited.  
It's a tragedy, for sure.
In my case, I feel an immense state of guilt when I haven't blogged in awhile.  But since I rarely see anyone any more - I have less fodder for writable stuff.

And by the time the weekend rolls away and Monday crushes the memories of the fun times we had, I can not seem to recall a single hilarity that needs to be recorded for the world wide of the web. 

The only thing that I can really remember from the past weekend was some things that this semi-PG rated blog cannot retell and the instance of the Cardinal that tried to play chicken with us - until things went foul and he ended up in stuck in the grill of our Caddy.   Which, of course, traumatized me and my loving 8-ball-sock wearing hubby for a good ten minutes before we busted out laughing.
You see, it's not the first time a bird has tried to get at me.
Birds hate me.
My head must look like a shiny, brand new car the way they try to poop on me.

Anyway - tangent much?

So - anyone else suffer from a bit of "Blogger's Remorse"? 
And anyone else share a laugh with their sibling, mother, father, friend or significant other to be ended with an abrupt "don't put this on your blog!"?

Take this:
"You're really not catching on today, are you?"  he smiled at me in that special way that makes me realize that he's seen through my guise of watching tv and nodding in his direction occasionally - pretending that his explanation of air filters, the subprime or the state of the Republican party is completely engrossing that no rebuttal from yours truly is necessary.
"Huh?  What?"  I said as a I conspicuously wiped the drool from the corner of my dry lips.
"Oh, you're so cute." He got up and put his red-bearded face inches from mine and cocked his head to the side.  He put his hands on his thighs and looked at me, smiling. "You're like one of those peanuts you get at the Roadhouse. You know? The ones where one nut is perfect and the other half is all squished and gone?"
I squinted at him and furrowed my brows, "So... I'm a retarded peanut?  I'm a half-finished peanut? That's SO not a pet name!"
"Yes.  That's your new pet name.  Peanut."
And as much as I try - he won't drop it.
So now, when he calls me his little peanut I know what he really means - that I'm a bad nut.  
"And don't put that on your blog... Peanut!"
                            

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Go Ahead, Kill Dumbledore... Just don't stop singing!

So - I'm a sucker for a cutie with a guitar.
Add the Dr. Jekkyl/ Mr. Hide of Draco Malfoy and I'm sold.
Tom Felton, the guy who plays Draco in the movies is apparently a budding musical man with a cd on the way!
He's got three videos up on YouTube - very grainy and sandy - but still - it's raw - but very enjoyable!

Swans - Art Crossing?

Who would've thought that a guy this cute:

Could be THIS talented?

Yes, that's the very same "Garret Booth" from the long-loved, short-lived "Swans Crossing" semi-soap!   Turns out not all child actors become drug-addicts or vampire slayers! Some just move to Texas and learn to become pretty darn good painters!
No, really - go check out Shane McDermott's artwork and be amazed! 

Have a happy weekend, ya'all! 

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Granny Roasting, Hillibilly Style

I'm in a blah mood. 
I get up, go to work, come home and - blah.
All of it.
Is this what they call a "rut" and who are "they" and why are they naming the blahness that is my life.  
The one shining beacon of light is the fact that my grandmother's birthday is coming up this weekend.  
We're having a little party for her...
"We're going to roast me at the party.  Call everyone and tell them to write stuff down so that we can roast me.  But it's your idea, ya'hear!"  my granny told me over the phone last Saturday.

This is the VERY rough draft of what I've come up with so far:


When Nan-nan called me up on Tuesday night and said “hey – tell everyone that you want to ‘Roast’ me on Saturday – but it’s your idea ya’hear!” I had no choice but to gather the troops and demand a heckling of my grandmother to beat all hecklings.   Although to call anything related to Nan-nan a “roasting” is a bit of an oxymoron as we all know that it’s more of deep frying.  With butter flavored Crisco.
So, Nanners, this Transfat is for you:
Memories:
1.    At an age when everything I touched and saw went in my mouth my grandmother’s go-to toy was a large coffee can of pennies.  And it worked.   I never choked on them – but I did get really good at stacking them and spinning them for hours on end while Nan-nan talked on the phone about lots of people named “That-there.”
2.    When the pennies became boring (or lodged in an orifice) then we would resort to Plan B.   My dark-haired and blue-eyed granny would hand me an ancient fork, a large marshmallow and prop me up on a stool before the cook stove.  With a flick of her wrist and a toss of her hand I was left alone to roast marshmallows until they were charred and on fire.   Or until Papaw intervened. 
3.    My meals at Casa de Porter always consisted of four things:  Lettuce, Tomato, Papaw’s cheese and a pan of rice krispie treats eaten right out of the nuclear hot iron skillet. This meal was served breakfast, lunch and dinner.
4.    My fondest memory is one where I am standing at the sliding glass door and I can see my grandmother, all 85 pounds of her, in the garden.   She is viciously hacking away at the ground with a large garden tool.   Later I found out that she was killing a snake that dared to slither too close to Birdhouse #507. 

And
Who can forget when Nan-nan convinced me that her age and wisdom coupled with my learner’s permit did a whole driver’s license make?
Who knew, too, that Marge, while living in Branchland could learn the secrets that took Houdini years to master? Upon moments of landing in a shopping mall she will instantly disappear and will only reappear when the lights flicker to signal end of day.



I thank you for my love of good bluegrass music, my fear of churches in which talking is allowed during the service, my need for having gum in social situations, my keen ability to be able to tell exactly when a vegetable is no longer edible (when it is 95% brown- not a second before).
I thank you for my love of bad television, my exposure to Nick at Night at 2am, my sudden realization that life, or at least birthdays, should stop at 25, your recipe for fried chicken (tub of butter Crisco and pancake flour), for showing me how to make everything better (or at least gaudier) by adding sparkles, sequins and/or rhinestones, for showing me that if something stands still long enough it does, in fact, deserve to be painted, that a gourd is that much better if painted in Patriotic colors, and that a giant Angel painted on the side of a tiny house is not only perfect but preferred by one out of two doctors that have been committed.

I thank you for my ability to pick up on people who are lying, food that “H’aint no good”, and for pages upon pages of blog-worthy material from your antics alone.

And now, on your 25th birthday we gather today to celebrate you and your quirks.  All 4, 804 of them.  

I love you, Nan-nan, not because I have to, but because I’m scared of your heavenly connections.  I wouldn’t put it past you to black ball me at the pearly gates by telling the saint about the time I drew pictures of talking kittens in the ancient family bible.   

I’m pretty sure you erased me from the looping family tree by the time I was three.

But still – have a good birthday and make sure you tell all your friends over Sunday prayer that your party, well, “it waddn’t no good!”

                     

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