Painting Pinky Pies

Yesterday I pulled on a pair of sparkly yoga pants, a purple t-shirt stained with various meals of days gone by and headed over to my parents' house in good ol' B'ville.  It's the house I grew up in and it holds many fond memories of my youth - like learning to strip off layers of wallpaper; painting a room with no central air; the joys of fabric-wrapped wiring; and, my favorite, how to paint a wood floor and NOT end up trapped in a far corner. 

Saturday was no exception as I arrived to find that neither mom nor Summer in their planning wisdom decided to gather the painting supplies--- or the paint.   To make matters more complicated they had moved the under-the-bed dresser into the hall so that it blocked the doorway to the room in which we were to be working.   The window air conditioner unit would only work on fan-mode unless you had the remote, which was in another room, in a box - somewhere - so we made do with a moderate breeze.   A ladder was propped in the doorway as well and since it did belong to my father, asleep in the next room after his midnight shift, I knew I was in for a treat as I slid it down the side of the wall and then stopped and pushed the metal shelf off of my head, slid it some more, stopped and removed the shelf from my head again, until finally, after three tries it was in the floor of the other room. 

"I swear I'm gonna come to your house at 3am and move ladders..."  Dad said from his face-down cocoon in the bed.  

Mom, Summer and I just giggled and went back to the other room.   Mom had found a color in the reject bin at Walmart which can only be described as Dusty Rose Day Glo Puce-y Pink.  

An hour later and Sis and I were sitting in the floor, dropcloths all around, painting Gillian's hand-me-down furniture a shocking shade of pink.  I've just about finished the footboard I was working on when Summer stopped me. 

"WellHOLLY!" she said.  "Ithoughtyoucouldpaint!  Lookatthat!"  And she took her brush and swiped over the various drips and leaks I'd made with my .99 cent foamie brush.  

"I can paint!" I defended and started smacking the brush around the piece of furniture.

"Andlookatthis!"  she pointed out another globby mess that I'd apparently done. 

"Gillian did it?" I said questioningly. 

"Holly!"

"Breaktime!" I said and ran downstairs to have my arthritic mother make me a sandwich.  

Summer was still shaking her head at me when Mom happened to mention that she was still feeling good from the other day. 

"What happened?"  I asked. 

"Your father tried to kill me," she said. 

"Oh," I asked nonplussed. "How this time?"

"He couldn't tell which medicine was my Glucophage so instead he just gave me a Tylenol 3 plus Codeine along with my 600 Ibuprofen.   I couldn't figure out why I felt so good but soooo tired!"

  

After painting a bookshelf (badly) a foot board (two coats - badly) and the dresser (not-so-badly) I decided to head back to see if Harry was thoroughly freaked out about his test on Monday. I try to help him but I don't even remotely understand the information to even know if he's telling me the correct answer.  I usually just have to turn the note card around and say, "Is this what you just said - if so - it's right!!!"    

"Come give me kisses! I'm leaving!" I yelled to my niece who was sitting on the bathroom sink in her panties. 

"But - AUNT Holly - I don't want you to go!"  She wrapped her skinny arms and legs around me and laid her tiny head on my chest, snuggling in to my cleavage.   

So - I stayed.   And was rewarded with her snuggling next to me while we watched "The World's Biggest Tea Party! LIVE!", a My Little Pony Special, and endured twenty minutes of Gillian Raspberries and spittle before I finally left my parents'  home - soggy, flocked in pink paint, and with the knowledge that Dad may be trying to kill Mom and that I am not a good painter. 

The latter of which disturbs me more...

Harry's taking his test tomorrow - send happy  "Get a 94%" vibes our way - k?   

THANKS!

Not-so-Hidden Talents and Letting them Eat Cake

I've, somehow, become the go-to-gal for quick and effortless (on their part) speeches, wedding toasts, love poems, resumes, cover letters, letters of recommendations and delicately phrased emails of woe.  

I'm not sure where one develops the talent to lament on the merits of an 18 year old they've never met but who is SURELY deserving of that scholarship (mom-ordered), or to talk about the miracles of childbirth, the lactation process and weening (sister-ordered), or even to write the loving speech of a father to his only/favorite daughter (mom-ordered - again), but that's where I am.  

I don't mind doing it.  With just a few short phrases from the, uh, donor, I can make one sound like the (insert chosen emotion here) person they really are (or mean to be).   But is this a talent. And if so - can I charge?

But I digress.  We had a demo today (via "Go to My Meeting") which was the end all of boringness.   I'm sure the men who were clicking and pointing on the other end of the net were relishing in their timekeeping system and as much as I knew that this was really a good thing - that timekeeping has to be a priority - it still didn't keep my eyes from crossing nor did it keep me from wandering into my own little imagination.   I realized, at one point, that something funny was said so I laughed and snorted with the rest of my crew.  I still don't know what was so funny.  Perhaps it was me.   I will never know. 

Harry takes his "Big Freakin' Test" on Monday.   Maybe by then things will have straightened out - for the both of us.   Maybe I'll have even found a way to charge for my somewhat-meaningful prose and pad my measly W-2 by next year!  

So - wish us luck - we're gonna need it.  

Especially him as he just stole my perfectly portioned-off piece of cake, ran into the living room and held me at bay with one size 13 foot planted right across my chest.   I screamed, I cajoled, I poured out real tears but nothing would make him release my sweet prisoner from his smiling, crumb-covered lips.   He eventually gave me the battered piece of cake back.  Sat it down on the table , scooted it toward me -  and then --- went and opened my last bottle of coveted Coca-cola.  

The bastard.   

I will get even.   

He has to go to sleep sometime... and I still have icing!!!  hahahaha!  

Wait - did that sound pervy?   

Ugh.  I suck at revenge.  

Wait - did that sound pervy, too?  :)

I'm not one of these sappy people who look upon the past with a kind eye and wish for the "days when."  As soon as my chubby fingers find a photo of myself, be it five years ago or ten, I cringe and begin the critique of my then-self.  "What WAS I thinking?  Bangs?  Bangs?" or "Keep dreaming, Hollykins, but white jeans and your butt was a combo that should've never been tested."

It's worse when it comes to my writings.  I'll reread an old work of fiction, or a story I started with such glaring enthusiasm, but find I can't get past the seeming stupidity of the thing. Even though I loved the idea when it was first crafted, when I then see it by the light of day I positively obliterate it like a fat kid and cake (I have a picture of me doing that too - recently).  

So what I wonder is - are we all our own worst critics? What give us the right to destroy our own delicate egos by forcing the "no, you're just stupid" line of garbage down the throat of our creative genius?   Is this something we learn as children?  Are the famed boys raised by wolves plagued with this same level of self-editing?  Or do they learn early not to bite at the hand that feeds them?

This fear of post-editing is the singular reason for any bouts I've had with Writer's Block - both present and future.  I'm not so much afraid of what the public would think of my word-stringing - but I do fear what me, my own worst enemy, would do to it later while armed with an arsenal of Word-weapons courtesy of Microsoft. 

And, as if on cue, I just knocked over a half-full glass of Coca-Cola and covered my table, power cord, chair and floor with the sticky beverage.   I instantly berated myself for the sheer stupidity of the act and then laughed at the irony of this blog and grabbed a towel to mop up the mess.  

I used to get really upset over my clumsiness until one day, when I was about thirteen, I was in the kitchen at home and was loading up a large plate of spaghetti and meat sauce on to my paper plate (we're hillbillies - we don't like "doin' the dishes").  My dad wished to fill up a plate of cole slaw on the other counter - so - instead of turning slightly to let him pass - I lifted my plate up - and plastered it across my budding chest. 

I looked down at my brand-new white sweatshirt, now with a large red stain on it - and then looked at the sea of familial faces.  Their eyes were wide - awaiting my tantrum. 

And I burst out laughing.  

I couldn't get mad at myself - it was too funny - and stupid.  But in a good/bad way. 

I've learned, over time, to be more forgiving of my accident-prone self.  Perhaps if I treated my writing the same way, I'd learn not to beat myself up over every mistaken "it's" for "its."

Even now, I've reread this post four times and am not sure if it's "blogworthy." But since I've already sacrificed a half-bottle of coke to the cause -I'm hitting "PUBLISH POST," and pray that when I reread these words tomorrow morning, I will remember the spaghetti-sauced girl of days gone by...

Deepthroat and Mobile Porn

Yes, that's the title of my blog, and no, it's not what you think - ish. 

Harry met me for lunch today and we ordered a pizza - we ended up having an impormptu devil's three way with the pizza delivery boy until sauce got into "no-no" parts which led to a halt on the naughty action at hand as well as "fun with garlic sauce."

I do enjoy men that smell of expensive cologne and garlic... :)

Back to reality - Harry met me for lunch today since he is still studying like a madman for his upcoming "MUST-PASS-OR-ELSE" test.  After a quick meal at Wendy's he walked me to the car and opened my door, waited for my rolls to pass the threshold and then gently slammed the door shut.

"I want ice cream," I said before his jean-clad ass could even hit the suede insert on his Audi seats.   

"Okay - from where?"  I have no clue how I got to be so plentiful.

"McDonald's" I said and off we went to sit in a line for twenty-five minutes for me to get my sweet tooth on. 

"Here," Harry said, handing me the ginormous white mound of frozen dairy treat.  

I took it - and frowned.  And pouted. And thrust it back at him.  "Too much ice cream.  Eat it." I said, practically shoving it into his ever-lengthening and oddly-ruddy goatee. 

"Fine." With two big bites he had eaten the majority of the ice cream away.  Handing it back to me, he kept one eye on me and one eye on the road.  "Now what's wrong?"

I was sitting in my seat, face screwed up and staring at the still-too-big ice cream cone.  Without saying a word I thrust it back at him and crossed my arms. 

"Are you kidding me?" He put the entire ice cream cone in his mouth and pulled out a nubbin of dairy sitting atop the cone (which was really all I wanted).

"Wow," I said, wide-eyed.  "You should've been a porn star. "  

His face turned red,  he guffawed and I watched as he did a quick calculation of how much it would cost to clean cheap ice cream off the upholstery of his car versus how much pleasure he get out of killing his wife on the side of Route 60.  

"You bitch!" he swore as he managed not to spew the contents of his mouth on to the steering wheel, window, windshield...  "You called me a porn star! And a gay one at that!"

I couldn't breathe.  I was laughing hysterically and sputtering and trying NOT to drop the remainder of the cone in his car.   

We pulled up outside my work and I got out after carefully, slowly and deliberately, eating the rest of the cone.   

"You better not blog about this," Harry warned me.  "My throat still hurts!"  he said - which only made me laugh harder and run up the concrete stairs.   

Moral of the story?  If you're gonna call your husband a porn star - make sure to get it right -- or sit far enough away that he can't retaliate!  :)

Spark of Insanity - in WV

Last night Harry and I headed to the Big Sandy Arena to see Jeff 

Dunham, the comedian.  After circling the Arena we finally found a parking space in three feet of standing water in front of the Courthouse.  Whee - and stuff.   Good thing I wasn't trying to be all cute-like and stuff. 

Finally we make it to the Arena and find our seats which were in the front row of the side section. No sooner had we sat down then a family straight out of a Rob Zombie movie filled in the row behind us.  

"I am the TICKETMASTER! Didn't I do good - huh? Didn't I?" the young woman behind me yelled to the person sitting next to her and then immediately started hacking. I feared her phlegm would curl the back of my hair worse than the rain and puddles I just braved to get to my seats. 

"You did good, baby," her one-legged boyfriend sat down behind me and apparently his one good leg was not working that well either as he seemed incapable of not kicking the back of my grey plastic chair.  

For thirty minutes I endured being jostled and spittled on and somehow managed not to turn around and throw my pizza at them when they began, simultaneously, reading all the jokes from the jumbotron and making up their own punchlines.  The one-legged boyfriend began regaling his redneck future bride on stories of "when I'm a famous comedian."

Then I heard the sweetest sound ever.   

"I'm sorry - but you're in our seats," I turned slightly to see a young couple talking to Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum.  

"The tickets say 'Row Zero'," the one-legged man tried to explain to the couple trying to take his seats.  

"This is Row K."

"But my tickets say Row Zero."

"Well, I believe that that is Row O.  Not zero."

"Where's 'at at?"

"This is Row K," I could hear the man trying to explain it as simply as possible, "so Row O will be a few more rows up."

I tried not to laugh but the new couple sat down and said "Where's Row Zero?" and I just lost it.   

Here is a grainy photo of Jeff and his massive t-shirt shooting gun (it actually lit up) taken from my Iphone:

Roof Goofs

Harry and I are having a new roof put on the ol' casa - which - I know sounds absolutely thrilling but I can assure you  - it's not.  It's freakin' expensive.  So with that you'd think certain things would be a given like "Proper roof safety will be maintained and we'll not play with the nail guns," or "Will not pretend we can fly - at any point," and "We'll not leave a ladder leaned against your house so that anyone off the busy street which you live can climb on your roof and tap dance whilst you lie in bed all a quiver."

Well - two out of three aint bad:

 

RAISE THE ROOF!  hahaha - Sorry - had to be said!

Quit Needling Me

I work in HR, for those of you who don't know.  I am in charge of the economic future of quite a few peeps and take my job very serious on the occasion when I am required to do so.  However, due to the fact that my occupation begs certain trainings to be completed I found myself being peer pressured into doing something I was uncomfortable with and feared losing street cred with my co-workers. 

I was to be TB tested. 

Now, I know some of you are rolling your eyes and snarfing into your cookie-ensconced hand but I ask you to see it from MY point of view:  THERE'S A FRICKIN' NEEDLE INVOLVED!

"It's no big deal, they just inject you with some stuff and then you turn into an insect like that Gregor guy or become the guy from the Jurassic Park movie and it's no big deal!" I can't verify that this is what was exactly said as the room started spinning after my co-worker said the word "inject."

My child-hood was a horrendous mass of lab coats and needles so my fear of being poked is deep-rooted and very much real.  However, this means little to the nurse in my building. Nor did it mean much to her friend who was sitting, cross-legged - with one leg - in the chair in front of her desk.  

"I don't like needles," I said as I pulled up a chair.   "I don't like needles." I repeated as she smiled and waved the thing in front of me like it was a baton with streamers. 

"That's nothing!" The man in the chair spoke up as he watched her unwrap the instruments of torture. "I've had more needles in me than you can imagine!"  He leaned back in his chair and put a hand on his metal leg for emphasis. 

"I. AM. SQUEAMISH!" I repeated, loudly. I picked up a paper and fanned myself as I felt a pinch on the inside of my arm.  "SQUEAMISH!"  He cackled and my co-worker appeared in the doorway looking quite the anxious little one. 

"Do I need to carry you back to the office?" She asked - half-kidding. 

"No," I said, sniffing and holding my alcohol pad on my arm.  "I'll be fine..."

So far my little dot is red, bruised-looking and kinda bubbly. 

I think I may have the TB!

hee hee Just kidding!  I'm fine and dandy! Really!  No more tests need to be performed on me today. Fine!  I'M FINE!!!  :)

How to Lie - Badly

Actual conversation between my parents- as told to me by my sister, Summer:

Mominator:  "Hey - you were gone a long time last night. Where'd you go?"

Dadfus: "Well, I went to see Steve in the hospital-"

M: "It doesn't take no two hours to go to the hospital and back! Where else did you go?" (Sidenote - mom gets allllll kinds of Redneck when she is mad.  Her roots start sproutin' like a weed in a cornfield)

D:  "I went TO THE HOSPITAL!  I talked to Rocky and Steve and - I WAS AT THE HOSPITAL!"

M: "You were gone for TWO HOURS!"

D: "WHERE would I go? I don't go anywhere! I have no money - I go nowhere!  WHERE WOULD I GO???"  

With that he heaved himself up and went out on the back porch. A few slamming doors and twenty minutes later and Dad walks back into the living room.

Dadfus: "So when I was at Walmart last night-" he slapped his hands over his mouth.  In the timeframe it took him to walk outside, close the doors to his outbuilding and come back in he forgot he was in the middle of a fight.

I wish I'd had been there to see it.   I love my dad - I do - but his attention span and short term memory rival that of the goldfish he sentences to a cold fate in his pond. 

:)