Apples and Oranges...

Why is it that fruit is a generally accepted breakfast food, yet when one is seen chowing down on a scrumptuous veggie (let's say - a tomato the size of one's head) at 9 AM - it is generally frowned upon?

Who is out there deciding that some foods are only breakfast and some are only lunch?

Does that mean that I am forbidden to partake of the nectar of a peach if it is past 10AM?  Do I shun a blueberry if the sun is too high in the sky?

Nope - I am very unprejudiced against my choice of veggie or fruit for breakfast, lunch, or dinner - I beg all of you to follow suit and down the tyrrany that holds us, and our veggies, hostage!

(((Is it also wrong that the one time I saw the show "Veggie Tales" I was so hungry that I went to the fridge and chowed unabashedly on a piece of celery?  )))

Maybe I'm just a vegaholic.  :)

Some Like it Hot - and Some Just Can't Figure Out the Faucet

My day started off horrible.

One of those mornings where the best thing you could've done for yourself, and all those you may come in contact with, would be to stay home, under covers, and eat ice cream.

But I didn't. I ventured out of bed - that was my first mistake.

I got up to take a shower. Stumbling into the bathroom, I turned the knob and waited for it to heat up. And waited. And waited.

Huh.

So I turned on the sink faucet figuring I could "jump-start" the hot water tank or something. No such luck.

I tiptoed back into the bedroom and pleaded with my comatose hubby to go downstairs and check out the tank. Now, I know that he has about as much knowledge of home repair as Dahmer did about Vegetarian cuisine - but I was willing to try anything at this point to eventually equate even a lukewarm shower.

While he stumbled down the stairs, half asleep, I wondered if I could just go "skanky." Looking at my hair, sticking up in the back like a greasy alfalfa sprout and my pleasant "OFF with DEET" aroma from the Outdoor Theater I attended the previous evening - I knew that there was no way I was going to traipse into the office unnoticeably icky.

Harry reappeared in the doorway and went over to the shower. He twisted the knob and stuck in his hand.

"It's hot now." he said.

"What'd you do?"

"Nothing."

"Oh." Huh? Oh. Wait a sec.

I had it on cold.

Both times.

I didn't dare tell him.

I just smiled sweetly and gave him a hug. He will never have to know the doofusness that is me.

 

Then I go to work - wearing long-sleeves in 100 degree weather and melting into a puddle of me with every step across the parking lot. My lawyer friend goes with me to Subway for lunch where I seem to have trouble communicating my sandwich needs to the "artist" that is slapping two measly pieces of cheese on to my sub. I go to get my drink at the "do-it-yourself" soda fountain. Now, I hate Diet Coke - with a passion rivaled only by Red Sox fans - I hate it - but - trying to "be healthy" does not include a 12 oz Regular Coke with every meal - so I fill 'er up.

And proceed to shoot Diet Coke down my white shirt, down one pant leg and between the toes of my Payless Sandals.

Great.

I didn't like to drink the shit, much less have it nestled between my little piggies!

Since Harry has left me again for the open road and my sister, a HUGE source of material for this here blog, is also leaving me to go "home" (in quotes to anoint it as sarcasm - you get it, right?) I figure that the next week of blogs will be filled again with the challenges of an undomesticated goddess and her excessive luck with everyday chores!

Enjoy! (uh-oh - I'm starting to sound like a box of Lean Cuisine Microwavable Dinner. Know why they tell you to "enjoy"? Because, otherwise, you wouldn't! )

Okay. I'm done with this blog.

Seriously.

Go home.

Quit looking at me.

Check back tomorrow.

I'll have more.

Promise.

Maybe.

Okay, I'll try.

Just - go away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE????

hee hee - oh! I so crack myself UP!!!

Pointing Fingers

Summer  (girl in picture above - on the right - sans bunny ears) came to meet me for lunch today - and she brought her abnormally pale, long fingers along for the ride. Watching her eat shoestring fries was a little terrifying - I feared she would mistake her pinky for a deep fried potato piece.

Suddenly, with a bite of gooey cheese dribbling off the end of a fry - she looks at me - a deer in headlights. A tall blond passes our table.

"Iwenttoschoolwithher." She says in a soft one-breathed tone.

"Who - which one?" I asked while nochalantly biting into a burger the size of my head (and equally as appetizing - I might add - the burgers were sub-par, at best - not that my head is sub-par - but - um - oh - forget it - point is : the burger was too big and not very good!) and looking around the tiny burger joint decorated in faux fifties couture in search of "her."

"Youknowwhichonetheonethat'smissinghalfafinger."

"Oh. You're a sicko."

"Iknow." She went back to her burger after pausing to flip me off with one of those creepy fingers of hers.

Which was much more disturbing than someone with out a half a digit or two...

But not as disturbing as someone telling you, in graphic detail, about the size of a massive telephone pole-sized discount, bargain bin tampon and the trials and tribulations of aforementioned feminie product.

You know who you are...

 

 

 

A Stitch in Time... Will Not Do a Damn Thing...

Sewing is not for the weak-willed or faint of heart - and NO ONE BOTHERED TO FREAKIN' TELL ME THIS!!! I will freely admit that my level of patience and calmness could fit into a thimble on a good day - but even that seems massive in comparison to sweating profusely, staring at a needle and concentrating on sewing in a perfect straight line on imperfect, bumby fabric!

Needless to say, night two of the Sewing Sisters did not receive a standing ovation (although Phoebe tried - or else she was trying to eat some thread - I prefer the former rather than the latter).

We're getting better - and after sewing a few yards WITHOUT THREAD IN MY NEEDLE, breaking the bobbin twice and pricking myself with pins so much that I was starting to look like I had taken a free acupuncture session in the back of a supermarket - I tagged Summer and she sat down to sew.

Finishing off the last piece of fabric - she stuck her freakishly pale, long fingers down into the cocoon and began to turn it rightside out. She had flipped it about three inches when she held it out towards me, cocked her head to the side and said "It looks like a dog's penis when it's happy."

I stared at her as she wriggled it at me and then went back to turning it rightside out.

Yes. That's it. I was done for the night. However - I think anytime I look at the finished apron (if it ever is completed) I will think not of the hard time spent on the development of a lovely and useful piece of kitchen couture, but of "dog penis."

Thanks for that, sis.

Sew....You'd like to be a Millionaire...

Summer and I look nothing alike. She's my sister and I often wonder if she sucked the gene pool dry so that there was nothing left in there for me except the sludge that got caught in the filter. Anyway, so here she is, tall, blonde, pale like Nicole Kidman and with a nose that is non-denominational (unlike mine) and we're in Walmart (the land of plenty) looking at fabrics.

Why?

Because they're in the dollar bin, duh!

Anyway, so we're up to our elbows in cheap and sometimes tacky fabric, and I'm talking about how Mommy Dearest is/was teaching me to sew on my never-before-used sewing machine. See, it's kinda hard for Mom to trust me with the machine - she still sees me as a five-year-old with grubby jelly hands and potentially harmful reflexes that may be hell-bent on tearing up her Singer - her only real means of financial gratitude (she was also a teacher). So - every time I would reach for her scissors (the "bone-cutters" of my youth) she would sharply draw in her breath. Finally, I got so frustrated that I told her we'd finish it "later" (a point to be determined later when my patience, and my Xanex prescription, has increased).

Summer suddenly grabs a "Sew Easy" pattern off a rack and thrusts it towards me.

"Wehavetomakethisandnottellmomwecandoitallbyourselvesandnooneneedstoknowuntilit'sdone!" It was all in one breath. I stared at her, wide eyed - my synapses were firing rapidly, trying to make sense of the high speed comment that was just hurled at me at five times the speed of sound.

"Okay." I replied and jumped up and down for emphasis (not knowing that emphasis is sometimes not the thing that is emphasized when a chubby girl bounces in the middle of Walmart) and began the task of finding corresponding prints. I settled on a tame purple and green plaid with a tiny flower print accent for the pockets. Very tasteful. Summer, however, decides that only a bright pink fabric with accents of black and silver crossbones will do -oh - and a pink studded ribbon trim, too.

Two hours later we are back at my house, spread across the floor.  The pattern is in Greek. Well, not really, but it might as well've been! "Sew easy" - my ass!

We finally figure it out by combining the brain power of two excited girls and one reluctant husband and began the task of cutting, pressing and sewing our soon to be world-reknowned aprons. Our excitement is cut short when Summer gets behind the needle of the sewing machine and makes something that looks eerily like the hair spider of nightmare's passed. Oh - we forgot to lower the foot. Our second attempt is better - my turn at the wheel.

My pocket is perfect and I'm beaming like a proud fabric-loving mother. Until I break the bobbin. Crap.

Crap.

Crap.

I have NO idea how to change the bobbin.

Precious hours are wasted as we study the picture on the top of the sewing machine that is supposed to be a helpful artist's rendering of a successful bobbin winding. We curse, we throw things and we hit the fragile machine while pulling and tugging and readjusting every knob, bell and whistle on it.

Finally, I look hard at the picture - and - pick up the bobbin from underneath the foot and place it on the spindle on top of the machine - just like the drawing illustrates.

Well - shit, that was easy.

We dissolve into shrieks of laughter before toiling onward and upward in our quest to conquer the world - one apron at a time.

 

A Picture's Worth a Thousand Words...

This is my  hubby, on left, and his friends Mike and Trey. 

This was the evening I spent with them in Mike's basement - they played Halo on Xbox and tried to goad me into playing, too.  I refused.  Why?  Because they insist on naming me "Target" and always give me the "light red" armor and then proceed to blow me up, repeatedly.  Fun for them.  Not so much fun for me.   I think I may have killed one of them once.  Not coincidentally, it was Harry - and I relished that one, oh yes, relished it!

I am thinking of secretly practicing my Halo fighting skills while Harry is out of town.  I figure, I can get really good and then murder them all!  Problem is - my hand eye coordination is not as honed as theirs is.  They have spent years mastering the arts of hand coordination (giggle - had a bad thought with that one) and I have not.  I still may try though.  I've even thought of a name to replace "Target"  - "Darth Holly" - whattayathink?

Till we meet again - "Boys - Who's your daddy?!!!"  (get it?  It's like "Luke, I am your father" but modernized! hahahaah! Okay - well I thought it was funny! :) 

 

Disney Do's and Don't's

I just realized that I have devoted not a single entry to the happenings of my Third Honeymoon/Vacation to the Happiest Place on Earth!

Well, there's a reason for that - it was kinda sucky.

It was hot. Really hot. Like Wicked Witch of the West "I'm melting" kind of hot. And if that wasn't bad enough - it rained everyday, too. Not just a teeny bit of misty rain, nope, this was Monsoon-sized droplets that pelted you and instantly drenched you so that no amount of Poncho covering would do. We bought four ponchos and an umbrella, by the way - totalling just over $50 - for raingear.

I was so sick of seeing Mickey by the time the week was over and Stitch, too. And, really, all the rest of the Disney troops. And kids. And people in general. The only highlight of the trip (besides some great acquisitions of Kate Spade and Coach gear) was after a late night spent at the Magic Kingdon and a rather uncomfortable monorail ride. We were just heading back to our building at The Grand Floridian and were walking past the 24-hour pool. An EXTREMELY large man with a tatoo beside his eye (ew and ouch) walked by in his black velour robe. Behind him, piled high, was a trolley full of drinks. This large man was toting around a drink tray of Margaritas, beer, vodka and other varieties of alcohol. It was the most hilarious and unique sight we saw while in Orlando. His little girl - clad in a pink Disney princess bathing suit that stretched across her round roly-poly belly was playing in a puddle at the end of the sidewalk.

Suddenly, Tatoo stopped and sniffed the air.

"I smell gas," he says. "That's poisonous gas, that is, I'm a firefighter, I should know poisonous gas..."

The other bulky members of his posse began investigating, sniffing the air and looking around. The little girl stopped playing and looked around. Her face contorted, nose screwed up and brow furrowed in concentration.

"Wait! Hey!" She was running toward Mr. Tatoo and was now beaming with the wisdom of youth. "Hey, maybe it's me!"

This made my day. I doubled over laughing in the middle of the sidewalk.

And that, my dear readers, is why Disneyworld unites people from all over theworld, because no matter what language you speak, or where you come from - a little fat girl in a Disney Princess Bathing suit emitting poisonous gas - is always funny.