things to do with your extra hour besides sleep

1. Well, duh. Some of you losers could do it three times and complete your obligations for the year.
2. ~TyPe YoUr PoSt LiKe ThIs BeCaUsE iT wIlL bUrN uP an HoUr EaSy~BuT oNlY iF u WaNt To AlEiNaTe YoUr AuDiEnCe 4 GoOd~sOrRy jAcK aNd GrEg I cOuLdNt ReSiSt~
3. Watch Saturday Night Live. Ok, just kidding.
4. Actually listen to what your significant other has to say instead of rolling over and saying "Fuck, I'm soooo tired. I have to get up in seven hours" because you have eight hours instead, so ha!
5. Proof-read your writing before posting, for once.
6. Start trick-or-treating at three in the afternoon tomorrow.
7. Have an extra beer or two. Or ten if you're a high-functioning alcoholic.
8. Write a poem for your blog about how much you hate the time change and how it fucks you all up and how it seems like dinner is all off and you're so tired in the morning and it's still dark when you wake up and you hate that too... don't forget about the bit about the fight with your mother!
9. Watch half a movie. When you've discovered how bad it is actually turn it off and then go on to bed. You'll be content in knowing that you've lost nothing.
10. I for one need to finish the damn book. The due date was Halloween. Can you tell I'm putting it off???

now for local news:

Ding dong, the mouse is dead.
What are the chances that there are more? Pretty fair, I'd say.

**

I get to go to a house party tonight. I only know the hosts and I get to go as early Madonna: fishnets, semi-bare midriff, black bra and all. Nice. I plan on getting very drunk or leaving early. The Man is bringing his favorite prop, the bottle of rum. I'm surprised that he can stand the sight of the thing, but he's a hearty one.

He rarely does it, but he can outdrink even me. Yeah, you read it here first.

In that same vein, I asked my waitress at the pub the other day if they expected good tunes Saturday night (in case the party is a bust the pub is only a few blocks away.)

"I think it's blues."

Now, nothing against R&B, but it hardly makes for a fun Eve of All Hallow's Eve party. Greaaat. She said, rather apologetically, "We've got rock playing tonight, Friday and Sunday, though." She clearly doesn't have children and babysitter problems.

**
I'm listening to Flogging Molly right now. While they may not be the single best Irish band out there, they definitely have the single best name for an Irish band.

**

Watched Master and Commander last night. Could have used some sex in the plot line somewhere. There was a hint of it when Jack looked down at that cute island chick, but alas, he had to chase down that bloody boat. How they got there was cool, but the "big" fight scene was one of the most disappointing I've ever seen. Lots of closeups of a guy hacking away at the camera man, but no spray of blood, no flying limbs, not even any agonizing screaming... it sucked. Even the wounds and the dead-face makeup looked terrible. I had to watch it for research because in this other book I'm planning this character is going to spend some time on an old sailing ship. I think I need to do some more research. These sailors were way too cute and clean. Not nearly foul-mouthed enough either.

And what was with those hats? There's historical accuracy and then there's just stupid.

All night I dreamed of elaborate floating rope mousetraps and I had to get up to pee about six times. Power of suggestion, I guess.

**

I'm toying with the idea of putting part of Book 2 out there on a website. Problem is, I suck at HTML (Actually, I hardly know enough to even have the excuse that I suck.) Managed to transfer three chapters to a site template and of course it came out all fucked up. So now I'm thinking of putting it on a blog with an email address for comments. If I get it set up I'll post the link for y'all.

Yes, I realize this appears to be a departure from my well-defended philosophy. Have fun hazing me for changing my mind, as well as for the "bad movie" post.

raised in the ranks of green peace

Sometimes (ok, just about on a minutely basis) a two-year-old does things with which you're not all that comfortable. When they're really little, it's more along the lines of breaking social mores or disputing you with a well-placed, "NO!"

Frankly, it's hard to get too worried about what they do, as they are sapling-sized; small enough that you can pick them up and remove them bodily from whatever civilized environment they've offended. So you might sustain a few bruises and hearing loss from the kicking and screaming... it's just Terrible Twos Battle Scars. We all got 'em. But generally they have to do what you tell them, because you're just plain bigger.

At some point you have to pick your battles, know when to say nothing. We've learned that with the five year old. Thought we had a few years with Punkinhead. At two, you expect that they will only associate with those whom you deem fit, those whom you expose them to. Punkinhead has branched out, so to speak.

At first it seemed an unlikely, rather amusing diversion. To be sure, we congratulated ourselves on rearing an early bloomer. Surely this was one of those passing fancies. After all, with a two-year-old, whims change with the passing of the seasons. Certainly there was no return on the affection she bestowed on her chosen one. However, when there was no response, she simply expanded the breadth of her love to include all of that ilk. We assured ourselves, "Oh, it's just a phase." But nearly a year later, the roots of her devotion seem only go grow deeper.

Still no return. But then there never could be. Poor Punkinhead couldn't see the forest for the trees.

They don't hug back after all.

She chose first to limit her association with only the eight trees in our backyard. Hugging and kissing eight trees took up the better part of a quarter hour. Ok, odd, but harmless. Kinda cute really; she looks quite sprite-like with her curly hair and cherubic face peeking round the trunk of a tree. There was, and still is, a special place in her heart for the aspens by the back porch.

Then she began to spread the love; to become a slut of the forest. It started with a passing pat. Now she hugs trees everywhere. Parks, downtown, at the (wince) neighbor's house.

What could we do? It makes her so happy.

But, we realized that things might have progressed a little far when last summer, after going several days without indulging, she hugged a tent post. We had to find a tree, and quick. Not hard to do up at the lake, since it's surrounded by forest. She hugged every tree at the park and got angry when someone was leaning against one.

"No, see, honey," Insert mortified smile at tree-leaner. He didn't smile back. "This one's big. You can go round the other side to kiss it."

I asked her recently if they loved her back (you know, just to see how deep this psychotic episode went.) She looked at me as if I were the one who was nuts.

"Trees don't hug, mom."

Ok, yeah, I've tried it. Didn't do much for me.

And no, they don't hug back.

bra shopping with a two year old can be fun!

Lunched at the pub with Punkinhead. She needs a little practice at learning how to go out to eat and not:
1. scream like a banshee
2. run around
3. whine
4. drool sprite down her front
5. eat ketchup with a fork

She made friends, as usual, with the waitress; who said all the predictible things about her curly hair (mine, "yes, it's curly. I straighten it.") her eyebrows (The Man's) and how cute in general she is (she hides the devil inside pretty well for two). The bartender gave her cherries for going peeps on the potty. I love the that place.

I had to laugh last night when I told The Man, "I wish you wouldn't have told her she couldn't take milk to bed. She didn't eat much at dinner."
The Man replied, "So give her milk. I don't care."
"But I don't want to undermine your authoritaiyee."
He snorted. "What authority? She's two, she's the one running things, not us."

As for the post title, the nice people at Victoria Secret actually have a secret! They have all the bras in the dressing room, in every size! No wonder the bras are forty-five bucks each; they got to pay for the overhead. Punkinhead and I were whisked to the largest dressing room and the chick kept coming back to bring me stuff. It was awesome, in a word. Ok, so half of you could care less, but get over yourselves.

Speaking of dudes, I think one saw my boobs. Big thrill for him, I'm sure. No, I'm not being facetious here, I saw his girlfriend. U.G.L.Y.

He was leaning in the doorway of the dressing room waiting for her to open the door to show him whatever she was trying on. There should be a police "Do not cross" line outside that dressing room and a big siren that goes off:

"Woo-up woo-up! Male intruder, step away from the dressing room."

Or maybe they should have to try on some bras. Yeah, I like that better.

Anyway, girlfriends, don't show your man your bra before you buy. He could care less how it looks or if it fits. Most of the guys I know are only interested in how easy the clasp is to undo. (And that was before marriage. Now they really could care less.) I went braless for several years in college and the Man would sometimes tell me (and his friends too, if they were drunk enough). "You're the greatest girlfriend ever!"

No matter how sexy the lingerie, to a man, it's just in the way.

m-i-c... see me kill the mouse, k-e-y...why? well, duh...

Now I find out we have a fuckin' mouse in the house. Apparently The Man spent his lunch hour rushing back and forth in the kitchen trying to catch it. And I missed it! All the pitter-patter of his size 9s, all the terrified squeaking (that would be from me) and the cursing, oh, the cursing... My man can swear like a fourteen-year-old skater wannabe when he wants to (pretty damn often); sometimes he even thinks he can do it better than me (not fucking likely). I knew leaving the house was a bad idea. Why go out at all when it's so exciting around here?

Someone I know flushed a mouse once. It was swimming around the bowl, looking up at him like "save me, save me!" I guess it thought it would take a dip or something. He thought, Hell, it's not any bigger than your basic piece of shit. And it was Mickey Jones Locker for the mouse.
I asked him if he felt guilty.
"Drowning is supposed to be a painless death."
"People say that, but how does anyone know ?"
"Here, have another beer."

Ick. Mice are like spiders with fur. Nasty, vile little creatures. Double ick.

Except for Chirpy, the mouse we had as a pet. Now that was a cool mouse. Sometimes you end up with the savant of a species. Two members in our family have had one. The first was Chirpy, who my brother found in the salad bowl at school. Chirpy lived in his nightstand until Mom found out, then he was banished to the garage (Chirpy, not my brother.) My brother rigged up a little VW remote control car with a mouse-wheel in it (it was the 70s so it was an actual VW, not one of those plastic ones they make now) and Chirpy used to follow him all over the yard in the thing. Chirpy was an escape artist, though. He could get out of his cage. As long as he was still in the garage he would hang around, but once someone (Ok, me! Are you satisfied! I was like five for crissake!) left the door open just enough (a mouse needs like two centimeters to get through, but I still recall the lecture on pushing the door down all the way) and Chirpy got hit by a car. We buried him in a brick tomb. God, how pathetic was that? Our parents apparently caught on that we needed a real pet, because we got a dog pretty soon after that. Skipper was pretty smart, but he wasn't the other braniac pet.

The other one was Jasper, my goldfish. He lived in a beer pitcher in my room in college. He was the only goldfish I ever met that lasted longer than twelve hours. Jasper was smart. When I'd sit down at my desk he'd come round front and watch me and do tricks and stuff for food. Ok, so his trick was coming to the top of the water for food, but what could he do in a beer pitcher? Not exactly a fuckin' circus tent.

When they found out I was breaking the no pets rule, I had to find him a new home at The Man's house. One of his shithead roommates came up with the bright idea of giving him a little vodka. (Yeah, you college guys have a certain charm...) Didn't take much.

Alas, another burial at sea. Kind words were said, and we finished the bottle of vodka at the wake.

lost post club

There are those among my readers who can relate: I've joined the Lost Post Club. Fuckin' Blogger. Oh well. It was a rather sappy post at any rate, a weak moment as I watched my daughter playing in the backyard.

Punishment for that nasty Google marketing comment, no doubt. Or an act of God. Actually, is there a real difference?

I've had reason to use the expression "hair of the dog" several times in the past few days. Wouldn't have a clue as to why. Anyway, it comes up often enough that I need to collect a few alternate phrases. My creative juices are tied up with finishing the book, so I can't think of any. Ideas, anyone?

One time a friend and I amused ourselves by coming up with alternates for
Not the brightest bulb in the chandelier.
as in:
Not the cutest puppy in the litter.
Not the tallest tree in the forest.
Not the sharpest knife in the drawer.
Not the strongest drink in the bar.
Not the smelliest fish in the lake.
Not the longest d...

Ok, you get the point. It was real funny at the time.

And you have say "if you know what I mean" (wink-wink) afterward. One time some guy friends (and I use that term loosely) used that expression about a hostess of a party to everyone they met at the party. Pretty funny. Like, "We had some fun that night, if you know what I mean..." wink-wink. "Hit the hay early that night, if you know what I mean."

Yes, late at night. And yes, drunk. Quite drunk. Finished up both nights with a rousing game of quarters. At least we played with beer, not rum and coke.

But that is another post entirely.

God, the lost post was better.

crap I just read on blogs

While hitting "next blog" tonight I read:

"How do we get our five year old back to playing football?" I read on, he means American football, not soccer. Tackle too- he mentioned pads and helmet and mouthpieces. I hope he's saving for the therapy- physical and emotional.

*On a side note, the Broncs got whomped by the Bengals last night. The Bengals. For shame.*

Seven poorly written variations on the "I'm putting off studying" theme. Most included details of the undone homework. No wonder Mr. Krypto is burnt-out already.

Four posts consisted of the lyrics to entire songs. I suspect that these entries relate to the previous category.

Bad poetry: of course, but I hit "next blog" as soon as I saw verse-shaped text with big words, so I don't know how many or how bad.

Comments I left: 0
Bookmarks: 0
Time wasted: 30 minutes, including this write-up.

On a positive note, I got my own work done today, eight more pages toward the big finale. Can't believe I'm saying this, but I think I'm getting a little sick of these people. EB, if I ever say anything about a fifth book, take me out in the back yard and beat me bloody with my laptop.

who are you voting for?

At the pub last night the conversation turned, as it will in the last week of the campaign, to the presidential election.

One of us had already voted, two of us hadn't. The one who voted wouldn't say for whom she voted, my other companion wouldn't say for whom she was going to vote. They were good at it too - I seriously have no idea what their choices are.

Hmmm. When asked why, they said that they just didn't want to get "into it" with anybody because everyone is so riled up over the whole deal. (One of them said she got something like 11 political phone calls yesterday. Bush even called. Well, it was a recording, but I think she might have been marginally flattered just the same.) I repeat, hmmm. That hasn't quite been my experience. In fact, apparently everyone must be very worried about "getting into it" because I haven't heard word one about the election or the candidates at all. No mail. No phone calls. Nada. Zip. In my little world, it's a non-topic.

I'm not worried about what anyone thinks of my choice, and they can say what they want because I'm not going to change my mind. I won't argue back because I don't know/care enough about specifics to get into a fun one. No stem-cell research, pull-out of Iraq, finding Osama, and keeping the French happy. My concerns go deeper than stump speech fodder.

So, how to choose?

First I thought I would just go with handsomer. I mean, everyone pretends that it doesn't matter, but we all know it does. Pretty sells. Who do we want to look at for the next four years? (After Clinton we deserve someone attractive, for crissake.) Much difference between the two in the looks department? Not really. I heard on NPR that they were distant cousins, and the familial resemblance was obvious once I saw them next to each other on the debate stage. I was going to vote against Bush on the basis of hating his little pig-eyes; but fuck if Kerry doesn't have nearly the same eyes!

So I decided to choose based on who I thought I could have a conversation with. Say you meet at a party and chat:

"What do you do?"
"Leader of the free world."
"Huh. How's that treatin' ya?"

Well, you know who that method immediately deletes. Bush couldn't hold a coherant conversation with himself. But Kerry seems kinda weird, frankly. He keeps copying that thumb thing that Clinton did, and once I saw him pick up this baby and his expression looked like he was thinking, "I didn't know they made 'em so small. I'll be damned." Somehow Kerry doesn't strike me as a bona-fide diaper-changing, hand-washing, homework-helping, not-too-cool-to-have-carseats-in-the-monster-jeep, actually-misses-the-fam-when-he's-gone type. When you're married to one of those, guys who aren't like that don't hold much alure. I think Kerry could probably speak intelligently about all sorts of important issues, but he wouldn't be able to escape to the pub for a Bass and a casual chat about movies and kids and nothing. He wouldn't have anything to say.

So much for the conversation angle.

Then there's the money. Not who's got more, but how they spend it is my concern. Well, I don't know all that much about Bush's financial status or history, but I know there's some money there. Big in oil or something, can't recall what. And Kerry's got that whole new money thing goin' on. People hate that. And they hate that he's not only new money, but that his money comes from his wife. I'm not resentful about it. Nothing against money or those who have it, really. What I do resent is people who work when they have lots of money. As in, Bush and Kerry both have enough money to live comfortably, play golf, do charity functions, and just hang. Can't/won't do it. There's just something wrong with someone who can't retire and have fun already. Strike three.

So who am I voting for and why? I decided to look for the better smile. I think we could lighten up around here. Bush's smile always looks sarcastic (really rather Mike Shanahan-esque), and truly painful, like he's smiling through a bad bout of constipation.

So based on that, I'm going with...

Kerry.

He looks pretty dorky, but his smile looks genuine at least. I think it's as good a reason as any.

Ha ha, I just realized I can't even recall Kerry's first name. I'm bad with names, but you'd think I might be able to remember that one. Obviously he's made a huge impression.

writing a "blovel"

I keep seeing that thing about writing a novel in a month. Well, it can be done of course. P'raps not War and Peace, but who wants to read a thousand pages on a blog? P'raps not very good,either, but it's on your blog so it's not like you're going to sell it, right?

While I do believe in the spirit of sitting down each day to write, I don't believe on doing it on a blog. (Tally for today: 8 pages and counting, thank you very much, not including this drivel.) I would never do it that way. I hold with the Stephen King first draft door closed, edit door open theory, which means write out the damn thing as fast as you can, while trying your damndest to resist even talking about it when its still coming out. It's not easy. Like when you are pregnant, all you want to talk about is being pregnant and not only does no one want to hear about it, it's actually better to not talk about it. Makes it go faster, I think. It also makes people think you are stoic, which by the way, is a favorable quality for novelists and mothers-to-be. You just sit in your little hole of an office and make your novel or your baby for 9 months or so and then when you show it to the world, everybody goes, "God, look at what she made and she never even talked about it." For some reason people love that.

I usually only resort to talking about it (back to the novel here) when I get an annoyed comment from The Man; as in "Honey, what's for dinner?" or, "Um, honey, could you do some laundry so I can have some socks?"

Valid complaints to be sure, and my lame comeback usually consists of something along the lines of "Look, things are heating up, all right? A-- just got taken captive, K-- is screwing whatshername, and L-- is MIA." (MIA means for me that I don't know what the hell to do with that character right then.)

And I get the They-aren't-real-people-remember look in return as he dials Dominos.

I think a book has to fester in there, make you miserably crabby -at least to those around you- and annoyingly preoccupied and you don't eat right so of course you get fat. Or it makes you sick so you can't eat and you lose weight.

Golly, the whole thing sounds more and more like being pregnant. Yes, the baby definitely festers in there. Not a lot of women will admit it, but I do freely. Doesn't mean I don't love them less. Actually, I think pregnancy is similar to that army bootcamp mind fuck where they make you miserable and then they suddenly are your friend so you go psycho and feel all this warm fuzzy love and loyalty for your superiors. My babies did that. Made me miserable for months, and I hated them, loathed them when I was pregnant. Then I felt so great afterward and they smiled at me and pooped in my general direction and I had quit puking every day and was so starved for affection that I suddenly was in love with the little buggers. (That needed a comma or a semi-colon in there somewhere, but fuck it, it's a rough draft, right?)

Anyway, back to the novel thing: I don't think anyone should read your first draft until it's seen some editing. For one, many of us don't plot. That means the first draft takes a lot of turns that have no relationship to anything that came before or since. These need to be edited out before someone says, "But what was that deal with the 7-11? Why did they go there? And that guy got a Slurpy, which you spent a paragraph describing as 'the green ones were always the coldest. Colder than the damp winter air hovering above the tar-streaked parking lot', but then it was like the Slurpy was just gone and besides, why was it summer when he went in the 7-11 and then it was winter when he came out? Was that some sort of statement about his frame of mind?"

No. It was a fuck-up. The 7-11 was a stupid place to go and the Slurpy disappeared later because it was never supposed to be there in the first place. The whole summer/winter thing was a higher power pointing it out in an obvious way to my dumb-ass self.

Second... well, first drafts sometimes just don't make for great reading to anyone but the writer. If you write really fast, the first draft is itself a sort of edited version; maybe certain areas (or in my case, all areas) need embellishment. I don't waste a lot of time on analagy and description on a first draft unless it's so clear that the words pour. So my first drafts end up seeming a little... drafty. Full of holes. Emotionless. It's nearly always raw dialogue and action, just 'cause I want to know what's going to happen next. But there's no pictures, you know?

Do what you want, of course, but I bet all this will do is add to the pile of unfinished books out there. The more I think about it, the more the whole thing sounds like a Google marketing ploy to me. It'll add to the guilt, as well. But then, that's what good marketing does, right?

Fuck, is that ever a topic for another day. Cheers.

boocchanalia report

Wings are In this Halloween. BB's wife had the best ones, big and black and feathered. Unfortunately she started molting as soon as she arrived, so this morning I'm finding her feathers and bugs all over the place. Bugs, you say. Yeah, and mice climbing all over her boots. Fallen Angel. Absolutely sparking hot.

We didn't have a contest but I think it would have been a tie between BB and the Man. The Man looked so close to Captain Jack Sparrow; he could even imitate the voice nearly perfectly; that watching the movie with him in the room was eerie. Needless to say, he looked hot. I admit it, I dress him up as sexy movie characters for Halloween. He tolerates my little fantasies with nary a complaint. His favorite prop was an actual bottle of rum with a splash of coke in it... The Man is still in bed.

BB was a character from his favorite XBox game. I don't know what the game is called (I'm sure he or someone will enlighten us in the commentbox), but you run around in this sort of medieval world and if you do good things you get really handsome and strapping and even a halo, and if you do bad things you grow horns and tattoos all over and have flies around your head. BB's costume was so perfect... he even had the freakin' flies. Commendations go to BB's wife, who did all the work, of course. Her homemade chips and mango salsa were awesome too.

Only one guy didn't dress up. He's, you know, foreign. Doesn't hold with these weird American custom. We put some mice and bugs on him to decorate him and he tolerated my continual drunken harrassment with much grace and charm.

Madonna played well, but my fishnets ripped as soon as I put them on. Why do they do that?? I'll have to get more for next weekend.

The evening concluded with the annual midnight showing of Rocky Horror Picture Show. We had great fun planning a group costume around the movie for next year. We chose someone who didn't attend the festivities (sick with sore throat), a certain someone from back east who waved at me from his motorcyle yesterday... yes, you know who you are... to be Rocky. The costume consists of golden briefs... only. Of course, we plan out this Rocky Horror group costume at 2 am every year, and promptly forget all about it, so I wouldn't worry. Too much.

We had a virgin viewer with us. She didn't quite make it though. It was rather a late showing, and perhaps not quite her cup of tea. I for one think Tim Curry rocks. He's kind of an ugly dude, but in drag, mmm, yummy... I bet drag would improve the looks of lots of many ugly guys. Makes you think, doesn't it?

I don't recall who said it, but the best line from the peanut gallery was, "I love this movie, but toward the end it just gets weird."

what's different is the same all over again...

You know, you have old things in both your twenties and thirties. The difference lies in who made them old.

For instance, in your twenties you got old stuff that somebody else made old, like the couch that who knows who did what on. It's perfectly broken in so you try not to think of it. After all, you got to eat on it, for crissake.

But in your thirties, you got old stuff that you made old. Case in point:
last night I gave my sheet a good yank and it ripped. Not a little tear, but a throw-it-away, it's done-for, make-a-tournequet-out-of-the-leavings RIP. Most of the top part of the sheet is gone, shredded like love in a long marriage. (Ok, I don't really think that. But nice one, don't you think?)

It's time for new sheets already! Can you believe it? I can't be old enough to need the third (or is it fourth?) round of new sheets for my marriage.

I think I'll let myself think that the sheets were new but we are so *athletic* in bed that we run through them pretty regularly. Yeah. Definitely better.

more thoughts on blogging

Many of us have at some point resisted putting words down on paper for school and then many of those same people (maybe that very day!) come home and blow a couple of hours posting and reading others' blogs.

Yes. I speak of the ubiquitous essay.

We've all been there. Faced with: Compare and Contrast leaves and grass in two hundred words or more, we moan and groan, "What does this have to do with anything!!" and put it off until we are forced by our own procrastination to write some hapless, stiff composition stumbling over the finer points of backyard vegetation. Reaching the two hundred words: impossible.

Yes, the teacher thinks the topic is awful too, and yes, the teacher is bitter enough to enjoy assigning it. Like I enjoy hosting a cosutme party.

"Do I have to wear a costume?"

"Well, it's only a fucking costume party but no, you don't have to wear one. Free fucking country. But you'd better bring beer to bribe your way in the door."

Speaking of procrastination and costumes:
Tonight is Boo-cchanalia.

My costume: check. Kinda embarrassing when you possess in your very own closet all the trappings of early 80s Madonna. I didn't think I was so hopelessly out of style, but if I am, will one of my kind friends stage an intervention at the mall??

The man's costume: semi-check. I've got everything but we have to do the hair and sew in the beads. Jack Sparrow hair shouldn't prove as time-consuming as Legolas hair.

Food: er... well, I'll go to Target today.

Beer: ditto, liquor store. Besides, many folks aren't wearing costumes so they'll bring beer.

I do love that. Tells a lot about somebody. So do costumes, though, which is why so many resist it. I love Halloween because you learn a little about what folks are like. What they think, political beliefs, how far they'll push the limits. Some people don't even want to wear a costume, but will just to fit in. Ha! That says it all.

My favorite all-time costume was this neighbor/friend of ours that lives down the street. The guy works in a conservative industry, and he's soft spoken himself. Not your typical Jamaican. (tee hee - that ought to raise some hackles!!)

Anyway, they threw this party for another friend who was turning 40 and everyone did the 60s look and this guy put on a huge fro and high-water skin-tight bell bottoms and a shirt open to his navel and gold chains and it was like he was a different person. It wasn't only that it was funny, but it was eye-opening to learn another facet of someone in so simple a way.

Jesus, where did this rant begin? Can you tell I've only had one cup of tea?

Oh yeah, essays. I would suggest that the same student assigned the grass essay will go home that very night and write a brilliant, moving diatribe about the stupidity of said essay (Compare and contrast the essay topic and the teacher who assigned the essay - Which is stupider, and why? Thousand words or more.) and never realize how that road could go both ways.

But there's a difference, you think. It's on a blog. No rules. (Ha! See below.)

What is the difference, really? Read many blogs and study why you like some and why you don't like others. I'd suggest that many of the better blogs consist of well-written essays (albeit in first draft form) with a premise and supporting arguments and a conclusion (which is well known to be the most difficult part of the essay to write) about some subject with which we, the royal reader, have little affinity.

Why do we read? The author sucks us in with pure thematic skill.

It frustrates teachers no end when they know kids have it but they won't use it. Rather like my frustration when people don't wear costumes to a freakin' costume party. The same guy who won't wear a costume tonight will this very morn don a bright yellow shirt marked over with neon advertisements, skin-tight nylon (on the bottom half, no less- yuuuk. You got to ride a lot of miles to make that look good) and ride their bike all over town just as relaxed as can be. They'll even step in for coffee, the only person dressed like that in the whole shop, and won't think twice about it (though people are thinking- "Save it for the costume party, bubba.")

So I stand by my original conclusions. There should be rules for blogs. I mean, do what you want, of course, but if you want to be read you might check out conventional essay writing 101. At least know the rules when you're breaking them.

And wear a costume to the freakin' party, all right??

boston fans in boulder

Hard to say whether there are actual Sox fans here, you know, half way across the country from Boston as we are; or whether we in Colorado just need the merest excuse to start a riot. (Evidence to the former: I guess I know of...like, two transplants from there. Evidence for the latter: Colorado University.)

But apparently there was a huge party down on the mall last night (Boulder has an outdoor mall.) All those cement pillars which people tape advertisements and notices to were burned. Rather reminded me of controlled burns. It was like a controlled burn of advertising, and I for one appreciated it. Those pillars grow an inch wider a month, I'll bet, with all the crap taped to them. The paper-puter-uppers are fun to watch though, going around and around with the packing tape with one hand while the other hand is sticking up papers as fast as a woodpecker. They are even too practiced to get dizzy; they don't even sway when they walk away from the pillar.

Now, I realize that some folks looooooooooove baseball, national pastime and all that; and then there's the underdog factor (I gather everyone's an underdog except for NY. Is it Yankies or Yankees. I think ee. Does that bug anybody else?). Oh yeah, and that whole "Curse" thing. But I think the game is boring as all hell. I find myself going to lengths to turn off NPR when they talk about the series because the boringness of the game is only eclipsed by the boringness of the commentary.

But even with all that I could see that NY was getting a little big for its britches. So cheers to the Sox, and the Boston fans, far and near. Enjoy your moment in the limelight while it lasts. Apparently it only comes around once every century or so.

I won't do this often, but...

Green Day American Idiot



Not that you should take my word for it, but I'm throwing in some shameless promotion for American Idiot.

It combines the innocence of the 70s rock opera with the harsh sensibility of this rather fucked-up world. We had a big stumble at the beginning of the millenium, and we need to get back to figuring out what's important and optimistic in the world. The guys in Green Day set the whole idea to music. Great stories, great poetry, great tunes.

Cheers to BJ, M and T.

Wow.

things not to do in blogs

This topic was inspired by something I read on a blog (can't recall which one or I'd post a link) but I'm going to be more concise. After careful research I've come up with a short list of no-nos.

Don't:

1. Write a brief note about why you're not writing. I'm smart. I'll figure out that you're sick/getting drunk/working too hard/having a life for crissake... Besides, it reeks of "The World Revolves Around Me Syndrome."

2. Post pictures of yourself. You were way better looking in my imagination.

3. No teenage angst. I don't care.

This one is so important it bears repeating.
NO TEENAGE ANGST.
ie, you hate your mother, your teachers, your life, school is boring... Which leads neatly to my next point-

4. If it's boring you, think how it is for me.

5. Try to impress me with your multi-lingual ability. Pick a language and stick with it.

6. Poetry. Don't. Again, I don't care.

7. If you quit, don't bother with the lengthy explaination/goodbye. I'll move on with my life (heavy sigh) somehow.

8. Write about being alone and depressed. That's just depressing and lonely.

9. Give an itemized list of what you drank last night. You were drunk. I get it.

10. Tell me about movies you don't like. Are you Roger freakin' Ebert? No! I'll run right out and see it just to spite you.

11. Write without punctuation, capitals, or use numbers for words. More fucking teenage angst, only this time it's poorly disguised by bad style.

12. Write about how nobody understands you. (Grown-ups are guilty of this as well.) Guess what??! You're a freak! I don't get you, and I won't be back.

13. Write in blogger Draft if you are a bad speller, bad at grammer, etc. (No help for you there.) It's annoying as all hell for those of us who are good at it. Here's a clue, moron: write it in Word and copy it onto your blog. (Again, let's be supportive here: control C, control V)

14. Use initials for phrases. lol, fyi, btw, kio, fu. See #3 for why.

I'm sure that all I would need to do is hit "next blog" (top right of my page) to find more. There's a lot of bullshit out there. But there's some latent talent too. Some of us folks might be paid for this someday and just think, you knew us way back when.

Yeah.

"Trash Newsflash" or "Sucker Suckas!"

The kids got these flashing suckers in a Boo basket. You wear 'em on your finger like a ring, which is pretty cool, actually. I don't mind suckers except for thos disgusting, sadly appropriate pacifier-shaped suckers. I find it hilarious that so many moms spend years getting their kids off pacifiers only to turn around and offer them a sucker at the merest wimper. Yeah, that's waaay better.

The latest weapon on the Pacifier Battle Front is the Binky Fairy (or maybe it's Binky The Fairy, I'm not sure, I've not hired that particular one.) Anyway, he takes away their pacifiers and leave the kid a toy as a trade. I'm pretty sure that if the kid is old enough to get the concept of trading in their binky for a toy then the kid has come away with a huge victory in the cake-and-eat-it-too department. He gets the pacifier until 3 or 4 AND a toy! Score!

No, I can't relate, I can only make fun. My kids didn't take to pacifiers or thumbs. Huh? Well, they just suck their nasty blankets, but only in their beds. It's totally different.

Anyway, I guess Binky the Fairy saw how well the Halloween Witch does and thought he'd go into business for himself. The Halloween Witch brings a toy for candy - no dispute on who's makin' out like a bandit in that deal - and I hope I'm not the only one who thinks the world has reached a sad, sad place when kids can't make themselves sick on their freakin' Halloween candy.

Back to the suckers, which is where this happy little rant started... The kids pulled the flashing tab, ate them, and that was two days ago and they are still flashing. In the dumpster in the garage. It's like a tiny cry for help among the diapers and things that should have been recycled. A lighthouse on the shore of pizza bones and tinfoil. Ok, you get the picture. But it's funny. I suspect the man will get home (he doesn't make a habit of reading everyday like the rest of you) and he'll say, "Why the fuck is the trash flashing?"

And I'll say, "The kid sassed me so I threw away his favorite firetruck. It's time somebody took a stand around here."

In the following, pronouns may have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent, but only maybe. Remember that 60/40 truth/fiction warning?

My favorite pacifier gone story is from ... ok, a friend was sucking his pacifier in the car, and between licks he was tossing it up and catching it. Now, that's looove. Well, on one of the tosses it went out the sunroof. And these two parents, who I idolize as parents except for their lapse in judgement regarding the binky (I mean, shit, the kid was tossing it and catching it. What was he - fourteen?) simultaneously said, "Whoops! Binky's all gone. Soooorry." Made sense to the kid and he didn't even cry. All the binkies from the house were confiscated and burned after bedtime in a celebratory bonfire with much beer and rejoicing.

It took just under 03.46.001 minutes to talk me into making brownies today. Must be that time of the month. Huh? No, not that. Haven't you heard of "Brownie time of the month"?? Jeez. Anyway, they're done, so See ya suckas!!

another google (no wonder these people are rich!)

Google


Two for I'm Feeling Lucky:
French Military Victories
Weapons of Mass Destruction
Be sure and hit the links on this site as well. You won't be disappointed.

I happily and without persuasion admit that I stole this from The Liars Club
I really don't think Kat will mind.

Yes, had fun at the pub last night, as usual. Indulgers great, as usual. Interesting things happened, as usual. I will post as soon as I recover enough to properly embellish the recounting...

Please note properly working, attractively inserted links above. Could it be that I'm getting the hang of this crap? Please keep your congratulatory comments to a minimum. Oh, what am I saying? No one comments here. HELLO???? Is anybody listening?

cheers

Theatrical Thimple Thimon

My horoscope advised me that theatrics are in my near future. It didn't specify whether they would be someone else's or my own, but consider yourself warned. I'm heading out tonight with some girlfriends to see the Indulgers, so maybe the theatrics are theirs. I dunno. But the Pub is generally good fodder for entries, so we'll do our best to make something of interest happen.

Perhaps the theatrics refer to my son. The Great has to say the nursery rhyme Simple Simon for the Halloween Party at School and dress up like Simple Simon. There are several problems inherit in this scenario.

First of all, there are no mention of props or costumes in the nursery rhyme beyond a pie. For instance, what does Simple Simon wear? I truly don't know, but I'll be Googling Simple Simon in the near future, no doubt.

Also, The Great has lost his two front teeth (I think he's getting one GIGANTIC tooth in their place - at least, I hope it's just one because there's no room for another. I wonder if orthdontia is tax deductable?) I think a teacher might have encouraged him to go with another rhyme, but I know when I was teaching, those moments of evil amusement are so few and far between that it's hard to resist them.

Anyway, Simple Simon comes out sounding a bit like this:

Thimple Thimon meth a pieman
Going to the fair
Thaid Thimple Thimon to the pieman
Yeth me tathte your wareth.

Accompanied by lots of spitting.

Remember Gallager? He was always sledgehammering watermellons and the audience wore big sheets of plastic. We'll have to warn the front row that they'll need protective rainwear to see The Great perform. Of course, we could let The Great sledgehammer a pie. Then the audience probably wouldn't even notice the spitting.

Speaking of Googling: (yeah, I did. It's back there.)
I googled my best friend from grade school last night. I don't know why I never thought to do it before. Anyway, she is a bonafide Somebody; published author and Prof of Creative Writing. One of the smartest people I ever knew (know, I guess now) and my first book will be dedicated to her. Glad to hear from ya!

On a side note, when I figure out the html (or bribe BB to come do it for me) I'll make a list of some blogs I've been reading (a short list, but really funny.) In the meantime, check through the comments sections and hit the name links. You won't be disappointed.

Happy weekending!

then and now

Found several old pieces of writing yesterday, spanning from my third grade Autobiography - entitled the banal My Life ; (the pix of my brothers in the 70s were HILARIOUS! And good old Skipper-doggle. What a cutie he was.) to the complete 240 page novel I wrote the summer I turned thirteen (pretty much The Outsiders with the names of the characters changed). There was even a laugh-out-loud comic that I drew that I got a D- on. I don't know why. It was obvious I had a blast doing it. I think it was golden!

Didn't write so much in high school. Too busy with the boyfriend, I suppose, my teenage angst, and my hard-drinking, druggie friends. Yeah, riiight. Lots of good artfrom that era though; pastels and pencil drawings. Boy, no wonder they thought I had a future in it. Too bad I just never got any better.

Then I hit the college years; lots of red ink, but also lots of encouraging comments. One piece I think I could actually rework into something I could sell now. Thought it was rather funny that I put real sincerity and themes and crap into my work back then. I spit out some really meaningful drivel. Since it was typed on the Smith-Corona the spelling and gramatical errors are glaring, even with the erasable ribbon. (I obviously gave up underlying significance and themes with the advance of maturity. Fuck themes. Now I mostly like to write about attractive guys blowing stuff up and driving away in extradinarily expensive cars.)

I could pinpoint the date that I quit writing, not that I wasn't still putting words down on paper; but it started sucking something awful. Fall of my sophomore year, about the time the Man (then the Boy) got sick and almost died. (No worries, he's been fine lo these many years). My prof's disappointment, relayed through his scrawled comments, is palpable even today. Hopefully, Dr. G, I'll make you proud real soon.

I wonder about those other folks in those grad creative writing classes. I was a mere freshman/sophomore, and I kept us from meeting in bars since I wasn't of age... oh yeah, they all were real supportive of my work... The thing I recall best from my classmates' work is a scene about a couple having sex in the shower and the chick had a pimply back. Nice. I thought it was crap (of course I only smiled politely, seen-and-not-heard is the rule for freshmen in grad classes). Fortunately, my classmates agreed and they were rather harsh about it. Didn't exactly make the author cry, but he got rather sullen, as I recall.

Ok, I might be exaggerating about the entirety of my latest work consisting of cute boys blowing stuff up (well, it's not too far off, actually) but its a hell of a lot more fun to write. I get a lot of questions about how I dream it all up. Well, it goes something like this:

First draft: I get to find out what happens.
First-tenth revisions: I get to find out why.

I write a rough draft straight out as fast as I can and it goes through at least two revisions before anyone else gets to read it.

That's it in a nutshell. That and showing up every day. The blog only counts half-way, but I've done about 4 pages on the novel today. I've got more to go, but I'll get to it. I'm rather difficult to live with if I don't write something just about every day. I write even if it's crap. Even if I'm tired. Even if I go in not knowing what I am going to write, I still experience a compulsion to put some words down.

To which many folks will say hopefully, "Maybe someday it will pay off for you."

Yeah. Well, to my mind the real joy is in the process of the thing. Not that I don't enjoy being read, because I really, really do. But it's those moments when I sit back, two hours gone, just gone, and I re-read what I've just written and I think, "Wow."

That's the stuff. Like that stupid comic I drew. It's golden.

boys and their balls

Air crisp, breeze blowing, clouds over the mountains... fall in Colorado. A young boy's fancy turns to football...

Walking home from school today I saw some third grade types; three boys. One of them found a football under a shrub. It was sort of far back there, so they had an argument over who was going in to get it. Of course the smallest guy got picked. Anyway, he crawls in, grabs the ball, and comes out saying, "Dude! It's got a signature on it!"

They huddled around it and then tussled over handing it back and forth (Shortie didn't want to let it go, I guess because of the valuable signature.)

"Where?!"

"Show me!"

"Let me hold it!"

Finally, the ball in plain view to myself, Shortie pointed out the signature to his friends. Beautiful, flowing script, most unlike a football player's, it read clearly:

"Rawlings."

go google yourself silly

your name here


Since I'm putting off a difficult torture sequence for the book; yep, still not done as if you can't tell by all the comments on your blogs; I've been entertaining myself by Googling folks I know. Not the most original way to pass the time, I realize, but I'm tired tonight. I need something brainless.

The man had four actual sites, all conferences. One was in Paris. I didn't go. Stupid, stupid...

One of his buddies, the elusive BB, rocked in with 849 results, though his name can be mistaken for a place as well as a person (yeah, go figure) so I'm not sure how many were legit. My attention span is not big enough at the moment to sort through it. No legit results for his wife, but I got something about a waterfall. (?)

The chick I went out with the other night with all the good stories had 1150! Shit! She gets around.

Me? Oh. Just one.

Yeah, I'm a loser.

Boy, I just read that first paragraph. I looooove run-ons! (Hooray for parentheses!) I won't even bother consulting Strunk and White. It's wrong, so wrong... (Mr. Krypto, care to diagram it?)

cheers and goodnight

annoying annoyances and how they annoy me

I tend to score pretty low on personality tests for paranoia, so I think I'm right in believing that the guy down the street is persecuting me. This is an unusually appropriate choice of word; rumor has it that he's a Bible Thumper. But apparently the preaching goes beyond religion because this guy is on a crusade to slow down the traffic going by his house.

Let me begin by properly setting the stage:

This is a little family who live on the edge of a park that is approximately four acres in size. There's a pond. A largely unused parking lot which would be perfect for bike riding. Trails. Trees. Manicured lawn.

Where do their kids play? In the driveway, of course. A very short, slopey driveway at the downhill end of a long, wide residential street on which the speed limit is, predictably, 25 mph.

Once this summer I was happily driving by his house in Beastie and he yelled at me to slow down (at least that's what I thought he was saying, what with the stereo turned up and Beastie's engine roaring). He had some guy hanging with him probably a neighbor, and he and the neighbor and the four-year-old were standing around in the street.

If I had been in MY Jeep (henseforth, The Red Devil) then I would have taken the chide gracefully. I do speed in that car, the big V8 roaring and music up... I'm the first to admit it, though I've made a point of slowing down on residential streets. Generally I try to keep an eye on the road instead of my speedometer, so I'm not exactly how much I go over. I'd guess about 5 mph.

But Beastie is not exactly a speed demon. The 35s slow you down, and it's a bit woozy on the turns, so we tend to drive under the speed limit. He probably thought I was some obnoxious teenager. I look younger than I am, and I had a hat on, so I could see how he might think that. It annoyed me, but I shrugged it off and went on to the store without giving it another thought. (Punkinhead and I were after something fun like donuts.)

Then, on the way back, he did it again.

I can think fast when I need to (almost as fast as I drive). I slammed on my brakes, (ok, not slammed, but slowed down to a roll) and yelled back,

"It's a loud car so it sounds fast. But I'm going the speed limit so you can stop being such a jerk!"

I didn't add that he's a guy, so he should know that loud cars sound fast; that we go to the same church, for crissake; and I've got kids on this street too; and by the way, asshole, our kids even go to the same preschool.

But I thought it.

The best part was leaving him speechless. I'd never actually seen anyone with their mouths hanging open, but I guess that sort gets shocked when someone talks back to them, and he probably realized about then that I wasn't a teenager. Several, ahem, a few years past that, in fact.

My neighbors; the ones who actually like me - admittedly few and far between, but there you are; had great fun for the rest of the summer yelling at me to "slow down!" as I pulled into my driveway.

About a day later there was one of those mobile speed detectors right in front of his house. The fun part about this was that was that even when I came upon it for the first time (there's a curve in the road so you can't see it until you're practically past it) I was going 27 mph. Not perfect, but hardly ticket-worthy. In The Red Devil, too, not Beastie. Ha!

This was a couple of months ago.

Two days ago he was out front with his kid (riding down hill on said slopey driveway on very wobbly bike (not thirty feet from a perfectly level deserted parking lot) and he had some cute little cones out that said "Slow down, children at play.)

I resisted the urge to run over one of the cones just for grins. Instead I slowed down to about 20 and gave him my most winning smile.

He scowled back at me. Fuckhead.

Now, lo and behold, there's another speed indicator in front of his house; positioned just so they can read it from their front window.

It's made it's impact. I definitely will drive down the street at about 20 mph from now on. As I roll by his house, I plan on putting it in neutral and revving the engine. I only go by there four or eight times a day. Immature? Perhaps. Appropriate? Highly.

Meanwhile, the man and I are considering calling the police department to get the speed thingy moved down here by our house. We live two doors down from a raised crosswalk over which folks regularly burn rubber in order to get their speed back up.

Needless to say, our kids play in the back yard.

cheers.

hallowe'en costume ideas

When my husband arrives home from his frequent travels we tend to go to bed at a reasonable hour with good intentions of getting a full night's sleep, and then we lay awake until the wee hours catching up with each other. We chat away until we get sleepy or... well, you get the picture.

Anyway, last night's topic was the upcoming Boo-cchanalia. We got a little slappy giggling over past and present costume ideas. As I've had lots of requests for ideas (usually followed immediately by "You mentioned something about bribing my way in with beer...") I thought I might post a few ideas for y'all. After all, a costume party needs costumes.

And beer. Lots of beer.

Ideas from Halloweens past present and future:

Couples category:
Martha Stewart and Guard combo.
Dirty old man with a bimbo (more specifically, if the little woman is overweight she could be Nicole)

Singles and somewhat tasteless: (couples are overdone,anyway)

White tiger with Roy doll in your mouth

Long Dong Silver. Generic pirate outfit with the addition of lots of silver fexible duct.

Once I dressed in white sweats, cut-out paper snowflakes, and carried popcorn. When they asked me what I was I threw popcorn at them and said "Snowstorm!" The Sig Ep pledges were not amused. (please note: No snowstorms are welcome at Boo-cchanalia!)

Invisible Man. Don't forget your straw!

Transsexual - but look out! We might like you better as the opposite sex! Guys look hot in makeup (enter into evidence: Jack Sparrow) Guys, the Gay Poncho is available that night.

Someone once dressed in a Chipolte t-shirt and apron, wrapped their new baby in tin foil, and the baby was a burrito. Clear evidence that creativity is associated with sleep deprivation.

In the (even more) tasteless category:
(an oldie but goodie) White sheet in ghost fashion, The Who t-shirt on top, and lots of footprints on the sheet.
Tap-dancing old man (see archives of this blog)
Wet t-shirt contest winner
Anyone can do Goth, but how about a noose around your neck or a self-inflicted gunshot wound? Remember, the best costumes have punchlines.

And then some
ideas
truly do require a picture. (errrggg! how come the text is STILL fucked up? I know I seem to be one of those chicks who hate a man to interfere, but right now would be a good time...) I'm wondering if pic #1 got together with ice cream cone lady...

Then, of course the inevitable, somewhat regretable punchiness ensued and with it the following ideas notable for their stupidity:

"You know," the man said, "If we plan it right, we could get some shit done that night."

"How do you mean?"

"Let's encourage our friends to dress up as members of the service industry. Like yardmen, bartenders, maids, window washers..."

"Yeah," I said, warming to the idea, "and don't forget your accessories! Like bags and a rake for the yardmen, alcohol for the bartenders, windex and papertowels for the window washers..."

'nuf said. We were asleep four minutes hence.

Yes, I do have an idea for my costume. Won't say what but it involves a short skirt and combat boots.

cheers.

trying to be polite, ending up frustrated...

mention


I'm about to say screw it.

Ok, BB, tried to fix it to be polite, but of course the code wasn't cooperating (see fucked up text below) or not enough caffiene, or something. See above for the link to the blog mentioned in the previous entry, if the fucking thing works this time. AAARRGGGGHHHH! How do you geeks do it, day after day? It really explains the moods, the affinity for mind-altering substances, and the XBox. I've got new respect, man.

If the damn thing doesn't work, then his link can be found in the comments section.
Goodkingalan. Nice guy, funny blog.

cheers

there's a landscape of playdough behind me...

I got a mention on another
Blog (a somewhat disappointed, no sex, but...). Hey, you never know. I could go there.

In that same vein, I'm hearing some murmurs about the provocative title of my little blog. Two points to note: Remember, it's a riddle. Not my fault if you're not brainiac enough to work it out. Also, of course it's provocative. It's supposed to be. Do you think someone would read B--'s Blog? Come on.

Went out last night. All in all it was set up to be a tame night. I was driving Beastie for one, which limits me to about two Coors Lights (Disclaimer to follow: I'm not a lightweight at all except when it comes to driving; they've just tightened the laws in Colorado, and it's just WRONG, folks.) Also, one of the party couldn't get a sitter. There is no bigger buzz kill than getting left at home with the kids when you've thought all week you were going out. You have my deepest sympathies. Third, they were playing live country music at the pub. Cute band but country music just the same. Again. Country at an Irish pub is just wrong.

But we had fun anyway. We had the "cute" waiter and he brought me iced tea with my coors without my asking, and without the usual accompanying snicker. If you don't drink Bass or Stella or Guinness at the pub you get some subtle snubbing. Usually those drinking the other sort: coors, bud, or God forbid, that low-carb crap, are usually too drunk to notice. But a girl's got to watch her figure, and one Bass puts me past driving limit. They have real pints there.

Anyway, my friend and I (prior acquaintances; now friends, methinks) had fun chatting away. She's one of those people who have the most exciting life and tons of stories. Fortunately, she's a good story teller too. One thing I've learned from blogs is that it's less about what happens than how it's told. I won't relate any of the stories here; don't want to ruin the movie. But anyway we had great fun.

No pick-up attempts, which was a relief. Of course I wasn't wearing the gay poncho. This summer I've worn this pretty ordinary black poncho and been picked up on by the fairer sex a few times. After 3-, ahem, several years of never being picked up by a girl it's a little disconcerting, though I'm getting used to it. The better half was with me every time (which served to add to the hilarity - we've been together since we were 19, for crissake!). Two thoughts about the girl-pickups occurred this morning. Maybe it's not so much me as the two of us. Maybe we look like that sort of couple. Or maybe he's more adept at subtle scamming than I thought. I'm about as subtle as Beastie Boy poetry, but I always go home to the same man each night so he seems ok with it. Also, he knows that while I might enjoy checking out the real estate, I'm not interested in even talking to the agent.

In other news:
The carpet guys did exactly the opposite of every special instruction I gave them. Top marks for consistancy.

Punkinhead is playing playdough and take-the-paper-off-the-crayons. Called me a "busthead!" (that translates to "fuckhead" in two-year-old venacular, if you didn't know) Bit her brother. Sprayed a juice box all over the kitchen. Not a good morning.

Ok, enough ramblings for this Saturday am. I've got 50 pages on the rough of the last book of the series left. Thought it might be best if I have more than a vague idea of how things turn out before I take money for the thing. Due to write later tonight. You'll know how far I got if there's another posting today or lots of comments (with an undertone of frustration) on your blogs.

cheers

ps Thats my new call-sign by the way. Took me a while to come up with one.

unwanted greetings

The chiropracter said hi to me at the gym. I pretended I didn't hear or see him. I'm such a wimp.

don't follow me. you won't make it.

Sorry, but I've got another left hand turn lane story.

Beastie is my husband's jeep. (The other half hates that name for the jeep. When I named our childhood pet mouse Chirpy my brother hated that name too. The name stuck. I've got a telent for bestowing highly appropriate, albeit simplistic nicknames.) Anyway, Beastie is a Rubicon with 35s and all the other appropriate tricks of the trade. The thing goes over anything.

When I drive Beastie people tend to think that I am tailgating when I'm not. Something about seeing a bumper in the top of your rearview mirror makes folks nervous, I guess. But while I might not always have the best visibility out the back (and sides and immediate front) I do know what I'm doing. I've got more road hours in the thing than its rightful owner, and I enjoy being taller than everyone else for once. I sure as hell am not a tailgater and the next person who suggests it will be cleaning tire tread off their roof rack.

But this morning I guess the minivan in front of me was:
a. suffering from a sever bout of jeep envy and wanted to check out my winch
b. on the fucking phone
c. thought I was tailgating (I wasn't!) and decided to teach me a lesson by blocking my access to the left hand turn lane.

My signal was clearly on, and minivan-man stopped about three car lengths behind the next car. After about twenty seconds I decided he was sporting option C. Other supporting evidence that he had appointed himself Daily Driving Deputy were the little fishy symbol (nothing against it, I suffer from that delusion as well, but I also took friggin' science in school) and a Bush '04 sticker. (I highly appreciate people who keep their politics to themselves. A Kerry sticker would have been only marginally better.)

Well, we're late for school again and this dork is, well, dorking around with the Beastie. Folks, don't fuck with the Beastie. Especially when I've had three hours of sleep (up all night talking and writing and watching Dead Like Me which is almost as entertaining as Krypto and his set), one measely cup of tea, a five-year-old who suddenly cares about his appearance, and no breakfast. In short, I wasn't in the mood. Especially since I'm still pissed by the whole chiropractor at the gym thing (that's going to irritate me for a loooong time.)

So what could I do? I popped the two foot median and went around the asshole. Made the light, too. Ha!

My daughter (in honor of the season we'll call her Punkinhead) giggles and says, "Do it again, mom!"

Hmm. I admit I'd forgotten about the impressionable two-year-old in the back seat in lieu of my forthcoming nonfatnowhipmocha and pumpkin bread at starbucks.

I think I tempered the effects of my less than desirable influence though. I turned down the Nickelback and said, "No honey. We only do that when jerks are blocking the road in front of us."

"Ok, mom."

Parenting is rough business; nonstop work and all that. Got to be on your toes all the time.

Big Scary Guy

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Got an email request to describe Big Scary Guy:
"...I've never seen him at the gym and I go every day! Have I just missed him?" -g

First of all, apologies for the lame nickname, but when the pants fit...

He doesn't go to the gym anymore because there is no way to miss this guy. If you'd ever seen him you'd know exactly who he is. First of all, he is the textbook description of "cut." I heard through semi-reliable sources that he does steroids, but he also clearly lifts every day.

How to really describe him? Once good looking, now he's got a hard look about him - lines and scars cross his face like a strip mine. He's got lots of tattoos, one of which says "combat vet" and I'm sure he earned that stripe by jumping out of airplanes and slitting the throats of third world despots. But the thing I noticed first is his awareness. The man has a hyper-developed sense of his surroundings. I only noticed because I do too. snickers from the audience(Ok, except when driving, but I prefer to keep my eyes on the road.)

Other characteristics of note: miscellaneous piercings alongside the ink: prerequisite lobe hoops (no cartilage - so I've got him there) but he's got nipple rings (he's quite a sight in a swimsuit). I've heard men joke-nervously and very quietly- that he wouldn't be so tough if you grabbed one of the nipple rings and gave it a good tug.

Riiight.

I think another (well-built) friend described him best when he said, "Can't you tell the guy's a killer?"

This friend actually talked to BSG - one of the few who stand eye to eye with him. "I felt like he was eyeing me in a mean way, and we didn't even know each other so I went to talk to him. Personable enough guy though. I don't know why I got the bad vibes."

I said, "Maybe because you're the only guy in the place that could spot him on bench press?"

If there are guys like BSG still in the military, then there's hope yet for defeating those nasty terrorists.

Oh, and did I mention the American flag contact lenses? It's hearsay; but there is no way I'll ever get close enough to confirm the rumor. I mean, he's big and he's scary. Best to steer clear.

boo-cchanalia

Clarification on Boo-cchanalia:

If you live here and actually know me (ie: you know my email address, you know my phone number, you know my name) you're invited.

Saturday, 23 October 2004 in the p.m.

Must be registered to vote to attend. That should clarify the requirements. Yeah, that's right. No anarchists and no kids. Call me crazy but I think both types could kill a party.

I know I've neglected someone in the emailing/calling process so if you qualify please come. This is a replacement for the very exclusive holiday party that we usually hold, so this is your last chance to be entertained by us this year. There may be some sort of hot tub/swim suit/tiki/kamikazi themed event in the early spring, but nothing till then.

**Costumes strongly encouraged, but we may accept bribes of high-content alcohol or very good beer (not that low-carb crap) to gain entrance.

am pre-tea musings and queries

Why do I continually type in booger.com instead of blogger.com when trying to access my blogger account?

I didn't try to make a link. If there is such a site I don't wanna go.

Why does kitchen water taste better than bathroom water?

What are the odds that most salesmen (and chiropracters) were bullies as children?

Why do 6 little boys, while walking to school, insist on picking up every worm and snail on the way and then expect me to dispose of them upon arrival at school?

Now that I've sent out invites to Boo-cchanalia (costumes strongly encouraged) what the hell should I be?

do I look like someone who wants to talk to you?

"tryin' to make some sense of this,
tryin' to save face with false appearances..." Riddlin Kids


So at the gym today I'm doing my reverse curls, which I hate anyway for their nauseating, motion-sickness inducing value, and this guy comes over to tell me I'm doing them wrong.

To myself: Oh, did I ask you? No!

But I tried the nice approach, sans friendly smile. "This is how my trainer told me to do it."

His breezy reply? (Are you reading, J?) "Yeah, they don't really know anything. I'm a chiropractor..."

Which of course explained a lot. Fucking know-it-all, wannabe-a-real-doctor, shoe-sales-man-y, doing-actual-damage-and-getting-paid-a-fortune-for-it type. No, I don't like chiroquackters. Don't trust 'em. Tried one and he did absolutely nothing but take a whole shitload of money.

So I listened silently while he blessed me with his "knowledge" (translate- bullshit) and all the time I'm wishing I looked meaner. You know, like someone that no one in their right mind would approach without a hefty reccommendation from a close friend. Alas, God cursed me with a friendly face and a kind nature.

I keep myself in decent shape. I wear makeup to the gym. I look young. I know all of these qualities comine to make me look like one of those sort who want you to talk to me. But I'm not. I work out on the guy side, and those chicks usually only do it to pick up on the buff dudes. But I am actually there to work out, and I keep my own buff dude at home. I don't do all of it for you. (Never mind for whom I'm doing all the working out and make-up - it's none of your business. The affected party knows who he is and regularly shows his appreciation.)

My friend suggested that I try to look pissed off all the time, but when I approximated a pissed-off expression in the mirror I just looked constipated. No wonder my kids don't snap-to whenever I give them the look.

So I guess I need to go with the "Big Scary Guy" look (yes, he's an actual person - more on him later). Except for three problems: I'm not big. I'm not scary. I'm not a guy.

So here is my plea: Big Scary Guy, please come back to the gym. I know that chick dumped you, but she's harrassing a new boyfriend now. She's not so great anyway. I swear I won't talk to you, I won't even look at you in all your mean weirdness. I'd just like to sort of work out near you, because no one dares to speak in your presence.

Hmm. One can only hope.

purse nitters...

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One recent night we ended up at Connor O'Neils (henseforth to be referred to as the pub, since that's what it is). The better half wanted coffee, since he was complaining of exhaustion; but he couldn't have been too tired because he quickly amended his need to Irish Coffee, the best of which can be found at the pub. (They actually use good whiskey, Irish of course. Delish.) Lo and behold the
Indulgers (The link WORKS! Yea! Get me, I wrote code. But what's that big space about?) were playing, unbenownst to myself. I sort of, barely know the band members; I say sort of because we exchange grins and beers on occasion but very little talk. Keeps the mystique alive, I find. Nothing like conversation to kill a good crush.

Anyway, they were in fine form as usual, and I got the typical offers to dance, despite hanging out all night with my very handsome husband. I just don't dance to irish music. It's apparently more fun to listen while holding up a wall, as Damien (the lead singer) has teased on occasion.

The pub is an unusual, special place. For one, I know most of the wait staff, having eaten lunch in there nearly once a week all last year with kid(s) in tow, and they are tolerant of matchbox cars on the fireplace constructed at great expense by Irish stonemasons, and they don't mind when the little one runs from booth to booth and does science experiments with the salt and sugar. Fortunately it's quiet in there at lunch time. Usually some waitress comes and sits down with us and entertains the little ones so I can eat my salad in 4 minutes instead of thirty seconds. Also when I requested it (ok, it was probably just good timing) they put in brewed iced tea which I drink by the gallon.

I also go see the Indulgers nearly every time they play (I need to let a few shows pass without going, before I attain groupie status. One of them actually approached me two shows ago and asked me if I wanted to sit with them. Yuuuck.)

Finally it's special because they have Stella Artois on tap. I guess I could have started with that and forgotten all the other blather.

Lots of different types hang out there - the expatriots of course, so you get some accents, and then there's the regulars. College kids, just a few to improve the general looks of the crowd. Then you get the odd bird that hangs out in a booth next to the band's speaker knitting. And when we asked him what he was knitting, he held up his colorful bit of woven yarn and said proudly, "A purse for my wife."

To which my husband immediately responded, "Dude. You could have said anything. A beer coozie, or a shotgun shell bag, or anything. A purse? Jeesh!"

I commented that I thought the damage had been done just by virtue of the fact that he was knitting while listening to a rock band.

The purse knitter tolerated all of this with a superior little smile. Apparently he knows something we don't.

Our friend, who had been sitting next to the Knitter, popped up for a beer. When he returned he kindly offered me his seat, and I declined as I nearly always would rather stand.

I said, "No, go sit."

But he shook his head. "I don't sit next to purse knitters."

I always thought of Boulder as such a tolerant place, but apparently stereotypes still exist... though what stereotype you associate with guys who knit purses for their wives, I don't know.

Anyway the husband and I had a fine time, bought Damien his thank-you Stella, and left.

Then the next night we stopped in the pub again, noshed some yummy snacks, and met up with the Birthday Boy for a night of being the coolest people out on the town. And BB (which also could stand for Bullshitting Boy) said he'd heard of such of thing before, that there was actually an organized group of them.

"They call themselves Purse Knitters of America," he said knowingly. "or 'PNA'."

To his defense, he'd just had a bottle of wine at dinner and was distracted by his new tattoo, but (tee hee) I plan on emailing this entry to his mother, the retired ENGLISH teacher. Ok, just kidding. But I'll hold it in reserve, just in case...

Oh, yeah, the bustop... Well, I guess it's a draw. No worries, BB. PNA is safe with me.

Crack that Target Teaser

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So we're at Target tonight and you know those walkie-talkies they all wear? There's probably a more technical, hipper name for them by now, but I don't know what it is. Anyway, one calls another to ask for some help on their w/t and it's turned up really loud. I think the conversation had something to do with cleaning the bathroom.

So the guy replies, "You know, we need a code for that, like It's that special time."

"Good idea. But maybe not, It's that special time."

Someone else chimes in, "Definitely not It's that special time."

Apparently the Target workers get a little punchy after 9 pm.

That's all we heard. But as we were walking out to the car (er, excuse me, I mean the monster Jeep) we amused ourselves with suggesting all sorts of code phrases that they could use, and it was way funny. Like, It's snowing outside could mean to collect the carts. Or They're comin' right for us! could mean that they need more checkers. How about Oh God, the inhumanity! could mean a pissed off customer. Or Clean up on aisle 5 could mean, ok, well, clean up on aisle 5.

Ok, maybe it was us that was punchy. But we were out late last night with the birthday boy.

Oh, and confidential to above birthday boy, what happens at the bustop stays at the bustop, right? I think you said it best; lots of things seem like a good idea at the time...