Typical Life

I don't want to post depressing things, but that's part of what's going on, and it's part of life.

First, we simply can't close on a house. Our loan hasn't been rejected, but neither is it fully approved. We've been in this limbo for months now. And we have to be out of the house by the end of the month. I don't really know what to do.

The 2nd anniversary of Charles' death/murder was on the 12th. Our friends in Houston went out to commemorate and the evening was hosted by one of Charles' former roommates. I'll call him Cade. He was a wild guy and I have a few funny stories about him, but he is, from what I can tell, nearing the end stages of Lou Gehrig's disease. I suppose it was bittersweet. He wouldn't talk to anyone after his initial diagnosis except Charles. I know people would have been there for him, but I have no doubt he didn't want to be slobbered over. I remember Charles telling me about it and saying that Cade would want people to remember him in better times. I know I would.

But Cade came out of his self-inflicted exile to remember his friend. A whole lot of dust gets in my eyes when I think about it. I saw the pictures. He looks not good, and I can understand someone with any amount of pride refusing to be seen in that condition. But he came out for his friend. I hope death might not seem as frightening to him with someone like Charles waiting at the end. I'm just sad that it was Charles who had to pave the way.

Anyway, it's too misery-inducing to write much more about it.

I'm trying to think of something more cheerful.

Jethro and I got drinks with a former blogger who is somewhat local to us last weekend. It was fun. I felt like getting my drink on, and I did. The $3.00 jack 'n' cokes at the local Coyote Ugly did their part. There were some hot chicks dancing on the bar too. They were neat looking. But there is the ugliest trend occurring. Tube socks with cowboy boots. I saw two girls wearing them, and it was not cute. You have to have one hot little ass to pull off that kind of ugly, and I'll give them some credit there.

Anyway, it was a fun night.

And I'm losing weight again, I'm happy to report. I can't believe I went on a diet at such a stressful time since food gives me such joy and happiness, but Jethro says if I can withstand it through this stress, it shouldn't be so hard when all the stress is over. I see his point. And the healthy eating is probably helping to keep the stress from killing me. And an even bigger plus, I've experimented with some new recipes and they're freaking delicious. And healthy. For example. Shepherd's Pie. I love, love, love shepherd's pie. But it's pretty fattening and full of bad bad carbs from the potatoes. This recipe was different. The South Beach diet calls for cauliflower to be used instead of the mashed potatoes, but I don't really care for cauliflower no matter how much sour cream you use, so I used Great Northern White Beans instead. I heated them up, put in two (heaping) spoons of sour cream and an egg yolk, then fluffed them up with a mixer. I had no idea how they would turn out, but they were really good. Very similar to potatoes, but healthier apparently. For the ground beef mixture, I sauteed onions and garlic in a wee little bit of olive oil, then added the ground beef. When that was browned, I added two cups of edamame instead of peas (which have a lot of sugar), added two table spoons of balsamic vinegar in lieu of Worcestershire sauce which has sugar in it, one can of beef broth (that was too much) and let it simmer awhile. Then I put it in a casserole dish and spread the mashed beans over it. Then I covered the top with low fat shredded cheddar and baked it for 25 minutes. It turned out really well. The only problem was that there was a lot of liquid from using too much broth. I'll just reduce that amount next time.

So big problems are always there, but the little things are good.

I started massage therapy classes. I don't want to go into the whys and wherefores, but suffice it to say I have good reasons. Unfortunately, they're very boring. The hands-on part is okay - you get a massage each class - but the anatomy and physiology class is going to kill me. I don't care about any of it. It consists of the instructor (who is actually pretty cute) reading the textbook and then getting tested. The highlight of the class is reading ahead waiting for the cute instructor to say 'vagina.' What? You all know I'm not right.

And we're still waiting to close on the next house. I'm afraid. I don't know what is going on and I don't want to talk about it.

So I'm just going to watch lions eat a antelope calf on Animal Planet. I think that will have a calming effect.

On Motherhood and Such

Sorry for not writing much. The main happening in my life is waiting anxiously for another loan to go through on another house. Until it happens, I'm awash in crippling anxiety manifesting in dizzy spells, ennui, and irritable bowel syndrome. In other words, I'm not much fun.

But for good news, my little nephew is pure sweetness. We were back in Houston to see him two weeks ago, and we got to my sister's apartment just as they were getting back from the hospital. Gwennie, Emma and I were pushing and shoving to be the first to hold him. I won. Finally. They're small, but scrappy.

We spent some time there and then left to go out for the evening with some friends. The next morning, I got a call from my sister who was crying very hard. My heart turned to burning ice and the adrenaline flushed out my hangover but swiftly.

"IS THE BABY OKAY???" I bellowed.

"Yeah, he's fine," sobbed my sister.

Turned out she was just overwhelmed with learning how to breastfeed him. The nurses at the hospital had been such psycho, Nazi bitches about it, telling her that if he didn't eat every three hours, they were going to keep testing his glucose (which involved pricking his heel), so she better cooperate and give him a bottle. I really thought those days were long gone, but apparently not. So my poor sister was terrified that he wasn't eating enough when all the poor little thing wanted to do was sleep.

Jethro and I still drove over as fast as we could and I spent the day just trying to be calm and assuring her that her dear little baby was just fine.

Now I'm not trying to brag here, and I'm not putting my sister down at all for her panic, because she really did have a bad experience with those nurses that I never had, but when I look back to how I did with Gwennie at 23 years old, I'm pretty proud. It never occurred to me that I had done a good job. I have always been sure that I had done a mediocre job. But I actually did well. I didn't enjoy breastfeeding, but I did it until I got pregnant with Emma which was a solid 9 months and I nursed Emma for a year. I have plenty of faults as a mom, to be sure, but I also have strengths. And the best thing I ever did was to ignore every piece of advice that came my way once the baby was born. It's probably the strangest notion, but my rationale was if crack addicts can raise their children past infancy, then I can. And it worked. The thought kept me confident.

Anyway, I'm done here, and must now feed my children as the law dictates.

Words of Wisdom

Drinking non-alcoholic beer is like going down on your cousin. Sure it tastes the same, but it ain't right....

It's a Boy! A Real Boy!

I'm finally an Aunt. My little nephew, Phillip Thomas, was born yesterday at 11:42 in the morning, weighing in at a very healthy 8 lbs 1 oz. I've only seen grainy camera phone pictures so far, but I adore him already. He looks like my sister and my father, who he was named for. Jethro and I and the girls are headed back to Houston to see him and I'm sure I will have a hard time keeping Gwennie and Emma from abducting him to become his slaves.

I feel that euphoria one only gets from having a new baby in the family. My arms are just aching to hold him.

That doesn't mean I'm not busy, though. I have to clean the house, pack for the weekend and buy some presents. And my grandmother just called to make sure we'd pick her up when we go to visit. She's already gone to see him, but she's wasting no time piggybacking on whomever hasn't. Can't say I blame her, though. It's her first great-grandson.

I have to say that for being only 5 minutes old, he's remarkably unslimey.

Funny Stuff

I have yet another decision to make. Jethro and I have been discussing it and he would like it if I got my massage therapy license and worked with him in the clinic. I know I now have my associates degree in graphic design, but I always planned to freelance in that regard, and with a massage therapy license, I could have definite work.

So I went to an open house for a massage therapy school right down the road from the clinic.

Dear, sweet, mother of pearl. Every inch of this office was filled with clutter. From papers, to equipment, to kitschy Asian junk, there was no room to even leave fingerprints.

I walked into this den of hippies trying to keep an open mind, but as soon as I hear "chi flow" and witness the blank, vegan stares, I start feeling my skin crawl and I want to take it off. Jethro and the girls had come with me to check it out, but as soon as Jethro saw the ionic foot bath, he grabbed the girls and hightailed it out of there. I could hear him screaming in his head.

I don't mean to sound so condescending with regards to alternative medicine. It's our livelihood, after all. But so much of it is crap with no evidence (or worse, false evidence) to back up the claims. And even if something is eventually proven, it seems wrong to sell treatments before they are. Telling someone "the Chinese have done it for thousands of years, so you should pay out the schmoobie" doesn't strike me as very objective or scientific.

I know it's hard to imagine some unhygienic vegan in rags bilking people out of money, but they can do it just as easily as a guy in a suit.

Anyway, I'm tired and rambling and I think I'll go to bed now.

Tedium

Overdue hat tip to ALa of Blonde Sagacity. That was her cake in the picture below. She won a contest with it last year, and her husband won the year before. They seem to have a gift with the fondant. I don't. I tried making it once and it seemed to attract every piece of hair and fuzz and bug in a 5 yard vicinity. Not my best effort.

Things are going. I've been without my husband for almost 5 days, and I'm feeling kind of growly. Jethro is up in New Town, and I'm in Houston with the girls visiting his parents. It's not my preferred way of doing things, but they miss the girls so much and it's no real trouble for me, although I miss Jethro. We seem to be very co-dependent and I guess I'm one of those sick people who think that's healthy.

It's been an interesting week, though. I've seen quite a few people and have plans to see quite a few more including a young man I met at this gay homeschooling christian youth sports thing I went to in high school. I know he liked me back then, but I refused to date him because he was a year younger than me. I had ridiculous standards at 16. I wouldn't date anyone younger, but I would have given my left tit to have had the babies of a local auto mechanic sporting a golden mullet. Honestly, it's such a good thing for me that I'm married to Jethro, because I'm still that freaking weird.

Happy Birthday, America!

A Nose By Any Other Name...

I want a nose job. I know, I know. I don't approve of plastic surgery. And I really don't. Find the character to transcend your flaws is what I alway say, and shake what yer mama gave ya.

But I can't stand my nose. I'm pretty sure an ex-ray of it would reveal internal complications so whorled and maze-like and deviant, that a cottage cheese covered, anal sex receiving porcupine fetishist would shudder in ecstatic loathing and revulsion. Half-Jewish, and half-horrid-Scottish-bulbous-rosacea, it's as if the two genes collided then tried to run off screaming before they were frozen in stern, unyielding cartilage.

For such an offending appendage, it doesn't look that crooked. But it is. You should see the nose pads of my glasses. Mind-blowingly off center. One is somewhat straight and the other veers waaaaay off to the side and twists back.

But you should see it when I cry. For most people, women at least, crying is cathartic. But not for me. Actually, I don't know if it is or not because the physical effects of a good cry are so awful. My sinuses swell to the point where I can't breathe through my nose at all and a headache goes without saying. And it lasts for days. At least 4 days after a good cry, you can tell I've had a good cry. It's very aggravating.

Really, there's no point to this at all. I just wanted to write something.

Jon and Kate

I hate even talking about that show. Gwennie, Emma and I loved watching and cooing over the adorable little children who looked so much like them, and now those stupid parents have ruined it all.

Honestly, the last thing I intended to do was render some high holy judgement on those people. I knew they were getting paid a shitload to exploit their children, and I was okay with that. That's a lot of kids to raise, and money comes in handy, and I don't begrudge people what the market will pay them for anything as long as it's honest. I can understand them exploiting their own kids for the sake of their college educations, and I don't even begrudge them the perks that come with the show like tummy tucks, hair plugs and choppers. Sometimes silly, superficial, material things make it easier to keep trudging through some tough baby years.

But they didn't have the character to withstand the immersion into hard-core materialism and now these spoiled brat parents can't even keep it together for the sake of their little meal tickets. Those kiddies made their fabulous lives possible, and they repay them with a broken home. They suck. There's more I want to say, but that's all I really can say. They suck.

I'm Boooooored!

I have The Strep. I am taking antibiotics and trying to recover, so I'm dutifully remaining in bed, but I'm sooooooooo boooooooooored. I wouldn't even mind cleaning if it meant I didn't feel so shitty.

I watched 4 movies yesterday. Old movies, so no one cares, I'm sure, but one of them was The Professionals with Burt Lancaster. It was pretty good. It must have been made when people were just starting to say real swear words in movies because when they did use them them, they said them like they knew they're going to shock someone. When Burt Lancaster was asked where a bullet got him, he says "in the ass" in a very unnatural way. Then in the last lines of the movie, the Evil White Capitalist Man calls one of the professionals a bastard, and you could hear the exclamation point in his voice. But then the professional guy delivers one of the best lines in the movie, saying "Yes, sir. In my case an accident of birth. But you, sir, you're a self-made man."

It was a good movie. But if I looked anything like Claudia Cardinale.....

I'd be ruling the world right about now. Seriously, I don't know how she never made it to icon status. She makes Sophia Loren and Raquel Welsch look like horses.

Anyway, my fever's breaking, so I'm going to go sweat for awhile.

So no sooner do I work past the disappointment of losing the house I wanted, then I get laid out by some kind of plague. Probably swine flu, given my luck. But everything is okay. I have so much. I have two daughters who I love more than anything, a husband who has not only been a comfort to me all while running his business, but who is taking such good care of me while I'm sick. When I'm sure I won't infect his johnson, I'll make it up to him.

So in spite of it all, I'm happy. Not calm, exactly, but happy. I'm gonna go to bed now. I hurt all over.

*Sniff*

Not gonna get the house that we want forever 'n' ever. I haven't cried yet, but I have no doubt it's coming.

Update: It came. And went. I'm moving on. And it's not a case of the fox and the grapes, but there were things that were not perfect about that house. The driveway was god-awful steep and hard to negotiate. The yard would have always needed a lot of maintainence and I wilt after 5 minutes past air conditioning. Of course we knew all this and would have bought the house anyway, but remembering these not insignificant drawbacks takes a little bit of disappointment out of the EPIC FAIL of our loan officer.

And BTW, I hate VPs of mortgage companies who used to be sports personalities on television. The only satisfying thing I could get out of this would be to kick him, deliberately, repeatedly and forcefully, in his softest parts until he begs for my dispassionate mercy.

So essentially, we're back at square one. We need to find a house and probably start the loan process all over again because we're certainly not keeping our file with the same preppie, WASPy, effete douchebag we were using. I'm gettin' me a Jew this time 'cause I'm tired of screwing around.

I'll be back when I've had a few margaritas and given Jethro the anger-fuck of his life.

I'm Already Going to Hell, I May As Well Blog About It

First things first. I'm done with school. This means I have Finished Something. It's momentous. Really.

But the real blog fodder is the wedding I attended recently. I mentioned a few posts back that we had a wedding in NY. I was the best woman (I refuse to say matron-of-honor, it makes me sound like a sadistic, but oddly rewarded prison guard).

I had been looking forward to this wedding for months, ever since the bride asked me to be in it. It was in upstate NY, not exactly close to where I grew up, but a lot closer than I've been in years, so I was pretty stoked to go.

I flew into Houston Wednesday evening so I could fly up with my friend Jen early Thursday. The wedding wasn't until Saturday, but I thought I'd go up early and help out and Jen said she'd go up with me. Way back when we purchased our tickets, we found a really good price, except that there was a layover, which didn't seem like too big a deal at the time, but actually was when we finally made it up to Rochester. We were exhausted and then we had to rent a car at the airport and drive the 40 miles to the town where the wedding was.

One day I will tell the bird story. Or maybe I'll let Jen do it. It was bizarre.

By the time we made it to the hotel, we were giddy with fatigue. We hauled our luggage through the doors and were immediately greeted by a large, puzzling sign declaring "NO MORE R WORD!"

Jen looked at me and mouthed "R Word?" Then we looked around. Helmets and motorized carts as far as the eye could see.

Yes. That R word. We were in the midst of a 'tard Convention. And yes, I know I'm not being nice.

We were gasping for air from holding in our laughter by the time we made it up to our room. Mind, it's not that we thought a convention of that sort was particularly funny or mockable, but when you go someplace where a wedding is about to be held, the last thing you expect to see is a parking lot full of short buses and crash helmets. It caught us unawares is all.

But do not fear. This gets so much worse.

Later that day, Jen, Jethro's ex Micky, and I, ended up in an elevator with a young man with CP and his motorized chair. He asked us to push the button for his floor and we obliged. His floor came before ours and we held the door for him as he tried to manage his chair. It seemed he was having a little trouble because he'd go forward and then go back a little, forward, then back, forward, then back. We weren't quite sure what to do. I'd have happily pushed him through the doors, but I didn't want to hurt his feelings or anything. Finally he made it out the door and we let them close just as he went back again a little. The backpack on the back of his chair looked like it might be caught in the doors and we frantically tried to open them, but it was too late and the elevator started moving. We froze in panic (well, actually Jen and Micky did. I think I yelped something and started to climb the walls. I had started drinking by then) and waited for a scream. Fortunately it didn't come, but we did almost have heart attacks.

Now Jen and I were sans kids and sans husbands in a podunk little town in upstate NY. The logical thing for us to have done would have been to go to bed and get a good night's sleep. But that would not have been as much fun as going to the hotel bar.

The bartender was a hapless, 19 year old Indian boy who (as we found out later) didn't eat meat and didn't drink in accordance with his religion. This meant that in spite of a rather well stocked bar, he was not able to do more than pour beer and shots as we discovered when Micky tried to order a dirty martini. She grimaced on the first sip and asked him to make it dirtier, to which he promptly responded by pouring in more vermouth. That was pretty funny.

Then the convention, which had been in full swing complete with band and dancing (I think it was dancing) ended, and the real fun for the poor bartender began. He was doing such a brisk business in milk and O'Douls, that we were beginning to feel neglected. We met some Canadian kids at the other end of the bar and wondered aloud if we needed to wear protective head gear in order to get a beer. But all the conventioneers had partied themselves out around 9:30, and the bartender gave us his undivided attention. He apologized for ignoring us, and complained he hadn't been tipped very well. He took back the terrible martini and didn't charge us, which was nice of him. Jen, being sensible and tired, had a smoke and went to bed.

Micky and I stayed to talk to the Canadians, a very young couple who had come down to Podunkville for a Kenny Chesney concert of all things. The young man was buying lots of shots and teaching the young bartender a thing or two about jagermeister, while trying to outdrink Micky and me.

It didn't work out so well for him.

If you look very carefully, you can just make out the penis I drew in eyeliner on the side of his face. I was drawing upside down, so it's not directly even with his mouth, but you get the idea.

I don't even look drunk in this picture, but I certainly wasn't sober. We talked with the young man's girlfriend awhile (she took the picture) and then toddled off to bed.

The next day was the rehearsal dinner.

The bride and groom were getting married in the garden of one of their friends' houses and having the rehearsal dinner there as well under a lovely white tent. I called them to see what I could do, and the groom said he'd pick me up at the hotel while he went to give the bride's father his tux. Then he'd drop me off at his friends' house.

When I got down to the lobby, there was a gentleman waiting who was not the groom. He stared at me for a second and asked if I was Zelda. I replied in the affirmative and he said he was a friend of the groom's and that he'd been asked to wait for me while the groom dropped off the tux. I asked if the groom told him I'd be the one without the helmet, and he chuckled heartily. That kind of set the mood for the day.

They dropped me off at the rehearsal site, and told me my job was to stuff little clear bags full of flower petals that were to be hurled at the bride and groom as they departed. Then after the stuffing, I was to spritz the petals with distilled water so that they wouldn't wilt overnight.

Then they left. Now maybe it's just me, but I tend to feel a little awkward sitting at someone's house I don't know, stuffing petals into little plastic bags then spritzing them. Luckily, the homeowners were really nice and friendly and after a beer or seven, I was loudly regaling them and other members of the wedding party who had managed to straggle in, including the bride, with the stories of the 'tard convention, figuring that amusing them was the least I could do in exchange for their hospitality. And it was funny. I had everyone in stitches - clutching their sides with my impersonations and hand gestures, except for the bride who was kind of giving me the stink eye. But she'd always been ultra PC, and she knew I wasn't at all, so I figured she'd just roll her eyes at me, call me a peasant, and that would be that.

So there I was, happily working and chatting and drinking, and in the very best of moods when the bride's family arrived. Oh, dear god, let the earth swallow me whole and cast me down with the sodomites.

Three of her siblings had The Challenges. Three. Not one, not two, but three. And one of them quite severely. And her mom was tooling around on a motorized cart.

I don't think I can properly describe the exquisite humiliation. I took the bride aside the second I had the chance and apologized quickly, but profusely. She looked squirmy, and I don't blame her a bit, but I think I might have been an even bigger asshole if I hadn't apologized. I'm really not sure, though. I think I might just really be an asshole and no amount of apologizing will atone.

Needless to say, I was her bitch for the rest of the weekend.

It didn't stop me from drinking more though, and I managed to tie on a pretty good one at the hotel bar later. The young bartender was stingier with his coke than his rum.

The next morning was not fun. I had to be out the door by 7:30 to go to the salon with the bride to get our hair done. I hauled myself up early, took some headache pills, took a shower, and still managed to be 15 minutes late. But I felt like shit and I didn't care. Luckily the bride didn't go bridezilla and we were only 2 or 3 minutes late for the hair appointment.

The other bridesmaid had very, very short hair, so there was absolutely nothing that could be done with it, which meant that while the bride was under the hair dryer, all eyes turned to me. It seemed obvious that something needed to be done. I had discussed this with Jen and Micky and we decided a french braid a la Jennifer Aniston at the Oscars would be easy and doable. No such luck.

This was the 'do I ended up with. I looked like a 12 year old swiss yodeler from the neck up. But I wasn't unhappy. My hair was out of my way and that always makes things easier. And what do I care, really? It wasn't my day.

After the hair and make-up, we arrived at the wedding house to get the bride dressed.

This ended up being somewhat of a Herculean task. The bride is not a small woman, and she had chosen a dress of maximum complexity complete with panels and corsets. We slipped the dress over her head and had begun the process of lacing her in, when she realized she had forgotten to take off her pants.

Given my bitch status, if fell to me to remove them. It was epic.

We huffed and puffed and pulled and tugged and snapped and tied and finally it was complete. I was sweaty and exhausted, but I went around to survey the front.

My eyes filled with tears.

She was absolutely beautiful.

The bride had always been sensitive about her weight and I'm sure she had spent a lot of time agonizing over her dress. And while nothing can make a fat person look skinny, the dress did make her look perfectly lovely. And really, she is the cutest, prettiest fat chick in the entire world.

And that was the highlight of my trip. There was more good stuff at the wedding and the reception later, not the least of which was Jethro becoming enthusiastically drunk and "helping" to clear up afterwards. I finally had to tell the groom to just let him do whatever he thought needed to be done because there was just no arguing with him. That was pretty funny too. Jethro is occasionally unpredictable when he drinks.

But honestly, every other funny part aside, seeing my friend marrying a fantastic guy, beginning a wonderful life, and looking so exquisitely beautiful, was pure joy.

I got a call from Big Dick last night (he's once again sharing his peculiar brand of humor with the net). It seems he's been without power for awhile and he wanted me to update his blog for him.

So in honor of his predicament, here's some Black Stone Cherry.

H/T to Inanna for turning me on to this neat little band.

Limbo

Here's a school project I did for a golf resort:

I thought it was funny. My critique ended up being one running ball joke.

The Perils of Marriage

A couple of weeks ago, I accidentally did something I'd wanted to do for a long time, but always had the sleepy good sense not to.

I punched Jethro in the balls when he snored.

To be fair, the tv was up as loud as it could go, and I was just about to solve a Medical Mystery. Jethro had dozed off and was snoring apneatically and at certain intervals, I would do him the favor of punching him on the leg so he would start breathing again. But being engrossed in the program, I had failed to notice his body shift and when his epiglottis had sealed long enough for me to become unconsciously concerned, I punched without looking.

I felt a certain thrill of horror shoot through my arm as my fist bounced on something soft and warm and jiggly instead of the muscle and bone I'd been expecting. I drew back my arm in consternation as Jethro's breath whooshed out. He curled, slowly, slowly into a fetal position, and slowly, slowly opened his eyes. I sat there, transfixed as a look of pain and confusion came over his face.

"You racked me!" he said, in a hurt, bewildered, accusatory way, looking at me with his sad, sweet eyes.

And then I laughed. I tried not to. But the more I tried not to, the harder I laughed. I'm laughing now. I hate myself.

House

The inspections were fantastic.  A bit of cosmetic work, but the structure is sound as sound.  It's really kind of nice.  I don't dare go nuts until the bank approves our loan, but I can't help getting excited.  I tend to take disappointment in stride and get on with life, but if everything went kapluey and we didn't get it, I would probably cry very very hard for at least a week.

Because, you see, it's the house I want forever 'n' ever.

Here it is:

Front (no, it's the back, Zelda)

Kitchen

Back yard

More back yard (there's a lot of back yard).

View from the long, steep, curved driveway.

View from the long, steep front steps

Jethro and I didn't expect to find anything great at this stage of our lives.  We were planning on buying a small, easy to maintain property, with no emotional investment, and saving up slowly for the house we wanted.  But I love this one.  It's the perfect compromise for Jethro and me.  He  wanted a home in a subdivision, close to the clinic and schools, and I wanted land to grow a garden and raise rabbits.  The subdivision is nice and subdivision-ey with a community center, school, park, and general convenience, but the yard is almost half an acre.  Half an acre of lovely trees and a house on a hill.

And while it's more than we wanted to spend on a little crap-box-eventual-rental-property, I don't think it's too much for a house we'd want to make our home forever 'n' ever.Anyway, I have three more weeks of school, then it will be freedom, blissful freedom.  

However, the fact that the end of school and all the madness that accompanies it coincides with what we hope will be the house closing and a wedding in NY, means my stress level is about to hit a peak I heretofore did not know was possible.  But my loins are girded.  Girded, I tell you. Which probably accounts for some slight spasming.

Indulge me, it's my birthday

I am not having a good day.  My back is killing me.  Jethro is working on it whenever he can squeeze me in, but it hurts really badly all down my left side.  Also, I don't want to be thirty...gulp...three.  Yes I know people are older than me, but I don't want to do it.  I pretty much want to be 12 except with my kids and Jethro.  And I know that sounds icky, but it's how I feel.

And we're buying a house.  We accepted the counter offer last week, and the inspections will be this Thursday.  I have cold feet like anything.  I mean, it's nearly perfect.  It's 2500 sf, 4 bedrooms, 2 and a half bathrooms (you have no idea what a happy thought that is), enough room for our furniture and entertainment center, it's on a gigantic, nearly half acre cul-de-sac lot.   It has a gorgeous view from the front door and the master bedroom.  It's in a very large, but very pleasant, low-key subdivision, and miracle of miracles, it was in our price range!!!

But I'm scared of it.  It intimidates me.  It's this giant house on a hill - the first thing you see when you turn down the street.  It stands out and I'm not quite sure what to do with it.  I was excited to move into a trailer and now I find myself trying to buy a freakin' mansion.

I didn't sleep well all last night worrying about it.  What if we hate the neighbors?  What if there is a mudslide and the house disappears?  What if we have a severe reversal of fortune and go bankrupt? What if I get in great shape from lugging groceries up a hill and up stairs?  What if no one wants to buy it when Jethro and I retire?  What if I go totally insane with self-doubt and burn it to the ground while I dance around outside, naked, with a martini, screaming Shakespeare and Bible verses?

I have a million things to do.  I even have a list.  I never have a list, but today, I have a list.  I want a drink so badly, but I have to drive a million miles today.  I should get going.  I should.  But I want to write more.  I've missed it.

I should write about the bridal shower I helped put on over the weekend.  I made this champagne punch that was awesome.  I fibbed and said I had a recipe, but really I just made it up.  It wasn't on purpose that I made it up.  They didn't have the stuff I needed at the store, so I had to wing it.  But if it turned out badly, I wanted to have someone to blame it on, so I said it was a recipe.  But it actually turned out pretty good, so I should have just kept my mouth shut.

And another time I should have kept my mouth shut was at the shower when we were playing games because I ended up saying "ass cream" in front of the bride's mother.  I blame the champagne punch.

After the shower, we went to the bachelorette party.  I'd rented a limo driven by a man named Kenneth Cole.  No lie.  He had a cooler in the limo stocked with Bud Light and Bartles and James pineapple wine coolers.

It was fun.

The bachelorette party was weird because the bride had requested that it be classy.  And we were classy.  Horribly, boringly classy (for a bacelorette party) and yet we still seemed gauche.

Just think if we'd been wearing penis necklaces!

And I didn't get checked out once.  That was even more depressing.  Usually I can get someone to glance my way, even if they look away immediately, but not that night.  I passed a guy in a very tiny hallway, and not only did he not look at me, he turned his head when I looked at him, as if to say, "I don't want your drunk ass even thinking for a second that you have a shot with me."  As if I wanted one!  Usually I prefer men who are over 4' 11" and who don't comb their hair into phallic little spikes.  And that made me even more sad.  I couldn't even get a first look from a fucking midget.

I'm going to go now.  The sooner I can get things done, the sooner I can drink.

Happenings

Madness surely comes through using more than 10% of your brain.  I don't say this in anything resembling arrogance since I believe the use of over 10% of ones brain is not a gift, but merely the result of having too much information crammed into it largely against one's will.  And the fascinating and horrific result is not Steven Hawking-like abilities, but rather in long, animated conversations (in public) with imaginary audiences about taxes, gardening, or why one would never remarry should one's long-suffering husband finally wise up.  "No really, Imaginary Audience.  I realize it would be a total waste of excellent woman, but should I be so unfortunate as to lose the one man I can tolerate, I would prefer a life of solitude and intellectual pursuit with occasional bouts of copious alcoholic consumption."

Other side effects include facial tics, hand gestures and twitches of all kinds, and a really base, immature impulse to snicker when an instructor says "rectilinear."

I have one term left of school. One. That's it.  And I have senior-itis in the worst possible way.  I don't want to do any work anymore for any class.  I want to work on real stuff, but stupid class stuff keeps getting in the way.

And we're trying to buy a house.  We found one we really liked, but then panicked because we wouldn't have gotten it for anything less then our absolute limit.  Then we panicked about panicking because it was in a really good area with really good schools and was the lowest priced house in the subdivision.  But in a silver lining kind of way, we found out there was a 14 foot easement past the patio in the back yard.  Yeah.  No.  Sorry.  I don't much get along with government these days, and this includes local ones too.  

And of course this all converged with PMS, a trip back to Houston for a crawfish boil, and a house that could really use a nice wife to take care of it.

Oh and my mom and stepdad are not getting divorced again.

Ketchup

I finished my portfolio class last week which had been making me craaaazy. It very much confirmed the fact that I have a weird form of OCD because I went off the deep end, tweaking each and every project to within an inch of it's (and my) life, going without sleep just to think about each project, and ultimately hating everything I put into my portfolio. It really brought home the reason why I never engage in large, time-consuming projects like housework or child-rearing.

Anyway, I went to my portfolio review with a feeling of resigned despair. This was the first portfolio review for the school where they had invited people from graphic design firms around the city. Everyone who went before me had come back from their review saying that the critics had ripped their shit to pieces and made them defend each and every thing they did. I was at the point where I couldn't remember why I did anything. I couldn't even remember why I wanted to do graphic design. So I just decided that to any criticism I would just respond, "I hadn't thought about it that way, and I just might have to consider that" but knowing that I might cry or become sarcastic. I don't take criticism as well as I ought.

But I didn't even get a chance to defend my work. They loved it. They had nothing bad to say. Not even suggestions for improvement. I was truly overwhelmed. Probably because I was exhausted. They raved the most over my copywriting and typesetting skills. Copywriting is not technically what I'm supposed to be doing, but I did have a couple of funny ads which made them laugh. And typsetting, while not terribly sexy, is somewhat necessary for work in graphic design that pays. So I was thrilled. Too thrilled to do much more than stammer out a "thank you so much" although I did manage to make a crude hand gesture which I didn't intend. I'll explain that one when I post one of my ads.

Anyway, it was quite gratifying, but now that the class is over, I feel like something is missing. And on top of that, my laptop screen cracked from stem to stern and I had to send it off for repairs. I can't wrap my head around the fact that I don't have any projects left to complete so I'm wandering around like a zombie during the day and my nights are filled with dreams of package designs and logos that simply must be done in 4 hours.

If you'll pardon the crudeness of the comparison, I feel like a man who was in the middle of having great sex, but whose lady friend suddenly decided she is no longer interested and he's left violating the air.

Dream Lover

It's another dream post.

I realize this might not be the best way to win back the nice people who've read my genius writing over the last few years, but it was one of those dreams which define my utterly twisted sense of subconscious morality.  I know.  This doesn't sound interesting.  And it may not be, but bear with me.

I was driving somewhere with my friend, Jen, in another state besides Texas.  I think it was Vermont or something.  We were there with our husbands and Jen and I decided to run out quickly to get something.  We were pulled over by three cops in a van.  The leader of the cops was achingly hot in a Harrison Ford in Blade Runner kind of way.  

Looks-wise, very much my type.

His two side-kicks were a thin, gray, silent-looking guy, and a young, fat kid with a scraggly goatee.

The way they approached our vehicle, I knew we were in Big Trouble.

(Que bowm chicka bowm bowm)

Turns out Jethro had left his AR 9,557, 36,000 caliber, Illudium Q-36 Explosive Space Modulator gun in plain view in the back seat, and this kind of weaponry doesn't fly in Vermont.

Hot Cop made that menacingly clear to us with echoes from his chubby friend.  They made us both get in the cop van while they inspected the weapon and pretended to shoot it.  Then they all got into their cop van and explained our legal situation to us while Hot Cop ran his hand up my leg, igniting every nerve ending.

Jen's arm was being similarly mishandled by Silent Cop, and Chubby Cop was making funny, giggly noises.

I wriggled chastely away and tried in vain to explain that it was my husband's and he'd just forgotten to take it out of the car while Jen said she had no knowledge of the gun whatsoever and that it wasn't her fault that her friends were stupid redneck morons and that if Silent Cop didn't stop touching her she was going to weld his badge to his face.

Hot Cop asked if I was going to cooperate, and I (virtuously) proclaimed that I was married and would rather go to jail.  He said that wasn't a problem, got in the van and sat right beside me while Silent Cop drove off.

I was feeling kind of sick because my friend was going to end up in jail because of my husband.  Hot Cop was grinning right beside me, so I knew the offer was still on the table.

So I said, "Fine.  I will kiss all three of you if take us back to our car and give me back the gun."

He raised an eyebrow and said, "Kiss?"  And I said, "Tongue and the whole works for 5 minutes apiece."

I gave him a look that said, "I'll fuck you, and I want the other two to get their hands dirty, but I don't want to fuck them." 

Because in dreams you can do that.

That was fine with him, so Silent Cop pulled over.

Now here's where things went wrong.  

I decided that Hot Cop would have to go last since I didn't want the others thinking I would have sex with them too.

I pointed at Chubby Cop.  "You first," I commanded, imperiously.  "You look like you need the practice."

He was clumsy and stupid, like a giant dog.  After a few seconds of being smothered, I told him to let me do everything. And I did.  I gently sucked on his upper lip first, then parted my lips, slipped him the tongue, and guided his into my mouth where they played a tongue version of tag.  He was slobbery and gross, he had just eaten a meatball sandwich, and his goatee was scratchy and fragile, but I put my hands on the sides of his face and made out with him like it was air and I had to breathe.

When the 5 minutes were up, and it actually seemed like 5 whole minutes in real life, not dream time, I pushed him off me and went to the bathroom (there was a bathroom on the bus) where I spit out a gallon of slobber, bits of meatball, and a loosely constructed ball of facial hair.

Then I woke up.

It was unbelievable.  My subconscious set it up perfectly.  I wasn't trying to save my own skin.  I was trying to save my friend's as well and recover my husband's property, and the situation was all his fault.

I was too consumed with lust NOT to get some, but did I have hot porny dream sex with the blisteringly hot Harrison Ford in Blade Runner cop?  Did I even make out with him?  DID I?  Noooooooooo.  I dream cheated with an absolutely disgusting looked-like-something-that-fell-out-of-Michael-Moore's-underpants-fat guy.

I loathe myself.

Next time there will be only one cop.  ONE.  And it will probably be a hairy, carbuncular woman.

We're Back. Mostly.

We had a fantastic time.  I think it may take a few posts to relate everything, but I'll start with meeting Christina LMT.

Let me just say first off, if you are ever in Vegas, do yourself a favor and avail yourself of her services.  She is something of an artist.

She was nice enough to pick us up from our hotel and drive us around The Strip where she pointed out the various sights.

The Strip is just pure insanity.  My tastes are simple and organic.  I felt like a Lilliputian in an enormous haunted fun house full of blinking lights and giant prostitutes.

But it was definitely interesting.

After taking our picture at the Welcome to Las Vegas sign, we went back to Christina's apartment for our long-awaited massages.  As we entered, we were greeted by a skinny little sprite of a girl, her daughter, Silver, and two of the funniest little dogs.  The hours that ensued were probably the most entertaining (not to mention relaxing) of our entire trip.  Talking to Silver was like looking into a mirror that turns back time 16 years.

And Christina was wonderful.  Just one of those rare, truly good souls that you'd be privileged to have in your life.  They both have an open invitation to visit New Town whenever they like.  I know my girls would adore them.

After our massages and dinner with Christina and Silver, Jethro and I went back up to our room to "rest for a couple of hours" before we checked out the nightlife.  12 hours later, sunlight was snaking it's way through the curtains as it dawned on our 10 year anniversary. My first words to Jethro were "Are you mad?"  But of course he wasn't.  He was in VEGAS, BABY! Woo Hooo!!!***

After cursing myself for wasting that much time, I insisted we have something alcoholic put into our coffee.  As it just so happened, the Bellagio has a coffee shop that served several alcoholic coffee concoctions.  We ended up with cognac in ours which was fitting since it was what everyone but I drank at our wedding.

That started the day off right.

To be continued...

or

Go read Jethro***.....

What happens 15 minutes outside of Reno, stays 15 minutes outside of Reno. Unless I blog about it.

I was going to pose a question to any and all readers awhile back for ideas on what Jethro and I should do for our 10 year wedding anniversary, but I no longer need to because Jethro booked us 3 nights at The Bellagio in Vegas!  I'm so excited.  Neither of us have ever been to Vegas to speak of (I was there once when I was maybe 3 and we went to the circus at Circus Circus of which I actually have a faint memory).  But I certainly wasn't old enough to go to casinos and have actually never been to one.  Not even in Louisiana.  I don't think we want to do much gambling, but it would be fun to at least go and see.

Anyway, while Jethro and I were looking for shows to watch, we started talking about the legal brothels in Nevada.  I've always wanted to see one, but I don't think it's good etiquette to just go there and stare, even though they'll apparently give you a tour for a nominal fee, so we started talking about what we could do if we went.  It would be a shame to go and not do something.  And really, it wouldn't be too fancy, take too long, or even involve sex sex.  Maybe just a blowjob or something.  I'm not sure exactly what I would do, but I better not just be watching.  

Anyway, long story short, we decided it would probably be too expensive and since I'm much better at blowjobs now that I've had my teeth filed down and my tongue extended, it seems like a waste of money.  It's not ruled out altogether, but probably we'd rather just eat.  If we do go, I'll blog about it.

Cogito Ergo Cogito

I have neglected my little blog shamefully and I apologize to it and to posterity for my negligence.  

I am taking Algebra and have high hopes of passing.  And I'm almost finished with school.  Next term will be my last and I couldn't be more excited.  For it means that I will have Finished Something.  And for a chronic Unfinisher such as myself, this reeks of Importance.  It is a Portal, if you will.  A Gateway.  A Viaduct to a Life fraught with Purpose and Meaning and hopefully Freelance Employment.

Anyway, my continued apologies for my continued absence.  It won't be long now.

I've been trying to work out a little more lately.  I'm so busy that it's hard for me to do the things I love, much less things I hate.

I have to say though, that I really enjoy that machine where you step onto these pedal like things and march, kind of.  I'm not describing it well.  Oh the elliptical machines.  That's what I mean.  I like those.  They're much easier on my knees than a treadmill.  So I like doing that, and I've foregone wearing a sports bra.  I just can't stand them, so I wear a regular one, go to the ladies' only room, and just bounce a little.  I realize women probably don't appreciate it at all, but that's okay. I try to stay away from them.

So I go to the gym, dig out my iphone with the ipod inside of it and my earphones, throw the rest of my scattered life into a locker, and head for the ellipticals.

I spend a few minutes carefully arranging my earphones in my ears so they aren't uncomfortable, and then I start.  I always thought working out to music was overrated, but I really like working out to The Pogues, of all things, this song in particular:

I start sweating pretty hard, but then strangely, I want to go out and kick some ass.  It's a good feeling.

The Prayer of Harry Reid (So I can't resisit. Sue me.)

"I Pray to Thee, Lord Obama that Thou continuest to Beam Down Thy Blessings Upon The Senate Leadership...Mothership?...No, Leadership...I was right the first time.  And Deliver Us, O Lord Obama, from Thy Honorable Wrath for having Embarrassed Thee by so Mightily Loading Down Thy Stimulus Vessel with Sumptuous but Wholly Unnecessary Quantities of Pork.

Forgive Us, O Lord Obama, for not Trusting in Thy Divine Benevolence. For Jumping the Gun, so to speak, and not waiting until the Unwashed-But-Unfortunately-Necessary-For-Our-Continued-Reign Masses were Distracted by the Unclothed Antics of some Wanton Harlot from the Wealthy, Useful, Degenerate Land of Hollywood in order that our Pork might go Unnoticed.

And Deliver Us Also, O Gracious Lord Obama, from the Bloated Evil Talking Knight, Who though Much Addicted to the Spirits of Oxycontin, has, Nevertheless, Spread his Garbled Message to this Unwashed Rabble Who seek to Diminish Thy Magnificence and Keep Their Own Lucre In Spite of The Great Needs of The Kingdom of DC and Those Corporations On Wall Street Who Must Suckle At Our Mighty Teats in order that They May Continue to support our Reelections. Selfish Bastards.

All this I Pray In the Name of The Obama, and of The Obama, and of The Holy Obama. 

Amen."

Copied, pasted and slightly tweaked from a comment I left at Blonde Sagacity.

The Jethro No One Ever Gets To See

Jethro - "If I can get her to walk, I'm gonna get cocky.  I'm gonna go find her MD and be like, *aims both middle fingers downward* Can ya hear this?  Can ya hear this? Want me to turn it up? *flips both middle fingers up* Yeah bitch, you like that?  Want me to teach ya?  Want me to teach ya?  *turns his middle fingers 45 degrees* Psych.  Fuck you." *grabs crotch, walks off*

I can't say it was the most elegant show of bravado, and not that I'd want him to be like that all the time, but it kind of did something for me.

GO CARDS!!!

The limes are sliced, the wings are purchased, the Hooters chicks were hot, and we are routing for the Arizona Cardinals this Super Bowl because #92, Bertrand Berry, is a friend of Jethro's from high school.

I've never met him, but he found Jethro on Facebook and asked to add him as a friend.  That won him - and whatever team he ever plays for - my undying loyalty.  Someone who doesn't forget his friends is really one of the best kinds of humans.

I know they have a tough game ahead, but I wish him and the Cardinals the very best of luck.

I have to say, in what is a morbidly depressing political scene, I am really enjoying Rod Blagojovich.  He could be a parody of a sleazy politician, and yet he's so very very real and so sincere in his sleaze.  

He's like Al Sharpton, Ron Howard, and Lindsay Lohan's mom all rolled into one.  He's the Anna Nicole Smith of politicians.  But alas, he was thrown under the bus with such haste and verve, that I don't believe we will never know how far his tentacles (and follicles) of sleaze extended.  Pity.

And President Obama is wasting no time attempting to steal the money to pay off his supporters. Nearly one trillion dollars in the first week.  It's breathtaking.

Almost the first thing he does is put a tax cheat and a lobbyist (in violation of his supposed standards) as Secretary of the Treasury (which controls the IRS).  I don't get it.  Geithner?  I thought Obama was full of crap when he pontificated about not allowing lobbyists to serve in his administration, but I never expected my skepticism to be proven correct so immediately.  It's dizzying.  Geithner must have been owed one powerful favor.  I'm curious about who Geithner worked for before this and how much they are getting from the "stimulus package."

And where were the Republicans?  Only 4 voted against his nomination.  Are they trying to get along or are they complicit?

And then there is the mind-boggling stimulus package we're being whipped into a frenzy to support.

Naturally Obama is going to be absolutely transparent about it.  He has a government website devoted to detailing exactly how he intends to screw us - after the theft passes of course, so no one can protest beforehand.  He's mocking us, I think.

I'm trying to be glad the Republicans are sticking together on this one, but really it's too little too late and as far as I'm concerned, it's just for show.

Make your big purchases now and make sure they are durable because inflation will be beyond your wildest imaginings in 2 years.

I'm not allowed to make out with Jethro at the clinic anymore.  It seems he has hang-ups about sporting a chubby in front of patients.

:-(

Update:

I was cooking chicken and something popped and splattered hot grease from my neck to the tops of my breasts.  I think I'll wear something low cut tomorrow.

I saw a license plate that said BG PCKR.  Do you think they were really trying to say Big Pecker?

The Spelling Bee

At the risk of Mommyblogging, Gwennie made it to the school spelling bee.  We were pretty happy about that because Jethro and I are both good spellers, with Jethro being somewhat better - which irks me to no end seeing as how he's a fucking immigrant - but I digress.  I also said fucking.  I think that makes this less mommybloggish.

Anyway, poor little Gwennie didn't make it past her first word, which was 'yacht'.  I was just glad she wasn't the first one out.  But she was piiiiiissed off.  It was hilarious in a sad little way.  Before the spelling bee, the teacher said the kids who misspelled their words were supposed to sit on the stairs until the round was over and then they could go to their parents if they wanted.  Gwennie paid no heed and marched off the stairs straight to me with a scowl on her face that nearly made her eyes disappear.  I gave her a hug and told her it was okay and that 'yacht' was a pretty hard word that most of the other kids probably couldn't spell either.  "Yeah," she grumbled bitterly.  "It's not like it was "cotton," which was a word that got one of the other kids to round 2.

I let her send text messages to her father and her aunt and the sting abated.  The winner and the runner up got trophies, and all the kids got certificates, which made her a little happier.  She likes certificates.

Anyway, I'm off to do mommy things.  Catch y'all later.

Chicago Ascendant (God Help Us All)

So I'm right smack dab in the middle of exercising my right not to be forced to watch that shyster's inauguration.

I'm so pissed off, I could violate someone.

I am paying for classes in order to learn.  I am not paying to watch some ridiculous hack and his swarm of inebriates pretend they are something more than politics at its worst.

Fuck Obama, fuck the media, and fuck his slavering minions and useful idiots.

Queen of the Double Wide

Jethro and I heard a rumor of a 5 bedroom trailer on 1+ acres in a pretty little town 30 minutes from the clinic that the owner is trying to unload for around 20 thousand.

We went to look at it on Saturday, and it wasn't horrific.  It needs a lot of work, but it's mostly cosmetic - clearing out junk, repairing sheetrock, painting, cleaning.... those kinds of things.  I have to say it's hard to sniff at a home and an acre for less than a new car.  We shall see what we shall see.  I like the country.  And I want to raise rabbits.

Note To Self:

I really must remember that men's pajama pants shouldn't be worn in public and if they are, absolutely must not be worn sans undergarments.  I'm getting funny looks when I flip the switch at bad drivers.  I think I'm sending mixed signals.

To Be Or Not To Be

I'm having trouble deciding whether to be a dick or not.  I checked out a book from the library at my school and I kept it way too long.  I just didn't have the time to return it or even renew it.  Now they want to charge me a humongous fine - more than the book is even worth - and I don't want to pay it.  I know what it says in the student handbook and all that, but I consider most things in life to be negotiable.  I didn't have a problem paying the fine for it being overdue, which I actually did.  The library didn't have change when I went to return the book and pay up, so I have a credit on my account.  The problem is that the librarian says I owed far more (and technically I probably do) and only wants to refund me a few pennies.

What it really boils down to is that I'm irked that I keep getting emails telling me what a jerk I am for not having returned the book in a timely fashion even though the library still owes me money.  Now I just want to be a dick and get back more money.  For fun.

Oh, and I'm sick.  I have a cold and the shivers.  And I mistakenly referred to the movie "Top Gun" today as "Spaceballs" which was funny and not entirely inappropriate, but I didn't catch it until Jethro had stared at me quizzically for almost a full minute.  I'm a little off.

Very Nearly Bits 'n' Pieces

I've had lots of little stories swirling around, but they've been driven out of my mind by a visit from Jethro's parents yesterday.  His sister told us his mom has developed osteoporosis, and when I saw her she looked so frail and weak that I got extremely frightened.  She hasn't looked great for the past year, but it was always late at night when we'd see her and I thought she was just tired from work. She works relentlessly.  But yesterday she looked worse then when I'd seen her at night.  She's had some testing done, but Jethro wants them to do more and the trick is getting his parents and their doctor (who has known Jethro since childhood) to take him seriously.  He thinks her bone loss is happening too fast for it to be just regular osteoporosis and what he says makes sense.  But the old folks, which includes his mom's doctor, think he's just a youngster.  Perhaps if we frame it as "teaching the young upstart a lesson" we can get them to order the necessary tests.

And I'm sure it didn't help her when she saw Gwennie take a header from her bike yesterday.  I know it didn't do anything good for me.  Gwen was showing off and riding much faster than she should have been.  I'm not sure exactly what happened but I think she braked with the hand brakes which only stopped the front wheel, which meant that she (and the back wheel) went ass over tea kettle (in a whirling frenzy of madly gyrating bony little knees and elbows) - in midair - right over the front wheel.  She landed headfirst, somersaulted, and skidded a little on her back.  From a more detached point of view, it was one of the most spectacular bike crashes I've ever seen.  

I've always secretly thought that bike helmets were kind of stupid and why couldn't kids just be kids the way I was a kid, but that hasn't stopped me from religiously making sure that Gwennie and Emma wear them.  Maybe maternal instinct won out.  Or maybe, deep down, I just know that Gwennie isn't a kid the way I or anyone else was a kid and that she needs the extra protection.  I don't even want to speculate what kind of kid she might have been if she hadn't been wearing her helmet.  I heard the sound it made when it hit the concrete.

Anyway, she got a pretty decent scrape on her back and some little ones on her elbows and I think there was a little one on her nose, but that's it.  She was really really lucky.  And my heart has returned to it's usual verge-of-heart-attack state.

The Billboard Campaign

Not that anyone should care in the slightest, but I did promise, so here it is:

In order to produce these poorly drawn images, I had to scour more porn than could be imagined by even the most debased sex offender.  Type in "hot guy abs" in google image finder without the safety filter and you will be led to the most astoundingly objectionable websites that could ever be conceived.  I even found a naked Santa, and used him gleefully and shamelessly.  The Horror.

The only thing I'm proud of is the fact that I turned it in on time, no thanks to my retarded classmates.  One of them was a misogynist (and that word is really too big to describe him) who was disgruntled that a female was supposed to direct the project.  He wouldn't do anything I asked of him outside of class, he completely ditched one class without calling me or the other guy, and then had the nerve to tell me to calm down and not take it out on him the day the project was due.  I was so livid at that, I actually lost my power of speech.  I did not give him any credit in the summary of the project.

The other guy was nice, but didn't really know how to use the programs very well, so the amount that he could help was limited.  At least he showed up to every class, though.  And he did help me mount the projects in the school which we weren't supposed to do, because using spray mount inside closed spaces does something to asthmatics or something.  

Normally I wouldn't have violated the rules like that, but we had 10 minutes to complete the project, and those two imbeciles were running around the school looking for a glue stick.  I led them to the stairwell, which no one ever uses.  Useless-Idiot-Sexist said, "Oh heeeeeeelllllll, no" and turned around.  I said, "Oh for Christ's sake, I will take full responsibility."  The other one hopped from one foot to the other like Nervous Nelly the whole time, but at least he stuck around.  And no one ever knew.

When I shortly reveal my holiday schedule, you will forgive me for not posting sooner. I've been like Rip Van Winkle since 9am on Christmas day. But hopefully my narcolepsy will be forgiven eventually.

The one nice thing about being so busy is that I haven't had time to read about politics. But then I come across this article and realize that it's because no one is writing about politics.

I'll leave you with my comment to the intrepid Mr. Colvin, which I am quite sure will not be published in the interest of keeping the public's right to worship intact.

Sweet Weeping Willow. Could Mr. Colvin raise his loins any higher in the direction of Obama's face?

This is bad for a high school girl, but for a professional journalist? I'm cringing for him.

If he wants to write about a bad-ass whom he could never hope to be, he should write about a marine, not this ivory-towered poseur with less street cred than Barry Goldwater.

Hope Everyone Had A Great Holiday. Will Post More Upon Return From Houston.

Make No Mistake. They're Trying To Take Over The World.

Chappy Chanukah!

Bustin' Out All Over

To make up for my lack of posting, I have here a photograph of my sisters and I at our other sister's wedding.  It was the end of a long night.

I'd love to post something. I really would. But I'm drowning in ass. I explain later.

School Daze

I really do get caught up in my work at school, so sometimes I forget just who I'm going to school with.

One of my classmates, oh, I'll call him Hector, wandered into class the other day, an hour late, completely disheveled, and walking very slowly. He asked if the instructor was around. Someone said he stepped out for awhile. Hector just stood there and finally someone asked him if he was sick.

"Naw, man," said Hector looking pale.

"You don't look too good."

"I spent the weekend in the hospital," said the rumpled Hector.

"Did you have surgery?"

"Naw, man," said the increasingly vacant Hector.

"So WHAT HAPPENED?" The classmate's curiosity finally getting the better of him.

"Oh, I got stabbed, man," said Hector returning to Earth briefly.

"How the hell did you get stabbed?" asked the curious classmate.

"I was hanging out with this girl and her ex-boyfriend came over. You know how shit like that goes down."

Now I don't know about any of you, but I really don't know how shit like that goes down. No human being on earth seems worth the stabbing or the receiving of the stabbing. However, 3/4 of my classmates were nodding their heads sagely.

And then that evening, I was talking with my group for the Starbuck's project, prattling on about various ideas. Finally, I stopped and asked if anyone else had something to say.

I was stared at blankly for a few seconds, and one of them says, "Well, what I think we need to do is find a way to sell the product."

The other one offered his girlfriend up as a prop - a sexy prop - for the photo shoots.

Tears came into my eyes momentarily and I'm still not sure whether it was from mirth or frustration.

I'm doomed.

Appeal to Cleverness

For one of my classes, I have to do an ad campaign for Starbucks.  We're supposed to do 3 magazine ads, 3 billboards, and 1 direct mail piece.  This is a group project and the two guys I'm paired with can draw very nicely, but are idiots.  I hate putting it so bluntly, but there isn't time to be nice.  Anyway, I've been put in charge of the group, which means my grade will be affected more if it turns out crappy.  And this has me very, very worried.  I don't foresee being able to brainstorm with my group members, so I'm resorting to my good friends in the Blogland.

My instructor really likes sexy (bordering on risque)/funny, which is good because that amuses me too.  But Starbucks, to me, is neither sexy nor funny.  To me, Starbucks is expensive and pretentious - two nearly unforgivable qualities for advertising.  Plus, they don't really have any previous ad campaigns to work from, except some deadly serious tv commercials.

So I need a clever theme that I can carry through 7 different ads.  It doesn't have to be sexy, just clever.  Starbucks is desperately in need of some kind of retooling with people spending less on things like overpriced coffee, so maybe there's a crack in the door there.  

Any ideas would be most humbly and gratefully accepted.  The best I can do by way of reward, is post the final project and write your name in blazing color on my blog.