Monday, October 31, 2005

Oh, So This Is What Our House Would Look Like Without The Weeds In Front. Interesting.

Sometimes it helps to know the right people, huh? Check out what jasclo had her brilliant artist of a husband make for me for my birthday. Some sweet-ass original artwork of our house!

Be Like a Squirrel

Sunday, October 30, 2005

His Good Side

It's been awhile since I had a dog photo, right?

Saturday, October 29, 2005

Out of State Plates

Thursday, October 27, 2005

Eat It

Addendum

The Mr.: Hey, in your post about the squirrel, how come you didn't mention that I screamed when I saw the squirrel again while we were on the phone?

Me: Because it doesn't make you look good. You don't like me posting stuff that makes you look ridiculous, remember?

The Mr.: But that would have been OK to tell everyone about it!

Me: That you screamed like a girl?

The Mr.: Yeah!

Me: But you screamed like a girl. A GIRL.

The Mr.: It's OK! That squirrel was scary! I think everyone will understand.

There you have it, Internets. My husband screams like a girl, and he wants you to know about it.

Wednesday, October 26, 2005

The Newest Member of the Family

Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you our Dyson Animal, which we have named Manimal.

Manimal was looking forlorn at the store. He was all alone on the shelf. The Mr. and I cooed over him, cuddled him a little and then we took him to his new home.

Nabby and Rufus immediately became jealous when they saw the attention being lavished on Manimal. They liked it even less when they saw Manimal sucking their hair off the floor in entire corgi-sized clumps. The nerve! That's when Rufus lunged at him and tried to take a bite of his shiny, new purple flesh. I can't really blame Rufus for being so mad. He just got here, and all of a sudden this loud, powerful, brilliant sucking machine is upstaging him.

Manimal is always hungry. Tomorrow, we are going to test his limits and feed him Henry's car.

He's going to be very happy here.

Rocks

In Which You Are Spared the Bloody Ending (This Time)

Yesterday, Jurgen Nation asked for creepy stories, so I'm giving up mine here. But I'm warning you, it only starts out creepy, then just gets ridiculous.

I woke up one morning a few years ago in the house we were renting and went downstairs to make my breakfast. When I walked into the kitchen, I noticed the clock on the fireplace mantel in there had fallen down, was dented and lying face down on the floor. "Huh," I thought. "That's weird." It was pretty secure up there, so while I was at a loss as to how it fell, I didn't think a whole lot of it as I put it back in place.

Then I went to the office and hopped on the computer. The giant clock on the wall in there had fallen down, too. "OK. This is getting kind of weird." I wasn't too sad about that clock falling, by the way, because the Mr. had gotten it from a friend who was moving and cleaning house, and it was ugly as hell. It was my own personal leg lamp. I told the Mr. about the clocks, and he thought it was odd, too.

That night, I had to work. After dark that evening, the Mr. called me and said, "Guess what? Now, don't freak out." Which, of course, in my mind means, commence freak out right now!
"What?"
"The clock in the guest room was knocked over, too."
I whimpered and went pale. "What is going on?"
"I have no idea!"
"Do you think that maybe...we have a clock-hating ghost?"
"Maybe! It's just so weird! Nabby has been barking at nothing all day, too."
"Oh my God! I can't take this. I'm calling a priest."
I'm not even religious, but it was the only thing I could think to do. I mean, what would you do? Years of scary movies have taught me: Have a ghost? Call a priest and get an exorcism. Perhaps I overreact sometimes. I mean, a clock-hating ghost? What the hell is that? Nevertheless, I started looking through the phone book and wrote down the names of some nearby churches to call in the morning.

A few hours later, he called again.
"It's not a ghost."
"How do you know? What is it?"
"It's a squirrel."
"How did a squirrel get into the house?!"
"I don't know. Nabby started barking, then I saw it in the hallway and she went nuts."

So, yes, before the rat, there was the squirrel. I don't know why all the animals just love us so. But call off the exorcism, I guess. I was kind of disappointed, because I wanted to see what they do, and if it would even work.

The following day, I called Animal Control. They wouldn't come out. I'm not sure what animals they control, exactly, but they want no part of household critters. What if a python comes up through our toilet someday? I mean, are we just screwed? That's a thought that will keep you up at night.

I then got on the phone with our landlords and asked if they could send someone out to take care of it. Apparently I had a lapse and forgot who I was dealing with. These were our landlords. The same people who allowed a mold problem persist in our house for months, despite repeated, near-daily phone calls in which I ranted and raved and threatened and mentioned that the Mr. and I were coughing a lot and having trouble catching our breath. I finally had to call the city and report them, which made them spring into action. So, you can see how they'd be even less inclined to deal with a squrriel.

The receptionist had a couple helpful suggestions, though. "Why don't you set out a trail of crackers topped with peanut butter leading to the door? Then the squirrel will just take them, and go back outside to his friends."

What is this, a Disney cartoon? But I admit, I tried it. I had to. It will come as no shock to you that it didn't work at all, and I'm surprised we didn't just invite more squirrels with our lavish spread and the wide-open door. God, even I love the peanut butter and crackers.

She suggested we run out and buy a humane trap. Oh, sure, that's all well and good. But isn't this one of the perks of having landlords: You Don't Have To Deal With It? It's one of the only things I miss about renting. Roof caved in? You Don't Have To Deal With It. Pipe explodes and floods the first story of your house? You Don't Have To Deal With It. It's the sweetest deal in the world.

But again, not if you had our landlords. If you replaced "You" for "We," they had the same motto we did. I hated those people, and the story about getting our security deposit back is a story for another day, but let's just say using all that legal language? SO MUCH FUN.

So, we got the humane trap. We hooked it up with the same spread we used in the hallway. Sometime that night, the squirrel found the food, settled in for a feast and BAM! He was trapped. We found him the next morning, and it's really hard to believe something so cute can be so rabies-ridden and cause so much ruckus. It's almost as cruel as the concept of koala bears.

We argued for a minute over who was going to take the trap outside and set the squirrel free. The Mr. will lose that one every time. As he opened the door, the squirrel left a little Wile E. Coyote trail of dust as he sped back to his tree.

And then we had to go back inside and clean up where the damn thing pooped and peed on the stairs. At least ghosts don't crap, right?

Skeleton Crew

Tuesday, October 25, 2005

I Used To Wear My Hair Like Princess Leia When It Wasn't Halloween, Too

My dislike for Halloween has been documented before.

I especially hate getting dressed up. I'm just not a full-on costume girl. If I'm forced to dress up, as I've said before, I'm going as a bunny. That's all you're going to get out of me, and even that will not come without a fight.

That bee costume right there? It was probably one of the last times I got dressed up on Halloween that didn't involve hand-to-hand combat with my mother. Oh, but there was the year I went as Princess Leia. But that probably doesn't count, because I was convinced that I really was her, and was only with my family in Fremont, California through some horrible mixup that Han Solo and Luke Skywalker were sorting out, and they would be by to rescue me any minute.

It really is a shame that for most of my life, I didn't enjoy costumes, because my mom is a hell of a sewer. I'm pretty sure she made the bee costume. One Halloween when I was 11, she made my 9-year-old brother, David, an entire Ewok costume. No, I mean a full-on, straight-off-the-set Ewok costume. Fur and eyes and teeth and everything. That thing was a masterpiece.

The costume enjoyed life beyond Halloween, too. My cousin Jason and I put David in the costume one day and walked him over to Mr. and Mrs. McDonald's house. Mr. and Mrs. McDonald were my grandparents' landlords and neighbors, and were the nicest people. Mr. McDonald had had a stroke before we ever met him, and he couldn't talk. But I could tell from the way his eyes twinkled whenever we visited him that he enjoyed us. Either that, or he was longing to tell us damn kids to get off his property and leave them alone once and for all.

"Look what we found, Mr. McDonald!" Jason said. "It's an Ewok!"
Mr. McDonald looked at my brother and reached over to pat his head. I think he totally believed we had found a real Ewok. OK, perhaps not.

To be extra convincing, though, we'd say, "Well, we have to be getting the Ewok home now! He misses his family." Then we'd run back to our house, get my brother out of the costume and then send back him over there all breathless. "Was there really an Ewok here?! Why didn't anyone get me?"

God, poor Mr. McDonald. He did a good job of pretending we didn't annoy the hell out of him.

My least favorite costume memory is the year that mom forced me to go to a church Halloween party when I was 15. After much screaming and yelling, I finally relented and said I'd go, but that I was not wearing a costume. "Oh, yes you are!" mom said. She pulled out a Snow White costume she had made for herself the year before and reminded me just how hard she had worked on it. I have to admit, it was a great costume. But still. Being forced to dress up as an icon of innocence and good cheer when I was at my most surly and rebellious was just cruel.

I put on the costume and spent the night at the party hiding under a big coat, sitting in a corner drinking punch and pouting until it was time for the big costume contest. And I was pissed, because no one had ever mentioned a costume contest anywhere along the line. I tried to get out of participating, but a group of people begged me to take off my coat so they could see the costume. I refused and refused until finally, just to get them to leave me alone, I took it off and put it back on a minute later.

And what happened next is something I swear they did just to torture me: They voted me the winner of the contest. I don't remember what, if anything, I won. But mom sure was vindicated.

Screen

Monday, October 24, 2005

Dumped


Photo Friday entry: "Worn"

Sunday, October 23, 2005

If I Could Just Get a Costume, a Phone Booth and the Ability to Fly, I Could Go Around Fighting Line Cutters and Space Invaders Everywhere

I wouldn't say I'm the most confrontational person around. I tend to bitch and complain more than I actually do anything, but there are two things that I can't ever allow to pass by without some sort of comment or action. These things make me absolutely crazy, and when they happen, I leave my body and my host becomes possessed by some kind of psycho, skull-cracking she-devil.

The first is line cutters at the store. You know, the people who act like, "Why, I just didn't know that there were twenty other people waiting! And here, I was wondering why there was this big, giant group of people just standing in such an orderly formation at the cash register like that! A line is what you're calling it?"

If you deliberately cut in front of me when there is clearly a line, I am so going to call your ass out. Honestly, though, it has almost never gotten that heated. I usually just step forward and say, "Excuse me, but I [or that guy, or that lady] was next." Nine times out of 10, the cashiers aren't going to do it. I've waited in vain for that to happen. The way I see it, someone has to do it, and it may as well be me. Most line cutters, when it's called to their attention, feign surprise and move to the back of the line. Work on the stealth there, pal. And stop assuming that your time is more important than everyone else's.

A few years ago, a lady actually challenged me on whether she had cut. We went back and forth, and I told her that maybe she needed to put down the bottle if she thought she had gotten in front of the line fair and square, because she was delusional. I don't know why she didn't key my car or wait for me outside the store and stick a shiv in my side once I emerged, because I was totally prepared for that.

And lady, you totally cut in front of me. I'll bet you don't even have a blog, so my word is final. Ahh, the perks I never anticipated.

The other thing that drives me nuts is the Personal Space Invaders. I know a man who enjoyed coming up to tell me random, totally uninteresting things, and he would get right up in my face to do so. I could see his every pore and cavity. The last time he did it was when he got two inches from my face and said, "Guess what time I went to bed last night?!" I took one giant backward step of obviousness and said, "Wow, I have no idea." I make it a point to avoid him now.

I've told people off at the grocery store, too. Many years ago, a guy kept bumping me with his cart at Arget-Tay, and after about the third time, I turned around and said, "Are you close enough? Do you need to get closer? Back off!"

Now I've got a new, subtle weapon: a gigantic purse. It not only holds my camera, several lenses, a book and my wallet, but it affords me a good 12" of clearance when fully stocked. It's not enough for my comfort, but it's a start.

It came in extra special handy last Wednesday while I was at the drugstore. The guy behind me, or shall I say practically on top of me, waited his turn. If he had been any closer, I would have been giving him a piggyback ride through pharmaceuticals. I could hear him breathing in my ear.

I did what needed to be done: I pretended like I didn't see him, picked my giant purse up off the counter, flung it over my shoulder and whacked him.

A Meme That I Had to Think About the Answers To

This is also a shoutout to Jurgen Nation, who complained that the Internets are slow, so I'm giving her something to read.

My uncle once: Was an alcoholic.

Never again in my life: Will I be able to pull an all-nighter and bounce right back the next day. Those days are over.

When I was five: I was pretty cute and easygoing.

High school was: 80% sucky, 20% tolerable.

I will never forget: The winter when Trish and I got locked out of our apartment in our pajamas because I was convinced George had a girl in his apartment and I goaded her into going down with me to spy. He didn't have one, of course. He was reading a book.

I once met: Jay Mohr, who was very nice.

There is this girl I know who: Always looks adorable, even when she's wearing sweatpants, no makeup and hasn't showered.

Once, at a bar: I danced on a table with a bunch of friends. And then we did a conga line. Oh, yes.

By noon I'm usually: Walking the dogs or finishing up at the gym.

Last night I: Worked, then watched last week's "Veronica Mars" in bed.

If I had only: Never chosen the major I did.

Next time I go to church: I'm thinking of not going anymore, ever.

What worries me most: At this very moment? The cost of not getting frostbite this winter. Long term? That I'll look back one day and think I wasted my life and didn't do all the things I had hoped to.

When I turn my head right: I see our printer and file cabinet.

When I turn my head left: I see our bulletin board.

You know I'm lying when: I don't like to lie too much, but the big giveaway used to be when I gave a lot of details and rambled.

You know what I miss most about the 80s: How great radio was. Every song was better than the last.

If I were a character written by Shakespeare: I'd be a smartass, I suppose.

By this time next year: I hope we're out of here, or close to it.

A better name for me would be: Not As Nice As She Looks. I've been told before that I look like a goody-goody, but so am not.

I have a hard time understanding: What the hell is wrong with people.

If I ever go back to school I'll: Study photography or learn another language. Or both!

You know I like you if: I talk to you, and I'm nice to you.

If I won an award, the first person I'd thank would be: I'm not really sure I'll ever win an award that merits an acceptance speech, but I guess everyone has to thank their parents first, right?

Take my advice; never: Hit on 17.

My ideal breakfast is: Always oatmeal and coffee. Always.

A song I love but do not have is: "Do They Know It's Chrismas?" by various artists. I'm serious, I love that song.

If you visit my hometown, I suggest: Go to Sunday brunch at the Cliff House, get a seat by the window and scarf down popovers. After brunch, go check out the Sutro Baths.

Why won't anyone: Wave "thank you" when I let them cut in front of me in their cars?! I don't have to let you in, people.

If you spend the night at my house, do: Feel free to sleep in until noon, because I'm going to.

I'd stop my wedding for: A free burrito from Chipotle? Jack White? I don't know how to answer this question.

The world could do without: Liver. I'm sorry, who likes that stuff? I always feel like anyone who does like it is just doing it so they can be gross.

I'd rather lick the belly of a cockroach than: No. There is no "rather" here. I am not licking the belly of a cockroach.

My favorite blond is: I've always liked the dark-haired men.

Paper clips are more useful than: White-Out, which is almost totally obsolete. It's really a shame, because it was fun to use and I liked the smell.

San Diego means: Hotel Circle? Coronado Island? Miramar?

Our Bartender

Who said to me later in the evening, "You've been here before." When I said that this was my first time there, he correctly guessed my name. I'm still very confused. My first thought was that maybe me and the girls had been saying one anothers' names a lot, but I didn't think we were.

Cue creepy Twilight Zone music.

Saturday, October 22, 2005

Rack 'Em

Friday, October 21, 2005

Dear Guy WHO STEPPED INTO THE FREEWAY TO STOP MY CAR,

Holy shit, are you one crazy ass, incredibly stupid dude. Your car was broken down by the side of the road and your friend was working on it. You, meanwhile, thought maybe you could flag down motorists so they would stop and help. And your brilliant plan was to step clear into the slow lane, where we are all traveling 60+ mph, with your arms waving. You did this to me, making me have to swerve around you so I wouldn't wind up hitting you, thus bisecting your body and making a giant mess, both literally and figuratively. Did you think stepping in the road would give me no choice but to stop? You confuse me a lot.

You didn't know that I'm female when you started doing this, but have some common sense. Who the hell is going to stop for two strange men in the middle of the night? The Zodiac killer used this ploy on occasion, and when I heard that, it was enough to convince me that I'm not stopping for anyone. Ever. I won't even do it in broad daylight, sorry.

Now, go get a freaking cell phone and an Emergency Roadside Service Club (TM) membership, you moron.

In Certain Circles, I Am Considered THE Foremost Authority On Microwave Popcorn

Last year around the time of my birthday, I told jasclo that next year, as a birthday present to myself, I was going to get one piece of super-nice cookware, like this. I don't want to drop that much all at once on cookware, but one piece, once a year? I think I can handle that. I can start with the essentials, then work my way up to the specialty pieces, like this. Why do I need a Dutch oven? I don't even know what you make in a Dutch oven. But it's so cute and round and apple-y looking. Don't give me a hard time.

Jasclo didn't snicker when I told her my big, fat plan, and I'm still kind of wondering why because it's no secret: I don't really cook. What in All-Clad's name am I planning to do with fancy cookware? Those giant pots are good for soaking your feet when you're doing a pedicure, I'll tell you that. I think maybe my feet would like stainless steel.

This year, I didn't get the cookware. The more I think about it, the sillier it seems. I still think I would want it, but not enough that I'm going to go out and get it. If it magically fell into my lap, that would be acceptable.

I used to really enjoy cooking, but when I lived alone and worked nights, I got away from cooking anything but macaroni and cheese. Cooking a big meal seemed like a lot of trouble to go to for just me. Then I lived with a now-ex-boyfriend for a few months, and in that time, I realized that I didn't even miss cooking all that much. When Arwen and I were roommates, we rarely cooked, unless you count mixing drinks as cooking. It's not that I'm a bad cook. I'm not great, but I can make mostly edible food. I just don't wanna, is the problem. I want someone else to make it for me, bring it to me and take it away when I'm done. If I have to make it, it had damn well better be microwaveable.

I don't like to cook, but I love to bake. When Halloween and Christmas roll around, I love to make gingerbread cookies with frosting decorations on them. Whenever there's a party, I'm all over making cookies or my world-famous sugar bombs. I made angel food cake constantly when I was a teenager, wasting hundreds of egg yolks in the process.

When the Mr. and I met, it was pretty obvious he didn't cook, either. I think maybe he can make spaghetti? But I haven't seen this yet. I do have two standard dishes that I will make now if we decide we are just too lazy to go out and get dinner: fajitas and now anything from the barbecue. Lately, he's started helping make the fajitas, and it's so funny to watch him cut onions. I think he might be reading this and possibly getting indignant, but it's true. The first time he did it might have been the first time he held a knife, from the looks of it. But they were the best-looking chopped up onions ever! The guys at Benihana are so jealous. Um, yes. I think I'm going to be making fajitas by myself again.

I remember one fairly disastrous Valentine's Day, though, in which I set out to make a big, giant dinner. This is the first and only time I attempted to make a nice meal for the two of us at home. The first problem was the grocery bill. When you don't ever cook, you don't have any of the essentials on hand, which means your bill is going to give you a small stroke when you see it. I think it came to $75 for dinner for two people, and that didn't even include the wine. See what I mean? We should have just gone out to eat.

I wanted to make a meal from one of my favorite restaurants, the Stinking Rose in San Francisco. One of my favorite dishes there is the bagna calda, which is at the top of the menu in that link. Now, I didn't buy garlic that had been peeled already. No, I decided I was going to peel it myself. For someone who doesn't like to cook, I can be oddly purist about things.

Things were going well. I had the chicken ready for cooking, the potatoes peeled, bread ready to go in the oven. But I was still not done peeling the damn garlic. I'd been peeling for an hour, and still had not even scratched the surface. I finally hauled the bowl and the cloves into the living room and told the Mr., "I need your help peeling this or we are never going to eat." We sat there, watching the last episode ever of "Cupid" and peeling, peeling, peeling. I think somewhere around 10 p.m. we finally finished, but it still needed to be cooked for 45 minutes.

At 11 p.m., 4 hours after the garlic served me, I served dinner.

Thursday, October 20, 2005

Our Waiter





I don't remember his name, but he's from Bolivia and he was so expressive and adorable. He left in the '70s and didn't go back for a visit until 2000. And get this: he didn't tell anyone in his family that he was going to visit. He just showed up one day, and all the nieces and nephews who knew they had an uncle in America stood there, gazing up at him like curious little penguins.

Girls, Girls, Girls

Maliavale and I started off the day with a jaunt to Georgetown, in which my "you will have new clothes" fortune finally came true. And it's nothing cropped, nor does it need a camisole. I also found the funniest Christmas cards, hilarious and appropriate birthday cards for two people and a stamp with an "r" on it, for the first letter of our last name. This is so we can make our bills and personal correspondence all fancy-like. Although there was one stamp that said "with deepest sympathy" that I wanted to get to put on our bills instead. I think I need to start doing this: putting random and inappropriate messages in with our bills. At least I would laugh more when I mail them instead of cry.

After shopping, we went to the hotel of Jurgen Nation (Jurgen Nation does not get diplomatic plates, sorry), and promptly went into the bar for a drink. Maliavale wondered if Jurgen would have a "man voice," and what if it's really awkward all night because of this? Would we be able to keep a straight face? Maybe if she didn't have a man voice, she might have man hands, which could be just as bad. I noted that we've seen her hands in pictures, but we don't know for sure that she doesn't have man feet. At 5:13 (5:15 on the nose is waaaay too desperate), I called Jurgen and she gave us her room number. She does not have a man voice. Relieved sighs all around.

She does, however, have a really cute Midwestern accent and says things like "paaap" and "maaam." After making sure Jurgen doesn't have man feet, either (she doesn't), the three of us went over to a really yummy Mexican restaurant, which is the same one I missed last week when my tire crapped out on me. In a display of our commitment to drink and be merry, we ordered a pitcher of swirl margaritas. Note how they have a heavenly glow (above). These are your-chosen-deity-approved margaritas.

Jurgen then called Kris and, in her best, most scarily convincing man voice, asked her what she was wearing. She told her and Kim to meet us at a pool hall down the street.

And...ta-da.

Once the gang was assembled and introductions had been made, we got down to business. Kris came in with some story about how she had been having a conversation with a cab driver, and that's why she had been held up a little. But I just checked her blog, and the real story is that apparently she was stuffing a body in her freezer. I wish I had known this last night, because I want to know where I can get a freezer that big.

Kris whipped out her hairspray and we had a Bang-Off Two: Electric Hair Boogaloo. Jurgen's reign was short, because Kim just whupped her ass, and I think she may have underestimated her competition. Hey, it's a common problem. You get too cocky, and someone just comes along and knocks you out. You'll always be the first Bang-Off winner, Jurgen. No one ever forgets the first!

Jurgen, Maliavale, Moi. On his way out of the place a few hours later, a guy came over and thanked us all for the drinks we sent over. "Huh? We didn't send any drinks!" "But, congratulations!" I said. Then we all decided that had we sent them drinks, that was mighty rude of them to not acknowledge them sooner, and see if we buy you any drinks next time, assholes. We met a sweet guy named Richmond, a resident of the 9th Ward in New Orleans. He was all smiles and gratitude for his life and family, unsure of what his next step was going to be. But he wants to go back. I hope he is able to.

Maliavale, Jurgen Nation, Kris, Me, Kim. When are we doing this again? Wait, perhaps I should wait for the hangover to die off a little before we discuss that.

A Wise Man Once Said, "Just a Little Patience. Oooh Girl."


Maliavale and I met up with a friend, and happened to make two new ones in the process last night. The pool picture is kind of misleading, because Maliavale and I only "played", for lack of a better word, for about 5 minutes. Then we decided we'd all rather just sit, talk, and bust out some hairspray and our various dance moves. Can I get a lawn mower, anyone?

We had a blast, no one was a serial killer (at least not to us), and a full accounting of the evening in pictures and words will be coming at some point today after I've recovered a little.

It's 5 a.m. and I'm a-goin' to sleep.

Tuesday, October 18, 2005

Wheel

Hat Trick (Or, Three More, and She's Got Herself a Hockey Team)

I'm an aunt...again!

My sister, Karen, had her newest addition yesterday afternoon and he's been named Jackson Wyatt. They are nowhere near the South, but I fully intend to say this name with a big twang when I meet him over Christmas. Despite having arrived three weeks early, he still weighs in at a fairly decent 6 lbs, 9 oz. I'd also like to thank my dad for calling me within an hour of Jackson's birth instead of, say, three weeks later like he did when Benjamin was born.

This is Karen's third son, which makes for three boys three and under. I'll pause here while you compose yourself and process that information. As adorable as Steven and Benjamin are, don't think I don't question her sanity or wonder where she gets her stamina. I couldn't do it. Wish her luck, too, because she's not going to be sleeping again ever.

The fact that Karen continues to have babies is a great relief to the Mr. and I, as well as my stepbrother and his wife, because it's sure taking the pressure and attention off of us. In fact, I don't think anyone in the family has even had time to notice that I'm not pregnant.

Karen has always wanted to be a mom and she's a great mom. She makes it look so easy. Pretty much the opposite of how I would be. Nabby and Rufus, I can handle. Belly rubs, food, walks, treats, kisses. Nothing to it. But I try to imagine them talking, having tantrums and entering their teen years and despising me, then going off to college (or not, if they were to be anything like the high school student I was) and I just think: no way. I am not cut out for that. Instead, I am destined to be the most rockinest aunt in existence, and that's a post I am mighty cool with holding.

But it's not like I'm getting much more sleep than Karen these days, anyway, because our neighbors' outdoor dog won't SHUT THE HELL UP.

Warehouse

Because I'm bored this afternoon and I'm planning to take a bunch of pictures tomorrow, you get some bonus photos!





Wire

Monday, October 17, 2005

Marcia Really Should Have Been Made Head Cheerleader, Too

I got these shoes seven years ago, while living in Florida. It was late winter at the time, and I think I was still holding out some hope that Florida had seasons other than Hot and Hurricane. Reason #958 That I Didn't Like Florida: Florida's weather isn't really conducive to wearing awesome shoes made of a brown suede material. It's all flip-flops and sandals, all the time. I love sandals, and Lawd knows I loved me some flip-flops this summer, but a girl wants something different once in awhile.

Long after I left Florida, these shoes sat at the back of my closet. It took a few years to stop viewing them as a reminder of my mostly unhappy months there, and by the time they became just another pair of shoes, I wasn't sure they were even in style anymore. I had them in the bag destined for Goodwill on more than one occasion, but something always compelled me to take them back out. About three years ago, I decided to try wearing them to work. They got some compliments, they're so comfortable and they go with a few things, so I kept them. They look like something Marcia Brady would have in her closet, don't they? Come on, that Marcia was a snappy dresser, wasn't she? I coveted her skirts growing up.

To this day, whenever someone compliments the shoes, I can't help but exclaim, "Thanks! They are seven years old!" like they've got a genius IQ. I should probably stop announcing that.

My point? It's been said before: hang onto a good bit of your crap. Eventually everything whips right back around.

Sunday, October 16, 2005

Wine

People With Whom I Went To Elementary School That I Remember the First And Last Names Of, And If They Find Me Via Google, This Should Be Interesting

Rarely do I remember a first and a last name. It's information that doesn't often wind up in either my short- or long-term memory bank. You're lucky if I even remember the first name on the first try. I can picture lots of faces, however, which means I spend a lot of time saying, "You. You look familiar. Who are you? I swear I know you from somewhere! I do know you from somewhere, right?" And they're like, "It's me, your brother. Dave."

The fact that I do or do not remember your first and last name says absolutely nothing about how I felt about you. That guy who lived up the street that I had the massive crush on in 7th grade and I thought I would just die if he didn't notice me? David...something? Random girl who sat behind me in junior year English that I spoke perhaps a half-dozen words to between that and senior year, who made no impression on me at all? Oh, sure. That's Gia Corsetti.

Elementary school is mostly a jumble of first names. I remember Cindy, the friend who tickled me until I peed myself. There was Gigi, whose annoying older brother was always hanging around. There were the mean kids: Eddie, a boy who can only be described as rather husky, who used to chase my brother and I to school every morning, just like the bullies in A Christmas Story. I'm sure it didn't help that when there was enough distance between us, we'd egg him on by screaming, "Eddie spaghetti! Meatballs are ready!"

I can't remember the name of a sixth-grade girl who bullied me all through third grade, although I can remember what she did and the things she said like it was yesterday. And she liked Quiet Riot. Tish is the woman who babysat my brother and I after school, and her son Jeff, the rabid KISS fan, used tackle me and try to set my hair on fire. You'd think I'd remember the full name of someone who did that for future charge-pressing purposes.

But there are some elementary school-era names I will never forget:

Fiona Henderson: Her name has always been said with a sneer. Feee-yone-ahhh. She was whippet-thin and had prissy blonde hair and bangs. She went to another school in town, but she earned my wrath simply by beating me in the district spelling bee in third grade. While I shuffled off the stage in tears (and was photographed for the front page of the local newspaper, which my teacher brought in the following morning, so everyone could see what a big 3-column vertical baby I was), Fiona pranced to victory. We got to square off again at the county spelling bee, but we were both shut down that time. I felt vindicated, because if I couldn't win, Fiona not winning was the next best thing. Granted, this whole hatred was entirely one-sided, because I doubt that Fiona had a clue as to who I was.

Timothy Geyer: Tim was the Eddie Haskell of our school. He tormented and teased me mercilessly all through second and third grades, yet whenever my mom chaperoned field trips, he was sweet as pie to both of us. He'd sit next to me and make conversation, always making sure my mom was within earshot so she could get a load of what a sweet boy he was. "[Nabbalicious]! What are you most excited about seeing today?" When I'd brush him off, he'd sidle up to my mom. He was shameless. At least my mom was totally onto him, but she thought it was hilarious.

Sally Hanson: The most popular girl in school. She was thin, blonde, got good grades and was adored by all. Except me. To add insult to injury, her father was my CCD teacher when I was preparing for communion, so I had to go over to her house once a week for lessons on how to be more Catholic. I always asked to use the bathroom whenever I was in their house so I could peek into her room on the way. It was an explosion of pink, and she had a vanity, canopy bed and her own phone. How the other half lives! It also didn't strike me until just now that she was named after nail polish.

Jamie Chianese: Sally's boyfriend for awhile, and totally my squeaky-voiced crush from first grade and beyond. He, of course, did not give me the time of day.

Brian Guggemos: Gave me the time of day more than I would have preferred in third grade. We were buddies at recess until one day he gave me a little pin with beads on it and a note that said, "Do you like me? __Yes __No __Maybe." Like the cold biatch I am, I checked "No" and ran off, careful to avoid him for the rest of the year. To my credit, I felt really awful for days afterward.

Kim Logan: My best friend from first to third grade, until she moved across the Bay to Union City. Kim was also babysat by Tish. Tish couldn't be bothered with actually watching us, because she was "in the middle of a goddamn [Harlequin Romance] book! Keep it down!" Kim and I had to make our own fun, which usually involved stealing Tish's daughter's Pat Benatar and Grease soundtrack albums and making up dances. (Incidentally, Tish's daughter Tammy had to make her own fun as well, and wound up having a baby at 16. And that baby just turned 25, holy crap.). Our shining moment was mastering the dance to "Greased Lightning," and informing my mom that we were going to enter the school talent show to perform it. She freaked out, and I didn't figure out why for years.

Update: For those of you who haven't memorized every word of "Grease," the line that made my mom collapse and fan herself was, "You know it ain't no shit, we'll be gettin' lotsa tit in Greased Lightning."

Playing With the Fisheye

Is It Just Me?

Or are clothes sucking harder than usual these days? I'm back from another failed shopping expedition. Shopping used to depress me because I wanted one of everything, and obviously couldn't have it. Now it's depressing because I want one of absolutely nothing.

Listen to me, all you clothing makers: I don't care how much you advertise them or tell me I need one, but I'm not going to wear a cropped jacket or sweater, OK? It's never going to happen. Make something else. And why does everything suddenly require the use of a camisole these days? I'm not against them exactly, but when did shopping become like buying iPods or cameras? Sure, you can get by with just the basics if you insist on showing your bra to the world, or you can purchase an array of snazzy add-ons for a little modesty.

I should have swung by a bar on the way home and given my money to a product that never lets me down.

P.S. My fortune totally lied to me. But, fortune, you will have a chance to redeem yourself on Wednesday. Otherwise, paper shredder for you.

Saturday, October 15, 2005

Yes, I'm Out of Pictures to Post. Is It That Obvious?

Pillars

Friday, October 14, 2005

Best. Fortune. Ever.

Thursday, October 13, 2005

Taken While Waiting for Emergency Roadside Service (TM)

Dear Mom,

I got all inspired when jasclo wrote her post about how her mom reads her blog and all of her friends' blogs as well (hello, Jasclo's mom!). I know you pop in here from time to time, so I thought I'd take a few moments to tell you something I have never told you before.

Remember that time you dropped me off at Maiada's for a sleepover and we were all like, "Oooh, we're going to do our nails and make popcorn and gossip and, who knows, maybe we'll give ourselves facials...whee!"? Well, we did have the sleepover eventually, but we took a little break and went up to San Francisco to the Live 105 Listener Appreciation Party. I know I had been forbidden to go after winning the tickets, mostly by dad, because it was in the big bad city on a questionable stretch of Market Street and all, but y'all just didn't get it and I had to take matters into my own hands. We saw the Hoodoo Gurus and A Flock of Seagulls and the Alarm and we just had a fantastic time.

And then, we met our favorite DJ, Steve Masters, and Maiada and I both kissed him on the cheek. We spent the next month drooling about it. Although looking at his picture now, I'm not sure why.

Knowing you, you were probably onto me the whole time. In which case, your instincts were totally correct. No, dad still doesn't know. Don't tell him! Please!

XO

P.S. I'm not grounded, am I? Please don't do it in front of the Internets, and don't make me have to sneak out at this age.

An Overly Long Post In Which I Turn a Daily Occurrence for People Into a Major Drama for Myself and the Mr.

We had big, big plans yesterday. We had dreams. They involved me and the Mr. driving to DC to meet maliavale for dinner at a Mexican restaurant that serves swirl margaritas. What? What more do you need? Did you not see the part where I mentioned the swirl margaritas? OK, OK. There was also to be chips and salsa, and after that, we were going to see Liz Phair.

We were making good time on the interstate. The Mr. napped while I drove and sang along to the music. We were going to be right on time, my preferred method of arriving anywhere.

Shortly after we got on 395, I heard a machine gun rat-tat-tat-tat-tat from below.
"Do you hear that?" I asked as I turned down the music.
"It's probably just the road."
Some guy in a VW Jetta cleared it up for us just then by doing the pointing motion that has become the international symbol for "you have a flat tire" or perhaps even "your blinker has been on for the last 20 miles, you idiot." We did the international symbol for "thank you" (wave and smile...we have a flat! YES!) and took the next exit.


After we parked, the Mr. hopped out of the car and opened my trunk. He took out the spare and the jack (I have a jack? I had no idea.). I, of course, helped by taking pictures and started thinking of the blog. How will I recount this? I swear, if we were driving off a cliff, my last thought would be, "Now, how will I write about this on the blog?"

He took the lugnuts off the wheel and tugged. The wheel didn't move. I called a certain Emergency Roadside Service Club (TM) of which we are members when it became apparent that we couldn't do this on our own. They left me on hold for 5 minutes, then disconnected me.

I called maliavale to tell her to proceed with Operation: Margaritas without us. It was a hard phone call to make.

I then called the Emergency Roadside Service Club (TM) again, they took my information and, then, in the friendliest manner possible, they informed us that they would be there sometime between 6:30 and 8:30. That's quite a window. Upon hearing that, the Mr. tugged at the wheel even more furiously, but this wheel did not want to leave my car. That's when I remembered I had some tire inflating and sealing stuff in my trunk. He put it in the tire, which not only inflated, but it grew very lumpy, as though it had a raging case of the mumps. I didn't want to die driving a car with lumpy tires, I'd much rather be a passenger for that, so he took over.


We drove around for a few miles trying to get the sealant to spread, then stopped at a gas station to put air in all the other tires. Just to be safe. We're paranoid about tires now. I hadn't had much to eat the whole day and was beginning to have doubts that we'd ever make it home, let alone to the show, so I went into the store to get sustenance: 2 bags of gummy cherries. Big mistake. One day, there may be an autopsy done on me, and they are going to cut up my stomach and find these cherry candies. Mark my words.

We knew it was a gamble to go to the show, as the tire didn't seem like it was going to hold out all that long. But we went, and Liz played a good, if short, set consisting mostly of old songs (yay!). You can also bet that what we lacked in margaritas, we made up for in beers and ciders. The story about the strange girls who flipped out when Liz played "Fuck and Run," screamed every word (story of their lives?) and danced like there weren't, oh, 40 other people around them trying to enjoy the show, then left after the song, is a story for another day. Or perhaps maliavale will share it. If she does, I hope she answers the question: Why are we always right next to the crazies at concerts?!! This is, like, the fourth freaking time. (Update: she is all over it.)

After the show, we walked out to find the tire flat again, as expected. The Mr., always thinking ahead, had bought some Fix-A-Flat stuff before the show. He tried to put it in the tire, and it instead of going where it should, it just made a giant mess.


He tried once again to just take the tire off and put on the spare. It still would not come off, and everyone had a theory: parking brake on or off? Car in gear, neutral or reverse? We called the Emergency Roadside Service Club (TM) and the guy was there within a half hour.
"The tire won't come off," said the Mr.
I started to say, "Yeah...now, should the car be in neutral for--" when the walked up to the tire, spun on his heels and, much like Fonzie with the jukebox, he kicked it. It popped right off.

We then put the spare on while he told us about a 24-hour tire place a few miles away (the miracle of large cities! I love it.), which is where we drove afterward. They had us in and out of there in about 15 minutes, and we were on the road and home by 3:30 a.m.

And today, instead of a margarita hangover, I've got a cherry candy sugar crash to contend with.

Tuesday, October 11, 2005

The Sign Fell

Have a Nice Trip, See You Next Fall

Much like Susan on Desperate Housewives, I am a total klutz. I'm getting the feeling that Marc Cherry wants us to think this is cute, but it really isn't. Not in her case, and certainly not in mine. I'm always tripping on things, running into walls, stumbling on sidewalks, walking into poles and worst of all, tripping on my own damn self. A few times I've nearly fallen over while just standing there. It's nothing short of a miracle that not only have I never broken anything or had a concussion, but that I'm even alive.

My earliest memory of klutzdom was when I was 5 years old. For reasons unknown to me, I asked my friend and neighbor to push me. She protested a little, but I insisted. C'mon! Just a little push. I think I was trying to prove some kind of point, perhaps that I was not easily knocked over? That I was stout and hardy? I don't know. But she gave in and halfheartedly nudged me, yet I immediately lost control of myself as though she had driven her car into me and my eye connected with a faucet sticking out from the side of our other neighbor's house. Blood was everywhere. I ran home, where my mom promptly freaked out and took me to the emergency room. My eyeball was fine, but the skin just below my right eyebrow had a little gash. The scar is very faint, but it's still there.

When I was a toddler, I tripped on a vacuum cord and smacked the corner of my left eye on my parents' water bed. It left an indentation that now appears as a dimple when I smile. For a few years as a teenager, I wished I had real dimples and considered re-creating the accident twice, once for each side.

In April 1981, the day before my dad and stepmom's wedding in which I was to be co-flower girl, my grandfather, stepbrother and I went to the park around the corner from our house. After a little while, I decided to head home. "Bye, Grandpa!" I shouted. Then, for no good reason, I fell flat on my face. I completely shredded my nose. It's amazing how I can be somewhere where the opportunities for accidents is so ripe, yet I create one entirely on my own. I don't need a slide or a swingset for disaster! Sure, everyone was a little concerned about my injury, but the more pressing issue was: we don't really need her in the wedding pictures, right? Can we find a stand-in? My nose had scabbed over by the next morning, and my grandmother broke out the thick foundation and caked it on until I looked like I bled Max Factor. In the pictures, it looks like I raided my mother's makeup drawer.

A few years ago, while walking Nabby with the Mr., I tripped on a curb, took about three steps to try and unsuccessfully regain my balance, and my knees took the hit when I reached the ground. I limped back to the house to clean the wounds, where it turns out they were worse than the average scrape. It also hurt like an m-effer. I went to the drugstore to get Neosporin, dressing, tape and basically anything else that would make it seem like I was buying first-aid for a life-threatening wound. For a few weeks, I had to deal with my hideous knees oozing and bleeding and sticking to the dressing and just generally hurting like hell. Finally, I went to the doctor, who gave me some powerful antibiotic. My knees healed up at the end of the weeklong treatment. Oh, but the scars.

When you're around me? It's a good idea to just keep a good 10 feet of clearance at all times.

Mememememememe

I was tagged for this meme by princess genevieve. I'm sad to inform her that my post was neither about the puppylicious Ben Lee nor a photo!

The Rules
1. Go into your archive.
2. Find your 23rd post.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.
5. Tag five other people to do the same.

Would you believe my qualifying post was something else about the gym? For pete's sake, somebody stop me.

October 13, 2004: Right now I am a lowly 703 among females, but hey! I just joined.
The full text of the post is here.

I can't think of anyone to tag for this who I haven't seen do it, other than maliavale and jasclo.

Monday, October 10, 2005

After This One Post, I Will Put a Moratorium On This

OK, so after I write this post, y'all are going to be like, "God, please, shut up about the gym. You live at the gym. We get it."

What's really funny, though, is that I'm totally lazy. The gym is often the extent of my physical activity for the day. I've been known to park myself in front of the computer or TV for the better part of an afternoon because, hey, I worked out this morning! Step off!

So, back to my point. There's this guy who gets to the gym around 11:30 every day, which is around the last 1/3rd of my workout. Today I got to the gym a little early, so I was hopping off just as he was getting started.

And let me tell you: He smells so bad. No. That wasn't emphatic enough. Allow me to use all the tools I have at my disposal for a more fitting amount of emphasis: SO INCREDIBLY BAD.

I've smelled all the smells you can smell at the gym: the musty odor from the guy who left his clothes in the washer for a week before popping them in the dryer; body odor; bad breath. It's not pleasant, but it's tolerable. It's a gym, people sweat, it happens. I'm not claiming to smell like gardenias when I work out.

But this guy. Man. He smells like he's in the World Series and he doesn't want to wash his socks because it would be bad luck. Except, this is the World Series that took place in 1908, and it would also be bad luck to shower or maintain any semblance of personal hygeine.

It's so bad that when I see him coming, I cover my nose and mouth with a towel. He usually hops on the elliptical trainer two down from me. I can't move to another machine, because the machine I'm usually on is the only one of its kind in the cardio area at the moment.

So, what I'm wondering is: Would it be bad if, when someone walks by me, I held my nose, made an exaggerated "P.U.!" waving motion with my hand, and then gestured toward the smelly guy?

Just to let people know I'm not the one stinking up the joint. That would be OK, right?

Tossed

Now Being Served At the Olive Garden

I took maliavale's advice and sloganized myself:

Mama Mia, That'sa One Spicy Nabbalicious!

If that doesn't make you want to run out and buy a dozen of me at full price, there is also:

Pure Nabbalicious.

Reach for the Nabbalicious.

You Too Can Have A Nabbalicious Like Mine.

The Ultimate Nabbalicious Machine.

When You've Got Nabbalicious, Flaunt It.

Oh, stop it, you silly slogan generator. I'm getting a fat head. You don't want to oversell me!

Sunday, October 09, 2005

Shoe

Baby Don't Got Back

I have no butt. If you view me from the side, there are no peaks and valleys in my backside. It's a nearly perfect straight line from my shoulder blades to my Achilles tendons. My thighs and behind are a single entity.

I'm now mostly at peace with it. Whatever. I still don't ever tuck in my shirts (this is also because I've got what's known as, how you say, hips that are very suitable for the child-bearing), but I recently stopped going to the gym with a sweatshirt around my waist, unless I happened to bring one to ward off the nip in the air outside. For me, this was a major thing, because I started working out regularly in 1992 and have not gone without a sweatshirt to hide my butt one single time since then. One day, after the 18,000th time I paused my workout to tighten the arms around my waist it occurred to me that this is just ridiculous. I'm wearing one of these things because, what, I think everyone's looking at my butt? Not likely. Especially not when I'm doing level 10 on the Arc Trainer. Laugh it up, I'll karate chop you when I'm done.

But just because I've accepted my plight doesn't mean I've given up trying to have a behind. I do endless squats, lunges, the glute press apparatus thingamajig torture device in the hopes that one day an ass might magically sprout up. I wear somewhat low-rise jeans and pants, beause I'm told these are more flattering for the asstastically challenged. But no one's ever hooted "Hey, nice ass!" when I wear a pair, so I can't be sure they're actually working in my favor. To be fair, no one's ever shouted "Hey, no ass!" at me, either.

The only thing that really, really bugs me about not having a butt is how saggy my pants are. There's just nothing to fill them. They look too big for me, when they're not. They're too big for my butt, yet they fit my waist just fine. If pants were sized like bras, I'd be a solid A-cup. Or perhaps even one of those unfortunate girls nicknamed "mosquito bites."

That's when it hit me: why don't clothing manufacturers come out with jeans and pants made for different sizes of behind? Why must I continually be punished and made to look like I'm wearing Depends for not having a backside like J.Lo.'s? And conversely, why must the J.Lo.s of the world be forced to go up a size or two to make room for their back?

I'm sure Banana Republic is all over this, but hey, I did my part.

Don't Look All Innocent...You Know What Time It Is

Saturday, October 08, 2005

Dear Beck Hanson,

Why you so pretty? What do you use on your skin? I mean, you look exactly like you did 11 years ago, and it's freaking me out a little. By a little, I mean, a whole lot. Eleven years ago, you looked like a kid. Today, you still look like a kid. Is there some sort of product you can direct me to so I may similarly freeze my skin in time?

Nabbalicious

P.S. Wait. This doesn't have anything to do with L. Ron Hubbard, does it?

Bread

One of my favorite, ahem, "meals" when I was poor and living alone was a baguette, lots of butter and a pint of Ben & Jerry's for dessert. I would totally eat that all over again.

Friday, October 07, 2005

You Love the Thunder, You Love the Rain

Right now, it's dumping outside and the wind is blowing. I think many people love it when the crap weather falls on a day they have to go to work, but I'm sitting here wondering why it couldn't have been like this on, say, Tuesday, the first day of my weekend. This weather is the perfect excuse to curl up in bed with a cup of tea and a good book. It makes me all drowsy and relaxed, like I just had a good massage, a condition not conducive to doing actual work.

Someone's going to have a little trouble focusing tonight.

Thursday, October 06, 2005

Menu

[Insert Depends and/or Dentures Joke Here]

Some days, I notice that I don't recover from staying up too late as quickly as I used to, or my back is a little achier than before. But most days, I still feel good for being 32.

The Mr., on the other had, loves to act like AARP membership is right around the corner. A few weeks ago, he referred to us as, "Nearly middle-aged." Maybe that's true, but my jaw hit the floor. We're certainly closer than we were before, but...but...really?

We got home around 1 a.m. last night, and he went straight to bed because he had another flight leaving at the crack of dawn.

While taking him to the airport again this morning (I just can't seem to say no to this. What is my problem?), he said he woke up around 4:30 and felt great. Then he said, "I guess this is a sign of getting older -- you need less sleep!"

So soon?

Partition

Wednesday, October 05, 2005

Are We There Yet?

Last night while driving home from dinner, Arget-Tay and the record store, the Mr. and I wound up behind a minivan that appeared to be airing a movie. Instead of focusing on driving, I pulled up close behind them to see what they were watching (some cartoon), then I realized that was probably a little dangerous. In typical fashion, I blamed them for luring me in. "They shouldn't put those things in their cars, because it's just making me want to see what their movie is, and I'm going to crash."

"Those things are stupid. Hey, you know what we did as kids when we were sitting and riding in the car? We sat and rode in the car."

No kidding. Do kids not play the "out-of-state-plates" game anymore? Or that game where you find an object to correspond with every letter of the alphabet? I Spy? Is any of this ringing a bell? Or what about that precious, invaluable sibling bonding time, where you tease and beat on each other mercilessly until your dad turns around and threatens to either whack the both of you upside the head and/or pull the car to the side of the road? Do it when you're 8, you'll get grounded at worst. Beat on your brother at 30, you're looking at misdemeanor assault, most likely.

Not that I have done that in my adult life, but that's because I got it out of my system back then.

Why, back in my day, my brothers, sister and I often read books in the back of my dad and stepmom's van. I think I read just about every Nancy Drew book surrounded by that wood-paneling, sprawled out on the brown velvet sofa with the leather armrests. Oh, yeah. This was a classy van. If we weren't doing that, we were rocking out to Earth, Wind & Fire and Donna Summer on the eight-track player.

We made fun of that van, but we adored it, too. We called it the Brownmobile. Hey, what do you want? We were 8 and younger. Dad bought it shortly before I started kindergarten, before he and my mom divorced. The interior originally had nothing in it except the driver's seat. Dad added everything else later. He took me to my first day of kindergarten in the van, and I rode in the back on the floor.

The sofa could be pulled out to become a bed, and the four of us kids fit on it perfectly. When we took off on a long trip, say, to Disneyland or the family cabin in the mountains to go skiing, we'd gather up our pillows, blankets and books and settle in for the long drive.

And then there was the time my stepbrother Glenn politely and quietly threw up in a little empty cereal box because the hills and curves made him carsick. No one knew he did that until we made a pit stop and he told my stepmom.

You can't buy memories like that. Not even at Arget-Tay.

Tuesday, October 04, 2005

Follow the Yellow Brick Wall

More Ghost Stuff (The Mr. Is In the Room With Me Right Now Keeping Watch, So It's OK)

Bucktoothed Varmint e-mailed me last night to ask if I had a VCR. I knew where he was going with this. He thinks I need to see some scary-ass movie called "The Changeling." I respectfully disagree.

Me: Are you going to make me watch that SCARY MOVIE?

BTV: YES! You have to. It's fantastic. It's old and in some ways hasn't aged well, but there are a couple scenes that are simply creep-tacular and have to be seen by anyone who appreciates a good ghost story.

Me: All right, but if I die of fright, IT IS ON YOUR HEAD.

BTV: I scare you to death with a ghost movie, then you come back and haunt me. That's irony if I've ever seen it.

Me: That sounds like a deal. I won't be a nice ghost, either!

BTV: My college roommate's family home was built during the revolutionary war (in Maryland). Well, part of it was, and they added on over the years. They used to keep the piano in the old part of the house ... until it started waking them up in the middle of the night playing ragtime music.

Me: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

BTV: I've never had an encounter. I'm not opposed to it really. I'm more scared by people knocking on my door late at night to panhandle.

Touche.

Faucet II

Monday, October 03, 2005

Faucet