Avery Gray

Blowing the Dust Off

2009-03-06T18:13:00.000-08:00

Life is an endless, soul-sucking miasma of chronic and debilitating exhaustion. Other than that, things are just peachy.

School is definitely one of the main culprits. Because the program I'm enrolled in takes semester-long courses and condenses them into 6 week torture-fests, I've been working long into the wee hours to finish a major project every week. The lack of sleep has certainly taken its toll on my supermodel good looks and weather girl personality. Why, I'd say I've dropped to a meager 8.5.

(We're talking on a scale of roughly six trillion.)

That's not the worst news I have to share with you, however. No, that juicy little tidbit would be that I saw my doctor, and she revealed that I have...

A GOITER!

What the fudge is a goiter, you ask? That's exactly what I wanted to know! Isn't that something that old people get? I mean, not people like me who are young but complain, "Oh, I'm so old!" and make other people who are older than them want to hit them, because, come on, that's so annoying! No, I'm talking honest to goodness old people who poop themselves and yell at parked cars.

Well, apparently not, because I have one, and I do neither of those things. Much.

All a goiter is, my doctor assures me, is an enlarged thyroid. Unfortunately, the fact that I have one probably means that I will now be put on thyroid medication in addition to the three other pills I have to take every day for the rest of my life for my PCOS.

I'm a walking pharmaceutical, yo.

Fortunately, my goiter is fairly small and was caught early, so I won't be walking around with a basketball-sized lump in my neck. It does make me tired, though, which isn't helping matters with the aforementioned crippling exhaustion I'm experiencing.

I'm quite the catch, ain't I?

Blerg.

Google is My Friend?

2009-01-21T17:42:00.000-08:00

I have a little confession to make. Since starting back to school, I've taken to Googling my professors.

(Believe me, it's not as hot as it sounds.)

The reason I do this isn't just because I'm a pathetic stalker-type person (I said not JUST because), but also because I find I am disinclined to take the advice of anyone who is not at least marginally better than me at the subject in question. And since many graphic designers today maintain a digital portfolio online, I feel well within my rights to snoop to my heart's content.

(What is that saying about curiosity and the cat?)

My first professor was very professional, and her portfolio was very nice (if a little bland). Still, she had lots of practical experience and she was very willing to share with the class.

My second professor was retarded, signed everything with "Smiles! :-P", and never met a shade of pink she didn't like.

Oi.

I didn't really know what to expect with my new professor, but I was not harboring high hopes. It's a good thing, too, because they'd have been dashed on the proverbial rocks with this Google nugget.

Allow me to quote her letter to Ask the Eviction Attorney:

Dear Mr. Reno:

I had new tenants move into a townhouse condo in mid-November. They paid $400 security and the remainder of November's rent before moving in. On December 1st, 2007 I didn't receive a check from the tenants, 5 days later, I receive an email from the tenant saying he had not mailed the check yet and wanted to know if I would just pick it up from them. This was very inconvenient, as I was 7 months pregnant, and would have to drive to the other side of town to get the check. I did go pick up the check from the wife at the townhouse condo, and asked them to mail a check in advance in the future. Since then, they have mailed the checks for January, and February in advance so we have received it on time. What I want to know is it too late to give the tenants "notice to quit" in order to evict them based on the fact that December's rent was late?

Ms. [name withheld to protect the grade giver]

*cough cough ballbuster cough*

Oh, excuse me. I was just pretending to cough while calling my professor a ballbuster. Uh, I mean...allergies?

Needless to say, the past two weeks have been insane. In the past two days alone, I've finished 45 newspaper ads like this one for my made-up client...

That may not seem like a lot, but consider that every ad had to be different--different sizes, images, layouts, and logos.

In the words of Mr. Reno, the eviction attorney, in response to her query:

You're kidding, right?

Sadly, no.

It's going to be a long six weeks.

I'll Be Frank

2009-01-13T11:56:00.000-08:00

And you can be Shirley.

Frank: Hey, sexy!

Shirley: Oh, you're finally getting around to acknowledging my presence?

Frank: Aw, come on, baby, don't be like that. You know I love you.

Shirley: Well, you certainly have a funny way of showing it. How long has it been? Two? Three weeks?

Frank: Yeah, but, you know, I had...stuff to do.

Shirley: Mmm hmm.

Frank: I had to, like, buy a toaster. And a vacuum. And a water filter for my fridge. Those things don't just replace themselves, you know.

Shirley: And that took you three weeks?

Frank: No. But...but my ear hurt, too. It still does. I have to put drops in it and everything.

Shirley: And that affects your ability to type?

Frank: Yes! Have you tried typing with your head at a 90 degree angle? It's not easy. I should know. Plus, school started back up, and I have a ton of work to do. So, it's not like I've just been sitting around, doing nothing--

Shirley: You've been making furniture for your Sims again, haven't you?

Frank: What? No. What?

Shirley: Tell me the truth.

Frank: Well, okay, maybe...

***

(I'm a featured creator, baby! Don't hate the playa, hate the game.)

Snow Din

2008-12-20T21:19:00.000-08:00

Okay, I think I've let you behold the sexiness an ample amount of time, and considering the 8 inches of snow and ice on the ground pretty much have us snowed in for the foreseeable future...

I guess I don't really have an excuse not to blog. Especially since, as my good buddy, Meghan (aka "The Blogless Wonder"), likes to point out, we Grays have, at last count, 6 different platforms from which to impart bloggy goodness to the world, including my iPhone and the new MacBook Pro--both of which are inherently portable.

(Thanks for that, Meghan. Now kindly suck it.)

I'm Avery Gray, bitch. I blog on my time, not yours. That's why my name's in the big, fancy letters. When it's your name up there, we'll talk, mmmkay?

Passive aggressiveness aside, though, I have been feeling guilty for not updating this here blog. Not enough to actually post, but close. Real close.

Instead, I've spent the past several guilt-ridden weeks learning to use Adobe Illustrator for my class in graphic design, and having my arse handed to me by Mike in Scramble (which is Facebook's version of Boggle) when my brain just can't take any more. Admittedly, not the best time to challenge a nationally ranked Scrabble player to a word game, but I like living on the edge.

Having passed my class with flying colors (100%, baby!), and given up on ever beating the master at his own game (it's Scrabble-like, Mike, and you know it!), the only real impediment to blogging has been the mind-numbing noise generated by my housebound half-pint and his feline friend.

(Two stories, 2000 square feet, and the only good place to play "Squish the Cat" is invariably within a 10 foot radius of wherever I happen to be? Go figure.)

Couple that with a nosey husband on a lengthy vacation, and you have the makings of what's known as "The Great Blogging Void". It's inevitable.

For the moment, though, the boy is glued to the tube, my husband is snoring away on the couch, and the cat...well, he could be trapped in a snow cave for all I know, which makes this a good (and, perhaps, only) time to blog.

Now if only I had something to say...

Behold the Sexiness...

2008-11-17T12:42:00.000-08:00

...that is my new MacBook Pro*.

15 inch display, 2.53 GHz Intel Core 2 Duo processor with 4GB of RAM, 320GB hard drive, and not one, but two sexy, sexy nVidia graphics cards.

Whew! I need a moment...

*Or a reasonable facsimile.

At Least She Got the Looks

2008-11-07T12:48:00.000-08:00

My sister came up to visit me the day after the election. Such good Bible-thumpin' times! I, in a misguided attempt to corral the vociferous "Obama is a RADICAL MILITANT MUSLIM" rants, tried, gently, to steer her into more neutral topics of conversation that wouldn't get us lynched by the lunch crowd at Olive Garden (the most liberal of all olive-centric eateries). I told her that such rhetoric is better stated a) before the election, and b) to someone who actually gives a crap what she thinks.

Lunch did not go well.

Although she believes my defense of Obama equates to dire peril for my eternal soul, she was persuaded to change the subject to my classes and how I was liking school. (If only she knew my professor is a Jewish lesbian who specializes in "ecoart"!) I told her it was going as well as could be expected, but that I will really be glad when it's done and I can focus on my future.

"Yeah," she said, "I really wanted to take some online courses so I could become a travel agent, but when I brought it up to the family, Austin (her 11-year-old son) told me I couldn't do that. When I asked him why, he said it was because then I wouldn't be there for him when he got home from school. So, I took that as a sign from God that it's not the right time to do something for myself just yet."

I smiled and nodded noncommittally. What else could I do in the face of such crazy? I love my nephew, but even on his best day, he doesn't really strike me as the conduit through which an all-powerful, omniscient deity doles out career advice. Nor do I think God really cares about whether she continues to stay home and coddle her mama's boy or spends a few hours a day bettering herself. He's probably a little busy planning an apocalypse or something.

Sadly, she's not the only nutjob in my family. My other sister believes God advises her on real estate. He told her He wanted her to have a more luxuriously appointed home in a posh neighborhood because she'd earned it with her good deeds.

No, I'm not joking.

I really don't know how I could have turned out so much differently than my brothers and sisters. We were raised to believe in God, and to seek His wisdom in everything, and I do have conversations with Him from time to time. Of course, mine are a little more one sided, and rarely involve payment for services rendered. No, I talk to God the way Mark Wahlberg talks to animals...

"Hey, God. How's it going? So, you're the Lord, huh? What's that about? Hey, thanks for all the cool stuff you do. Alright. Say hi to your mother for me."

Short. Sweet. To the point.

I must be doing it wrong.

THE Best Thing About Being a Student...

2008-10-28T08:49:00.000-07:00

Nice.

... But I Still Got It

2008-10-27T15:52:00.000-07:00

I'm old.

How did that happen?

The last time I set foot in a college classroom was ten years ago, and in that time, I've developed an incurable case of oldstudentitis. Everything I thought I knew back then, I actually know now, yet surprisingly, still no one wants to hear it.

So, this is how leprosy feels!

It's not bad actually. So far, my professor's pretty darned impressed with my work, and that's all that really matters, I suppose. It would be nice if I could make friends in my class, but since it's online and only lasts six weeks, it would be pointless to try and reinvent myself four weeks in as a younger, cooler version of Avery Gray. The kind that knows when to shut her piehole and not out herself as a know-it-all teacher's pet.

(Actually, that part hasn't changed since...well, ever. I was a Mathlete, for crying out loud. You think they hand out that honor to back-sassers? I should say not!)

A good portion of our grade is in giving constructive feedback to our classmates, and, frankly, I don't lack for material. I know, art school is not generally considered a Mecca for Mensa members, but for the love of all things holy, the word is "beige", not "bage", and developing 20 design concepts does not mean sketching the same one 20 times and adding more and more glittery stars.

(Honestly, how do these people dress themselves?)

The work has been challenging. We're averaging 6 assignments a week, including a couple of professional quality 2-D presentations. Next week we start work on the first of our 3-D presentations--constructing a countertop point-of-purchase display. For some reason, I'm expecting a huge drop in enrollment between now and then. Just call it a crazy hunch.

Me, though, I've already started gearing up for the project. I've got my sketches done, my favorites picked, and every glittery star to be found in the greater Portland area.

Oh, yeah. I'm ready.

The Boob Boy

2008-10-10T18:44:00.000-07:00

There are always certain dangers associated with teaching your children to do things like talk or open doors. I learned that painful lesson this morning.

Until recently, we'd been able to keep Ethan out of our bedroom using a doorknob cover. The subtle nuances of the imposing plastic had heretofore proved an impenetrable defense against the pint-sized marauder. He lacked the manual dexterity and hand span necessary to squeeze both sides and twist at the same time.

We thought ourselves safe. What fools we were!

I woke this morning about an hour before Ethan usually does and hopped in the shower, thinking nothing of the dangers lurking just outside. As soon as I turned the water off and pulled back the curtain, I heard it...

"Hi, Mom!"

Now, I'm not a prude, nor am I ashamed of my body. Ethan has seen me without my clothes on a number of times before, just not since he's been able to voice his observations.

E: "Mom, what are those?"

Me: "What are what?"

E: "Those big things on your chest."

Me: "Those are called breasts."

E: "Bretts?"

Me: "Close enough."

E: "Wow, Mom! They're bee-yoo-ti-full!"

Me: "Uh...thanks."

E: "You know what they look like?"

Me: "I'm afraid you're going to tell me."

E: "They look like...

like...

like my backpack!"

Me: "WHAT?!"

E: "My backpack's beautiful, too."

I'm thinking moat.

What's Up

2008-10-08T16:33:00.000-07:00

The service for my uncle was a beautiful affair, and I'm feeling much more at peace with his sudden passing. I want to thank you all for the thoughts, prayers, and well wishes. They have meant so much to me.

It has been a rough couple of weeks, but things are starting to look up. My dad has been approached by the local community college about putting together a curriculum for a DIY class on wind-powered generators. Though he won't get paid much, he will be part of the college staff, which means he'll get health benefits. That's fortunate because he has leukemia (in remission), and his insurance costs $900 a month.

(Kick someone when they're down, why don'tcha.)

School is going well. We had four assignments to complete this week, one of which was to provide a sample of a Photoshopped image--be it hand-drawn or an edited photo. Since I just got a nifty little Wacom graphics tablet for the class, I opted for the hand-drawn option. This could have gone horribly awry, considering that I haven't done much drawing for the past ten years, but I think it turned out alright.

The professor really liked it, but I haven't had much feedback from the rest of the class, so I'm getting a little nervous about it. This is a class filled with graphic design students of all levels, so to some of them, it could look horribly amateur, but since no one else has submitted their images, I don't have anything to compare it to.

Any graphic designers out there care to tear me a new one? I can take it, I swear!

On to the cute side of the news...

Last night, we attended Ethan's school open house where we had the opportunity to read the reports the students had dictated to the teachers about the most special people in their lives. Here's Ethan's:

"This is my mom. She's special to me because she likes me. She lets me watch TV. I watch SpongeBob with her.

When she was a kid, she was 10 years old.

Her hair is brown, her eyes are green, her lips look like a paint color. Her skin is peach colored.

My mom likes to take me to Kindergarten. She works in a factory, it's a juice factory. She lives in a home. It's at the bottom of Dibb's (Deb's) house. She has a kitty named Arrow. The kitty looks like a little cat to me.

My mom likes to watch TV with my dad, sports games. They like to hold hands, and they like to talk in the car.

The end."

Sweet, ain't it?

Apparently, to my son, I'm a green-eyed, painted harlot who works in a juice factory. Awesome.

Always Darkest...

2008-10-02T06:25:00.000-07:00

This week has been a very sad one for me.

On Monday, I learned that my parents, who have owned their own small business for the past twenty some-odd years, will be losing it come December 31st. It was a business that my dad especially put his heart and soul into, and with it goes their livelihood. They're worried, naturally, about finances. About whether or not they'll be able to find jobs in this economy. About starting over in their 60's. I can't say those fears are unfounded.

I haven't always seen eye-to-eye with my parents, but I still love them, and their loss still pains me. I hadn't quite recovered from their news when I got the phone call Tuesday morning that my uncle, who was very dear to me, died unexpectedly of a heart attack while he was visiting his wife in the ICU. My aunt's not expected to make it much longer either.

I've cried more these past few days than I have in several years, until I didn't think there could possibly be any more tears. But then I'd see something, or hear something, or think something, and it would set me off again--the bench my uncle made for me when I was seven that has probably seen better days, but which I've always found a special place for wherever I've lived, or the antique fishing pole he gave me when I got married, making me promise we'd go fishing together the coming spring.

The coming spring, I was pregnant, and we never did go fishing. Of all the regrets I have, somehow that one eats at me the most. Still, I know he wouldn't want me to wallow in sadness. He'd tell me to buck up and get on with life, just as he'd done any number of times in his own. Despite whatever hardships he faced--and there were many--he was always kind, always positive, and always determined. It's what I loved most about him.

I've been doing a lot of thinking about my own life lately and what I want to do with it. I'm blessed with the option to choose which direction I take it, but I've squandered perfectly good opportunities in favor of waiting for the "right time" to take advantage of them. When will I ever learn? If anything, this week has reminded me that there is no right time, there is only right now.

Although I'd already planned to go back to school before all of this happened, this cemented the decision for me. Now I'm all signed up to begin my first class in a one year online digital design program at the Art Institute on Monday. It's the first step toward a career in graphic design, which has always interested me.

I'm nervous and excited, but most of all, I'm grateful--for the parents who raised me, and the uncle who inspired me.

How Far We've Come

2008-09-29T08:37:00.000-07:00

I've had a book on my nightstand for ages that I've been meaning to read, and just never felt very compelled to do so. It's called "The Wolf and the Dove" by the late Kathleen E. Woodiwiss, and it is often lauded in romantic historical circles as one of those not to be missed novels. One that stands the test of time and tells a compelling story of love against all odds.

Bullshite, I say.

After having picked it up last night and read the first hundred pages or so, I can say with all certainty that the readers in romantic historical circles must be some hardcore masochistic bitches. In the first chapter alone, the heroine's father has been murdered, her mother beaten, her townspeople slaughtered, and she has been raped.

Good times.

After all that, you'd expect the hero to come charging up on a white stallion and avenge the wrongs done to this poor creature, right?

Nope, he just gets on with the rapin'. Yee haw!

I suppose it's romantic that he's the only one allowed to rape her for the time being. Shows his commitment to the relationship and all. Still, there's just something that doesn't sit right with me.

Maybe it's all the rape?

Well, whatever it is, I'm not sure if I care to see how it's all gonna play out in the end. I mean, even if he had a sudden epiphany that raping a woman and slaughtering her people were bad things, how does one redeem himself?

"Sorry about all the raping and slaughtering I did. Here's a box of Whitman's Samplers and a mixtape. I know how much you like Duran Duran."

Good first step, to be sure, but somehow I don't think it quite measures up. And I like Duran Duran, so that's saying something!

This type of bodice ripper style romance was apparently popular in the 70's, when this book was first printed, and has since fallen out of favor. Seems women today tend to like their heroes a little more heroic than sadistic. Strange as that may sound.

But having tortured myself with the first hundred pages (hey, maybe I am masochistic after all!), I got to wondering why I had bought the book in the first place. It's not like I was enticed by the cover, which is just as cheesy as you'd expect. It's not the sort of book I would normally read--if I'm going to read an historical novel, it's usually set in Regency or Victorian England, or medieval Scotland. Not medieval England. That's just plain nuts!

Well, off to Amazon I went, hoping to find the answer to that burning question, and here is what I found:

Out of 121 reader reviews of "The Wolf and the Dove", 101 of them are 4 or 5 stars.

That means that, of the 121 reviewers, 83% thought the novel was "above average" or "excellent".

83%!

Can one of you 83% please reassure me that there's a good twin at the end of this mess? 'Cause, if not, I am dumbfounded. I truly am.

School Daze

2008-09-23T08:29:00.000-07:00

I don't know how y'all do it.

A few weeks ago, before Ethan started school, I had joyous visions of the oodles of free time his school day would afford me. Two and a half glorious hours, every day.

Just think of all the blogging you'll do!

(Of course, in these visions I was also about 40 pounds thinner and immaculately coiffed. But that's really beside the point.)

Then reality had its way with me, and I suddenly realized the fallacy of my dream. I have a five and three-quarter year old. Their asses? Unlightable.

And since he has afternoon kindergarten--and he knows it--the threat of missing the bus if he doesn't eat his breakfast and take his bath has no affect on him. He knows it won't be coming for hours anyhow.

I suppose this is my fault for having such a laid back, lackadaisical approach to a morning routine for all these years I've been home with him. Heck, if we didn't have anywhere to be, I'd just as soon stay in my jammies until noon. I've always hated being rushed so early in the day.

Now, mornings are the only productive time Ethan's new schedule allows, and I've gone and borked it. Retroactively.

This past few weeks have been a test to both of us, but we're gradually getting the flow of the new schedule down. He ate breakfast this morning with relatively little fuss and went to take a shower without having to be asked. The house is a disaster, and the cat still hasn't been fed, but there are groceries to buy, and an oil change to be done, so I'm taking every little victory where I can get it.

This will be my last year at home with him before I re-enter the working world, and as much as I'm looking forward to it, I have a feeling next September will be a little preview of Armageddon in the Gray household.

Should be fun.

Special Place in Hell...

2008-09-05T16:37:00.000-07:00

Quick informal poll...

A gregarious five-year-old asks you, quite politely, if you would like to shake his hand. You resond:

A) by saying, "Sure! Put 'er there, pal!"

B) apologetically. "No thanks. I have a phobia."

C) by ignoring him.

D) by exclaiming, "God no! You're covered in germs! You should know better than to ask that," and making the five-year-old cry.

If your response was "A", you're my kind of people.

If you responded with "B", I understand, and I don't harbor any ill will toward you or your hippie parents (except for the usual).

If you answered "C", you are beneath my contempt.

If, however, you responded with "D" and are this guy...

...you're a store brand value pack douche. On clearance.

(P.S. Next time, don't piss off a mom with a phone and a blog.)

Speaking of hell...

Hubby's on vacation through the weekend. I'll post more when he's not hovering.

This 'n' That

2008-08-29T08:08:00.000-07:00

Certain individuals of my acquaintance have, in recent days, attempted to remind me that I have something called a "blog" on which I "blog" about various goings-on in my life. Sounds pretty crazy if you ask me. Surely, if I had something as wondrous and self-congratulating as that, I'd post on it all the time, wouldn't you think?

*sheepish chuckle*

Alright, fine. You got me. I've been a bad blogger, whiling away precious blogging minutes with reckless abandon. Fortunately, I had a feeling that might happen, and I had the forethought to document my activities through the magic of pho-to-graph-y. So, without further ado, I give you...

Ta da!! (That one's for you, M@.)

Yes, aside from devoting some serious time to taking shots of my cleavage with my iPhone--(two seconds)--these past two weeks have been busy, busy, busy. As summer wanes, and the new school year approaches, we took some time to enjoy the great outdoors...

...at a monster truck rally at the Clark County Fair in beautiful, scenic Ridgefield, Washington--home of the world famous Gee Creek I-5 rest stop.

(Yes, I am from an impoverished white family. Why do you ask?)

Ethan loves monster trucks, so he looks forward to seeing them every year at the fair. This year, we brought our neighbors' ten-year-old daughter, Emma, along for the fun.

She hated the trucks, but loved the rides, thought the goats were cute, and Ethan was "weird, but cool".

Sounds about right.

In addition to the fair, we also took Ethan to the Oregon Zoo, where they've just welcomed the first baby elephant they've had in fourteen years. Of course, no one could see him yet, but we did enjoy the animatronic dinosaur exhibit.

Unfortunately, my son has developed a strange disorder, brought on by close proximity to picture-taking devices, where he lists precariously to left. There is no known cure, but you can send money anyhow.

The biggest portion of my time, however, was taken up by redoing my living room walls--stripping wallpaper, painting, color washing, and striping them with metallic glaze--but I think they turned out bee-yoo-tee-full-ly. What do you think?

I hope you like it better than my husband did. Not that his opinion matters.

Speaking of the devil...

A couple of weeks ago, I got an awesome GIF program for showing the animated ceiling fan I made for my Sims...

(Animated, people! I'm a rock star!)

Anywho... The program ended up coming in handy for something else...

Yep, that's Squidward, rockin' out to Guitar Hero 2 (yes, 2) in his office--I'm sorry, pleasure den.

Like the arm fringe? I made it! And so can you. Here's a list of the things you'll need:

--1 delusional husband

--1 piece of expensive satin you were saving to make a throw pillow out of

--1 pair of scissors

--a ton of deep-seated resentment and shame

Voila! Arm fringe!

Oh, and we got one of these bad boys...

So, there you have it. You're all caught up on the mystery that is my life, but we'll be taking off tomorrow for my in-laws' beach house. Perhaps I will have more to share when we return.

Have a great weekend, everyone!

An Open Letter to Some Guy

2008-08-12T08:25:00.000-07:00

Dear Sir,

I appreciate your interest in me. Indeed, I am most flattered by the goo goo eyes and kissy faces you were making at me in the rearview mirror. It is not often that I attract the attention of a man of your unquestionable esteem and virility, as clearly evidenced by your choice of vehicles. A '98 Toyota Camry--with spoiler!--pretty much guarantees I'm a sure thing. And the way the sun glinted off your expired tags? Dreamy!

As special as your juvenile displays of lustful regard made me feel, I would hate to think I was just one among many potential paramours. You don't do this sort of thing all the time, by any chance, do you?

Of course not! What we shared was most assuredly momentous and rare; the basis, I'm sure, of an enduring illicit relationship. But while, in my obvious state of unbridled arousal, I may have appeared to be returning the sentiment by pursing my lips in wanton seduction, in actuality I was attempting to convey a much more pressing message:

"Look out, dumb ass! You're going to hit that car."

Alas, you did not heed my warning. And if there is one thing I cannot abide in my lovers, it is the inability to keep their car in its own lane while making lewd overtures to strange women in the cars behind them. Call me picky.

So, adieu, mi amour. Hope time buffs out the dents in your heart the way the body shop will undoubtedly buff out the dents in your car. And that other one.

Best save your goo goo eyes for the road from now on, eh?

Yours,
Avery

I'm Blogging...

2008-08-08T21:13:00.000-07:00

From a phone...from the future!!!

(Man, this iPhone is amazing!)

If You Said...

2008-08-08T08:08:00.000-07:00

Get your hubby a new iPhone for your anniversary, then, *ding, ding, ding*, you're a winner!

If you said get him his own iPhone, then, *awwwww*, you're not.

And if you said "F%*k his brains out, and photograph it with the new phone!" *cough eye in de sky cough*, well, congratulations! You win a consolation prize for being at least half right. He did seem a bit witless the next morning.

Rowr!

Yes, my hubby decided that he did not want a gift for our anniversary--besides the bow chicka bow wow--and instead began referring to my iPhone as "the family iPhone." And since my son has little patience for objects being used for their intended purposes, and our cat's texting skills are quite laughable, that pretty much narrows "the family" down to Ron and me.

This hasn't posed a problem yet, seeing as how my iPhone is still en route to the store where we purchased it. I was supposed to have it by today at the latest, but I'm not holding my breath for a miracle. Besides, isn't 08-08-08 some sort of mark of the beast or something?

No? Hmmm. Coulda sworn...

Anywho, I'm sure I'll have it soon, and I can avail you of all the cool features and such. Plus, I hear it's great for cleavage shots. I may have to overcome my inherent shyness and try it out. All in the name of research, of course.

In other news, in light of the fact that my husband will likely have to spend a considerable amount of time in Israel very shortly, he has lifted the moratorium he placed ages ago on home decorating in the Gray house (I can go a little nuts; let's just leave it at that) hence why I have not been around much lately.

Not that I don't love you all, but if you don't come with glossy pages depicting elegantly adorned rooms, preferably of the Old World European/Tuscan-inspired variety, you are dead to me.

Well, that's a little harsh. Maybe just in a persistent vegetative state.

Mmm...broccoli. Yummmm! When's lunch?

Until then, I have wallpaper to peel. Whee!!

It Must be iLove!

2008-07-15T09:13:00.000-07:00

Our anniversary is fast approaching, and this is usually the time of year my husband takes his vacation. In the beginning of our marriage, I believed it was because he was so overcome with love that he couldn't stand to be apart from me on the day we commemorated our blessed union of souls.

Yeah, did I mention I was retarded then?

It quickly became apparent that he chose this time of year so he could kill two birds with one stone: celebrate our anniversary AND fish for steelhead when the fishing is good.

Ah, romance!

Typically, he takes two or three weeks off so he can spend one week with me, and the rest of the time enjoying a nice, relaxing, fish-free time out of doors. But this year, he's only getting a week off, and I have a sneaking suspicion that I'm not going to rate well in the fish vs. wife battle.

If my husband would come out and ask me if I'd be upset if he takes the whole time to fish, I'd tell him I wouldn't be. He works hard all year long to support us, and I don't think it's too much to ask for some time to enjoy doing the things he likes. Of course, since he hasn't asked me, he's assuming that it will really upset me, and is therefore taking this time prior to the commencement of his vacation to butter me up. Not only is he willingly going with me to a wedding he would rather chew his own arm off than attend, he's now using the promise of technology to sooth what he assumes will soon be the savage beast.

He's getting me a new iPhone 3G.

Now, at first I assumed that it was just one of those I'm-giving-it-to-you-but-really-getting-it-for-myself type of presents that he seems so fond of, seeing as how my current cell phone, which I use very little, doesn't even have a camera on it, let alone the whole interweb, while he's always been something of a new technology hound. But the more I think about it, the more I'm really looking forward to having one, if only because I've never had the latest and greatest anything when it comes to matters cellular. By choice, admittedly, but then I've always thought of a phone as just a phone.

And I hate phones. I wish they would die!

But an iPhone? Well, that's different, isn't it? I mean, the "phone" capability is really only a small percentage of the gadget's abilities. It's really more of a small iPod/camera/browser/e-mail/GPS tool with a phone thrown in for good measure, but iiPodCameraBrowserE-mailGPSPhone is a terrible name!

So, yes, I'm excited about a phone. An Apple phone I could blog on, no less. But it does sorta lend itself to the time-honored question...

Just what the hell am I supposed to get him?!!

Because Four Fake Guitars Are Not Enough...

2008-07-03T09:50:00.000-07:00

We now have six. Six fake plastic guitars for three rockin' games on two different gaming systems.

My husband's in heaven.

First it was Guitar Hero III for the Wii. That proved to be merely an appetizer to the veritable smörgåsbord that is Rock Band for the Xbox 360. (And by smörgåsbord, I mean the addition of a poorly designed drum set and rarely used microphone.)

But, this past weekend, my husband was lured once again by Guitar Hero's siren song. Only, this time, the sirens took the spindly rendered forms of Stephen Tyler and Joe Perry.

Tramps!

So, we now own Guitar Hero: Aerosmith for the Xbox, which necessitated the purchase of an additional Les Paul guitar controller for our typical epic rock battleage--bringing the count up to a whopping six.

Six fake guitars. Not a single real one.

How awesome are we?

Add to that the money we've recently sunk into transforming his office into a lush den of raucous rockitude, and you'll understand my dismay that my husband appears to have no desire to get past the Medium level on any of the games. Yet he is looking forward with great anticipation for the releases of Guitar Hero: World Tour and Rock Band 2 this fall.

Great. More fake instruments we don't play.

Is this just a guy thing? A mid-life crisis?

Maybe I should just get him a motorcycle and a hooker. They'd probably take up less room.

First Rule of Fight Club...

2008-06-24T17:07:00.000-07:00

The hubby and I put up our pool for the summer a couple of weeks ago, and in that time, I have acquired the unenviable position of "Neighborhood's Coolest Mom".

Ugh.

Sunny or overcast, doesn't matter. I now have kids coming to my door in droves asking if they can come swimming with Ethan. I suppose I should be pleased that he has someone close to do fun things with. He's always been the odd kid out on our block, and because I may be a TAD on the overprotective side, it's probably my fault. Unlike many of the other neighborhood moms, I won't let him ride his bike, walk to a friend's house, or play in the street if I'm not there with him. He's only five, and even though this is a nice, family friendly neighborhood with fairly little traffic, this world is full of frickin' crazies.

Case in point: my neighbor across the street has just revealed that his new hobby is...

*wait for it*

CAGE FIGHTING.

Now, to really grasp why I find this utterly hilarious, you'd have to know him. He strongly reminds me of Michael Scott from "The Office"--bumbling idiotic blowhard with zero social skills and even less self-awareness. Even so, I kinda like the guy.

It's his wife who scares the bejeezus out of me.

If he'd told me SHE had taken up cage fighting, I wouldn't even have batted an eye. Her job as a principal of an alternative high school for lawless rapscallions and nefarious ne'er-do-wells suits her to perfection. She wears such a sour expression on her face, it wouldn't surprise me if even her vagina comes outfitted with a steel trap.

Actually, that would explain an awful lot.

So, imagine my surprise when Ethan asked if their kids could come swimming at our house, and he was told no because, as their daughter said, "Dad isn't sure about you guys."

Isn't sure...

ABOUT US?!!

Correct me if I'm wrong, but did I just get dissed by a brow-beaten cage fighting pantywaist?

Strange times, man. Strange times.

Who's Driving Anyway?!

2008-06-16T08:12:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, Father's Day, we spent a good portion of the time on the road. Since it was to be my husband's special day, I did the driving, even though he is the worst passenger in the history of locomotion. Not that I could tell him that. No, as I've mentioned, it was his special day...

Was.

Thankfully, today is a new day, and I have a blog.

So, for your benefit, dear husband, here are all the responses I so graciously refrained from making yesterday. Feel free to refer back to this list anytime you require my response in the future, and my one-finger salute does not adequately convey my sentiments to your liking:

"The speed limit is 60 through here."
Thank you, talking highway sign. As if your HUGE numbers weren't clear enough, you offer the added benefit of verbal confirmation. That must come in handy for all those sight-impaired drivers on the road. Kudos to you for being so darned progressive!

"There's a cop. Slow down."
Sure thing, because slowing down from 40 in a 40 mph zone to, say, 32 doesn't look the least bit suspicious, and would in no way draw his attention. Well, except maybe for that long line of irate drivers behind me whom I have effectively impeded. When he pulls me over, I'll let you do the talking.

"Watch out for that guy on the bike."
Oh, thank goodness you were here. I was about to make him the latest addition to my ever-expanding "Cyclists of the Pacific Northwest" hood ornament collection. Had no idea there was anything wrong with that.

"Pass this guy, then get over in the other lane, and turn right...NOW! Aw, man, you missed it!"
Yes, I did. But what I didn't miss was that day in Physics class when my teacher explained the general theory that when two objects of considerable mass traveling at a certain velocity collide, they make a big BANG! I think it's called the Principle of Duh.

"Turn that way. Why are you turning this way?"
Well, my dear, when I asked you 60 seconds ago which way to turn and got no response, I decided to make an educated guess. Heck, the chances were 50/50 that you'd infer I'm a dumb ass anyway, and 100% that you won't be getting any of it for the rest of your natural born life.

Congratulations, jackass. You're a winner!

Never Spam a Writer

2008-06-12T22:02:00.000-07:00

Dear Beloved,
What am I, a character in a bad Oprah movie? Just call me the Right Honorable Mrs. Avery A. Gray like everyone else. No, really, I insist.

Glory to God in heaven.
Trite, cliché. Nothing’s grabbing me here. Pull me in. Make me care.

My name is Mrs.Annen Joubert from South Africa. I am married to Mr. Abraham Benjamin Joubert, who is a farmer here in South Africa for many years before he died in 2004. We were married for eleven years without a child.
Okay, I’m gonna stop you right there. This is all riveting stuff—great human interest angle—but your tenses are all wrong. Are you currently married to a dead man? I’m not judging. Could be one hell of a hook.

He died after a briefillness that lasted for only four days.
Redundant. Don’t need to be beat over the head with his corpse. Unless the duration of the illness--I’m sorry, “briefillness”—is important to the plot, consider cutting this.

Before his death we were both born again Christians. Since his death I decided not to re-marry or geta child outside my matrimonial home which the Bible is against. When my late husband was alive he deposited a total sum of $10. Million (Ten Million, U.S.Dollars) with bank in Europe.
Logic flow problem—why was he farming if he was a frickin’ millionaire? You lost me.

Presently, this money is still under the safe keeping of the Reserve Bank Recently, my Doctor told me that I would not last for the next Two months due to my cancer problems.
“Cancer problems”? Vague, Ann. Try to be as descriptive as possible. Paint me the terrifying picture with words like "oozing lesions", "fetid bedsores", or "HMO claims representative".

Though what disturbs me most ismy or better still a Christian individual that will utilize this money the way I am going to instruct here in.
That disturbs me, too. Your syntax is atrocious.

I want a church or God fearing individual that will use this fund on, orphanages and widows propagating the word of God and give help to mankind.
Google “Christian charities” maybe? Weak plot device. Where are you going with this?

The Bible made usto understand that blessed is the hand that griveth.
“Griveth”? That’s not what my Bible says. Isn’t that like a cross between a lion and an eagle? No, wait, that’s a griffin.

I took this decision because I don't have any child that will inherit this money and my husband relatives are nota good Christians and I don't want my husband'shard earned money to be misused by unbelievers.
Whoa, red flag, Ann! You’re alienating a huge percentage of your potential readership. Consider changing “unbelievers” to “Koreans” or “Polacks”.

I don't want a situation where this money will be used in an ungodly manner. Hence the reason for taking this bold decision.
What decision? Avoid foreshadowing.

I am not afraid of death hence I know where I am going. I know that I am going to be in the bosom of the Lord.Exodus 14 VS 14 says that the lord will fight my case and I shall holdmy peace. I don't need any telephone communication in this regard because of my health because of the presence of my husband's relatives around me always. I don't want them to know about this development.Please assure me that you will act accordingly as I stated here in
Well, since you’re spouting Scripture, might I suggest a gander at Leviticus 19:11-12.

With God all things are possible. As soon as I receive your reply I'll forward your personal information to the bank in Europe so that they will contact you as the legal owner of this fund before transferring the fund into your nominated Bank Account in your country.
Personal information? My name's Avery. I'm a Gemini. I like long moonlit walks on the beach and mint chocolate chip ice cream. Now where’s my money, beeyatch?

I will also issue you a letter of a authority that will empower you as the original-beneficiary of this fund. I want you and the church to always pray for me because the lord is my shepherd.i will stop here becouse of my health Hoping to hear from you as soon as possible. Read Hebrews13:15v16 New Living Translation
Blah, blah, blah. Talking past the close.

Remain blessed in the name of the Lord.
You assume much.

Mrs.Annen Joubert.

This Story Needs More Cowbell

2008-06-12T07:39:00.000-07:00

Or less cowbell.

Or it has just the right amount of cowbell, and I shouldn't change a thing.

Gah!

As if my inner critic weren't demanding enough, I've kicked my own ass by asking for outside opinion from the two critique groups I belong to on the first chapter of my most recent work.

Although everyone thus far has loved the story overall, they've had mixed opinions about the elements that make it up.

More internal dialogue.

Less internal dialogue.

Just the right amount of internal dialogue.

Oooo-kay...

Believe it or not, I view this as a positive thing. When I'm critiquing a story that really doesn't need much editing, I still feel compelled to point out any and every little thing I can possibly think to mention because I don't want the writer to feel cheated out of a proper review. If all I said was "Looks good," they'd think I didn't take it seriously.

I'm really hoping that's what's happening here, 'cause I've gone over that chapter so many times my eyes are crossing. And that is not a good look for me.

If you have a Critique Circle membership (and are not easily offended), you can find my chapter here. It will be in review until the 17th.

Just don't tell me it needs more cowbell. I find I'm plumb out.

Like the New Digs?

2008-06-08T08:46:00.000-07:00

The beautiful, vivacious, and oh so clever Bee visited Chez Gray on Friday, and inspired me to change things up a bit. She even imparted to me the super secret location of an ultra clandestine website that features some awesome background images. (I'd tell you, but then she'd have to kill me.)

So, thanks for all your help, Bee! I sense a windfall of Starbucks in your future...

Unfortunately, since I've been pouring all my creative energy into my writing lately, I have nothing to post worthy of a grand unveiling of this magnitude. So, I'll be resorting to a musical guest.

Hey, I think Weezer's funny.

On Writing

2008-06-05T11:28:00.000-07:00

Writing is hard.

(You can quote me on that.)

You'd think someone could have clued me in to that before I, you know, tried to, like, do it.

Oh, I'm not talking the physical act of putting pen to paper. I got that part down years ago. (I might even still remember how.)

And I'm not even talking about the commitment of energy and time--sometimes years--that go into crafting a story. If writing is a passion, these costs are negligible. (At least until the divorce papers are signed.)

No, the most difficult thing about writing is...dealing with other writers.

Now, don't get me wrong. I love writers. Heck, I can't seem to open my front door without tripping over some far better than I. (Or is it 'better than me'? I always get those confused.)

The writers I'm referring to are the ones who frequent critique boards and writers' forums and rant about words like "it".

"It" is passive.

"It" is non-specific.

"It" makes me want to gouge my eyes out with a rusty spork and pour salt in the festering wounds.

Yowza. Is "it" really so bad?

"It" seems to me like "it" has a fairly useful place in literary lexicon. After all, Dickens didn't say "12:45 was the best of times, 12:45 was the worst of times..."

Alas, new writers are often inundated with these types of opinions, and though many are helpful in terms of tightening prose (I'm lookin' at you, "that"!), there seems to be a widespread movement of word genocide taking place.

"And" is evil.

"There" is the devil.

"Was" is obscenely pornographic.

What's next? "The" boils rabbits alive?

I guess my point is, it's not those words alone that make a story unreadable. The world's worst writer can remove every evil, passive, non-specific, bunny-boiling word from their work, and it still wouldn't be worth the paper it's printed on. Conversely, a great one can write in nothing but adverbs, and still be praised for their genius.

At least, that's what I'm hoping. I really truly am.

You Caught Me

2008-06-02T10:38:00.000-07:00

Clever Miss B. She let the cat out of the bag. I probably wouldn't even have mentioned anything, but you know it's bad luck to have an unbagged cat just wandering around your blog. So, yes, I'll admit it...

Yesterday was my birthday, and I am now officially on the after-30 downhill slide.

Crap.

I was hoping maybe no one would notice. Maybe I could go on in Blogland being youthful and spry and thirty forever. But, no. Someone had to go and be resourceful.

Darn you, Burrows, and your well-organized flash cards o' personal information.

(Who does that, really? I mean seriously...)

Okay, I'm not mad. And I probably would have mentioned it anyhow, because I wanted to thank Dapoppins for watching Ethan for us Saturday night so we could go out to dinner and a movie (Iron Man, good). And my buddy Meghan, who doesn't blog, but reads mine and NEVER comments, for hand delivering some beautiful yellow hybrid lilies. And my husband, who, despite getting me nothing, refused to be one-upped by Meghan (not hard to one-up a big, fat goose egg, dear), hand picked one of my own roses off the trellis.

Aw, shucks. You shouldn't have. Really. But considering you spent $6,000 on my present last year, I'm gonna let it slide. Just this once.

Heck, at least it wasn't an alternator or something.

So, yes, I'm old now. Go ahead and let me have it. Just, uh, use caps lock, would ya? My eyesight ain't what it used to be.

You know, before yesterday and all.

If I Had Forever...

2008-05-29T08:03:00.000-07:00

So, Sew-and-so is hosting an End of Spring Writing Assignment on the Buzz (she says I'm collaborating with her, but I haven't really done much of anything, so the credit all goes to her), and she asked if she could post my entry on the Anthill to inspire others to give it a try.

Of course, I accepted, much like a beauty pageant winner accepts her crown. Darn this running mascara and impending carpal tunnel.

I offered to post it here as well. (I mean, I don't know about you, but I've never been to the Anthill. I fear the Antman and his fake urban slang.)

The theme of the assignment is "If I Had Forever...":

Days stretch before me without end.
Though paths diverge in loping wend,
Through plains of gold and wooded glen
You’ll know just where to find me.

Above the stately oaken branches,
Past the mire of broken chances,
Where whispered prayers still nightly dance,
Is where the road will lead.

But follow not this trail I lay,
For solace sought lays not this way.
Your time will come, but not this day,
And not this easily.

Our parting will but moments seem
When you awaken in the dream.
Though years may pass, Love will redeem
What your heart now fails to see.

(Here's a useless tidbit about that poem you can use to amaze your friends at keggers--it's written in trochaic, not iambic, tetrameter, because the stressed syllables precede the unstressed, except for the last line of each quatrain, which is written in either catalectic or brachycatalectic trochaic tetrameter, because they are missing either one (catalectic) or two (brachycatalectic) syllables off the foot.

And that is the first time majoring in English has EVER paid off for me.)

If you'd like to participate (and no, you don't need to know a thing about verse cadence), stop by Sew-and-so's Buzz blog and post a link to your entry. It doesn't have to be a poem; write in whatever style the theme inspires you. You have until June 20th.

So, come on. Let's see what ya got!

Hello, Kitty

2008-05-27T17:38:00.000-07:00

Allow me to introduce you to the newest member of the Gray household...

This little fella Ethan has dubbed Arrow. He's a 6-week-old Heinz 57, so graciously "gifted" to us by our wonderful neighbor, Deb.

(She's a dead woman.)

(I don't mean literally. Yet.)

Deb, you'll recall, is the boozing Brit who tempts fate by passing out crap candy at Halloween, and lives, it seems, solely to torment me.

Oh, I'm not saying the cat isn't cute, or that he couldn't possibly weasel his way into our shriveled black hearts. We're not monsters, or Korean, or anything.

(That's a joke. Monsters are totally misunderstood.)

No, it's the sneaky, underhanded means of foisting the cat on our unsuspecting selves that has me planning her slow, painful demise.

She asked our five-year-old if he wanted to take the kitty home.

Now, I'm not a rookie at this parenting game. Not only have I spent the last five-and-a-half years raising my own son, but I've been a very involved auntie in my 16 nieces and nephews lives for the past 20 years. And never--NEVER--have I encountered a play quite as reprehensible as the ol' tugging on the child's heartstrings to unload your bastard cats move.

Low, Deb. So very low.

Especially since she knew that he has been asking for a pet for the past two years.

I know the ultimate decision belongs to us, as his parents, and I suppose I could have done the appropriate (read "mean") thing and told him no, but I just couldn't find it in me to break his little heart.

I sent him to his dad instead.

How was I to know Squidward would cave?

So, yes, we have a cat, and a very happy little boy.

Watch your back, Deb. It's on now.

Is She Still Alive?

2008-05-22T16:49:00.000-07:00

Oh, did I not mention I'd be going on another blog hiatus?

Man, I gotta stop doing that.

Unfortunately, I can't guarantee it won't be like this for the foreseeable future. The sad truth is, my heart and my head just aren't in it. I'm struggling with some things healthwise, and it's affecting me more than I thought it was.

No, I'm not dying or anything. You can't get rid of me that easily.

But I certainly don't feel like I'm living either. I've been on autopilot for weeks now. I can't seem to care about anything beyond making it through the day without breaking down.

I know that sounds pathetically melodramatic, and it is, but, heck, this is my blog. And my pity parties are rollicking good fun.

(Virgin umbrella drinks! Yay!)

Mike says I should blog all the gruesome details, but I don't think he knows what he was asking for. He's a guy. Sure, they can blow out a monster's brains on a video game, or watch the goriest movie without flinching, but interrupt it with a tampon commercial, and they're mowing each other down and crawling over the dead bodies to get to the nearest exit.

"Women's trouble" scares them senseless.

But that's not exactly what I'm dealing with. Hormones, yes. But even that's enough for my husband to get a glazed over look on his face. I guess in his eyes, the two are synonymous. Hormones falls under the category "Mysterious Things I'd Rather Not Know About My Wife's Body".

Wimp.

On the bright side, he doesn't complain at all when the only thing I accomplish in a day is meshing a lovely floral arrangement for my Sims.

Yes, that's about the extent of what I can will myself to do some days. Sad, huh?

(Sadly awesome, that is!)

But some days are better than others, and it does seem that I'm having more and more of those good ones. I'm cautiously optimistic that that means I'm on the upswing, but I know better than to call the game now.

Hormones, like my mother, can be a fickle, fickle bitch.

My Broken Dream

2008-05-08T07:17:00.000-07:00

Oh, did I not mention I'd be going on blog hiatus?

Yeah, I didn't know it myself. Just been busy with the usual multitude of worthwhile philanthropic pursuits--rescuing kittens from trees, helping old people cross busy streets, making lamps for the lamp-deprived people who live in my computer.

Pretty standard.

I wish I could tell you that I've been spending my time shopping for a gorgeous set of patio furniture on which Holly can perch her shapely arse when she comes to visit (whenever THAT will be). Alas, it would seem that dream has flitted away on a passing breeze I like to call auto repair.

Yes, our car is in the shop...again. This time it's the water pump and timing belt.

Joy.

And by joy, I mean not joy.

Sorrow. Debilitating, blog-defeating sorrow.

What might have been...

has become...

*sigh*

Hey, at least it comes with a handy bucket to catch my falling tears, right?

This Goes Out to You, Lovey

2008-05-03T06:40:00.000-07:00

It made me think of you. Hope it puts a smile back on your face. :o)

See more funny videos at CollegeHumor

Push This, Lovey

2008-04-28T08:14:00.000-07:00

Lovey and I were talking on the phone this past weekend, and she said something that has stuck in my head since then.

"You're a pushover," she told me. "I love you, but you are."

And, man, if I weren't such a pushover, it would've come to fisticuffs!

Alright, it wouldn't have. And not because what she said is true, but because we went to school together, and I can still remember the whoopings she administered to a number of our unlucky classmates. The girl's scrappy, yo.

But while I have to respectfully disagree with her statement (please don't hurt me), her epithet of me is not completely unwarranted. I do have a hard time saying no to people. I can't tell you how many times in my life I have been told, "You're just too nice," in a bad way.

Man, if only they'd read my blog...

I can understand, from her point of view, why it would seem that I'm always caving to other people's demands. She's a strong, dominant woman who likes to have things her way. I wouldn't call her a control freak (to her face), but she certainly wears the pants in that family.

And while my fashion choices do tend to favor pants, dominant I am not.

I'm probably as laid back as a Republican can possibly get.

But a pushover? I don't think so. I have the mettle when it really counts. Just ask the women in my first mothers' group who made disparaging comments about my son behind my back.

Homey don't play that.

It takes a lot to rile me, but when you do, I will unleash the Avery Gray brand of fury on you--a piquant blend of pain and indigestion--the likes of which you won't soon forget. Unless I knock you silly with a well-placed roundhouse kick to the head, which badmouthing my son will get you.

I bike, people. You don't want to test me.

But anything less than that? Eh.

In the grand scheme of things, acquiescing to my husband's desire to spend wads of cash on a new video game system matters far less to me than having something we can enjoy doing together as a family. And if it makes him happy to boot, so much the better, because in the big picture, my life is pretty damned good thanks to him.

Plus, now if I find a set of patio furniture and spend a ridiculous amount of money on it, he hasn't got a leg to stand on, has he?

I pick my battles, my friend, and I choose them well.

Welcome to Geek Paradise!

2008-04-22T07:34:00.000-07:00

Where one video game system is simply not enough...

My husband had been waiting with near orgasmic anticipation for the release of Rock Band for the Wii in June. I'd often find him in his darkened office, surfing images of the game screens on the web. Of course, he'd quickly shut down his browser when he heard me come in, but I knew what he was doing.

Oh, I knew.

He started talking about Rock Band as if it were a "good friend", working it into casual conversation more and more until I started to wonder if maybe there was more going on than just an occasional dalliance with the keyboard.

Turns out, there was.

This weekend, the anticipation proved to be too great for him to bear. While we were out and about on Saturday, we stopped into the grand opening of the new Fred Meyer's in town. It quickly became apparent to me that he was ready to take the relationship to the next level when he suggested we check out the electronics department.

Hey, at least he's including me, right?

We shuffled our way through the crowded store, blocked in our progress time and time again by aged blue-hairs on motorized scooters and large groups of loitering kids, but he would not be deterred. Not when the object of his desire was so close at hand.

And there it was. Rock Band.

For the Xbox 360.

Which we now own, along with a new 32-inch Toshiba LCD TV for my husband's office.

One thousand three hundred fifty-eight dollars and seventy-five cents.

Hope for his sake it puts out.

Are You a Twit...terer?

2008-04-17T07:23:00.000-07:00

Twitteree?

One who twits?

Or is it tweets?

You know what I'm talking about, right? Twitter, the ~~cultural wasteland~~ internet phenomenon that everyone and their imaginary cat has jumped onboard. The "free social messaging utility for staying connected in real-time."

Yeah, 'cause I need a minute-by-minute account of my dental hygienist's day. (Yes, he tweets.)

You can follow me on Twitter, though I don't know why you'd want to. I hardly ever update it, much to the dismay of missburrows, who is, at this minute, apparently smelling her fingers.

See, it's things like that that I'm not sure I need to know about people.

Don't get me wrong--I'm a finger sniffer, too. I just don't know if I want to broadcast it to the world.

(Well, a little late now, I suppose.)

The gurus at Twitter consider their service a format for "free microblogging", which is a great option for anyone who can't afford the exorbitant cost of a Blogspot blog and has the attention span of a stoned gnat.

No offense, Miss B.

I just don't see the appeal, but, then again, I believe I have mentioned I'm not the most interesting person in the world. Maybe I just find it hard to believe that anyone would want a rundown of the activities of which my days consist in real time.

Let's see...wake up, feed the whelp mini muffins and Mountain Dew, order him umpteen million times to put on some pants, take him to school, sit on the couch and eats Bon Bons until it is time to pick him up, feed him again, "interact", feed the big one, "interact", bury my nose in a book and ignore them for the rest of the night, repeat.

There you have it. I just saved myself the trouble of logging on to Twitter a good twenty times right there.

Not that I do. I'm just sayin'.

Demanding Little Blog Monkeys!

2008-04-15T06:02:00.000-07:00

What? One blog post a week is not enough for you people?!

Believe me, if you knew what I've considered blogging about in the past seven days, you'd thank me for staying away.

Let's see...

I took my bike in for a tune-up. Seems the little bastard felt 8th gear was plenty high enough, thank you, while I've always been quite a big fan of the gears 16-24. I could expound upon their many merits at great length, I suppose.
Then there was that crazy girls' night out with Lovey. Pedicures, bookstore, and home by 9. I'd say we painted the town a lovely shade of ecru.
And today I got a new desk chair. That's got the makings of a looooong post about the importance of proper ergonomics, right?

Yawn.

I even bore myself.

Alas, such is the way it goes. I'm thirty now. Nothing blogworthy will ever happen to me again.

Until I get a cat, of course. And begin my illustrious cat blogging career.

You'll say you knew me when...

Day. From. Hell.

2008-04-08T06:18:00.000-07:00

Kindergarten registration.

That sorta says it all, don't it?

Yesterday was the first day of kindergarten registration in our school district, and me, being the masochist I am, decided to get in early and get it done.

Ha. Ha ha ha. Ha.

The woman behind the counter, I'll call her Satan's Minion, gave me a stack of paperwork to fill out and directed me to a row of tables around the corner where I could do so.

That's when I saw them.

My fellow prisoners of war. A row of soccer moms; their skin sallow in the flickering fluorescent light, their eyes pleading, urging me to turn back while I still could.

I should have known then that things were about to go downhill fast.

Seventeen pointless forms (I mean, do I need to fill out a bilingual survey if we're not bilingual, seriously?) and half an hour later, I took the completed pile back to the counter.

Satan's Minion asked to see Ethan's birth certificate, which I handed to her.

Or so I thought.

"That's not a birth certificate," she said. "That's a certificate from the hospital saying he was born."

I think I blinked.

"It's not a certified birth certificate," she continued. "I need a certified birth certificate."

What the hell is the difference?! He was born, and I have proof. It's not like I'm trying to commit insurance fraud or enroll an imaginary child in your damn school.

That was what I felt like saying. Instead, I smiled politely and asked where I might get one of those.

She directed me to the office of Vital Records on the other side of town.

Great.

Off I went, determined that at the end of the day, Ethan would be among the first of his class to be registered to walk the hallowed halls of primary academia.

Now, if you've never visited the Clark County Center for Community Health where the Washington State Vital Records offices are located, you are certainly missing out. It's a hoot and a half.

No wonder the nearest parking space was half a mile away. Everyone and their inbred brothers hang at the CCCCH.

I made my way to the third floor, and waited at the Vital Records counter to be helped.

I use that term loosely.

"Rita" and "Fern" (I'm not sure those were their names, but they fit, so I'm going with 'em) were "busy" discussing the scandalous behavior of their fellow state-employed co-worker, Sheila the Hussy.

Ah, my tax dollars hard at work!

When she did deign to speak to me, Rita informed me she couldn't help me until I filled out a request form.

I waited for her to produce one. She stared at me.

"Oooo-kay," I said. "And those would be...where exactly?"

"Be-hind you," she replied in, if I'm not mistaken, a terse manner.

Thanks, Rita. Bitchsayswhat.

(Hey, look! I guess I am bilingual after all!)

I filled out the form and returned to the counter where, yet again, Fern and Rita were dishing the dirt.

I waited. And waited. And cleared my throat and waited some more.

When Fern could sense I was on the verge of doing something really drastic (like clearing my throat again), she took the paperwork.

"Have you been to the cashier?" she asked.

"No, not yet."

"Well, I can't help you until you see the cashier."

Super.

Off I went to the cashier, who was surprisingly efficient, and I returned to the Vital Records counter with receipt in hand. Fern pulled up Ethan's information, printed off a copy of his birth certificate, and stamped the back.

It took two minutes.

Total time at the CCCCH: forty-three minutes.

Nice.

Back I go to the school. Satan's Minion, who I'm now calling SM, 'cause we're tight like that, makes a copy of his certified birth certificate and looks over his paperwork.

"His immunizations aren't up to date," she says.

"I'm pretty sure they are," I told her. "His doctor made sure of it on his last visit."

"Well, you're missing a couple dates here. I can't process him until I have those dates."

No problem, I thought. I'll just call the doctor's office on my cell phone...

Which is sitting on my kitchen counter.

Of course.

Home I go, call the doctor's office, and I'm told they do keep immunization records there, but they're downstairs, and I'd have to come in to get a copy.

Ethan's doctor's office is in Portland, which meant another half hour of driving, and when I got there, the receptionist (obviously not the one I spoke to on the phone) said I should have just called. He could have just given me the information over the phone.

Grr.

I returned once again to the school, only to be informed that a driver's license would not suffice as proof of residency (because they just hand those out willy nilly?), so I go home once again to grab my phone bill (Lord knows you can't fake those).

A vial of badger blood and hair of a Chinaman later, Ethan is now officially registered to start kindergarten this fall.

Hallelujah!

The Painful Truth

2008-04-04T08:00:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, Dapoppins was nice enough to lend us one of her children for a playdate. She keeps extras for just such an occasion. Ethan was thrilled to have his friend come over to play, which he let me know loudly and repeatedly.

(Apply ice pick directly to the forehead.)

Everything was fine. They played well together, but I could tell Ethan frustrated his buddy at times. Like, from the time that he showed up at our house until the time we dropped him off at his.

It's not unusual for Ethan to have that effect on kids his own age. Especially those who like to follow directions and do things the way they're supposed to be done.

Ethan's thoughts on that? Bo-ring! Let's talk to a pillow. And pretend it's a hamburger. In outer space.

He doesn't make friends easily.

I wish I knew how to help him, but, the way I see it, the aspects of his personality that kids find most off-putting are...well, his entire personality.

He's...chipper. Freakishly chipper. He eats sunshine and poops rainbows. He's in-your-face happy.

(I've always hated people like that.)

He's also completely oblivious to the effect his over-exuberance has on his peers. He thinks everyone esteems made-up songs about banana cameras and pirate toes as highly as he does. Which is why he sings them over and over and over again.

Yes, he's creative. He cracks me up. But that's part of the problem.

When we're at home, he plays to an audience of one. Me. And I think he's hilarious. Most adults do. But kids?

Not so much.

The other day, it was nice outside, and a small group of neighborhood boys were playing out front. Ethan asked them if it would be alright if he joined them.

The oldest (probably a year older than Ethan) said okay.

Ethan's response: "I can play with you? Hooray! Oh, what a beautiful day! I like your pretty shirt."

Inside, I was dying for two reasons.

One, because I wanted to laugh so badly it hurt.

And two, because, in that moment, I got a good glimpse into Ethan's future.

All I can say is, I'm stocking up on Neosporin now, 'cause there's a whole heap of ass-kickin's comin' down the pike.

The Poop Post

2008-04-01T09:43:00.000-07:00

Feminine mystique? What's that?

I used to know, years ago. Back when I had some. Now, next to nothing is sacred.

Sure, I could be like my mom, a whole-hearted devotee of the June Cleaver movement, who gets dressed, puts on her make-up, and fixes her hair at 4:30 in the morning so my dad won't see her all dishabille before he's had his first cup of joe.

But 4:30 is hella early.

Heck, my husband is lucky if I wipe the sleep drool off my face before I kiss him goodbye. That's how I roll.

There isn't much I won't do in front of my husband.

Pop zits? Yep.

Pluck chin hairs? You betcha.

Poop? NOOOOOO!!!!

I draw the line.

I'm always amazed at how many married couples find this a perfectly acceptable practice. Especially if you have more than one bathroom and appropriately functioning bowels.

I set the solo-pooping precedent early in our co-habitation. There was to be no question--I don't appreciate an audience.

As far as my husband knows, I never poop.

It's how it should be.

But after a conversation with a good friend of mine yesterday--wherein she broke not only my cardinal rule of phone etiquette (don't talk to me while you're in the bathroom), but an unwritten, and much more self-evident one (don't talk to me from the bathroom while your husband is dropping the kids off at the pool)--I have to wonder if I'm not in the minority here.

Please tell me I'm not.

Take That, Punk!

2008-03-30T09:07:00.000-07:00

Me: Oh, hey, Computer Problem.

CP: Aaaavery! How's it hangin'?

Me: Uh, yeah. So anywho, I've been thinking--

CP: Uh-oh. Hope you didn't hurt yourself.

Me: Funny. So, as I was saying--

CP: Got any beer?

Me: No.

CP: No Bud? No brewsky? No 40 dog Schlitz Malt Liquor?

Me: No.

CP: How am I gonna get my drink on?

Me: I don't know. Maybe you should consider crashing with an alcoholic.

CP: Nah. They never share their booze.

Me: Focus. Please. I think I have an answer to all of our problems.

CP: Will it help me get my drink on?

Me: Quite possibly.

CP: I'm listening.

Me: Okay, so you know I hate your guts, right?

CP: You've mentioned it. Only a billion times.

Me: Right. Sorry.

CP: Embroidered it on the couch pillows.

Me: Overkill, I admit.

CP: I have to sleep on those, you know!

Me: Right. Again, sorry. But what if you didn't have to sleep on them anymore? What if I gave you a big wad of cash and called you a cab that would take you anywhere you wanted? Maybe a liquor store. Sky's the limit. How would that work for you?

CP: I don't know. How big we talkin'?

Me: Three hundred bucks. And I'll let you keep the silverware.

CP: I was, uh, gonna polish it for you later. Yeah.

Me: Whatever. Do we have a deal?

CP: I don't know. This is a pretty sweet set-up you got here.

Me: I'll throw in some porn.

CP: Deal! Where's the money?

Me: Here, but I have to throw it at you.

CP: Why?

Me: I don't know. That's just how these things work.

So, yes, my computer is fixed. Thanks to everyone who offered suggestions. In the end, it was the memory. I added a few more gigs, and whatdaya know! Problem solved.

Hooray!

Hope you've all been well. I've been a little preoccupied with this. (Hence the post about weather. Better than one filled with nothing but expletives and tears, I suppose.)

To add injury to insult, I've been nursing my husband back to health after his MAJOR EMERGENCY SURGERY.

He had a tooth extracted, but the way he's carrying on...

I hope to be back in the swing of things soon. Fingers crossed!

Holy Crap, It's Snowing!

2008-03-27T07:40:00.000-07:00

Yesterday it was sunny, then rainy, then snowy, rainy, hail-y, sunny, rainy, rainy, rainy, cold, cold, cold.

It's snowing right now. The end of March and it's snowing.

Okay, it's not like it's the end of July and snowing, but it's still unusual for these parts.

(Hey, God? If you're planning a big swarm of locusts next, would you mind giving a little heads-up? They make my hair frizz something terrible!)

Ethan and I are planning to sit in front of the fire today with some mugs of hot cocoa and watch movies. Last week at this time, I was wearing capris!

Figures this happens when my blast furnace (aka Mr. Gray) leaves town. I was laying in bed shivering last night, too ~~stupid~~ cold to get out of bed and put on socks, and I was missing him--despite the buzzsaw snoring and inherent ass-ishness.

He has his uses. I'll give him that.

So, what's the weather like in your neck of the woods?

Right Up My Alley

2008-03-24T11:18:00.000-07:00

First things first, I want to wish my husband--the one I so unceremoniously killed off in the last post--a Happy 43rd Birthday! He's spending this week working in Phoenix, so we won't be able to properly celebrate until he gets home on Friday.

Too bad it's not Wednesday. Then it would be Business Time.

Bow-chicka-bow-wow...

*sigh*

Also, regarding the post about my computer--thank you to everyone who has offered up some suggestions. I haven't had a chance the past few days to try anything, but I will this week. I've already removed a custom content file I suspected was corrupt, and that has helped some. Oh, and to answer your question, Mike, it has 1022 MB of RAM, and I ran 'Can You Run It?' on the game and all the EP's individually, and it passed. Unfortunately, there's no way to run it all together, so it may be that I need more memory. I'm thinking I might just add some anyhow. Couldn't hurt, right?

(Dun dun duuuunnnnn...)

Well, while my computer is still relatively operational, I figure it's probably best to post the meme that Meleah tagged me with last week. And, boy, is it a treat for you! A revealing glimpse into my world, if you will.

The premise--photograph five things in your house that "say something about the person you are"--seems simple enough, but it was a lot harder for me to do than I thought it would be. I maaaay have fudged with the rules a little and turned it into 5 types of things that say something about me.

You won't tell, will you?

#1--Metal scrolls...

You'll find them everywhere in my house. Don't know why. I just love the look of them. If there's an empty spot on the wall, throw a scroll on there, and you're done! (Kinda my decorating philosophy in a nutshell.)

#2--Family pictures

Like metal scrolls, family pictures are a great way to use up wall space...and seem sentimental while you're at it! I have lots of pictures of my guys up, but the one picture that gets the most comments is the one (at the bottom) of a family pictured in, I'm guessing, the late 1800's. I found that old picture in an antique store in Coburg, Oregon, and thought it might be nice to frame. I'm asked all the time by people who come to my home if they are ancestors of mine. They're not, but I think I might make up a story about my crazy great-great-great grandparents, Jeb and Elsie, and their wacky offspring, Hezekiah and Lulu.

#3--Grapes

I know, I know. I'm weird. I like grapes. Not just to eat, though we go through plenty. I like to put fake grapes here and there around my house. The calendar on my wall is "Vineyards of the World" (though I don't drink wine). I had grapes in my bridal bouquet, for Heaven's sake. I. Like. Grapes. No reason.

#4--DIY

I'm a DIY'er. A do-it-yourselfer. If there's a job to be done, I'm your girl. I have a compound miter saw, and I ain't afraid to use it!

Okay, I won't be rewiring my house anytime soon, but I'm also not afraid to break a nail. I do it all the time. I make my own Roman shades--(it's easy! I can tell you how!)--hang molding, reupholster furniture. Why, I even wallpapered my bathroom ceiling and made a tribal mask out of cardboard and paper mache.

Somebody get me a show!

#5--Mess

I think my desk pretty much says it all. And, yes, that's how every surface of my house usually looks--covered in clutter. I'm not a neat person by any means. There are a million and one things I would rather do with my time than clean. So, I keep up with the dishes and the garbage and the laundry--anything that might grow something gross and eventually smell bad--but clutter? Eh.

So, there you have it. I'm tagging everyone on my blogroll with this one.

Let's see what you got!

As I See It...

2008-03-20T07:43:00.000-07:00

Sugarplum's Mom, that sweetie pot pie, has tagged me for an awesome meme, started by your friend and mine, Doodaddy. The theme--where will you and your kids be in twenty years and a day?

If you'd like to do this one, consider yourself tagged.

I think I feel a dream sequence coming on...

Tuesday, March 21, 2028

Waking up is hard. It was hard twenty years ago, but now that I'm alone in the house I used to share with my husband and my son, the days don't seem to dawn as bright.

Oh, I'm not generally prone to wallowing. It's been two years since Ron had that heart attack playing Guitar Hero XXVII. I told him it would be the death of him, but did he listen to me? Of course not.

"Woman," he said, "I'm a rocker through and through." Then his face turned bright red and he clutched his chest and fell to the floor.

He was gone, and I never got to tell him I told you so.

Losing the love of your life has a way of aging you ten years overnight. So, even though I'm only fifty-one this year, I feel like I'm sixty. Which still makes me a younger woman. He'd have turned sixty-three on the 24th.

The worst part about that day was that my son lost his dad.

They hadn't been seeing eye to eye on much, but there was no doubt how much they loved each other. Ron just wanted what any father wants for his young son--to get his head out of the clouds and figure out what he wants to do with his life. Unfortunately, Ethan got his flightiness from me.

Never my most endearing quality. Thank God he got his dad's brains, or I might fear he'll never leave that job at Jiffy Lube.

A man can't support a family on a measly $37 an hour. Barely even puts biodiesel in the tank.

Not that Ethan has his mind on starting a family just yet. He's been seeing someone pretty regularly. Jesse. Nice kid. And if Ethan wants to settle down with this individual of genderless nameage, I'll be happy with that.

Heck, I'll be happy with anything that makes him happy.

Unless what makes him happy is being a stripper. Or a dealer. Or a hippie. I have my limits.

Lately he's been talking about going back to school and finishing his architecture degree. I think he's finally feeling ready to grow up. Jesse must be a good influence on him.

They're coming over Friday night for dinner. I think Ethan knows how hard it will be on me, being alone on his dad's birthday.

He's a good boy, that one. I'm so lucky to have such a thoughtful son.

But today I'll be working on my book. It's been going well. I think I'm finally ready to start writing Chapter 2.

Help!!!

2008-03-19T08:43:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, while nursing a major O'Doul's hangover, I had Lovey and her kids over to Chez Gray where we ~~sat on our asses and played with the new Sims 2 expansion pack~~ taught the children to read. Braille. So that they may help deaf people cross busy streets.

Call us givers.

Okay, yes, we played Sims. Happy now?

Well, I'm not.

You see, I'm what's known as an addict. I have every Sims 2 EP and SP that has been released (except for one, and that will be remedied today), and I have about 7 gigs of custom content downloaded on my computer.

See the fancy wallpaper and flooring? I made them myself! That's not sad at all.

So, what's the problem?

My computer hates me and wants to see me cry, that's what.

I'm having technical difficulties, and I haven't a clue what to do about it. And they've been going on for months.

At first, it was the blue screen of death. I got that a lot.

So, I fixed that problem by throwing money at it. (Note: that DOES fix a lot of problems.) I installed a new nVidia graphics card and a 650 watt PSU.

Have I bored you to tears with technical jargon yet? Well just wait! It gets better.

I updated my drivers, updated BIOS, defragged the crap out of my hard drive, installed End It All to kill all unnecessary background processes that might interfere with the function of the game and SpeedFan to keep tabs on the system temperature.

That bought me all of 15 minutes of game play.

The next step was to--*shudder*--remove all custom content. Which I did, to no avail. Though it no longer took my game 45 minutes to load, I could only play for an additional 15 minutes before the graphics would get all wonky again.

Back to the drawing board.

I tested the memory with a Memtest86 CD. It was fine, and I finally, finally, finally got a glimmer of hope when I happened to read a post about setting page file (virtual memory) size. Mine was set at the minimum.

You know I bumped that bad boy up to the max! Call me a rebel.

And it seemed to work. I cautiously began adding custom content back into my game. All seemed right with the world.

Then yesterday, Lovey, who couldn't build a moderately sized house for her Sims if her life depended on it, chose a big lot and placed a big house on it.

And the game crashed again.

Curses!

What does a pathetic, 30-nothing loser have to do to get a break?!

Do I need more memory? An even better graphics card? A life and a hobby that doesn't involve little computer people?

Can anybody tell me what to do?

When Irish Eyes Are Smilin'...

2008-03-17T06:32:00.000-07:00

And a Happy Saint Patty's Day to ya now!

I've started the celebration early. Got my Lucky Charms and a keg of O'Doul's.

(Did somebody say par-tay?!)

But, most importantly, I got my ultra cool St. Pat's attire from my ultra cool blogger buddy, Yajeev's ultra cool super duper deluxe Megastore at cafepress.com. Check out what's plastered across my boob's today.

No, not the little Irish man. (That's many O'Doul's from now.)

It's Yajeev's high quality merchandise at ridiculously reasonable prices!

If you haven't read this guy's blog, you're not one of the cool people, and I refuse to associate with you. The man is hilarious!

Plus, he's clumsier than me, and he's not afraid to tell the world about it. He's got blog balls of steel!

Go. Now. I'll wait.

So, was I right or was I right, huh?

Yeah, I was right. You're welcome.

Anywho, other than hocking the wares of a superbly talented blogger, I've got a pretty full docket for the day. In addition to the Lucky Charms binging and O'Doul's imbibing, I'm going to whittle me up a perfectly good bar of Irish Spring soap with my stabbin' knife.

(It's a soap...canoe!)

Then I'm off to the local pub, where, after a rousing rendition of "Danny Boy" which will leave not a dry eye in the house, I'll throw away all the potatoes and everyone will starve.

Sounds like good times to me.

What's on your agenda?

So, How's That Book Comin'?

2008-03-14T08:57:00.000-07:00

Our accountant, Ron, thinks it's hi-lar-i-ous to ask me how my book is coming along and when he can head to Barnes and Noble to get his autographed copy at my book signing.

Har-dee-har-har, jackass.

During the course of a twenty minute phone conversation with him yesterday, he brought it up not once, but three times.

Ron: How's the book comin'?

Me: It's not.

Ron: Why not? It sounded like you were making good progress.

Me: I was. But then I hit a road block.

Ron: Writer's block?

Me: Not exactly. See, I got this blog...

(Okay, I didn't tell him about my blog. I didn't think he'd understand. Besides, he'd have all these ideas about how I can make my blog "work for me".

Bean counters!

My point is, if I had writer's block, I wouldn't be able to write anything, and it's obvious to anyone who reads my blog that that's not true. I've got a good handle on writing crap.)

Ron: So, what's the hold-up?

Me: My characters.

Ron: What's wrong with your characters?

Me: They're not speaking to me.

Ron: Not speaking to you? As in your art is not speaking to you?

Me: No. My characters. They were all Chatty Cathys, and now they've gone and written themselves into a corner, and I haven't figured out how to steer them back out. And they're not giving me anything to work with.

I'm sure at this point Ron had written me off as a poor, tortured artist who thinks the characters from her books are real and telling her to kill the Prime Minister of Malaysia or something. And that's not true at all.

It's the President of Uzbekistan.

But seriously, this phenomenon of rebellious characters is not all that uncommon. Ask any writer of a character-driven story if their main players have ever led them off the intended course, they'll probably tell you they have. Because stories, despite being researched and plotted and outlined, are still as fluid as the author's imagination. And mine has never really taken a linear path.

Therein lies the problem.

I told a friend of mine that if there was money to be made in starting novels, I could make a killing. I have six of them on the back burner.

Alas, that's not really a marketable feat. Lots of people have started novels. You can't toss a brick and not hit someone who's started a novel.

So, I just told Ron I was working on it, and that he'd be the first to know since the advance would be counted as income on our taxes.

(It was accountant humor, and, oh, how he laughed.)

And I will work on it again, but in the meantime, I've got a hundred and one things I need to do for this trip I have to take.

Anyone know who flies non-stop to Uzbekistan? Lax security would be a plus.

A Study in Economics

2008-03-12T11:58:00.000-07:00

I had dealings in the real world today.

I'd forgotten how much I despise dealing with the real world. It's loud and crowded, and you have to wear pants of sturdier construction than pajamas.

Evolved, my ass! I long for the days of fig leaves!

By the time my appointment came around, as I sat in the waiting area in confining denim, all I wanted was to sign the papers I'd come to sign and go. Instead, I was afforded the opportunity (meaning my financial adviser was running late) to study the tellers at the bank branch where she was meeting me.

This branch, like any other in the known universe, employed all three of the different types of tellers:

The Token Gay Man--wearing a well-fitting button-up in robin's egg blue and a navy tie striped with just the slightest hint of pink, this guy spends hours perfecting his "just rolled out of bed...two hours ago, shaved with the grain, moisturized, moisturized, moisturized, gelled/moussed/pomaded/shellacked and flat-ironed the perfectly highlighted coif to give it the decidedly ungelled/unmoussed/untouched by any styling implement" sort of look that would make the finest of metrosexuals green with envy. This guy's not just gay. He's bank teller gay.
The Past Her Prime PYT--sporting an over-processed Janis Joplin-esque 'do and a shiny polyester blouse tucked into her pleated wool skirt, this gal has seen it all. Once a beauty queen (approx. 1974), this former prize filly appears to have been ridden hard and put away wet. Despite her obvious love for Clairol Platinum Blonde, the feeling is not mutual. Past Her Prime PYT's are often relegated to the drive-up window as close proximity to her will cause Token Gay Man to simultaneously break out in hives, mentally add Alberto V05 Hot Oil Treatment to his shopping list, and desire to call his mother.
The Hannah Montana Reject--the natural enemy of Past Her Prime PYT, this cute, bubbly, vivacious young twenty-something is quintessential window dressing. Her appeal is obvious to anyone who comes in contact with her, from the harried mother of four who remembers what it's like to be her, to the gun-toting good ol' boy with a Calvin-pissing-on-a-Chevy-emblem window decal on the back of his Ford F-350. Hannah Montana Rejects are, oddly enough, often named Hannah, and come in a variety of colors--white, off white, alabaster, beige, cream, and eggshell. Commonly seen in the company of other Hannah Montana Rejects and Token Gay Men at Old Navy or Hollisters.

I seem to be a Token Gay Man magnet, as they are always the ones who help me. Unfortunately, they're also the ones who make me feel the most self-conscious. Not because they're gay, but because they're prettier than me, and have luminous skin.

Plus, they're cattier than the Past Her Primes, and wittier than the Hannahs, which sort of makes them naturals at this blogging thing. And if there's one thing I don't need to read, it's this...

Thirty-Something Democrat-in-Denial--pairing flip-flops and track jackets with everything, and in dire need of a root touch-up and clay-mask treatment, this bank customer is in obvious denial of the passage of time. She dresses like a Berkley student despite her claims of being a hippie-despising Republican, and can often be heard quoting Napoleon Dynamite. Typically located wandering the frozen food section of the supermarket with a cart with a squeaky wheel and a corresponding twitch in her eye, the Thirty-Something Democrat-in-Denial is generally harmless, though she can be incited to lengthy bouts of sarcastic blogging if provoked. Be advised to keep a safe distance.

Phew!

2008-03-11T08:11:00.000-07:00

Thank you to everyone who commented on our first video project! It was fun, but a lot more work than I originally anticipated.

Still, if the masses are clamoring for more, who am I to dash your hopes?

Just not today, okay? Or anytime in the near future.

I'm a little videoed out. I'm thinking of rather uncharitable things I'd like to do to that damn tripod, and that's not right. It never did anything to me.

But, I swear, if I have to set it up ONE. MORE. TIME...

Besides, I don't really have anything in mind for another video. Although, Lovey thinks we should post the outtakes. I don't know. It's just a lot of me making funny faces in the camera.

You don't want to see that, do you?

To answer some of your questions, the cable cost $44.99 at Best Buy. Not a significant savings from the one on the Canon website, but I didn't have to pay for shipping or wait for it to arrive, so I bit the bullet.

(Any and all donations will be gladly accepted, MIKE!)

Kidding.

I did indeed use iMovie on my husband's iMac for the editing. But I'm typing this on my PC, so don't think you Mac users have converted me or anything. I might use his Mac on occasion to get what I want out of it, but my heart belongs to my HP.

(It didn't mean anything, baby. Just a little streaming video is all. You know I love you for your gaming capabilities. That Mac's got nothin' on you.)

Also, I'd like to offer a rousing welcome to any newcomers and delurkers. I saw some new names there. Glad to have you!

And for my loyal readers...you know I love you, baby. Those newcomers got nothin' on you.

(Gosh, I hope they don't read that!)

In other news, check out Lovey's post to see a short video of MissBurrow's impromptu birthday celebration at Chuck E. Cheese's.

(You know, despite the flashcard thing, MissBurrows isn't quite the nutjob I you might take her for. Why not stop by and wish her a happy birthday.)

The Wait is Over...

2008-03-09T13:40:00.000-07:00

Here it is. Our big, not-so-secret project.

Next stop, Hollywood!

Blog Blues

2008-03-07T06:59:00.000-08:00

I asked my husband what's funnier to kick than a hobo. He said, "I don't know," but he said it a la Napoleon Dynamite, so it cracked me up.

The only thing I could think of was a mime.

Man, I hate those guys.

But upon reflection, I now think hobo-kicking and mime-kicking to be unilaterally side-splitting. Which is to say, not very.

I'm in a lull. My brain is fried from the big secret project Lovey and I are working on (I'll give you a hint: I found a cable, and it weren't no $10, you lying liars!), so The Funny has become a casualty.

Ever try forcing The Funny?

Yeah, it doesn't work so well.

I saw SNL in the 90's. I know.

So, I'm not even going to try. Instead, I'll be holed up in my husband's office all day trying to figure out a certain program on his iMac--*cough iMovie cough*--and giving myself an aneurysm in the process.

Yee-haw.

Do me a favor, though?

If I bite it today, working tirelessly to bring you a finely crafted epic of YouTube proportions, would you mind remembering me as I was? You know, before I lost The Funny?

That's all I ask.

Well, that, and that my boobs live on in infamy. But that's kind of a given.

They are spectacular.

Big Plans

2008-03-05T11:10:00.000-08:00

I'm working on a project with Lovey today that may or may not leave you in stitches when we're done.

It may leave us with stitches. Hope not, but we'll see how it goes.

Wish us luck!

In the meantime, have a chuckle at my Google Analytics and Statcounter keyword analysis:

woot boobs
where can i post my boob pics
my husband is more feminine than i am
mike's gay older friend
lesbian hippies
how many calories are burned during an orgy
i listen in, yes i'm guilty of this
diaper punishment video
fabulous fabio avery
"cheesecake" + "sweater puppies"
what rhymes with snuggle?
avery boobs nice

Aw, gee thanks!

I'm Cornfused

2008-03-04T07:18:00.000-08:00

I took the voting buttons for the Blogger's Choice awards down because I was under the impression that voting was over. Which I thought was weird, because how can you decide less than two months into the year what your favorite humor blog, best blog about stuff, and hottest mommy blogger of 2008--*cough Avery Gray at averygrayday.blogspot.com cough*--will be?

As it turns out, you can't. Hence why the buttons have mysteriously returned to my sidebar.

Now, I'm not going to beg for your votes. I appreciate those who have voted already, and my only goal has been met--get more than zero votes.

As Holly would say, Result!

But if you feel a burning desire to declare your love for me to the world, and you would like to do so in the form of a vote for my blog, well, I certainly won't stop you. I won't even hinder you. I might even clear a path through the throngs of my admirers for you.

It's the least I could do.

But I won't do the voting for you. I'm pretty sure that crosses some sort of line and is frowned upon. And if there's one thing I don't like to be, it's frowned upon.

Smirked upon? Fine.

Grimaced upon? Bring it.

Frowned upon? Nooooo!

So, you'll just have to vote yourself. Okay?

Okay.

On to the business of the day.

My lovely new blogger buddy, GoneBackSouth, has tagged me for a 6 random things meme. Now, I've done random thing memes in the past, but my life just happens to be filled with random, inconsequential minutiae--it's why I blog--so I think I can come up with something fresh.

Let's see...

1) I buy Bounty paper towels for their absorbency and strength.

2) My only claim to fame is that my cousin is the drummer for Journey (not the original, but the current line-up that tours county fairs), but I think it pales in comparison to my husband's, who, while working at a Portland area Burger King as a teenager, served Tom Petty and Bob Dylan in the drive thru.

3) I slept on bamboo sheets last night, and they were quite comfy.

4) Unless they're crawling on me, spiders don't bother me, but I have an irrational fear of moths. I almost drove off the road when a huge one flew in my car window one night. Since then, I only roll my windows down during the day.

5) I can't stand Dora the Explorer. She's bossy, and her voice is like nails on a chalkboard (which I use only as an expression because the sound of nails on an actual chalkboard doesn't bother me).

6) I'm a Gemini, the sign of the twins.

Well, there you have it. Six things you never needed to know about me, but are ever so glad you do.

So, hows about it? Anyone else want to play along?

Taxation Without Gratification

2008-03-03T08:46:00.000-08:00

Happy Monday, everyone!

I hope your weekend was as wonderful as mine. I don't know how that's possible though, unless you did a lot of cleaning and talked about your taxes, too.

Good times.

Yes, the tax discussion was lively and riveting, and was sprinkled with just a dash of four-letter "sentence enhancers". (i.e. "Holy [word that rhymes with 'spit'], that's a lot of money!")

Lest you think that means we're in dire straits and will soon be living under a bridge in a Frigidaire box, let me assure you we were talking about our refund.

We don't know the exact figures yet. I'll be making an appointment with our accountant today, but if the numbers in the past are anything to go by, we'll be expecting a nice chunk of change.

Not to be crass (yeah, like that's ever stopped me), but that SUV in our driveway? 2004's refund. Paid cash.

This year's refund won't be SUV-buyin' big. My husband, much as he loved getting that "windfall" every year, was finally persuaded to change the exemptions on his W4. I guess he realized that it's not like winning the lottery if it's just your own money being so kindly bestowed upon you by the slacker friend who borrowed it in the first place.

(Whitey is such a pain that way.)

But we'll be getting enough to pay off the credit card and possibly take a trip somewhere.

So, why, you might be wondering after Friday's post, don't I just go and buy myself the frickin' cable or a new camcorder already? It's simple really.

My husband is a loon.

If it wasn't for me, he would probably stuff the large bills in his mattress and use the singles to fashion himself a comfy, if impractical, security blanket. He likes it liquid and easily accessible, but he doesn't want it spent.

Then there's me, who, before I became a blushing bride and got with child, was completely independent, debt-free, and had my eye on any number of Ralph Lauren bed sets and Marc Jacobs handbags. And if I wanted a firewire cable for my video camera, I was damn sure going to get one. And it would be the sparkliest, pinkest firewire cable I could find, and it would come with a matching carrying case. Naturally.

Of course, that's single girl mentality, and I have done my best to change my ways. As long as I'm not required to clip coupons or shop at WalMart, I'm okay. I even try to take my husband's feelings into account.

Oh, not on my blog. But, you know, in that other place. That counts for something, right?

You Decide!

2008-02-29T10:24:00.000-08:00

Awhile back, I said that I was going to try to put up a video of Avery and Lovey's JamFest 2008! And, believe me, I had every intention of doing so. I still do.

The problem, I thought, was that I didn't have the software on my new computer. No biggie, I figured. I may not be fastidious about much, but saving software? I rock. I still have floppy disks that are actually floppy!

So, I was going to go through the stacks of software I have hoarded over the years and find it. Then I got sick, and the issue was relegated to a lower priority than, say, trying to breathe.

So, that's been over a week ago now. I'm able to breathe without much concentration yet again. And last night, Mike so generously reminded me of my aforementioned task with his comment on my last post:

"Movie schmovie, where's my Avery-plays-Guitar-Hero video?"

Well, Mike, just for you, I searched and searched through the piles of disks, only to discover that I no longer had the software.

Fair enough. Off I went to the Canon website and downloaded it from there.

Software--check!

I hooked up my USB cable, and...nothing.

Turned the camera off, turned it back on, pushed play, wiggled the cable, clicked a bunch of buttons, stood on my head, recited the Lord's Prayer--the message on the screen still said "No camera detected".

I tried adding hardware, to no avail. Tried kicking the computer, too, but that was really just more for my own sanity.

When my husband got home, I asked him about it. He said he thinks we need a different cable for a different port. He opened up another little door on the camera and showed me what he was talking about.

Great, I thought. I'll just grab the cable for that and try again.

Cable?

What cable?

There's no stinkin' cable in the carrying case where all the other cables for this bad boy were.

Fine, time to search the cable basket.

So, I did. I pulled out every cable. None of them were the one I needed.

Back to the Canon website to find the one I did need.

Fifty bucks! Not including shipping, and I'm still not 100% certain it's the right one.

Man, if only I knew someone more technically savvy than myself, Mike. You wouldn't happen to know someone like that, would you, Mike? Someone, Mike, who might know, Mike, if I'm going to be wasting a lot of money on something that's not even going to fix the problem, Mike Mike Mike?

Someone who once said "I will pay good money to see this video" perhaps?

(Yeah, put your foot in it there, didn't ya?)

Well, I'm not going to ask you to put your money where your mouth is. After all, you did quantify it by saying it was only worth dozens of cents to you. And anyone can tell you, I don't even get out of bed for less than a buck twenty-five.

And as much as I would love to tell you it's worth it to me to keep you all entertained by making an ass out of myself for your amusement, fifty bucks would go a long way toward getting a new DVD camcorder, which would allow even greater opportunities for embarrassing tomfoolery.

So, I'm at an impasse. Should I pay the money for the cable? Or should I save the money and buy a better camcorder in a few months?

I'm leaving it up to all of you to decide.

Choose wisely, grasshoppers.

Call Off the Hounds

2008-02-28T08:03:00.000-08:00

I'm not dead. Though I appreciate every one of you who e-mailed expressing concern.

Believe me, if I were dead, you'd be the first to know, because I am sure the high speed connection in Heaven is nothing short of divine.

Assuming, of course, that's the direction I'm headed. I hope it's not the other way. I hear the Devil has dial-up.

*shudder*

No, I've been busy with the business of life, if you can imagine that. (It's what goes on outside the internets. I had to look it up.)

I've returned to the land of the living only to deal with the ghouls at the DOL (that's DMV to the rest of known civilization), the zombie who is my tax accountant (the one who writes bo-ring romance novels), and an "emotional vampire" in the guise of a friend. (That's the name Lovey gave her, and I gotta say, it's quite perfect.)

But last night, Lovey and I actually got to take in a pre-screening of a movie we've both been anxious to see, The Other Boleyn Girl.

We each read the Phillipa Gregory novel that the movie is based on, and loved it.

The movie was a very much condensed and glossed over version of the book, but it's hard to cram 672 pages of lust, greed, and political intrigue into two hours. Still, it was an admirable effort. Natalie Portman was the perfect choice to play the conniving, ill-fated Anne Boleyn. I was less impressed with Scarlett Johansson as her sister, Mary, but her performance was fine. Eric Bana was much yummier than the real Henry VIII would have been--at least after he became gouty and bloated toward the end of Anne's life. (That was not portrayed in the film.)

Some significant historical facts were not even alluded to, like the fate of Mary's first husband, William Carey, and the fact that she bore the king a daughter as well as a son. But there was plenty of drama besides. Enough to keep us entertained throughout, so I give it two stubby thumbs up.

In other news, I have determined that coughing is the best abdominal workout ever, and thus I have not failed the Fit Friends through my much maligned bout with pneumonia. I'm still coughing some, though not nearly as much as I had been, so I suppose it no longer counts as an excuse, but I have to say I have given it 110% lo these past couple of weeks, and now I have a toned, sexy, pasty core.

Okay, I don't. It doesn't look any different. But I bet it could crush a Buick if it could evolve prehensilly. Now THAT would be something to see!

Sure, Buddy

2008-02-25T07:53:00.000-08:00

My husband has delusions of grandeur.

Damn you, Guitar Hero!

As he rocks out to The Killers (on the Easy level, mind you), he poses like every cliche butt rocker--making the "guitar" an exaggerated phallic representation.

Yeah, like that doesn't reek of compensation.

He finishes his set with flourishes, missing nearly every note of the solo because, quite frankly, he sucks. But he thinks he looks good doing it.

After doffing his shirt and tossing it to me with a wink, he proceeds to murder "Paint it Black". He flails his guitar penis to no discernible rhythm and fails the song at 27%.

"There's something wrong with the controller," he claims. "Maybe it needs new batteries."

I regard him with thinly veiled skepticism. "Yeah," I reply. "That must be it."

I turn my attention back to Youtube and chuckle to myself.

It must be a guy thing.

It was the Best of Times...

2008-02-23T10:34:00.000-08:00

Illness has turned me into an abysmal imitation of a poor Dickensian orphan, replete with quivering lip and sad bulging eyes. If not for the wealth of well-wishes I have received in Blogland, which have at the very least warmed the cockles of my heart if not expelled the fluid from my lungs, I would be wallowing in self-pity and waiting for the slow, torturous march of...

Well, not death. That's a little morbid.

Plague?

Oh, yeah! That's much less melodramatic. Perfect.

Sadly, I appear to be a far less compelling protagonist than Ollie Twist or Tiny Tim. I think it's safe to say my husband, though not in the same league as ol' Ebenezer, may well be his distant cousin twice removed. The man has very little sympathy for weak, wretched creatures such as myself.

If not for the fact that even in this compromised state I can wipe the floor with his sorry ass in Guitar Hero, I would take very little comfort in his meager efforts.

That's not to say he's a bad man, or a bad husband. Merely a bad sympathizer. Nurturing is not his forte.

Alas, it falls on you, dear friends, to lift my fallen spirits, and you have done the job admirably and with much aplomb. (There's one for Scrabble!)

Why, just today I read with great mirth this post from Holly wherein she has tagged me for a meme which I had very much been coveting.

(Okay, so I solicited the tag. I mean, what's a girl got to do to get a little meme action? The good ones, of course. Not the stupid ones. Those you can tag Mike with. He never does them anyhow.)

The rules :
1. Pick up the nearest book (of at least 123 pages).
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people & post a comment here once you post it to your blog, so I can come see.

Now, I have been waiting with bated breath for someone--anyone--to tag me with this particular meme because, as most of you know, I have a lot of books with cheesy covers and heaving bosoms, and more likely than not, one of them will be within easy reach of my computer. And believe me when I say, there is no better comedy than three lines out of these books taken out of context. Seriously. Especially the older Harlequins. They're like turning on Lifetime channel movies in the middle and hearing, Give me this night, these hours of passion's embrace, before we surrender to our fates forever, and you can't help but laugh because, good Lord, that's corny!

But not, as it turns out, on page 123.

No, page 123 must be universally known in the romance genre as "The Page in Which Nothing Interesting Shall Ever Happen. EVER."

Not one mention of heaving this or throbbing that. No, page 123 may as well be written by my accountant. No wait--by his accountant! (Yes, I'm aware that's probably still him. I'm working on an analogy of the blandness of the words here, people. And what's blander than an accountant's accountant? I'd like to know.)

I went through every romance I own just to be sure.

Okay, I know. I'm supposed to quote from the nearest book to me, and that happened to be "Come Back to Me" by Josie Litton:

"Everyone speaks very well of the jarl. I believe he and Lord Hawk are fast friends."
"Friendship between Norse and Saxon seems much the fashion these days."

Oh, that IS rich! I stand corrected.

I can only hope Jill, Terri, Groovy Mom, Maria, and...um...Mike have as much luck as I have had with this one, because TAG, you're all it!

You're welcome.

And thanks again for the privilege, Holly! You sure do know how to make a girl feel special. If only until the Sudafed wears off.

My Apologies

2008-02-22T07:44:00.000-08:00

I have a sinus infection and walking pneumonia. I feel like I gargled a lye and gravel cocktail. So, you'll have to excuse my absence. I'll be back soon (hopefully with a video, but I'm still trying to figure out how to upload it to my computer.)

Forgive me?

And On...

2008-02-20T15:20:00.001-08:00

I thought I was all better. Turns out, that was just the calm before the storm. I feel miserable today, and since I have no one to blame but myself, I'm going to blame Lovey.

(Aw, heck. She never reads my blog anyway. I think I'm safe.)

It was all that righteous rockin' yesterday. It wore these old bones out. Guess I'm not as young as I used to be.

(Which is a really idiotic thing to say if you think about it. Kinda like saying, "Guess I'm still alive if I'm breathing," or "Guess today's the day after yesterday," or "Guess Cream is the best band in the history of forever." These things just are.)

Anyhow, I'm working on getting a video of our jamfest together. I can't promise anything at this point, but I'm trying, so keep your fingers crossed.

Other than that, I got nothin'. Hopefully I'll have something for you tomorrow. Besides sputum.

Hey, that's kinda funny, right?

Sputum.

*snicker*

Yeah, no, that's not funny. My bad.

Rock On, Man!

2008-02-19T09:28:00.000-08:00

You know, I pick the worst times to get sick. Why is that?

The weather in the Pacific Northwest is glorious. There's something bright in the sky that is emitting rays of light and warmth. I am told it is called "the sun" in scientific circles.

(Seriously, a giant ball of burning gas in outer space? Sounds more like science fiction to me.)

But whatever it is, it's awesome. Or so I imagine. I'm too busy being a gooey ball of phlegm to know for sure. Seems great from a distance though.

My husband, you know the one, felt bad that I was stuck inside while he and the boy frolicked in the "sunshine". His solution?

He bought me--*cough himself cough*--Guitar Hero 3: Legends of Rock for the Wii this weekend.

I have to admit, it is a lot of fun. Maybe not all that romantic, but anyone who knows me could tell you the one thing I love more than mushy stuff is fun stuff.

So, he is hereby absolved of his earlier crime of negligence. Plus, he felt really bad about not getting me anything for Valentine's Day (read--he knows I blog, and he can put two and two together). That's not to say that I won't be taking the advice of more than 70% of the poll takers and buying myself something nice anyhow. I mean, who's to say he didn't buy it as an early Saint Patrick's Day gift and not a late Valentine's gift? Certainly not me.

But today, I and my lovely friend, Lovey, will be embroiled in a rock battle the likes of which has never been seen. I, with my Cream tribute band, Half-&-Half, and she, with her alternachick indie pop funk duo, Juggz*, will be laying down sweet riffs and pickin' up love diseases from stoned groupies.

No, wait. That's not right.

Whatever. Let the rockin' commence.

Commercial Break

2008-02-17T09:47:00.000-08:00

I hab a code. I'm going back to bed. But just so you don't think I'm leaving you in the funny lurch, here are some awesome Old Spice commercials that bring great joy to my otherwise dreary existence. Enjoy!

The Poll of Little Love

2008-02-15T11:11:00.000-08:00

Given the circumstances of yesterday's post...

[NOTE: I'm in a glass case of emotion here, people. Best not to trifle with me.]

It's Valentine's, Jackass

2008-02-14T17:06:00.000-08:00

I love love. I love everything romantic. I'm a sucker for happy endings and blissful couples wandering off into the sunset.

I'm a freak for mush.

So, how I ended up with the least romantic man on Earth is beyond me.

But that's okay. He's a good man, a great husband, a wonderful father, and if his only failing is that he lacks the romance gene, it's not that big of a deal.

Still, I hold out hope every year that even a smidge of my predilection toward sap might rub off on him.

Not a ball-shriveling amount, mind you. I don't want to be married to me.

But it might be nice if it was just enough so that he might take it upon himself to surprise me one of these Valentine's Days with something special.

Don't get me wrong. I do appreciate the flowers he buys, even as they get cheaper with every passing year. But it would be nice if he really put some thought into the day rather than glossing over it with a supermarket floral arrangement and a leftover box of chocolates.

It's not like I'm asking for a lot here. A heartfelt card would be nice. A day off of work so we can spend time together, even better.

I'm not that hard to please. Really, I'm not.

So, what am I getting this Valentine's Day?

A catalytic converter. For his car. To replace the one he destroyed by running over "something".

$1700.

God help the boy if he sets foot in this house with carnations and Reese's tonight.

It's an Honor Just Being Nominated...

2008-02-12T18:16:00.000-08:00

My thanks go out to Holly. My...uh, sister from another mister?...has nominated me for three Blogger's Choice Awards:

I am completely and utterly blown away by this unexpected act of ~~pity~~ kindness, and I very much appreciate the sentiment. And although I know I don't have a chance in Hades of winning (considering all her e-mails informing me of said nominations went straight to my spam folder--thanks, Yahoo!--and voting ends Friday), I'd love it if you'd vote for me anyway.

You know, so I don't seem like so much of a pathetic loser.

No pressure or anything.

Note to (18-Year-Old) Self...

2008-02-12T10:16:00.000-08:00

In my long blogging career, I've come across a number of posts, like this one, which have been directed at the authors' former selves--wisdom they'd impart to their younger counterparts if the opportunity ever magically arose. Advice, presumably, that would alter the course of their lives for the better.

Yeah. Because young people listen sooo well.

If I'd been confronted by my aged, decrepit 30-year-old self when I was 18, I imagine it would have gone down something like this:

Me at 30: Avery, I've come from the future with a message for you.

Me at 18: Uh huh.

Old Me: I've come to tell you not to waste your time with the man you're with. He'll never appreciate you.

Young Me: That's not true. He writes me poems!

Age: You and I both know his poems are crap. He rhymes "good" with "food". He's an idiot.

Beauty: He's not an idiot! He's a musician.

30: No, he's a 28-year-old stock boy at an office supply store who happens to know a few riffs on the guitar.

18: Whatever. He'll make it someday.

30: No, he won't. You're gonna have to trust me on that.

18: Why should I? I believe in him! I looooove him!

30: Oh, good Lord! You're even annoying me.

18: Besides, he told me he wants to spend the rest of his life with me!

30: Oh, really? He asked you to marry him?

18: Well, not in so many words, but I'm sure one day...

30: God, you're stupid.

18: I am not! I graduated with honors!

30: Yeah, so did I, Einstein.

18: Whatever, loser. I'm Audi.

30: *sigh* Kids.

I Love My Husband, But...

2008-02-11T10:33:00.000-08:00

How can someone so smart be so dumb when it comes to proper car care?

Seriously. It's not rocket science. You drive a few thousand miles, you take it to a Jiffy Lube, pay them to do whatever it is they do, and drive away. Another few thousand miles, you repeat the process.

After 10 times doing that, you take it in to the transmission place for servicing. Pay them $60 bucks and you're on your way.

And--here's the kicker--if the Check Engine light comes on, take it somewhere to have it looked at.

It's not there just to add panache to your dash.

(Like that? Panache to your dash! Check Engine adds panache to your dash! Somebody write that down.)

Long story short--30,000 overdue miles and one Check Engine light later, we now have a car that will not pass emissions testing.

So, thank you, dear.

Thanks for saving us the $500 in oil changes by costing us $1400 in auto repair.

Valentine's came early for me this year. You shouldn't have.

You really shouldn't have.

***

Last night we had a follow-up conversation about the laptop incident...

Me: "Remember when you used to love me?"

Him: "I do love you."

Me: "Yeah, I suppose. But you love the MacBook Air just a little more."

Him: "No, I don't."

Me: "Okay, if you were stranded on a deserted island, and you could choose to have a MacBook Air or me there, which would you choose?"

Him: "Well, it wouldn't really be a deserted island, then, would it?"

Me: "Oh, just play along!"

Him: "You, of course."

Me: "Why?"

Him: "Because there wouldn't be any electricity on a deserted island."

Me: "But what if there was?"

Him: "You."

Me: "What if there was electricity AND unlimited internet access?"

Him: "You."

Me: "Electricity, unlimited internet access, and Steve Jobs. In a Speedo."

Him: "Why would I want Steve Jobs in a Speedo?"

Me: "I don't know! You tell me!"

Him: "You."

Me: "But--"

Him: "You. Always you."

He's forgiven.

Am I Pregnant? Blogthings Will Know!

2008-02-09T08:23:00.000-08:00

I love the quizzes on Blogthings. They provide the perfect mindless entertainment that I apparently enjoy. And sometimes they're pretty accurate. Like the fruit quiz.

You Are a Banana

You are mellow, easy going, and a total softie on the inside.
People find it really easy to get along with you. You suit most tastes.

And while you're very sweet, you're not boring or ordinary.
You have an attraction to the exotic, and you could show up anywhere... doing almost anything!

You are spirited, energetic, and a total kick to be around.
You're also quite funny. Your sense of humor is on the goofy side, and it fits you well.

What Type of Fruit Are You?

How did they know that I'm unusually yellow and brimming with potassium? Amazing!

Or the attention whore quiz.

You Are An Attention Seeker

You're only human, so you can't help but want a little attention every now and then.
You love the spotlight, but only when it's well deserved. You'd hate to be known for the wrong thing.
And you also don't mind sharing the spotlight. You can easily give someone else credit or a complement.
You know there's enough attention to go around, and it makes you happy when your friends shine.

You come across as: Friendly and interesting

People may wrongly think you're: A little more modest than you actually are!

Are You An Attention Whore?

I DO often have strange things swirling about me. Uncanny!

Or the famous last words quiz.

Your Famous Last Words Will Be:

"I can pass this guy."

What Will Your Famous Last Words Be?

I know I haven't uttered them yet, but I can totally see it happening that way.

Okay, I know the answers are made intentionally vague so that they may be interpreted in a number of different ways. A serial killer might think hacking up hookers is wacky fun, but they might not rate high in the evil quiz if they've never made a prank call.

You Are 48% Evil

You are evil, but you haven't yet mastered the dark side.
Fear not though - you are on your way to world domination.

How Evil Are You?

These quizzes aren't meant to delve deep into the psyche. They're not windows into your soul. They can't divine the future.

They're not Cosmo quizzes, after all.

And sometimes? Sometimes they're just plain stupid.

You Are Probably Not Pregnant

It seems like you're in the clear, but you should really take a test to be sure.

Are You Pregnant?

Apple Trollop

2008-02-08T10:10:00.000-08:00

My husband is cheating on me.

Oh, maybe not in the whole secret rendezvous with another person for carnal purposes sort of way, but the fact remains--he has lust in his heart, and it ain't for me.

The object of his desire?

This man.

Steve Jobs. CEO of Apple. Maker of all things Mac.

Can't say that I blame him. Look at those smoldering eyes. Those chiseled features. That impeccable sense of...um...balance?

What woman can compete with a man of his many talents?

Not this one, apparently.

There I was, cuddled up next to my lout of a husband, wearing something that displayed the girls to the best of their advantage, and doing my darnedest to provide ample distraction to his Celebrity Apprentice viewing (it was TiVoed after all), and succeeding quite nicely, when what should appear on the television but the commercial for the MacBook Air.

I was literally cast aside.

For a laptop.

"It's so thin," he sighed.

Thin?

That's all you care about? Not the fact that it's way overpriced and can't even play CDs or DVDs without an external drive?

It's the Paris Hilton of notebook computers!

Thirty seconds go by. He is riveted to the action on the screen, from the moment it slides seductively out of it's confining manila envelope until the understated Apple logo appears above it, tempting him with its siren song.

He's mesmerized.

I feel like chopped liver. Mixed with poo.

It's not the first time he's wandered, after all. He has an iMac. We have three iPods. And he's aching to get his hands on an iPod Touch.

I'm downright jealous OF A GADGET!

Sure, we've been together a long time, and the newness has since worn off. We're like a comfortable old pair of shoes now. (If one of those shoes is a no-good philanderer.)

But I ain't exactly ready for a dirt nap here. I've got a few good years left. And it's not like I don't have a couple little somethings a man might find enticing, if you know what I mean.

(Normally I'd insert a picture of my boobs here, but I figure you're probably tired of seeing them by now.)

So, what is it that makes a man yearn for the latest and greatest toy, even at the risk of turning his wife into a frigid ice queen?

Any guys out there care to enlighten me about this obsession?

Awards and Such

2008-02-06T10:37:00.000-08:00

One thing you should know about me--I'm a horrible person.

If you've given me an award, I have been remiss in expressing my gratitude.

So, thank you. Every single one of you who have awarded me my beautiful bloggy bling. I love them all. I really do!

I know that doesn't make up for my appalling lack of manners and my egregious oversight in the linky love department.

I suck. I'm sorry. I don't deserve your kindness.

Would it make you feel better if I gave you an award in return?

(Don't be so quick to say yes. Need I remind you about the first award I created?)

Mmm hmm.

Not so sure now, are you?

Well, fear not. I have produced a series of awards sure to find favor in even the most discriminating among you.

I call this my "Nerd Collection 2008". May I present...

The "Your Blog is Cooler Than This Guy's Blog" award,

The "You're Bringing Sexy Back" award,

And the "You Have a Lovely...uh...Personality" award.

Each award was carefully handcrafted (on the computer), and lovingly detailed (I added the words), so that they may forever stand as a testament to how cool, sexy, or...uh...interesting you are to me.

I'd like to pass these on to everyone on my ~~finally~~ newly updated blogroll because you're all awesome in your own special ways. And to Dooz, who I would love to link to but can't because she's on the down low like that.

Now go ahead and pass 'em around.

Let's all share the nerd love.

It Burns! It Burns!

2008-02-05T08:07:00.000-08:00

There's something seriously wrong with me.

I can't move; I'm stiff all over. Something beneath my skin just keeps burning and aching. I think the medical term those crazy whitecoats use is "overworked muscles". But what do they know? Feels like rigor mortis to me.

Am I too young to be searching WebMD for hernias? 'Cause I'm pretty sure I have one of those, too.

Who in the world came up with this accursed idea anyway?

Oh, now I remember.

Friend? Bah! I use that term loosely.

But it's not really Cami's fault. It appears that I have a magic breaking point on the elliptical. (Note to Dapoppins: an elliptical trainer is a common torture device which utilizes the walking motion of a treadmill, and the climbing motion of a stair stepper.)

45 minutes on that bad boy feels fine.

50 minutes=worst. pain. imaginable.*

(*excludes childbirth, 'cause that certainly weren't no picnic neither. And also impalement with a rusty spike. Probably not pleasant. Same with being burned alive. Ouch. But other than that, 50 minutes on the elliptical=the worst.)

And can I just say--Wii boxing? Kicks my ass.

All that dodging and jabbing? Probably looked ridiculous, too. Good thing I was alone.

My husband lurves the boxing, and he's really good at it, but I could do without my son learning colorful phrases like:

"You want a piece of me?"
"Time to take out the garbage."
"I'm gonna beat you down and make you cry."
"Take that, sucka!"

Yes, my husband sure could make the Sharks and the Jets run for cover for fear of a smartly choreographed beatdown with his hardened gangsta vernacular.

(I just hope he gets out of that life before something terrible happens...like an off-Broadway tour of understudies. Jeepers!)

Well, I won't be taking him on anytime soon. Maybe if they made a version of shuffleboard for the Wii, I could manage something like that.

No. On second thought, I don't think I could.

When blogging is too painful, you know you're in bad shape.

He Dropped a Bomb on Me

2008-02-04T08:07:00.000-08:00

Or two. Maybe three.

First, when he told me about the sweet money we had riding on New England yesterday.

A dollar. One whole dollar.

Guess we won't be taking that family vacation this year after all.

Blurg!

Then when he told me he likes...

The Beehive!!

(Though you have to admit, I don't look half bad as a blond.)

But the biggest shocker of all...

Since the boy will be in kindergarten this fall, the man thinks I'll be going back to work.

Let's just say he's a jackass and leave it at that.

He does have one thing going for him (besides me, of course)...

Your Guy Is Not Pretty!

Your husband is more hetero than John Wayne. End of story.
While it may be hard to get him to go dancing or shopping...
You know that he can always stand up for and take care of you.
Which is waaaay more attractive than a few well placed highlights.

Is He Prettier Than You?

Guess I'll keep him. For now.

And So It Begins...

2008-02-01T11:25:00.000-08:00

The battle between the Choconots and Frenemies has ended.

We all gave peas a chance.

(Mine were smothered in melted chocolate. Mmmm...)

But January is behind us, and today is the start of something new. Something both the Choconots and the Frenemies can support and get involved in.

February is the month of the Fit Friends!

I'm a fit friend...

Are you?

(Didn't Cami do an awesome job on the badges?)

Yes, but what is this Fit Friends thing of which you speak?

It's simple, really. To be a Fit Friend, all you have to do is pledge to work out 3 times a week in the month of February.

What could be easier than that?

(Well, not working out 3 times a week would be easier, I suppose.)

But who wants easy?

(Well, everyone, I guess.)

You know, I'm really not good at selling these things. Lucky for me, Cami's got it all laid out for you here.

The timing of the challenge is quite apropos. February is the American Heart Association's Women's Heart Health Month. And in honor of that, I'm going to share with you something that I don't often like to talk about.

My health.

A little over a year ago, I was diagnosed with an endocrine disorder known as PCOS (Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome). This did not come as a shock to me. I have been dealing with the effects of this disorder since the onset of puberty in my early teens. But it's not until recently that the condition has been given a name, or extensively researched.

What PCOS basically means is that my body is resistant to the insulin it produces, so it produces more. And more. And then a little bit more until I'm swimming in insulin. The excess insulin triggers an increase in the production of androgen hormones (testosterone, androstenedione, etc., etc.), which cause cysts to form in my ovaries, wreaking further havoc on my body chemistry.

The effects can be devastating. Studies on PCOS have shown:

By age 30, 50% of women with the disorder have either impaired glucose tolerance, significant insulin resistance, or full-blown diabetes.
Women with PCOS have an eleven-fold increased risk of cardiovascular disease that can appear as early as the 20s or 30s.
Women from 39 to 49 years old with the condition have a heart attack risk that is four times that of women without PCOS in this age group.
Women with PCOS also have a higher risk of uterine cancer that occurs at younger ages than seen in women without PCOS.

Those studies alone don't tell quite the whole story of what PCOS does to a woman's body. In addition to painful menstrual cycles and infertility issues, there's an emotional component to the disorder as well, not just from the hormonal imbalance it can cause, but from the way it alters a woman's appearance--skin tags, dark patches, facial hair, acne, oily skin.

But the worst symptom of all is the vicious cycle of weight gain.

Because women with this disorder are often insulin resistant, we are in a constant state of hunger. According to "The Savvy Woman's Guide to PCOS" (which I have found extremely helpful): "High levels of insulin stimulate the ovaries to make more of the androgens, and also make you store more fat, instead of burning fat for fuel. Insulin resistance makes you get fatter and fatter, even if you are eating less and exercising more. The fatter you get, the more insulin resistant you become."

After reading that, you might think I'd be tempted to take a knife to my wrists.

In some ways, you'd be right. I do feel constantly judged for the way I look. In the past, it was much easier for me to hide away from society and let PCOS take its toll on me.

Then this happened.

A cute baby with a perpetual Donald Trump comb-over.

And I decided PCOS will not be my death sentence. It will be my call to arms.

The year I was diagnosed, Ethan and I logged 1000 miles on my bike.

This year, I'm going to double that.

Just see if I don't.

***

If you think you may be suffering from PCOS, check out this site for more information. And talk to your doctor.

THERE ARE TREATMENTS AVAILABLE!
(Wow, I sound like a Valtrex commercial.)

But do it anyway.

You can thank me later.

It Could Happen

2008-01-31T11:33:00.001-08:00

One of the many things I do with the sweet, sweet freedom Ethan's school days afford me is the grocery shopping. Although he loves "helping" me push the cart ~~into bread racks~~, I find these solo trips much more expedient. And, well, less destructive.

As I perused the ripe hothouse tomatoes on one recent excursion, the new produce manager nodded her hello. "Hey, don't you usually have a little one with you?" she asked.

"Yes, I do," I replied with a smile, impressed that she would remember him after only seeing us together a couple of times in the handful of weeks she'd worked at the store, and welling with maternal pride that my boy had made such an impression on her.

"Cute little brown-haired boy?"

"Yep, that's him."

"That's right," she laughed. "He's the one who talks to the pineapples."

My smile faltered a bit.

"Yep, that's him."

I finished my shopping in a hurry and sulked home, convinced that I should break Ethan of his pineapple conversing tendencies before the media picked up on this particular idiosyncrasy.

Future Presidents do not talk to pineapples.

But neither do they lick restaurant windows or quote SpongeBob in the middle of Christmas programs.

I was still mired in quandary when I went to pick him up from school and helped him into his coat and hat.

(Future Presidents don't wear stupid reinypus hats either.)

If the option to give up on the dream of raising a future Commander-in-Chief were open to me, I'd totally take it. I can think of nothing more taxing than molding a prospective leader of the free world.

Unfortunately, Ethan was born with Presidential hair. My hands are tied.

But short of breaking his luminous spirit, I can't see how I can succeed. The quirkiness is as ingrained in him as the good hair gene. He's destined to be different.

Quixotically different.

As a parent, I can't help but love this about him, as I do everything else. He's my happy little clown.

Future Presidents are not happy little clowns.

So, the way I see it, my options are limited.

Blame his vaccinations.

Or hope the world is ready for tropical fruit on the ticket.

Pimpin'

2008-01-30T09:50:00.000-08:00

Last year I was jonesin' for blog peeps.

And I found 'em. Boy howdy, did I ever!

I went from having one visitor a day--hi, Dapoppins!--to over 200.

A lot of you I met through cre8buzz. 'Cause, hey, The Buzz is a great place to meet people and increase blog traffic.

(Have invites, will share!)

And some, like my lovely pals, Momma, Dawn, and Amy Turn Sharp, I met through the accursed NaBloPoMo.

(It is a fool's errand! Turn back while you still caaaaan!!!)

I get a few a day who find me through keywords on Google or some other search engine. Odd that the ones looking for "diapered sorority girls" or "dirty woman baking" don't stick around long.

At least the one who found me by searching "old gray and not nice" lasted 3 minutes, though I'm not quite ready to examine my feelings about that just yet.

But in the last couple of weeks, I have been getting a high volume of hits from men in foreign countries through Blog Catalog.

I have no idea why.

BC isn't one of those sites I visit often. I only signed up there so I could snag the widget.

(I'm a whore for widgets. Can't be helped.)

Has this been happening to anyone else? I'm really curious.

Anyhow, speaking of my buddy Amy, a fellow writer who actually writes, she has tagged me with a thought-provoking meme. It doesn't really have a name, but I'm calling it "The Plus One Meme". I think you'll see why...

Name something you do everyday:

Poop.

Name two things you wish you could learn:

Candor.
The winning Powerball numbers a day in advance.

Name three things that remind you of your childhood:

Pabst Blue Ribbon.
Styrofoam.
Pod chairs.

Name four things you love to eat but rarely do:

Duck.
Sturgeon.
Nachos.
Pineapple cheesecake.

Name five things that make you feel good:

Unexpected discounts.
Good hair days.
Jeans that fit right.
Good lovin'.
Comments. ;o)

(Did I mention I'm also a whore for comments?)

Not THOSE Again

2008-01-29T08:12:00.000-08:00

Because I abhor all things serious (thanks for your great responses, BTW), and because it has literally been DAYS without a single reference to my boobs, and because they begin to wither and die if I don't mention them, and because I like my boobs unwithered and not dead, I thought I'd take a moment to update you on the latest news regarding the Wonder Twins.

Didn't know they were imbued with superpowers, did you?

Well, neither did I until I read this. It seems my secret identity as the Cavernous Cleavage Girl has been discovered.

Curses! And here I thought I hid it so well.

Mild mannered stay-at-home mom by day, sex kittenish superhero by night. How could anyone possibly recognize me? The lighting is so different. Plus, I put my hair up during the day, wear comfortable shoes, sprout carefully cultured 12-hour zits, and drive a mid-sized (armored) SUV.

To the untrained eye, I'm your average soccer mom.

But fear not! I vow to continue to "stun and mystify savage male bloggers everywhere."

Just as long as my stylish collection of appliqué vests doesn't impede the view, I'm golden.

What? You didn't think I would stop talking about the girls now that my secret is out, did you?

No way! If I do that, the terrorists win. And Mr. Engineer, too.

(Who, by the way, has admitted defeat and will no longer plague me, spouting inanities about too much boob talk or other such nonsense. Guess he didn't know who he was messing with, huh?)

In other news, my husband has reversed what I have long thought was his position on the heated Butt, Boob, or Leg Man debate.

A decade ago, he told me he was a Leg Man. And as you can imagine, I died a little inside that day.

I have a butt, and I have boobs, but my legs? Not really my best feature.

However, the subject came up again recently, and he is now denying that he ever took a stance.

Typical.

But even though he says my boobs are great, he's still not declaring himself a Boob Man.

Oh, when will my sweater puppies ever get the love and respect they deserve?

Cutting Ties

2008-01-28T09:09:00.000-08:00

I tried to think of something funny to tell you about today, but my heart just isn't in it. It's not that I'm brooding necessarily, but I'm struggling with a sort of moral dilemma, and I honestly don't know what to do.

Think you can help me?

Awhile back, I wrote a post directed at my friend. We'll call her Alison.

Alison and I went to high school together. We ran around in the same circles, so even though we weren't the best of friends, we were fairly good ones. But after graduation, we all went our separate ways, and I lost touch with her.

A couple years ago, we met up again. We caught up on old times, started hanging out again. It was fun, but it quickly became clear to me that she and I were in vastly different places in our lives. I was married and had a child, she was single and still on the prowl.

But more than that, I felt that she still had a lot of growing up to do. This didn't really become clear to me until I set her up with a very good single guy friend of mine, Jon. In theory, they would have been great together. She was a nurse, but she'd always wanted to get married, have some children of her own, and stay home with them. He made the kind of money that she could do that, and he would like nothing more than to have a wife and kids to care for. As a matter of fact, he considers his ex-girlfriend's children, who he'd helped raise for over ten years, as his own, and he's still very involved in their lives.

By the time Alison and Jon had gone on their first date, I truly believe she already considered herself in love with him. By the second date, she was picking out china patterns. She called and texted him incessantly, begged him to let her come over, and complained when he wasn't thrilled that she'd shown up on his doorstep despite the fact that he'd told her he just wanted some time to himself. But the death knell came when she tried to impede on his time with the kids.

She couldn't understand that. She said, "They're not even his kids."

Yes, I explained, by they are important to him. More important than any new relationship. He's their dad, even if he's not their father.

In true Alison fashion, she shrugged it off.

I guess I never really noticed how selfish she was until then. But the more time I spent with her, the more I realized it. When she would call to talk, it was never about me, or about my family, it was about her. Her life, her work, her friends. When I got Ethan into school and finally had some time to myself a couple days a week, she claimed one of those days as "Alison days". And, of course, she would choose how to spend them.

I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt. I realized she was lonely, and in need of a friend, and I wanted to be there for her. But the more time I spent with her, the more I felt like I was being used.

Eventually she made another single friend at work, and the two of them would go out partying and drinking a lot. They were like two peas in a pod, but Alison's attitude just seemed to get worse and worse, and her decision-making skills just went right out the window. If something felt good, she'd do it, and damn the consequences. It wasn't long before she was alienating lifelong friends.

But she was still lonely, still looking for someone to fill the growing void in her life. When she got back in touch with her high school sweetheart, I urged her not to rush into anything. He was going through a divorce, and there were children involved.

They were engaged two months later.

Since then, she's moved up to where he lives, and is supporting him and his children since he lost his job.

And they're planning to try to take the children away from their mother because of her "mental problems"--i.e. she's bipolar, and Alison claims she's suicidal.

I know this is information that is being fed to her by her fiance, but I'm disgusted with the whole thing. This situation, like every other she has behaved herself into, is going to implode, and she is going to end up hurting those kids.

She doesn't get that it's not just about her anymore. And I'm sick of dealing with the misery she creates.

How do I tell her it's over?

(P.S. I'll try to be funny tomorrow. ;o) )

Retraction? I Don't Think So.

2008-01-25T12:52:00.000-08:00

Oy.

It appears Mr. Engineer is feeling a tad put out by my recent post wherein I stated:

"Lovey tells me that her husband, Mr. Engineer, thinks I talk about my boobs here too much."

His response?

"I have NEVER complained about a woman talking (or showing) her boobs too much...never. I enjoy hearing/seeing/feeling a lushious rack as much as any man.
What I told my wife is: "Avery sure talks about her boobs a lot.""

Then, like the big, strong brute he is, he threatened to egg my house "like a man" if I didn't post a retraction.

Nice.

But I just have one thing to say to that...

SUCK IT, TREBEK!!
Suck it long and suck it hard, 'cause I ain't goin' down like that.

You know, for a smart man, you're pretty clueless. Do I need to remind you that the road between our houses goes both ways? Or that I've already proven you don't need to be a man to throw an egg at a house? You just need an egg and a house at which to throw it.

Or does doing it "like a man" mean you'll leave me disappointed and forced to finish the job myself?

As any woman can tell you, your words can be construed any number of ways.

Take, for instance, the statement: "Avery sure talks about her boobs a lot."

For you, that may just be a statement of fact. I do, in fact, talk about my boobs a lot. But what we hear depends largely on your expression and inflection, and the context in which you are speaking.

Since I was not present, I do not know your true intention. Thus, I have to rely on the second-hand information I received from your wife. She WAS there, and DID hear you, and perceived, dare I say, a hint of admonishment in your tone?

And considering the reason why you read my blog in the first place--i.e. to keep tabs on us--I did not find it hard to believe that you would not approve.

(Your Puritan morals must be chafing with all this talk of Satan's sinbags!)

So, I will not retract my statement, but I would like to extend an offer to you to GET YOUR OWN BLOG.

Then maybe you can talk about how much I talk about my boobs.

Be sure to link to me!

Happy Birthday, Little Man

2008-01-24T08:27:00.000-08:00

Five years ago...

9 and a half months of pregnancy, 98 hours of induced labor, and 2 months of postpartum depression...

Today...

I would do it all over again.

Love you, Bubs! Happy Birthday!!

CD-Mi-Mi

2008-01-23T10:53:00.000-08:00

Gosh, people. Is it Gang Up on Avery Day?

How come I can't get no love?

First Lovey tells me that her husband, Mr. Engineer, thinks I talk about my boobs here too much. Then my husband told me my old profile pic made me look like a dowdy librarian. Now Emma says my new one makes me look like the Joker from Batman.

I'm developing a complex.

Is it really that bad?

I tell you, I am this close to jumping off the nearest high-rise today, people.

(Imagine I'm indicating a very small distance between my thumb and index finger.)

I'd best quit while I'm ahead and post my album cover.

Didn't know I was a musician, did ya?

Well, I am nothing if not a ROCK STAR!!

I saw this meme over at Meleah's place and it looked like a whole lotta fun. And it was! It was so fun, I did it twice, 'cause I'm an overachiever like that.

Here's what you do:

You are about to have your own band’s CD cover. And NO THOUGHT is involved. I followed these instructions to the letter and below is the end result. Try it yourself? Here are the directions:

1.The first article title on this page is the name of your band.

2. The last four words of the very last quote on this page is the title of your album.

3. The third picture, no matter what it is, on this page, will be your album cover.

4. Use your graphics program of choice to throw them together, and post the results.

So, here's what I came up with...

This one is from my folk/grunge/polka phase. I was lead accordion. Sadly, the singer, Yon Ferguson, developed a harrowing addiction to the Butterball hotline shortly after this album was recorded. Despite the introduction of Skippy, the miniature yodeling bunny, albums sales lagged, and 1972 in Australia broke up after only two weeks together.

On the bright side, Yon never kicked his habit. And he still makes the best turkey.

Now, this one...

This was my ill-advised tribute to the ladies of Lilith Fair, back when I was playing the dowdy librarian circuit in the mid to late-90's. Lilith Fair, you'll recall, was a music festival attended mostly by lesbian hippies and the lesbian hippies who loved them. While I did not attend for obvious reasons--mainly my aversion to all things hippie--I was all about the message of female empowerment. So, I donned a new persona--Chester McGlockton.

Why that name?

Well, although I have great jugs, I felt Chesty was probably a little too sexist and pornish, and I needed a strong name to convey not only my innate woman powers, but also to play up the awesomeness of my rack. (You know, for the lesbians.) Hence the name Chester.

And McGlockton? Well, it sorta sounds like McLachlan if you say it fast. And I wasn't above using the Lilith Fair's founder to pimp my CD.

Money talks, homes.

In the end, it only sold 11 copies. But I'm still hoping "...And Illiterate Sport Fishermen" will make a comeback.

Hey, if you buy a copy, I'll show you my boobs!

Bit Nippy, Eh?

2008-01-21T20:27:00.000-08:00

I recently spoke with the woman who did Ethan's observation back in November. She was quite insightful and pleasant to talk to, and I felt an immediate rapport with her. We chatted at length, not only about my son, but about her own kids and their experiences dealing with sensory integration issues. She had some great advice on how to help Ethan deal with environments of excessive stimulation (like a noisy classroom), and also things we can do at home.

Things like buying foam bats and beating the crap out of each other.

Or squishing him with a pillow.

Or making him carry heavy things around the house.

Yes. If you can believe it, these kids actually do respond well to these activities. Kids with auditory processing disorder, like she believes Ethan has, tend to need lots of physical stimulation to counteract the painful stimuli. They need joint pressure (hence the squishing and the lugging), and roughhousing to release the pent-up energy (aka the beatings).

And I am nothing if not a caring mother. If I have to beat him senseless, well, that's what I'll do.

Out of love, of course.

(An excuse to beat my child? How jealous are you right now?)

In the classroom, for a short-term solution until we can get him into occupational therapy, she suggested we get him a pair of earmuffs that he can put on when the room gets too loud for him. So, off we went to the sporting goods store this weekend to buy him a pair.

We found some nice gray camouflage ones. And while we were there, Ethan fell in love with a stupid looking reindeer hat.

Seriously, it's like a reindeer/platypus hybrid. If you saw an animal like this in nature, you would shoot the poor thing and put it out of its misery. But since we were expecting some arctic winds through our area this week, my husband went ahead and bought it for him.

He hasn't taken it off since.

When I took him to school yesterday, being that it was a holiday, his regular teachers were not there. He was in a new classroom with new teachers, and he was feeling a little uncomfortable. He asked me if he could leave his ~~retarded reinypus~~ hat and earmuffs on.

I said he could. I understood that he was using them as a sort of security blanket, as he does at times with his coat. It's not unusual for him to leave his coat on in new environments. If it helps him cope with the stress of the situation, it's fine by me. And if a ridiculous hat and earmuffs make him feel more comfortable, only the world's biggest bitch would have a problem with that.

(Can you sense the foreshadowing?)

Okay, the new-to-him teacher was not a bitch, but she is used to working with the older kids. She's a third through sixth grade teacher who is obviously unfamiliar with Ethan's peculiarities.

As I was saying my goodbyes, I kept feeling the weight of her stare.

So, the kid wants to wear his fugly hat. Big deal!

She was still staring when I spoke with the other teacher about his eccentric apparel.

When Ethan walked me to the door.

When I gave him a kiss.

When I waved good-bye.

Then I heard it. A pithy little remark under her breath.

"Must be cold in here."

I paused for a fraction of a second, considered turning around and giving her my best "I'm watching you" DeNiro gesture. In the end, I didn't. I'd already explained Ethan's little get-up to the other teacher. She understood. And since this was just a one-day arrangement, there was no use getting into a "thing" with her.

I left.

Walked out to my car, and happened to catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window.

I mentioned it was cold, right?

Yeah. Let's just say it was noticeably so.

(Basic physiology, wench. Get over yourself.)

Free at Last?

2008-01-21T10:40:00.000-08:00

My mother sent me an e-mail a few days ago. You might be familiar with it. It claims Barack Obama is a RADICAL MUSLIM and may be part of a terrorist plot to infiltrate the US government and bring it down from within.

Here's how she prefaced it:

"I don't know how much of this is true. I haven't personally researched the allegations. And I know that everyone seems to love Opra [sic]. However, I have heard some of the allegations previously. I remember when it was in the news that Barack Obama refused to put his hand on the bible--but instead, the Koran. I'm only sending this as "food for thought" to the rest of you."

Wow. Thanks for the heads-up, Mom.

I might have actually done something stupid, like research the facts myself.

(How many times do I have to tell her Snopes is our friend?)

This is par for the course for her, sadly. The word "Muslim" is synonymous with "terrorist" in her mind. And the fact that he's black just seals the deal.

Would she believe the same lies about Rudy Giuliani? Or Mitt Romney? Or Mike Huckabee?

No, she wouldn't.

So, why Obama?

It should come as no surprise to me. I once dated a black man. For some reason that I still don't quite understand, I took him to meet my mom. She was gracious and welcoming, and smiled just a tad too brightly. And when my dad called her from work to let her know he was on his way home, she informed him that I was there with a friend.

"He's black," she said in a stage whisper into the receiver, almost the same way she might have said, "He eats boogers."

I was mortified.

We only went on a couple dates after that, then he hooked up with someone else. It was no big deal; we weren't intimate or in a serious relationship, and we'd never discussed dating exclusively. Still, my mother ran with it.

Mom: "That's what they do, you know?"

Me: "What who do? Men?"

Mom: "Black men."

Me: "Oh, good Lord!"

As if she'd ever met a black man who didn't scare the bejesus out of her.

When I was in a three year relationship with a white man where we lived together and talked about marriage, and he ended up cheating on me (with a minister's wife, no less), all she said then was, "Well, you did gain a little weight."

Mmm hmm.

How does that go...about not judging a man by the color of his skin, but by the content of his character?

I'm afraid we have a ways to go to realize that dream.

Say What?!!

2008-01-20T08:17:00.000-08:00

Recent conversation with my four-(going on eighteen)-year-old:

Me: Hey, buddy! How was school?

Him: Good.

Me: What did you do?

Him: Played with my girlfriend, Princess Darrien. I love her so much.

Me: You do? That's nice. What do you love about her?

Him: Well, she has a jacket, and I have a jacket...

Me: Sounds like you two have a lot in common.

Him: Yeah. We're going out on a date.

Me: Uh, what?

Him: We're going on a date to McDonald's.

Me (laughing): You are?

Him: I'm going to get Darrien chicken nuggets and fries and a drink. And I'm going to get chicken nuggets and fries and a drink.

Me: Yeah?

Him: I'm going to order a napkin for Darrien. I'm going to pay.

Me: Well, that is very nice of you.

Him: Yeah. And then I'll take her home.

Me: And walk her to the door like a gentleman?

Him: Yeah, and then I'll take her to Mommy and Daddy's room and kiss her on the bed.

Me (no longer laughing): WHAT?!!

Him: And I'll give a beautiful white glass heart bracelet to the lovely Darrien.

Me: Sweetie, you can give Darrien a bracelet, but kissing is for mommies and daddies.

Him: Yeah, I can kiss her. At night I can kiss her on the bed.

Me (making mental note to lock bedroom door from now on): No, Ethan. You can hug your friends, but we don't kiss our friends.

Him (to himself): Yeah, I will lay down and kiss her on the nose. And she can kiss my--

Me: You're grounded. Forever.

100 Things About Me

2008-01-19T08:02:00.000-08:00

1) My pen name is Avery Gray.

2) Besides this blog, you've probably never read anything by me.

3) I was born in Oregon.

4) I turned 30 last year.

5) I'm 3/4 German, 1/8 Russian, and 1/8 Scottish.

6) I'm told I look Greek.

7) I'm 5'8".

8) I have brown hair.

9) I have blue eyes.

10) I am the youngest of six children.

11) I have 16 nieces and nephews.

12) I'm addicted to Diet Coke Plus.

13) I hate coffee.

14) I've never tried alcohol.

15) I have a son who will be five at the end of this month.

16) I've been married six and a half years.

17) I thought my husband was an ass the first time I met him.

18) I was right.

19) I love him anyway.

20) My first car was an '89 Dodge Colt hatchback.

21) My wedding ring cost exactly fifteen times what I paid for the car.

22) My husband is my best friend.

23) I married well.

24) I'm a halfway decent cook.

25) I'm a horrible housekeeper.

26) I have a nearly photographic memory when it comes to numbers.

27) I only type 41 WPM.

28) I sometimes cheat and look at the keyboard.

29) I can't stand the smell of patchouli.

30) I should own stock in Bath and Body Works.

31) I love bubble baths.

32) I get regular pedicures.

33) My favorite toenail polish color is OPI's "Mauving to Manitoba".

34) I've never had a professional massage.

35) I drink a gallon of water every day.

36) I like the taste of Pepto Bismol.

37) I miss the smell of leaded gas.

38) I think bunnies are soft.

39) I'm a terrible public speaker.

40) I'm naturally quiet.

41) I can get loud.

42) I love to sing.

43) I'm a terrible singer.

44) I'm a terrible dancer.

45) I dance to amuse people.

46) I'm funny.

47) I'm sweet.

48) I make friends easily.

49) I hate to disappoint people.

50) I'm not afraid to stand up for myself.

51) I've never had a cavity.

52) I've never broken a bone.

53) I have 20/15 vision.

54) If I were a horse, I'd be worth a lot of money.

55) I've never wanted a horse.

56) I did want a unicorn.

57) I never got one.

58) I did have a chicken.

59) I hated that chicken.

60) I love to eat chicken.

61) My favorite food is a tomato with salt.

62) My favorite ice cream is mint chocolate chip.

63) I don't have a favorite color.

64) I do have a favorite palette: fall in wine country.

65) My home decor is inspired by Old World/Tuscan vineyards.

66) I've never been to Tuscany.

67) I have been to a vineyard.

68) I drank grape juice.

69) I know how to use chopsticks.

70) I know how to crochet.

71) I'm quite proficient at counted cross stitch.

72) My sewing machine is a Husqvarna.

73) I can drive a stick shift, but not very well.

74) I barely passed my driving test at 16.

75) I was in gymnastics for a couple of years.

76) I can't balance to save my life.

77) I can touch my toes.

78) I can't sleep unless I read first.

79) I average 15 books a month.

80) I'm a very hard reader to impress.

81) I scored a 1430 on my SATs.

82) I'm intimidated by smart people.

83) I'm often at a loss for words.

84) I'm a visual learner.

85) I'm more creative than analytical.

86) I'm right-handed.

87) I'm fascinated by medical oddities.

88) I'm not squeamish.

89) I love "Man vs. Wild".

90) I think Bear Grylls is the sexiest man alive.

91) I love camping.

92) I have never built my own shelter.

93) I love funny movies.

94) I'm a sucker for romance.

95) I like long walks on the beach.

96) I enjoy searching tide pools more.

97) I'm fascinated by history.

98) I know how to play chess.

99) My worst game is Risk.

100) I'm not cut out for world domination.

You Asked For It

2008-01-18T09:24:00.000-08:00

For any of you who may be squeamish about the chopping off of body parts, it's probably best to skip today's post. But don't worry. Tomorrow's post will be gore-free (and Gore-free, for anyone squeamish about the guy who invented the internets and global warming.)

Matter of fact, it will be the much anticipated (by two of you) 100 Things About Me meme.

Mi mi mi...

For everyone else, strap in. Have I got a story for you...

I'm not going to show you a picture of my brother, Joe, because I can't. He works as a correctional officer, and it's probably best that the state where he works continue to believe he's sane.

He's not.

Okay, technically he is, but do you think someone who cuts off his own finger on purpose has a firm grasp of reality?

Yeah, me neither.

(And since he cut off his finger, he doesn't really have a firm grasp on anything!)

Ba-dum-bum

No? Okay then. Where was I?

Ah, yes. My "special" brother.

To start off, I feel a little back story may be in order.

My brother has always been a tough-as-nails kinda guy. When he was twelve, he broke his ankle falling off his friend's roof, and he walked the two miles home on it. You might think he has no perception of pain, but he'll tell you it hurt like a mother. He just didn't want to get in trouble for playing on his friend's roof.

If you knew our parents, you'd understand.

Rules were strictly enforced. If you disregarded them, there was hell to pay. Which meant you either played by the rules (like I did), or you learned early on not to get caught (like somebody else did).

I can't be sure that that was the reason Joe learned to hide his pain so well or not, but I do know I never saw him so much as shed a tear. Not even when he got clocked in the face with a baseball and it broke his eye socket.

The guy is invincible.

When he got out of the army, he developed an affinity for such manly pursuits as hunting and fishing and all that testosterony stuff. He'd camp out for weeks at a time by himself. It was on one of those trips that he badly injured his finger skinning a deer. He packed up his camp and headed into the nearest town to have it stitched up, but they ended up having to operate on it.

He was getting feeling in it again and getting his movement back a few weeks later, but he told his doctor that despite the pain meds they prescribed, it wouldn't stop hurting. The doctor told him it was all in his head, that it wasn't unusual to feel pain after an operation, and to give it time.

My brother?

Yeah, right.

He figured he would take matters into his own hands. Literally.

Now, my brother may not be the brightest bulb in the bunch, but he did plan ahead. Though I will not incriminate his accomplice, I will say that we have a close family member who is in the medical field and was able to accommodate his request for a local anesthetic. I do not blame this individual in any way. Whether she got it for him or not, she knew it would not dissuade him from his course of action.

Come hell or high water, that finger was coming off.

My brother said he had a "half rack of beer" before the deed. I don't drink, so I'm not up on all the lingo the kids are using these days, so I don't know what a rack is.

I mean, I know what a rack is...

I just don't know how it pertains to quantities of beer.

Three? Six? Thirty-six?

Still not enough for me, thank you. When contemplating the removal of my digits, I like to believe I would be lying in a comfortable hospital bed, completely oblivious to the world and deep in dreamland.

Failing that, and forced to do the deed myself, I would probably elect not to be in an altered state of mind. If I have to feel anything, at least let it be quick.

(That's what she said.)

Sorry. Couldn't help myself.

Now, if I had to choose something with which to cut off my finger, it would be my compound miter saw. It's bolted down, so no shifting would occur, it's quick, and just look at these edges!

Impressive, no?

My brother went a different route.

He decided to forgo the one shot deal and turn his little escapade into his own brand of torture. First, by smashing his bone with a sledgehammer...

then by cutting the whole thing off with a pair of these...

Tin snips.

Of all the stupid...

Nope. Not gonna go there. It's his finger. He can cut it off how he wants.

Wanna know the worst part, though?

He doesn't know where it went.

Now aren't you glad you asked?

Quick Question

2008-01-17T14:42:00.000-08:00

For those of you using Internet Explorer, do you see my blog like this:

or like this:

If it's like the first, do you know how to make the background show up?

I ask because I'm helping Lovey update her template (which I will let her unveil when it's done), but it doesn't show up on her browser. I checked IE on my computer, and it's not showing up here either. Shows up fine in Firefox.

Does anyone know what I'm doing wrong?

EDITED to say: Thank you, Doodaddy!!! You are the wind beneath my wings!

Problem solved, thanks to your "Doo" diligence.

*collective groan*

Hey, shut your yaps and visit his blog. Not only is he technically gifted, he's uber-funny, too! I think I might have found a replacement for this guy.

(Don't look at me, pal. You both live in San Fransisco. How do I know he's not really you anyhow?)

And while you're at it, give Lovey's new template a gander. As she says, it's totally her.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

100th Post!

2008-01-16T08:52:00.000-08:00

Yes, today is a momentous occasion. For absolutely no one but me.

It's my 100th post!

*one person slow claps*

Thank you. Thank you. You're too kind.

I'm not going to ask if you can believe it. It would have been more shocking if I hadn't made it this far, knowing how much I love the gab. It's funny to think that it almost never happened.

I never planned on starting a blog. I never thought to myself, "Self, you are too funny, insightful, and/or informational not to express yourself in an easily accessible electronic format on a regular basis."

No, it was more like, "Hey, Dapoppins told me to start a blog. I better do it. She has ninja-like reflexes and bouts of uncontrollable rage. Plus, they only found an arm bone from the body of the last person who crossed her."

And thus The Blog was born on September 29, 2007.

Do you remember where you were?

George W. Bush was the President then, and we were at war. So long ago...

Here's a look back at some of the more memorable times:

September

A grand total of one post. It was a music video--Kate Nash, "Foundations". Mostly I just needed something up while I worked on my template. No offense to you, Kate. I really do like your song. And yours was, by default, this month's most popular post.

October

Ah, yes. This was when it really began...to go downhill. Animal abuse, racist rants, word annihilation. Even a list of my most controversial beliefs. It's like I was begging for an ass kicking that never came.

But what disappointed me most about the month of October was that NO ONE asked me to share the story about the time my brother purposefully cut off his own finger.

On purpose.

Meant to do it.

Doesn't anyone want to know the story?

Anyone?

Last chance, people. If you don't ask me this time, it's going in the vault forever and will never see the light of day. Last warning.

My most popular post this month: "For Ethan". One of the few serious posts I've done on this blog, and the one that has the most meaning to me of all of them.

November

Ugh. Couldn't we all just forget the month of NaBloPoMo? Yes, I posted every day. But what did I say, really? I haven't the foggiest. It all sort of ran together.

I vaguely remember something about "Brits", though why they're in quotes I can't recall. This was also the month "Ham Diapers" and window licking came in vogue.

Most popular blog post this month: it was a tie between the one where I unleashed my snark on my husband--"I'm Thankful for...Revenge"--and one where I blasted a "relationship expert"--"I'm Thankful for...Perceptiveness." Apparently I'm bitter. Or something.

December

The month started out with a consumer high as I landed a much-coveted Wii, but was quickly overshadowed by the evils that men do...with eggs. Or egg, singular. (Who'd have thought that would become one of my most popular page visits?) I got baked with some blogger buddies, co-conspired on the tasing of my husband, and likely made some mortal enemies.

Heck, all in a month's work.

Most popular post this month: "It's Contest Time, Sweet Cheeks!" I'm still getting hits on it. The contest is over, people. Let's move on.

January

January marked the end of MemeHiatus 2007!!! And wouldn't you know Holly broke me back in the hard way with the longest meme known to man. Lovey and I celebrated her 30th birthday in style, and a crazy woman sent a tornado to rid me of my beautiful cobblestone edgers.

The battle between the Choconots and the Frenemies appears to be at a standstill as negotiations between both camps are being hashed out. It seems many Choconots may be conducive to the idea of forsaking chocolate for the month of February if a number of Frenemies are willing to work out at least 3 times a week. I've already signed on for that. Any other Frenemies out there willing to give it a go?

Most popular post this month: "I Heart Mike..." Thanks to the droves of looky-loos coming from his blog. Mike is one popular guy.

So, there you have it. My greatest blog hits.

Hope you've enjoyed the ride as much as I have.

Here's to another 100!

A Little Something for the Fellas

2008-01-14T13:59:00.000-08:00

I haven't forgotten about you, guys.

I'm sure you could care less about chocolate or whether or not the ladies of blogland ever eat it again. So, before I chase you away in droves, I figure I'd show my appreciation for you sticking around as long as you have.

Consider it a bribe. I might need to talk about hormones at some point, and I don't want to have to do this every time I get a little girly on you.

So, first things first, for M@, I have a major award!

I'm sure I'm small potatoes on M@'s radar. He's amazingly articulate and intimidatingly intelligent, and he's not afraid to speak his mind on any topic. I may attempt to match wits with him on occasion, but I never delude myself into thinking I have a shot in hell at succeeding. But even though he may insult me from time to time, he does it in a way that makes me think I might not be insulted after all.

Now, that is skill.

So, for him, I have an original award I've named the "Blog of Steel Award".

For the guy who don't take no guff off no one.

Hope you like it, M@. It's no "Yoga as Porn", but it's the best I could do.

Now, for Jef, I have a big ol' box of chocolates.

Ha! That'll teach you to sass my burgeoning resistance forces.

Next, I told Lazy Ig a while back that I would post pictures of our boat. We actually have two--a 15 foot Alaskan Smoker Craft for drift fishing, and an 18 foot Jetcraft for fishing in the Columbia River. The Jetcraft is my husband's baby, as I'm sure Ig can relate. He's quite the boater himself.

There's hubby and the boy after a day of Kokanee fishing onboard the "Happy Hooker". (No, that is not emblazoned on the back. Over my dead body will it ever be.)

Ethan helping Dad drive the boat.

And these are what we catch when the boy's not around. The big one on the left is a Chinook salmon. The one on the right is a Coho. And, yes, I landed them both.

Rock star!

Hope you like those, Ig! I can even tell you what kind of depth finder we use--it's a Lowrance! But don't ask me anything more technical than that. I'm sort of like the Julie McCoy on The Love Boat. I doubt she'd know anything about bilge pumps either.

Last but not least, Mike, this one's for you...

Hey, Choconuts, I've Got a Plan For You Right Here

2008-01-14T07:43:00.000-08:00

I think Holly's been spending too much time playing with dolls. Her minions are running rampant, leaving little rice cake crumbs all over my blog.

Hey, if you're not going to clean up after your cardboard-munching selves, I'm going to have to ask you to leave. It's bad enough I allow you the freedom to express yourselves without any recriminations (I'd feel a little hypocritical if I didn't), but calling us fat little Oompa Loompas? Well, that's just hitting below the belt.

But I have an idea.

Since giving up chocolate for the entire month of January is going so swimmingly, why not extend that into February? You know, the height of the chocolate giving season. That would really put us in our places!

What?

What's that?

Do I hear a little grumbling from your camp?

You don't like that idea?

Well, why ever not? If indeed chocolate is the enemy, to be avoided at all costs, I would think you'd embrace my plan. After all, rice cakes do taste so very much like creamy, delicious chocolate, you're not really missing much, are you?

And February is only 29 days.

After that, you could go back to eating all the chocolate you wanted.

Which would be none, right?

So, what do you say?

This is MY Blog, Sunshine!

2008-01-13T11:28:00.000-08:00

And this is for you, Choconuts!

Enjoy!

Frenemies Unite!

2008-01-11T18:39:00.000-08:00

We have a common nemesis, and her name is holly.

Sure, she seems sweet and innocent on the outside, but beneath the saccharine exterior lies the creamy nuggat of a corrupt and reprehensible foe. A scheming villain with a butterscotch chip on her shoulder. A mastermind of epic portion control.

A denier of all things good and right in this world.

Namely chocolate.

She and her band of ne'er-do-wells, pictured here...

are attacking our very way of life--not only by refusing to consume ANY chocolate in the month of January, but also by recruiting untold masses to their twisted agenda.

Are you going to sit silently by while the militant hippie radicals spew virulent anti-chocolate propaganda?

What's next?

Can the coffee?

Say no to Sauvignon?

Where will it end?

Already they have set in motion their insidious plot to weaken our defenses.

To them we say "You will not prevail!"

We will stand united against these fiendish malcontents, and we will FIGHT!

We will not succumb because our way is right and true, and our hearts are pure.

Now is the time to act! Show your support. Join the resistance! And together we will defeat the celery scourge!

Viva le Chocolat!!

Unnatural Disasters

2008-01-11T10:53:00.000-08:00

Kinda got off track yesterday with the tornado and all.

Rude!

I'm sure lots of you from the Midwest are rolling your eyes. The twister was an EF1, 90 to 110 mph winds. For you, that's probably kite flying weather.

Hey, give us a break. We don't see this sorta thing often.

Earthquakes? Yes.

Floods? You betcha.

But tornadoes? Not in the past 36 years. I've never even seen a funnel cloud until yesterday.

But the damage was comparatively minimal. Lots of trees fell into homes, lots of clean-up to be done, but no one was hurt, thank God.

So, for most of us it's back to the grind.

I was going to tell you that all of my cobblestones are present and accounted for after my mysterious encounter with the crazy lady, but I completely forgot in all the excitement.

(See? There they are!)

I now have a sneaking suspicion that she owns some sort of weather-control device, and sent the winds of vengeance down on my 'hood. Except she's old and has bad aim, so they actually didn't touch down on our house, but ended about a quarter of a mile away.

I shudder to think what she might have in store for us next.

A downpour of frogs?

That would just be gross.

Keepin' Tabs on the Grays

2008-01-10T15:07:00.000-08:00

Really quick...

About the tornado--it touched down about 5 miles from us, but lost a lot of strength before it passed over. We got the dark skies, the hail, and lightning and thunder, and we lost power for a little under two hours, but sustained no damage. Thanks to everyone who called and e-mailed. Hope you're all okay, and that your homes are still intact.

The wind and the rain are weaker now, but new systems are forming to the west of us. It is unlikely that they'll form another tornado. They're very rare in this area. But it will make clean-up more difficult for those whose homes were damaged.

Thankfully, as far as anyone knows, there were no casualties this time. Still, pretty scary stuff.

Okay...

Misssy, the dear, has tagged me with a simple little meme. Three questions:

What am I reading at the moment?
What am I listening to at the moment?
What am I watching at the moment?

Fair enough.

What I'm reading:

Started this one last night, so I haven't really gotten into the book yet. It's a little darker than my usual fare, but I told a friend I would read it, so I shall. It's paranormal and gothic, set in Louisiana in present day and also the late 1700's. The book chronicles the fall of Damien du Bourg, who sold his soul to a demon's daughter in exchange for immortality, then lived to regret his decision. So, the premise is nothing new, but what is it they say? There are no new stories, just new tellings. So, I'll try to keep an open mind.

What I'm listening to:

In constant rotation on my iPod--Aqualung, Blue October, Citizen Cope, Coldplay, Damien Rice, Death Cab for Cutie, Evanescence, Guster, Interpol, The Killers, Maroon 5, Midlake, Modest Mouse, Panic! At the Disco, The Raconteurs, Ringside, The Shins, Snow Patrol, and Travis.

Just downloaded yesterday--Timbaland, "Shock Value"

What I'd love to have on my iPod, but can't find on iTunes--

What I'm watching:

Nothing. Damn writer's strike!

What would I be watching if there were no writer's strike?

The Daily Show, The Colbert Report,The Office, 30 Rock...the usual stuff.

Okay, I'll confess. We're watching The Celebrity Apprentice. I'm rooting for Omarosa. She is just too evil to be real!

As for tagging... Heck, I don't know. If you want to do it, feel free.

Strange day...

Crazy Comes A-Callin'

2008-01-09T16:43:00.000-08:00

Strangest thing happened to me today.

I was home alone, working on some research for one of my stories, when the doorbell rang.

I wasn't expecting anyone, but this happens quite often. Our neighborhood gets lots of solicitors who think it's funny to ignore "No soliciting" signs. But my husband also has family in the area who think it's a hoot to drop in unexpectedly.

They're wrong. No one likes uninvited guests. If you do this, stop it now.

When I opened the door, I found a grizzled, middle-aged woman standing in my flower bed with her dog on a leash.

"Where'd you get this edging?" she asked as soon as she saw me.

No, "Hi, my name is..." or "I was walking by and I noticed your lovely edging..." Nope. Just a demand to know where I'd procured it.

Something about her raised my hackles more than a bit. Perhaps it was the hint of accusation in her tone. Or the way she allowed her dog to poop on my lawn while she pointed her gnarled old finger at my quaint little cobblestones. Whatever the case, I didn't take to the cut of her jib.

"Uh, Home Depot? Yeah, Home Depot."

Even before I felt the lilt of my voice rise, I knew I'd made my first tactical error. I'd answered in the form of a question. Then answered my answer.

What the hell was I thinking?!

What should have been, "Home Depot, bitch! Get off my bark chips," became a sad, meandering excuse for a non-answer wrapped in answer form.

Stupid, stupid, stupid...

"You don't know for sure?" she pounced.

"Yes, I do know for sure. I loaded and unloaded enough to remember."

Ha! Take that. This chickadee ain't going down that easy.

"I don't remember seeing them the last time I walked by here," she said.

I shrugged, really wishing she'd get to her point and falsely accuse me of short-edging her lawn already. Instead, she pointed at my house numbers and ominously intoned, "I'll remember."

And she left.

I'm still scratching my head.

There are 106 cobblestone edgers in my yard, each weighing 10 pounds. If she thinks she'd going to come "reclaim" them for herself, I welcome her to try. That should make for some awesome bloggin'.

Ah, Fiddlesticks!

2008-01-08T15:01:00.000-08:00

Having a Wii has brought out the worst in me.

I'm a swearing swearer.

Well, in a totally non-swearing way. I say "fudge" a lot. And I don't mean that I say the actual "f dash dash dash" word, and this is just my inoffensive means of proclaiming myself a potty mouth. I mean I literally yell, "Fudge!"

Yep. Bad ass all the way.

Being lame is nothing new to me. When all my friends in high school were cursing up a storm, reveling in their cooler than cool, devil-may-care teenage rebelliousness, my vocal chords would actually seize around the words I knew were forbidden. And they'd come out sorta like...

"Fuh..."

"Shith..."

"Dan..."

Yep, that's right. I couldn't even say the word "damn" without blowing it. Never mind the word "blowing". It sounded kinda like "blomm..."

Blame it on my parents and their moral fortitude (read STRICT parenting). If they heard you say so much as "crap", you were grounded for a week. And God forbid they heard you taking the Lord's name in vain.

You'd be meeting Him soon.

The habit of non-swearing is deeply ingrained in me. Though I've gotten past the worst of the debilitating bouts of stuttering that accompany most of the tamer expletives, me and the f-word still have a somewhat contentious relationship. We have our differences, but we're working on it.

Case in point: for those of you who don't know me well, I have a 21-year-old stepson, Shawn.

(Pause for exclamations of "No way! You look so young! How old is your husband anyhow?!")

Yes way. I'm thirty. My husband is a young forty-two. And, yes, I'm well aware that I'm closer in age to his son than to him. Good thing for my husband that I've known since kindergarten, when Mark, a fifth grader from down the street, planted a big ol' wet one on me that younger guys do absolutely nothing for me. It was older men from then on out.

Holla!

Anyhow, Shawn used to live with us when he was in high school, and he seemed to have none of the hang-ups about swearing that I did. He and his dad both have the mouths of sailors. When one day Ron was talking to him from another room, Shawn hadn't heard what Ron said, and asked me to repeat it.

So, I did.

And Shawn's sailorfied mouth fell to the floor.

"You just said fuck!"

I looked at him, pondering the words I'd repeated, and sure enough, he was right. I'd said it. Me, who could write the word until my hand turned blue, but who could never, ever so much as whisper it aloud. I said it plain as day.

"You're right, I did say fuck. Ha! I just did it again!"

Both Ron and Shawn beamed with pride at my monumental accomplishment, but inside I was on the verge of panic.

What if Mom finds out?!

Is this wrong?

2008-01-07T21:21:00.000-08:00

Everything is wearing on me today.

I tell myself to relax. To calm down. That things aren't so bad. Never so bad that I can't handle it. And I go for a walk and breathe deeply and feel almost okay.

And then I open the door.

Good Lord! What happened in here?!

And then I remember. I have a goddamn five-year-old!

Precious, angelic, love of my life five-year-old, yes. But goddamn all the same.

Hours I spent yesterday cleaning this house. Hours I spent scrubbing, dusting, vacuuming, organizing. And today?

Oy.

Was yesterday a dream? I can't think of any other explanation. How else could one small child create the utter devastation I see before me?

So, I do what any sane person would do. I retreat to the mind-numbing haven of the interweb. I find sweet salvation in the inane.

I find this...

13

And I feel better.

Oh, internet, you've done it again!

That's No Lady...

2008-01-06T14:31:00.000-08:00

Last night, I took my buddy Lovey out for a night on the town to celebrate her 30th birthday.

Hilarity ensued.

I don't think we stopped giggling from the moment our Jimmy Choos hit her monogrammed doormat on the way out of her house. (And she calls me Martha Stewart!)

Since I am an abstainer of spirits, the task of transporting knackered birthday girls (and other assorted revellers) inevitably falls on me. I am the quintessential designated driver--not only am I never tempted to partake of the devil's brew, I'm naturally goofy (read "drunkish"), but without any of those pesky vehicular homicidal tendencies. Hence, I drove.

First we hit Powell's Bookstore to kill some time while waiting for our table at P.F. Chang's. And if you're not familiar with this particular Powell's, let me tell you, it's not somewhere you want to go just to kill time. It is "the largest used and new bookstore in the world...occupying an entire city block."

So you know it's trouble.

Bibliophiles such as ourselves cannot resist the allure of 68,000 square feet of row upon row of booky goodness. It is best to devote hours to a visit to Powell's. Alas, we only had 45 minutes, so we made the most of it.

I found a couple of books to add to my growing TBR shelf. (That's "To Be Read" for all you literary noobs.) But the best find of all was the selection of fridge magnets.

That will be going next to my "A Clean House is a Sign of a Wasted Life" magnet that my mother-in-law loves sooo much.

*cough, wench, cough*

Oh, excuse me. Phlegm.

Anywho, we ate our dinner of Chengdu Spiced Lamb and Phillip's Better Lemon Chicken. Delicious, as always. And, of course, when the fortune cookies came, adding the words "in bed" to the prophetic wisdom within led to rounds of unbridled laughter.

Apparently, Lovey has an excellent sense of honor in her bed, while the time appears right for me to make a new friend in mine.

Oh, those frisky Chinese!

One place where I was virtually guaranteed NOT to find a new bed warmer was the drag show where we capped off the night.

I'm sorry. "Showgirl emulator show."

This is Darcelle of Darcelle XV Showplace, a 77-year-old female impersonator who owns the place and performs in some of the numbers. (Including one where he shows his butt. It ain't pretty.)

Lovey and I were floored by how good some of these guys looked in dresses. (Dare I say a little jealous?) And doing all that dancing in platform stilettos? Hats off to you, girls!

By the end of the performance, Lovey had been felt up, and I got to stuff singles in Tina Turner's brassiere, and had my boobs serenaded.

I mean, come on. How could they not be?

After the "girls" were done with their show, a cowboy by the name of Johnny Steel took the stage in a get-up kinda like this and set to strippin'. Which wouldn't have been a terrible thing, except that he bore more than a slight resemblance to a former friend's loser fiance.

We decided to call it a night.

So, no stories of sordid debauchery. Sorry to disappoint. But we had a great time.

Happy 30th, Lovey! Next time, limo!

I Heart Mike...

2008-01-04T13:36:00.000-08:00

It was a chill October day late last year when I "met" a man by the name of Mike. He left me a sarcastic comment, and I've been in bloggy love ever since.

Yep, I'm easy that way.

Over the course of the weeks that I've known him, our relationship has devolved into a torrid, seedy Photoshopping affair.

Mike is one of those rare individuals who not only lets me do that to his image, he makes me laugh until my sides ache. He's humble and self-deprecating, and even though he blogs about his groin a lot, he does it in a way that doesn't make me feel dirty inside. He's a devoted family man--married to his wife, Hank, for 11 years, with whom he has an 8-year-old daughter, Daisy--and an at-home computer programmer in the San Fransisco area.

I thought it would be fun to interview him for mah blog, so he graciously let me rake him over the proverbial coals. Talking with him was like talking to an old friend. One in the grips of dementia, but still fun at parties. And here's how it went down...

Mike: So, should we do this interview thing?

Avery: Okay.

Mike: Let me put on my interviewee hat. Fancy!

Avery: Are you ready for your first question?

Mike: Was that it? No.

Avery: Does your interviewee hat have sequins?

Mike: It does not. It's gold lame' (where is the accent mark when I need it?)

Avery: Nice. I have some pants that would go with. Anywho, tell me about your childhood in ten words or less.

Mike: My childhood was excruciatingly normal and well-behaved. 7.5 words!

Avery: Yeah, that's less than 10. Great. But where did the funny come from?

Mike: Hmmm. (that's my thinking noise)

Avery: Yeah, I got that.

Mike: I have no idea. It's not like I was the class clown. I was the mildly amusing nerd guy.

Avery: Kinda like you are now?

Mike: Not much has changed.

Avery: Apparently. Did you see a lot of action? Girls must have thrown themselves all over you. (That's my sarcastic voice.)

Mike: Yeah, I got that. Let's see. I had a "girlfriend" in 6th grade whom I kissed on the cheek once. Then another girlfriend my junior year. I kissed her right on the kisser!

Avery: Whoa, whoa! Tone it down! This is a family blog!

Mike: Sorry. By "kisser", obviously I mean hand.

Avery: Sure. Next question--you run. Are you sure you're not gay?

Mike: I had a gay friend in high school who pretty much thought everyone was gay. However, when it came to me, he was convinced that I was straight. So, there you go.

Avery: Wow. A gay guy without gaydar? What are the odds?

Mike: Proof from the gay community that they reject my gayness. PROOF!

Avery: Mmm hmm. Moving on. What kind of music do you listen to?

Mike: Show tunes. Clay Aiken.

Avery: A little Celine Dion perhaps?

Mike: Oh, she is fabulous. Obviously Barbra.

Avery: Oh, obviously. If you had to choose a theme song, what would it be?

Mike: Hmmmm (again, thinking)

Avery: Again, got it.

Mike: I reject the notion that I need a theme song.

Avery: I don't. Pick one. YMCA?

Mike: Name something by Clay Aiken. Clay Aiken puts the CA in YMCA!

Avery: Well, I'm sure you celebrate his entire catalog, but I don't know any of his songs. Sorry. Okay. You're an at-home programmer who looks a bit like Keanu Reeves if you squint. Do you have a huge Neo complex?

Mike: Surprisingly I do not. I reject Keanu Reeves as a programmer or as a messiah symbol. Steve Jobs is the Messiah.

Avery: Amazing. So, who is cooler, then? Laurence Fishburne or Steve Jobs?

Mike: Nobody rocks the black mock turtleneck harder than Steve Jobs.

Avery: And that is the epitome of cool.

Mike: The very definition of it. It mocks turtlenecks. What's cooler than that?

Avery: Ummm... Nothing comes to mind.

Mike: Good. For a moment there I thought you were a pawn of the turtleneck lobby.

Avery: Scrabble?

Mike: Scrabble is pretty cool.

Avery: You like playing it in your free time?

Mike: I'd prefer to play it during my non-free time, but, yes.

Avery: And you're pretty darn decent at it.

Mike: I'm NATIONALLY ranked.

Avery: La di da!

Mike: Of course, anyone who shows up a tournament and sits in their chair long enough for the game to start will be NATIONALLY ranked. But still.

Avery: You also admire looking at old boobs. Ever consider a career in elder care?

Mike: I'd prefer to look at young boobs, but old boobs are better than no boobs.

Avery: I suppose that's true. If you're into that sort of thing. Which apparently you are.

Mike: I am. Yay boobs!

Avery: If you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?

Mike: Eucalyptus. They smell bad and poison the ground around them.

Avery: And feed koalas.

Mike: And I like koalas!

Avery: So there you go.

Mike: They were my favorite animal when I was about 12.

Avery: Mine, too! Did you know (not like you could know, but still...) that I was knocked off a tractor by a eucalyptus tree branch when I was about 10? I almost got run over!

Mike: That was me! Sorry. my bad.

Avery: What? You swinging the branch?

Mike: No, but weren't we pretending that I was some sort of tree? Scroll up, babe.

Avery: Ah. I get it now. Sorry. Hey, who's running this show?

Mike: I'll roshambo you for it.

Avery: Huh?

Mike: Roshambo!

Avery: Huh?

Mike: Rock scissors paper!

Avery: Oh. It's a nerd thing.

Mike: Ro = rock. Sham = scissors.

Avery: Yeah.

Mike: Bo = paper! Duh!

Avery: Why "sham" for scissors? And "bo" for paper?

Mike: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rock,_Paper,_Scissors Look, I don't make this stuff up.

Avery: Ugh. More links.

Mike: Links are bad? Have you seen the Internet?

Avery: Moving on. If there was one thing that you could change about yourself, what would it be?

Mike: Hmmm. I guess I'd like to be able to fly. Yeah, lack of flying.

Avery: Like a superhero? Or in a plane?

Mike: Like a superhero.

Avery: You wouldn't want x-ray vision?

Mike: You only gave me one thing to change.

Avery: You could look at all the boobs you wanted then.

Mike: If you give me 100, I'll add x-ray vision to the list.

Avery: Where does x-ray vision land on the scale?

Mike: Low. Down near my 100th change.

Avery: Wow. Really? Hmmm...

Mike: Sure. Check out http://www.mikes100TopThingsToChange.htm.

Avery: Ugh. More links. What was your worst subject in school?

Mike: PE

Avery: But you run now?

Mike: Not right now, but, yes.

Avery: You weren't active in school? Or you just didn't like getting drilled with the dodgeballs?

Mike: I was a scrawny uncoordinated little nerd. I sucked at PE. Running was the only physical activity I could perform where I could attain mediocrity. All it required was effort instead of skill.

Avery: So that's why it appeals to you! I was wondering.

Mike: That and the fact that it's measured in time. I'm a slave to time.

Avery: Okay, so let's say in fifteen years, your daughter brings home a guy just like you. What would your reaction be?

Mike: I'd encourage her to pick someone who had more ambition.

Avery: You're not ambitious?

Mike: Not traditionally, no. I have no desire to climb the corporate ladder, or boss around a group of minions. Totally unappealing.

Avery: That's because you like working with code. Nobody who writes code likes dealing with living people.

Mike: That's not entirely untrue.

Avery: See? I'm pretty perceptive.

Mike: If only this was about you.

Avery: Shut up. You've never even seen the movie "Tron". How can you call yourself a techie?

Mike: Hmm. I guess I'm just that good.

Avery: You don't know what you're missing. It's got cool special effects. Very futuristic. In a really crappy 80's way.

Mike: I've played the video game. Does that count?

Avery: No. Okay, last one. Convince people to read your blog...nnnnnooow!

Mike: What? There's no reason for people to read my blog. It's mindless drivel. They should send me money though.

Avery: For what? Writing mindless drivel?

Mike: Because I'm a lovable lunk.

Avery: That's true.

Mike: How about a dollar?

Avery: I like your blog. I guess you're worth a dollar.

Mike: Woo hoo!

Avery: Check's in the mail.

Damn it, Holly!

2008-01-03T21:18:00.000-08:00

Before I get to the many and varied reasons why I am damning Holly, I'd like to take a moment to congratulate myself.

Congratulations, self! You're somebody now! Well done.

Thank you, thank you. You're too kind.

So what's all the hoopla, you ask?

Why, my very first spammer, of course! Yes, I've hit the big time!

(Make sure you read the whole thing. It's very Brad Pitt in 12 Monkeys.)

Anywho...

Because my meme hiatus was sooo last year, 2008 is bound to be filled with all sorts of meme goodness. And what better way to kick it off than with a blasted birthday meme that Holly--I'm sorry, holly--so graciously ~~saddled~~ tagged me with.

Thanks. So. Much. Holly!

Here's the deal--I have this list of traits based on my birth month (June), and I have to say whether they apply to me or not, and I have to make it humorous, or you're not going to want to read the whole thing, and for that I. Damn. You. Holly!

Could you have given me a less funny list of traits? I don't think so.

Well, it's just a good thing that when life hands me lemons, I say something flippant, like, "Gee, thanks, Life. Just what I always wanted. Lemons. You shouldn't have. No, really. They're great. Thaaanks."

Oh, yeah, I can take whatever you dish out, Hol-ly.

Frick!

Here goes nothing...

JUNE

Thinks far with vision. Okay, can anyone tell me what this even means? That sounds like corporate mission statement mumbo-jumbo. If it means "are you a planner", then yes. I most certainly am. But I never synergize. I'm not paid enough for that.

Easily influenced by kindness. Embarrassingly so, unfortunately. I've been known to hand out sexual favors in return for the time. (Could that be why my hubby is always getting me watches for my birthdays? Hmm...)

Polite and soft-spoken. I can be. Why? Who you been talkin' to? I'll pulverize 'em!

Having ideas. Um, I'll have to come back to this one.

Sensitive. To what? Light? It makes me sneeze. No, seriously, it does. It's the strangest thing. Shine a bright light in my eyes, and I will sneeze. But then I will cry, because I'm sensitive. And why did you have to go and shine a bright light in my eyes anyway?

Active mind. No. It's quite sedentary.

Hesitating, tends to delay. I'll tell you later.

Choosy and always wants the best. Duh. Jackass!

Temperamental. Fux you!

Funny and humorous. Oh, goodness no! How would I ever get into Heaven?

Loves to joke. Um, yes?

Good debating skills. Oh, yeah. I'm a master debater.

Talkative. Oh my Gawd! Like I so totally am! Like this one time, at band camp...

Daydreamer. Come on! What writer isn't?

Friendly. Is THAT what they're calling it these days?

Knows how to make friends. Thanks to "Making Friends for Dummies"!

Able to show character. ABLE TO show character? Sure. I'm able to show character. Just like I'm able to speak in an Irish accent. Whether it's a good Irish accent has yet to be seen.

Easily hurt. Only by sticks and stones. Or bullets, knives, pepper spray, fire, acid, ice, shrapnel, and itchy, scratchy wool.

Prone to getting colds. How is that a personality trait?

Loves to dress up. I'm sorry. Does that say "Loathes to dress up"? Then, yes.

Easily bored. Nope. My pappy done learn me the book readin' skill. An' soun'in' out them big words done take me a fair amount o' time.

Fussy. Hussy? Perhaps in my younger days...

Seldom shows emotions. Isn't that what emoticons are for? ;o) :o( :oP

Takes time to recover when hurt. No. I do it after I'm hurt.

Brand conscious. Does Marc Jacobs poop in the woods? (For the purposes of this exercise, I'm going to assume he does.)

Executive. Does CEO of Gray, Inc. count?

Stubborn. Are you asking me or my husband?

I have to tag 12 people. I'm not going to ask you not to hate me. Do as you will.

1) Lovey
2) Kimberly
3) Jill
4) Natalie
5) Dooz
6) Dapoppins
7) Jef
8) Mike
9) Rachel
10) Claire
11) Rima
12) Fooferoo

Okay, now the boring part...

Here are the instructions:

1. Mention the person who tagged you and create a link back to them.
2. Copy-paste the traits for all the twelve months.
3. Pick your month of birth.
4. Highlight the traits that apply to you.
5. Tag 12 people and let them know by visiting their blogs and leaving a
comment for them.
6. Let the person who tagged you know when you've done it!

THE MONTHLY FLAVORS, WHICH ARE YOU?

JANUARY: Stubborn and hard-hearted. Ambitious and serious. Loves to teach
and be taught. Always looking at people's flaws and weaknesses. Likes to
criticize. Hardworking and productive. Smart, neat and organized. Sensitive
and has deep thoughts. Knows how to make others happy. Quiet unless excited
or tensed. Rather reserved. Highly attentive. Resistant to illnesses but
prone to colds. Romantic but has difficulties expressing love. Loves
children. Loyal. Has great social abilities yet easily jealous. Very
stubborn and money cautious.

FEBRUARY: Abstract thoughts. Loves reality and abstract. Intelligent and
clever. Changing personality. Attractive. Sexy. Temperamental. Quiet, shy
and humble. Honest and loyal. Determined to reach goals. Loves freedom.
Rebellious when restricted. Loves aggressiveness. Too sensitive and easily
hurt. Gets angry really easily but does not show it. Dislikes unnecessary
things. Loves making friends but rarely shows it. Daring and stubborn.
Ambitious. Realizes dreams and hopes. Sharp. Loves entertainment and
leisure. Romantic on the inside not outside. Superstitious and ludicrous.
Spendthrift. Tries to learn to show emotions.

MARCH: Attractive personality. Sexy. Affectionate. Shy and reserved.
Secretive. Naturally honest, generous and sympathetic. Loves peace and
serenity. Sensitive to others. Loves to serve others. Easily angered.
Trustworthy. Appreciative and returns kindness. Observant and assesses
others. Revengeful. Loves to dream and fantasize. Loves traveling. Loves
attention. Hasty decisions in choosing partners. Loves home decors.
Musically talented. Loves special things. Moody.

APRIL: Active and dynamic. Decisive and hasty but tends to regret.
Attractive and affectionate to oneself. Strong mentality. Loves attention.
Diplomatic. Consoling, friendly and solves people's problems. Brave and
fearless. Adventurous. Loving and caring. Suave and generous. Emotional.
Aggressive. Hasty. Good memory. Moving. Motivates oneself and others.
Sickness usually of the head and chest. Sexy in a way that only their lover
can see.

MAY: Stubborn and hard-hearted. Strong-willed and highly motivated. Sharp
thoughts. Easily angered. Attracts others and loves attention. Deep
feelings. Beautiful physically and mentally. Firm Standpoint. Needs no
motivation. Easily consoled. Systematic (left brain). Loves to dream. Strong
clairvoyance. Understanding. Sickness usually in the ear and neck. Good
imagination. Good physical. Weak breathing. Loves literature and the arts.
Loves traveling. Dislike being at home. Restless. Not having many children.
Hardworking. High spirited. Spendthrift.

JUNE: Thinks far with vision. Easily influenced by kindness. Polite and
soft-spoken. Having ideas. Sensitive. Active mind. Hesitating, tends to
delay. Choosy and always wants the best. Temperamental. Funny and humorous.
Loves to joke. Good debating skills. Talkative. Daydreamer. Friendly. Knows
how to make friends. Able to show character. Easily hurt. Prone to getting
colds. Loves to dress up. Easily bored. Fussy. Seldom shows emotions. Takes
time to recover when hurt. Brand conscious. Executive. Stubborn.

JULY: Fun to be with. Secretive. Difficult to fathom and to be understood.
Quiet unless excited or tensed. Takes pride in oneself. Has reputation.
Easily consoled. Honest. Concerned about people's feelings. Tactful.
Friendly. Approachable. Emotional temperamental and unpredictable. Moody and
easily hurt. Witty and sparkly. Not revengeful. Forgiving but never forgets.
Dislikes nonsensical and unnecessary things. Guides others physically and
mentally. Sensitive and forms impressions carefully. Caring and loving.
Treats others equally. Strong sense of sympathy. Wary and sharp. Judges
people through observations. Hardworking. No difficulties in studying. Loves
to be alone. Always broods about the past and the old friends. Likes to be
quiet. Homely person. Waits for friends. Never looks for friends. Not
aggressive unless provoked. Prone to having stomach and dieting problems.
Loves to be loved. Easily hurt but takes long to recover.

AUGUST: Loves to joke. Attractive. Suave and caring. Brave and fearless.
Firm and has leadership qualities. Knows how to console others. Too generous
and egoistic. Takes high pride in oneself. Thirsty for praises.
Extraordinary spirit. Easily angered. Angry when provoked. Easily jealous.
Observant. Careful and cautious. Thinks quickly. Independent thoughts. Loves
to lead and to be led. Loves to dream. Talented in the arts, music and
defense. Sensitive but not petty. Poor resistance against illnesses. Learns
to relax. Hasty and trusty. Romantic. Loving and caring. Loves to make
friends.

SEPTEMBER: Suave and compromising. Careful, cautious and organized. Likes to
point out people's mistakes. Likes to criticize. Stubborn. Quiet but able to
talk well. Calm and cool. Kind and sympathetic. Concerned and detailed.
Loyal but not always honest. Does work well. Very confident. Sensitive. Good
memory. Clever and knowledgeable. Loves to look for information. Must
control oneself when criticizing. Able to motivate oneself. Understanding.
Fun to be around. Secretive. Loves leisure and traveling. Hardly shows
emotions. Tends to bottle up feelings. Very choosy, especially in
relationships. Systematic.

OCTOBER: Loves to chat. Loves those who loves them. Loves to take things at
the center. Inner and physical beauty. Lies but doesn't pretend. Gets angry
often. Treats friends importantly. Always making friends. Easily hurt but
recovers easily. Daydreamer. Opinionated. Does not care of what others
think. Emotional. Decisive. Strong clairvoyance. Loves to travel, the arts
and literature. Touchy and easily jealous. Concerned. Loves outdoors. Just
and fair. Spendthrift. Easily influenced. Easily loses confidence. Loves
children.

NOVEMBER: Has a lot of ideas. Difficult to fathom. Thinks forward. Unique
and brilliant. Extraordinary ideas. Sharp thinking. Fine and strong
clairvoyance. Can become good doctors. Dynamic in personality. Secretive.
Inquisitive. Knows how to dig secrets. Always thinking. Less talkative but
amiable. Brave and generous. Patient. Stubborn and hard-hearted. If there is
a will, there is a way. Determined. Never give up. Hardly becomes angry
unless provoked. Loves to be alone. Thinks differently from others.
Sharp-minded. Motivates oneself. Does not appreciate praises. High-spirited.
Well-built and tough. Deep love and emotions. Romantic. Uncertain in
relationships. Homely. Hardworking. High abilities. Trustworthy. Honest and
keeps secrets. Not able to control emotions. Unpredictable.

DECEMBER: Loyal and generous. Sexy. Patriotic. Active in games and
interactions. Impatient and hasty. Ambitious. Influential in organizations.
Fun to be with. Loves to socialize. Loves praises. Loves attention. Loves to
be loved. Honest and trustworthy. Not pretending. Short tempered. Changing
personality. Not egotistic. Take high pride in oneself. Hates restrictions.
Loves to joke. Good sense of humor. Logical.

Good Lord, that's a long post!

Another One Bites the Dust

2008-01-02T19:14:00.000-08:00

I bid a fond farewell to my "Write less" Shmesolution.

Today's word count: 3124 unedited.

Oh yeah! Uh huh! (I'm doing the white girl Cabbage Patch.)

Possible reasons for this unparalleled bout of prolificacy: today was the first day in the last fourteen the TV was not on once, there is not one single working phone in this house (stupid awesome batteries), and best of all, I was alone for eight magical hours.

Eight fantastical hours.

Eight hours when no one required a darn thing of me.

Heaven.

Of course, that means I am just falling farther and farther behind in my blog reading. I am filled with shame. And deliciously prepared chicken. But mostly shame.

Dinner was great. Thanks for asking.

Anyhow, tomorrow is Lovey's 30th birthday, and I've invited her and the kids over for a rousing day of Wii play, so no blog reading then.

And Saturday, I'm "dragging" her...*snicker*...to Darcelle's. (Just don't call them drag queens. They're "showgirl emulators".)

Long story short, I have every intention of catching up on all your fine blogs. Eventually. But to tide you over, here's another look at the Gert Jonnys.

Mmmm... Sexy.

This is TOO Easy

2008-01-01T16:08:00.000-08:00

Sixteen hours into the new year, and Shmesolutions are dropping like flies.

Didn't I tell you it would be like shooting fish in a barrel?

The first one to fall:

No organizing. Embrace chaos.

Ah, Shmesolution. I hardly knew ya. So sad to see you go.

Observe.

BEFORE

AFTER

Yep. I have finally de-Christmafied our house.

Buh-bye, leg lamp. The soft glow of electric sex in my front window has been appreciated, but it is time for you to languish in your attic home for the next eleven months.

Feels so good. Not just to take it all down, but to get it sorted, too. Before I started, we had five boxes crammed full of useless Christmas junk. Can anyone tell me why we needed ten mismatched stockings? Or a broken candle snuffer? Or a million little fuses for light strands we replaced last year?

Yeah, me neither.

So, out it goes. All of it.

One thing I do think I'll hold onto is this hubby of mine. Well, now that he's making himself useful for things outside the bedroom anyhow.

*wink, wink, nudge, nudge*

In the nearly nine years we've been together, Ron has cooked dinner for me a total of two times. The first time was on our third date--fresh salmon that he caught that morning! And it was really good.

The second time? Macaroni and cheese. When I was eight months pregnant. And just came home from working a twelve hour shift.

That's it. Those are the only times he has EVER cooked for me.

So, imagine my surprise when I went to make lunch for the family and I saw this...

That's my slow cooker. In use. And not by me.

Wha wha whaaaat?!!

I didn't even think my husband could figure out the confusing controls. Off, low, high. So much to take in!

But he did it! I'm so proud.

2008 is starting off great here. How's it going for you?