STUDIO PEN AND PAINT 1

VOTE FOR AARON

2008-09-18T06:53:00.000-07:00

He said "thanks, but no thanks" on that painting that went nowhere. He'll solve the recession crisis by creating new jobs for people who can cut paper for collages. He believes that "eight is enough" when it comes to the number of layers of paint on a canvas.

Now, you can make your voice heard (and show your good taste) by voting for Aaron! He's been nominated under the category of "Best Art" at BlogAsheville. Just click on the link below and vote! You don't have to fill out the whole ballot - just vote once for Aaron. Your email address will not be saved or used for anything other than verification purposes. Vote now! (But don't vote often - it could disqualify him.)

http://blogasheville.blogspot.com/

Go figure

2008-04-02T16:03:00.000-07:00

Maisy. She won't smile at the sweet little old ladies who ohh and ahh over her in the grocery store. She won't smile at grandma, grandpa, nana, or poppy. But she'll crack a huge grin from ear to ear at the door-to-door life insurance salesman to whom I've just explained that my baby is starting to get fussy and therefore I really, really need to go back inside.

Eat, Drink, and Be Merry

2008-03-05T06:10:00.001-08:00

If I could eat nothing but peanut butter and drink nothing but gin and tonics for the rest of my life, I think I would.

OCD

2008-03-03T09:42:00.001-08:00

What is it about men that they can't close cabinet doors?

2008-02-19T12:43:00.000-08:00

This Blog is moving to the poor house. Bookmark www.studiopenandpaint.blogspot.com before it is lost forever.

The Tax Diva Strikes Again

2008-02-08T10:55:00.000-08:00

No matter how prepared you think you are for tax season, it's always much, much worse than you think.

Every year since Aaron and I have been together, I've filled out forms, via Turbo Tax, for both his taxes and mine. After we got married, I figured it would be a lot easier, since I could keep better control of his art receipts, we'd be married filing jointly, living in the same house, etc.

Ha.

Every year since we've been married, something happens to make the whole affair the most bumfuzzling, complicated conglomeration of confusedness you've ever seen.

First we bought a house. This year, we had a baby. I was sick for the majority of 2007 and wasn't able to keep a good hold on organizing everything. I quit my job at the end of the year, and Aaron made more money than usual through his art business. We took two business trips. Does anyone know how you write off a Canon camera used 98% for business, 1% for personal use, and 1% for just sitting there collecting dust? How about a printer whose black ink cartridge only works when it feels like it? Are there tax breaks for printer orneriness?

But the real problem is where and how we have our computer, printer, and tax paperwork set up. Our computer is, not at our desk, like any normal household would have, but next to our television in the living room. The cable company set it up like this because for some reason, it needed to be next to the tv so they wouldn't have to splice any cables. (At least, that's how we think we remember it.) To access it, you sit in a ladder-back chair. There is no space for spread-out paperwork, so several more ladder-back chairs are required for folders, receipts, and invoices, all of which are located back at the desk in the other room. Because you're not sitting at said desk, your knees jut out to one side. Within three and a half minutes, your back is aching like you've just cut a cord of wood.

"I can't work like this!" I announced to Aaron when he came home for lunch today. "This is just impossible! I don't care what it costs, we're calling the cable company and demanding, DEMANDING, that they splice another hookup in our office so I can put everything on our desk! I'm a very neat, organized person, and this type of working environment is stifling to me, simply stifling! It's got to go!"

He slowly backed out of the room. I think he's mixing the first of many Tax Season Gin and Tonics in the kitchen right now.

Next year, I've resolved, it won't be this hard. Next year, I'll keep better track of receipts, we won't move, won't have any more babies, and the computer will be on the desk. It's going to be a breeze!

And The Britney Spears Parenting Award Goes To...

2008-01-21T10:35:00.000-08:00

After months of crying, screaming, squirming, and hollering, I think we've found the answer to Maisy's problem. Reflux. Early last week, she kept us up all night. It was only then, when my own comfort had been way compromised, that I called the doctor and asked for an appointment. (Before that, I'd accepted the nurse's suggestion that she might just have bad gas.) He prescribed some medication, and within six hours we could tell a difference. Now, one week later, she is a markedly different baby.

I felt horrible when I realized that I could have prevented weeks of pain for her by simply giving her some nasty-tasting concoction once every 8 hours. My mother-in-law tells me this is just the beginning of a long road of guilt.

I will say this; Maisy can still fuss with the best of them from time to time. I think she's going to have a strong personality. As long as she doesn't start donning pink wigs...

Have a Coke and a Plane Crash

2007-12-22T09:32:00.001-08:00

I've always been interested in the last meals convicts order before they're sent off to be put to death. They request everything from steak to Kentucky Fried Chicken to Cheetos to mint chocolate chip ice cream. I've always wondered what I'd want to eat if I knew I was going to kick the bucket. The other night, I had a dream that cleared things up for me.

The strange thing is, I didn't want anything to eat; instead, the last thing I wanted to put in my mouth was something to drink. And no, it wasn't alcoholic. Here's how it went down (no pun intended):

I was on a plane, traveling with the ninth grade English class I taught in 1997. I had just ordered a Diet Coke from the flight attendant when the plane suddenly went into a tailspin and began plummeting toward the earth. The flight attendant, who was on her way to the galley, came struggling back up the aisle which was now at about an 80 degree slant.

"The plane is about to crash," she said. "Do you still want that Diet Coke?"

"Yes," I replied. "I sure do." The attendant stalked off, peeved that her last task on earth would be to fetch someone a caffeinated beverage. Someone across the aisle from me leaned over and asked, "Are you sure you want a Diet Coke? That's really the last thing you want to drink right before you die?" I thought for a minute, then said, "Yes. Yes, it is!"

So there's one less thing I have to ponder these days. You may be wondering if I felt the least bit of panic while the plane was going down. Indeed, I did not. I was looking forward to it. It meant I would finally be able to get some peaceful, uninterrupted sleep.

Like Mother, Like Daughter

2007-12-01T15:37:00.001-08:00

Don't tell Aaron, but I have a secret crush on Justin Timberlake. I'm not sure why. His boyish charm? His penchant for dapper three-piece suits? His Michael Jackson-esque moves? I don't know.

What I do know is that I can sing along with all his songs on the radio. I haven't gone so far as to buy one of his albums. I don't want to be horse-laughed out of our house.

Anyway, Maisy was screaming like crazy again the other day, and I decided to take her for a ride in the car. I revved up the engine and chose a road with lots of curves, which she likes. No deal; the hollering continued. I turned on classical music, which usually calms her. Nope. I switched the station to some cheerful Christmas music. Still didn't work. Finally, I tuned into B 93.7, where What Goes Around was playing. And from the back seat...silence.

Me: 10. Brittney: 0.

2007-11-28T15:30:00.000-08:00

Maisy was incredibly fussy on Monday. If she was awake, she was screaming. After a few hours of this, crying seemed like a pretty good idea to me too, so I joined her and we cried together until Aaron came home.

After a day like that, I had to do something to convince myself that I really am a pretty decent mother. And what better way to make yourself feel more confident than to compare yourself with someone who is arguably the worst mother in the world? Here's a list I created of all the ways I make a better mother than Brittney Spears:

1. I am always sure to wear my underwear when I go out in public. I may not have showered, but I do have my drawers on.

2. I would never give a lackluster performance at the VMA's. Any performances I give are always chock-full of luster.

3. I don't drive my '97 Corolla around town running red lights while texting people.

4. Cheetos are not one of the food groups and have no place in the diet of a two year old.

5. I don't serve my mother with papers banning her from seeing her grandchild. I have the good sense to recognize free, quality child care when I see it.

6. I don't take my child to the Four Seasons Hotel for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on Thanksgiving. I do like everyone else does: stress about making green bean casserole for three weeks ahead of time, make thirty-five phone calls to my sister to discuss who's on the outs with who this year and how to work that into the seating arrangement, then spend Thanksgiving morning crying and swearing at a turkey that's still partially frozen.

7. If I take my baby out in the car, she's securely strapped into a car seat. I'm "country", too, and my father also let me drive on his lap - from one end of the driveway to the other. Not on a highway going 75 mph.

8. If you see a look of strain on my baby's face, it's because she has gas. Not because she's spending the day with me.

9. Although not a health expert, I do recognize that filling a child's bottle with coke is not good for him in many, many ways.

10. My mothering skills don't make people say, "I never thought I'd hear myself say this, but I sure hope K-Fed gets custody of those kids!"

I feel better already.

Here's What Four Hours of Sleep a Night Will Do To You

2007-11-24T19:19:00.000-08:00

Aaron and I have sunk to a new low. After countless nights of little to no sleep and few opportunities to leave the house, we found ourselves watching "Cheaters" tonight on tv. And it was a gem. For all you fellow low-lifes out there, here's the jist:

Tanya has been dating Dwight for a few months when she begins to suspect he is cheating on her. With her mother, no less. What ensues is white trash at its whitest trashiest. Tanya, via Cheaters, sets up a hidden camera in the home she shares with her mother and father. Just as she suspected, Mommie Dearest is canoodling with good old Dwight. Many scenes are pixellated out, much to the dismay, I'm sure, of Cheaters viewers everywhere. Tanya must work up the courage to face her mother, and the Cheaters host is there to help her, every step of the way. He gives Tanya lots of back pats, for instance.

When Tanya enters her house, she immediately confronts her mother and Dwight. Dwight, who appears to have the IQ of a mayonnaise sandwich, stands with mouth agape. Behind him on the wall is a painting probably bought in front of a gas station. Chaos abounds, and Tanya's father, who appears to be drunk, comes out of a back bedroom and begins to soundly curse all involved. When he finds out what happened, he goes for Mayo Boy and proceeds to pound the crap out of him.

We had to turn the channel at this point, ashamed of our voyerism. Two minutes later, we just happened to be flipping by again and were astounded to see Tanya's dad being hauled out of the house on a stretcher. I guess he had some kind of heart condition, and finding out his wife was cheating on him with his daughter's boyfriend was just too much.

Parenting is tough. Strangely, I'll go to bed tonight feeling slightly better about my mothering skills.

I'm complaining to you because my husband is tired of hearing it

2007-08-30T11:26:00.000-07:00

The first thing I lost was my will to live.

I was a bit surprised by this; before experiencing the Worst Pregnancy of 2007 (yes, I've decided there is an official title, and I'm giving it to me), I would have thought I'd go through a few stages before getting to the point that I begged God to please let me die in my sleep. Perhaps trying to keep a stiff upper lip, then maybe counting the days until I didn't have to be pregnant anymore, then succumbing to tears, then, when all else failed, praying for an end to it all. But no, I very quickly lost all hope about two months into a pregnancy that has included insomnia, nausea, and finally, preeclampsia.

I look back now at the first weeks of my pregnany and laugh. I had tons of energy then, felt great, could work a nine hour day, come home and do 30 minutes of high-intensity aerobics, then cook dinner. I bought pregnancy workout videos and was inspired by Denise Austin, who chirped that she worked out every single day during her pregnancy, even working out the very day she had her first baby! I vowed to eat plenty of fruits and vegetables and drink lots of water.

Fast forward five months. I wake up most mornings and look like Sylvester Stallone after he fought the Russian in Rocky V. My feet are so swollen I think even they'll have stretch marks. (Have you ever tried matching black Crocs to every outfit you own? It's surprising how little they actually go with.) Bending over the toilet nightly has gone away for the most part, but it's been replaced by heartburn, which I can get even from drinking water. I waddle to the doctor twice a week for ultrasounds, urine tests, and blood pressure checks. My hips and shoulders hurt most of the time from having to lie on my left side. I've been pulled out of work and put on modified bed rest. I eat whatever the heck makes me feel good, or at least doesn't send me running for the bathroom. Exercise is walking from the recliner to wherever I last put the remote control.

I guess it's been a good lesson in realizing that you can never predict what's going to happen in your life. The upside is that I have about 50 pictures of Maisy, the little girl who is causing all this trouble. It's pretty obvious she's going to be one cute baby.

If you hate automated voice systems, press 3

2007-02-01T13:06:00.000-08:00

For the past few weeks, I've been trying to figure out why my health insurance suddenly decided to charge me $42.90 for a prescription for which I've previously paid only $25.00. I called the toll-free number listed on the back of my card for help.

The automated voice of a slightly uptight midwestern woman answered on the fourth ring. She told me she'd be glad to help me and pleasantly asked that I begin by saying or punching in my group plan number. Here's what ensued after I did so:

Automated Voice (AV): "I'm sorry. I did not understand you. Please say or enter your group plan number."

Me: 0567843 (not my real number, for all you insurance fraud people out there)

AV: "I heard you say: 0567843. Is that correct? Say 'yes' or 'no'."

Me: "Yes."

AV: "Okay. I have all your information in front of me." (I found it hard to believe that a talking computer could have all my information in front of her, but went along with the farce.)

AV: "What do you want to do?"

Me: "Uhhhh, talk to someone about my prescription charges?"

AV: "I'm sorry, I did not understand you. What do you want to do? You can choose from the following options.." and she proceeded to lead me through a long list of options that had nothing to do with charges for prescriptions.

Me (hoping to simplify things for her): "Prescription. PRE-SCRIP-TION!"

AV: "I'm sorry, I did not understand you. If you'd like to choose from more options, say 'More Options'."

Me: "More options."

AV: "Okay. To get a list of local providers, say 'Get a list.' To check on a filled prescription, say 'Check on prescription...' " And so on and so forth. Nothing to help me figure out why I was being charged more for my prescription.

Me: "Please. Dear God. Help me. Please just let me talk to a person."

AV: "I'm sorry, I did not understand you. To assist you, I'll give you a list of things you can say. But these are not the only things you can say." (I'm not exaggerating here. She really said that.)

I suddenly remembered from past experience with other AV's that I could go straight to a CSR by pressing zero. I pushed zero.

AV: "You have chosen to speak with a representative. In order to connect you with the proper person, I'll need some information." And she proceeded to give the same list of options. Hoping that by pressing something, anything, I'd be connected to a live person, I pressed 4. I was then taken through another maze of questions that ended with me being added to their monthly newsletter mailing.

I began to wonder if AV was programmed to recognize swearing.

Me: "REP-RE-SEN-TA-TIVE!!! REPRESENTATIVE!!!!"

AV: ""You have chosen to speak with a representative. In order to connect you with the proper person, I'll need some information."

I wildly began punching numbers, one of which was probably zero, because suddenly a very tired and dejected-sounding AV broke in with, "Okay. I'll transfer you to a representative now."

I'd like to say that talking to a live person solved my problem. What really happened was that I was transferred to three different people, then to an entirely new company (which also had an AV working for them). After screaming at their AV, I was finally connected with a very taciturn young lady who told me the problem "probably" lay with my pharmacist, who was "probably" entering my information incorrectly into their system.

I hung up and called my local pharmacy. And got a slightly uptight midwestern female voice.

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

2006-12-05T16:58:00.000-08:00

We went to the first holiday party of the season on Saturday. Our friend, Amber, was throwing a birthday party for her husband, Doss, so I guess it shouldn't really count as a holiday festivity. I managed to eat mostly carrot sticks and strawberries, some crackers, and cheese. I don't expect that type of eating to last long. We have my office party to attend this Friday, where I plan to get slightly tipsy, but not so tipsy that I embarass myself and find it difficult to go back in on Monday morning. It's free wine and beer, people. Don't judge me.
I also have to find a dress-up dress for said party on Friday. I'm madly in love with a little fluffy red number with a bow at Banana Republic, but it's $140, and we just can't afford that right now. Plus, I usually don't look good in dresses. My arms aren't really what you'd call "exposure-friendly" right now.
The real eating hurdle, though, will be Saturday night, when Aaron and I are throwing our own little Christmas "dessert potluck." We've ensured that absolutely no healthy food will be available. I've singlehandedly set myself up for a downward spiral into the land of sugarplums and candy canes.
Aaron is whining about the lack of our tv show selections tonight. I think finding out a super Wal-Mart is going to be built right down the road from us put him in bad mood. He's actually going to resort to watching one of my John Hughes DVDs; perhaps "Pretty in Pink." I have to go help him unpack them from the box. He's watching Public Access. It's serious.

There's more than one way to skin a cat

2006-10-22T17:30:00.000-07:00

A cat was hit on the road that runs in front of our house, crawled up on our lawn, and died. It kept startling us every time we'd go out to get in our cars in the morning. Missy wanted to investigate every time she went out to pee.
Fortunately, I know how to dispose of dead cats that end up in your yard. Many years ago, when I lived in Greenville, SC, I discovered a dead black cat in my driveway one morning as I was leaving for work. I went home for lunch that day and called Animal Control. "Hello," I said. "I have a dead cat in my driveway. Could you come out and get it?"
"Don't do that," the man on the other end answered.
"How then," I asked, "should I dispose of this dead cat?"
"All's I can tell ya is to put 'im in a black garbage bag and thow 'im in your garbage," he replied.
This seemed to me to be a terribly undignified way to dipose of the cat. I thought about digging a hole and having a proper cat funeral, then realized I was too lazy. I went outside with a shovel and scooped him up. It was more difficult that I thought. Rigor mortis had set in, and he didn't go very gracefully into the bag. I finally got him in my garbage and dealt with blowflys on my front door until garbage pickup day. I'd brought home Chik-Fil-A for lunch that day, and haven't been able to eat their chicken sandwich since.
So, I knew a black plastic garbage bag was the solution for the pretty grey kitty with the while tail and paws who now lay in our yard. The problem was, the shovel was out at our new house. It took several days before I was able to go get it. By that time, the maggots were having a party and everyone was invited. I scooped up the cat and manuevered him toward the industrial strength black garbage bag I felt sure would disguise any smells. A layer of the cat was left on the ground, complete with a bit of white tail. I managed to carry it all to our garbage can. I thought to myself, "That wasn't so bad. I think I should be okay."
Later that night, I ate a big piece of coconut cream pie. Big mistake.
Our garbage can still smells of death.

Made in America

2006-08-28T17:18:00.000-07:00

I bought a DVD/VCR combo for Christmas last year. A few weeks ago, the picture of every DVD we watched suddenly began playing only in black and white, while the VCR still played in color. Aaron called the company, who said it sounded like a faulty sensor, and that we could send it in for repairs. I finally hauled the thing down to Wal-Mart, and a very helpful young lady shipped it off to Tennessee. Quick as a wink, I got a notice from the company saying that the cost of labor would be $45. We paid about $90 for it, so this is roughly half the cost of just buying a brand new one. The little jewel of a thing is still under warranty, so the company magnanimously informed us they would not charge us for parts. I'm going to call them tomorrow to let them know that I, being a magnanimous person myself, am going to let them keep their broken DVD player that worked correctly for exactly seven months. That I paid over $90 for. That they didn't build correctly. That they now want to charge ME to fix.
I hate big corporations.

P.I.

2006-08-14T17:56:00.000-07:00

We ate dinner with my mom and dad tonight and drove out to see our new house. Dad loved it out there. I knew he would.

My dad was always doing crazy stuff when I was growing up. He couldn't sit still for more than five minutes, and he was always coming up with a plan to strike it rich. He taught school for years and was an assistant principal, then struck out on his own to do construction. And lots of other stuff. My dad has started his own promotion company (for a country music act that lasted one night), bought a yacht (he can't sail), made a plan to import and export cars between the U.S. and Canada, and thought up a thousand other different ways to make an extra buck or two.

When I was fourteen, he was a private investigator for a weekend. Here's how it went down:

Dad had a friend, Cecil, who was a private investigator in Anderson County. Cecil was always hot on the trail of a cheating spouse, but rarely had much luck catching them in the act. Dad walked into Cecil's office one day and, in the course of conversation, asked just how one went about getting his private eye license in the state of South Carolina. "You send twenty bucks and a copy of your driver's license to this address," Cecil replied. Seeing how incredibly simple it was, dad just couldn't resist. He immediately mailed the necessary money and information and in no time flat was a certified private eye.

That very night, dad and Cecil went on their first stake-out together. Their mission was to trail the wife of some guy who suspected the wife was cheating on him with the real estate agent she worked for. Dad and Cecil parked in the lot of a restaurant across the street from the real estate office. Time passed, and they began to talk about fishing. They were deep in a discussion about the pros and cons of using live bait when they suddenly looked up. The real estate agent's car was gone.

"We missed 'em," said Cecil, unnecessarily.

Fortunately, Cecil had a Plan B. He knew where the real estate agent lived, where the wife lived, where her sister lived, and several other places the couple might have gone. Dad and Cecil began driving around Anderson County. They drove from house to house, but somehow, the agent and his little cookie cutter continued to evade the mastermind tactics of Cecil. It was getting late, and dad was getting tired. Finally, at about 3:00 am, their luck running out, dad asked Cecil if they could call it a night. That Monday, he tendered his resignation with the Cecil Millwater Private Investigative Services. He couldn't really see a future in staying up until the wee hours of the morning, following adulterers.

A few months later, a couple of doctors gave Cecil and his new partner an all-expense-paid trip to Hawaii to track their cheating wives on vacation with their boyfriends. Dad has always claimed that even Hawaii wouldn't have been worth it to stay up all night sitting in a car, but I think he was privately disappointed.

Two scary movies and a clean smelly house

2006-07-31T16:24:00.000-07:00

While Aaron was in St. Louis this weekend, I enjoyed a Garlic Extravaganza. I had garlic pizza Friday and made a shrimp scampi recipe that called for one and a half tablespoons of garlic on Saturday. Aaron isn't a garlic fan. I somehow managed to get the smell out of the house before he came home.
"The Shining" was on Friday night. I don't know why I never seem to learn I should never, ever, watch that movie by myself. Fortunately, I found a "Girls Next Door" marathon on after the movie went off, and I watched Hef and the girls cavort around the mansion for a couple hours. You just can't stay scared listening to some Playmate describe her "Sleep Diet": "It's like when you sleep all day, so that way you don't eat! You miss breakfast and lunch and wake up about three, then you only have to eat dinner!" Awesome. I knew working for a living was what was making me fat.
I sat on the couch Saturday night and gorged on shrimp scampi and watched the old 80's movie "The Lost Boys" on cable. I was amazed to find that, since I left high school, Kieffer Sullivan somehow became way less cool as a vampire. The movie still kind of scared me, though, since I was watching it alone. Good thing I had all that garlic on hand.
Other than that, I cleaned. I even changed the air conditioner filter, which was black and had so much dust on it, there was no way any filtering was being accomplished. I vacuumed many months of dust bunnies out from under the bed. Aaron's job is vacuuming, but his theory is you just hit most of the exposed floor in the house and call it a day.
I was happy when he came home. Even though he doesn't vacuum correctly or eat garlic, he's still nice to have around.

Homeowners, at last!

2006-07-18T16:30:00.001-07:00

We signed the contract and are closing on the house at the end of August. I'm trying not to get too excited since anything could happen between now and then. But then I think of our one acre of land and the beautiful country mountain views surrounding the house and I just can't help but get really, really excited!
We'll have to do a lot of work to the inside of the house. Imagine the worst of the 70's meeting the worst of the 80's, mating, and producing the hideous offspring of wood paneling, drop ceilings, florescent lighting, and sponge painting. But, there's a lot of potential there. Aaron already has a floor plan drawn up; he's moving doors and building a walk-in closet or two. It's handy to have a handy husband. I struck a deal with him that I'd take care of all the paperwork if he'd take care of all the remodeling. With a stodgy loan officer, I think I already have the worse end of the deal.
On another note, I just finished reading "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn". It is now my second favorite book of all times, right behind "To Kill A Mockingbird".

Paxil, Here I Come

2006-07-03T16:11:00.000-07:00

Aaron has found a house that seems perfect for us, and today we met the realtor and took a look. I fell in love: large, sunny rooms with hardwood floors, a spacious kitchen, room for a huge pantry and laundry area, and two small fireplaces. I've thought of all the reasons we just can't buy it, right down to the penalty we'd have to pay Charter for moving our internet access to another location in less than a year. I'll have to be put on anxiety medication before it's all over. Until then, I'm planning to lick the chocolate frosting out of the creases of the plastic container our desert came in tonight.

We've figured out that Aaron is better at big-picture things and I'm better with details when it comes to money, large purchases, big ideas, and business. I'm also better at throwing a fit in the bathrooom early in the morning over not being "heard", all while putting on makeup and applying styling mousse. I'm a good multi-tasker.

How I amused myself while Aaron was gone

2006-06-20T17:16:00.000-07:00

I had all kinds of plans to accomplish great things last week when Aaron was in St Louis. I was going to re-pot my herbs, clean up my writing samples, clean out closets and take stuff to Goodwill, organize my photographs that have been sitting in bags in my bedside table drawer for about three years, organize my recipes, clean the entire house, and begin the time-consuming task of changing my last name with my bank, student loan, and various and sundry companies that faithfully bill me each month.

I did take stuff to Goodwill.

Other than that, I watched a looot of crap tv. You know you're past the point of no return when you find yourself watching the E! True Hollywood Story: Charles in Charge - a show you never even watched when it was on the air. I also found out way more than I needed to know about child stars who have gone bad. Or have just gone. But the pinnacle of my debauchery came when I planned my whole Thursday evening around the Britney Spears interview. The baby blue glitter eyeshadow! The cleavage! The tears! The not-so-believeable declaration of love for K-Fed! Then my sister-in-law Mary called, and we discussed the entire interview like we'd just watched the Presidential debates.

It's back to normal now, though; PBS is running the story of Isaac Newton. Aaron is making various intelligent comments. I just got done surfing People.com, trying to find out when and where Nicole Kidman is getting married this weekend.

Road trips and one mediocre book

2006-06-12T18:31:00.000-07:00

Aaron leaves for St Louis tomorrow to go to an art convention. I am planning to do some serious cleaning. I usually clean when I'm nervous or anxious, and I'm nervous and anxious that he's going to get into a fiery car crash on the highway. I started tonight with the bathroom and kitchen and will probably continue tomorrow with the laundry, changing sheets, vacuuming, and dusting. I don't know what I'll do the rest of the week.
We're reading "The Mermaid Chair" in my book club and so far I'm not impressed. The main character just seems so whiny and self-absorbed. I've heard "The Secret Life of Bees" is better.
We visited my sister-and brother-in-law this weekend in Athens, TN. Athens is home to the Lost Sea and Mayfield ice cream. All the walking I did at the Lost Sea did not nearly make up for the five and a half gallons of ice cream I consumed.

A very intimate look into my gastrointestinal problems

2006-06-05T17:38:00.000-07:00

Does anyone else out there suffer from some weird stomach ailment that can't be explained? (How's that for a specific question)? Here's what I'm talking about: until college, I could eat anything and not feel a thing. Then, when I was about 19 or so, I suddenly began to get horrible stomach pains when I'd eat broccoli. Since then, I've developed some kind of weird thing where I can't eat zucchini, squash, cauliflower, and, as I so painfully discovered last night, fiddlehead. Lots of people have told me it's just gas, but this ain't just gas, people. After we got home last night from a very lovely and delicious dinner with some very fun and intelligent people, my stomach felt as though someone was pushing hard on it from the inside out. It's a rather difficult pain to explain. I took two Rolaids and two Gas-X with Immodium, but to no avail. It went on for hours, me doubled over in pain, and finally I woke up at about 2 am out of an uneasy sleep and was certain I was going to throw up. I felt like this for about an hour, then finally, the pain began to subside, and I fell asleep. If anyone else out there suffers from this, or knows someone who does, please, please let me know if you've discovered if there is anything you can do for it. I've talked to my doctor, and she just told me not to eat the things that make me feel this way. But it can't be good to have your list of foods slowly diminish. And I don't always know what's going to affect me like this. (Heavy cream sauces affect me the same way, but I'm not too concerned about that, since they aren't good for you anyway).

And, on a lighter note: Anna was fetched yesterday by my sister and her boyfriend. I think Missy misses her a lot. Every day when I take her out, she sniffs around the yard, taking great care to put her nose in all the places Anna peed. I just swiffered and vacuumed about two inches of dog hair off the floors, but I miss her, too.

Tomorrow night is Book Club. We're discussing "Sights Unseen", by Kaye Gibbons. If you even remotely like to read, you should read Kaye. Start with "Ellen Foster". I met Kaye once at a lecture she gave at Anderson College, which is why I think I can take liberties with calling her by her first name. I asked her to sign a book (which happened to be "Sights Unseen") and told her I'd just finished teaching "Ellen Foster" to my AP English class. She seemed genuinely pleased and signed my book, "To Shannon: Many thanks! Kaye Gibbons". I felt like I'd just met a rock star, and walked away grinning crazily from ear to ear. What a nerd I am.

Two Crazy Cousins

2006-06-01T18:16:00.000-07:00

Aaron and I have been keeping my sister's black lab, Anna, while she and her boyfriend are at the beach for 10 days. It's been good for Missy; she needs to be socialized with other dogs. Anna is a calm, well-mannered dog, who can shake your hand and sit and won't go for a treat until you give her the ok. Missy is....well, let's just say Missy won't be winning the Eukanuba American Dog Show anytime soon.

Missy has a large rawhide bone that has been lying around the house for about two weeks. Periodically, she'll show some interest in it. A couple of days ago, Anna loped over to it and picked it up. Missy immediately became terribly concerned about the bone, shoving her face in Anna's, making a small whining noise. Anna growled softly under her breath, and the game was on. I tried to explain to Anna that the bone belonged to Missy, but somehow she didn't understand. Missy became more and more agitated. I finally went into the kitchen to get Missy a pig's ear as a consolation prize. As she took it, Anna came dashing over. I tried to explain to Anna that she had the bone to chew on, but she just didn't get it. So I gave her her own pig's ear. Each dog took their repective ear out into the living room, where Missy promptly dropped hers and picked up the bone Anna had discarded. Anna then invaded Missy's personal space. I made Anna take back the pig's ear, and the two dogs circled the living room, rolling their eyes at one another. Finally, they each took a corner and settled down.

The bone has been passed back and forth since then, causing much consternation. Anna, it turns out, is quite passive-aggressive. Right now, Anna is fast asleep on the floor, and Missy is chewing industriously on the bone.

Long time, no write

2006-05-30T16:02:00.000-07:00

It's been forever, I know. With all that's happening in the world - Paul and Heather divorcing, Brangelina having their baby, the season-end of The Office and My Name Is Earl, and Britney's various dangerous baby-theatrics, who has time to write a blog? Anyway, I promise I'll be better. My goal is to write at least three times a week from now on. So, Stardate May 30, 2006, Captain's Log #1:

I went by the post office the other day to retrieve a package. For some reason, our mail carrier can't leave packages on our front deck if it is raining, slightly drizzling, looks like it might rain, is scheduled to rain sometime soon, or if there are any clouds in the sky. Instead, she leaves a little card that tells us we can pick up the package "the day after tomorrow". So, I left work a few minutes early and rushed over to the P.O., desperately hoping they wouldn't slam and lock the door in my face at 4:49 the way they had the last time I was there.

To tell the truth, the people who work at my P.O. are really nice. A little too nice. I stood in a line of about six people while one postal employee helped an older woman. The woman took her time in deciding how she wanted her package to be mailed, how she wanted to pay for the mailing, and how she needed to change the type of mailing to a cheaper way of mailing. Just as she was about to exit, the mail carrier asked her if she'd like to see the season's newest stamps. I shifted my weight impatiently from one foot to the next while the lady made comments like, "Oh, that's a pretty one! Oh, wait, that one will go with my pink envelopes. Do you have any with flowers? What about bees?"

In the meantime, a younger-looking guy stood at another part of the counter and worked industriously, signing mother's day cards. I couldn't believe they didn't tell him that a) he was way late for mother's day greetings, b) he needed to write his personal messages out in the lobby and stop wasting everyone's time, and c) the next time he needed to stand in a smallish-type space with about ten other people around, he might want to think about taking a shower.

The line wasn't moving. The lady standing in front of me began looking around desperately, as though she suddenly realized she'd misplaced a couple thousand bucks. In a last ditch effort, she began to comb through a supply of mailing boxes to our right. Then she swore softly under her breath and left the line. Yes! I wanted to pump my fist in post office victory. One down and five to go!

The next man in line looked to be about 90 and was using a walker and an oxygen tank. He wheezed and panted, gently swaying from side to side. Pretty Stamp Lady made her final selections, with the ever-courteous help of the postal employee, and left. "Can I help who's next?" called out the postal worker. Good lord. It was going to take Wheezer five years just to make it to the counter. But, with amazing rapidity, the old man wheezed and hacked his way to the front, the wheels of his walker bouncing jauntily along the ground, his oxygen tank swinging mightily to his side. I swore to myself I'd never again judge the old or infirm.

Twenty minutes later, I handed my slip of paper to the smiling lady behind the counter. She cheerfully retrieved my package from the back and then said, "You know, we'll always try to re-deliver these if we don't catch you at home the first time!"

Unless it looks like rain.

Two really embarassing things that have happened to me recently

2006-05-08T16:31:00.000-07:00

Last Wednesday, I decided to take advantage of Bagel Day at our company. I'm not the biggest bagel eater in the world, but if something is free, I tend to get some whether I'm all that enamoured with it or not. It runs on my dad's side of the family. I went upstairs and reached for a big, fat, blueberry bagel. I picked up a sharp knife and began sawing away. But, instead of cutting the bagel, the knife merely smushed it. There was a guy standing off to the side, and he started to smirk. I valiently continued, determined to salvage the bagel. I only wanted half. The bagel, however, only smushed up more. I finally took my hands and pulled the bagel apart, breaking it up in the process. I figured the whole bagel was now mine. I could feel Bagel Guy still looking at me, but I refused to so much as glance in his direction. A serated knife was lying off to the side. I picked that up and began sawing away once more. More smush. I gave up, smeared a small amount of cream cheese into a few of the cracks and crevices of the mutilated bagel, and took it up in both my hands. I tried to wad parts of the bagel back togther so I could carry it away without leaving a trail of blueberry bagel crumbs. I looked towards Bagel Guy, who by now had a full-blown grin on his face. I walked away with a straight back and my nose up in the air, determined to salvage what was left of my bagel dignity.

Today a co-worker pointed out that I had toilet paper hanging out of the back of my pants. I don't know how long it had been there. I was probably twirling around the office for hours with people laughing and pointing at my butt.

Various and Sundry

2006-04-23T17:35:00.000-07:00

Before I got this job with the publishing company, I worked for a small, religious organization. A friend of mine, upon hearing about the free yoga, bagels, and massage at my current job, remarked, "So, you basically traded God for a bagel."

I went on a huge shopping spree today. I haven't been on an all-encompassing shopping excursion in weeks, and we had about four pages of things we needed. Customer service is not what it used to be. When you ask an Associate where an item is located, I've found their preferred method of answering your question is to: a.) tell you they don't work in that department and don't know what you're talking about, b.) tell you they think what you're looking for is probably located in (X) department, and then c.) wave you off with a grunt in the general direction of said department. Essentially, you end up walking up and down aisles you've traversed many times before, desperately seeking a 3M wall hook. You will find said wall hook in the bathroom decor section, next to a soap dish.

My cousin got married in Gastonia this weekend. I was amazed to find that only two glasses of wine will convince me I have the dance moves equal to that of Britney Spears in her heyday, before she became tainted by the Pepsi empire and K-Fed. I was upstaged only by one of my aunts, who told us she could duplicate James Brown's moves, and then proceeded to execute them right there in front of God and everybody.

Aaron and I went out with our friends, Rob and Christine, on Friday. We saw The Brunettes play. They were great. If you haven't heard them (The Brunettes, not Rob and Christine), you must.

Workin' Nine to Five

2006-04-17T16:41:00.000-07:00

So....very....tired. I started my new job today. I woke up at 1:00 and stayed awake until almost 5:00. I don't think I've ever been this anxious about starting a new job before. For some reason, I had it in my head they'd take one look at the first thing I did, tell me they'd made a huge mistake and to just go ahead, pack up the Pentel Fine Point I'd brought in with me, and hit the highway.

But the day went well. And the perks are quite nice. Yoga every Monday at 4:00 for anyone who wants to participate. A massage therapist comes in every other Friday. And Wednesday is Bagel Day; free bagels are brought in for the entire company and freely given to one and all. An Associate Editor told me they are very food oriented at this company. I knew right then that I was the girl for them after all.

Hopefully the last big life change for quite some time

2006-04-11T12:34:00.000-07:00

I start my new full time job next week and I can't wait. It's with a publishing company here in town and is about 10 minutes from my house. I'm going to love it for several reasons: 1) Out of the ten people I've met so far who work there, ALL of them say they love their job and would never, ever leave. 2) The company publishes books, so it's like the mother ship is calling me home. 3) I can sleep until just after 7:00 and still make it to work on time. 4) Books! Books! 5) The benefits are awesome. 6) It's located downtown. When I tell people I work downtown, they'll be fooled into thinking I'm a cool, hip downtown-worker. Of course, that initial impression will be shattered within minutes of continuing a conversation with me.

Honesty really is the best policy

2006-04-04T17:35:00.000-07:00

I see in Aaron's blog today that he doesn't have time to start a box business since he has so many other things going on. One of those things is "wash the dishes". Let me tell you the last time Aaron did the dishes. It was in June of 1993, eleven years before he met me. He must have gotten the "washing dishes" idea from the fact that AS HE WROTE HIS BLOG, I was, in fact, in the kitchen doing the dishes.

Now he is in the kitchen getting a nice big bowl of ice cream, which will mean my freshly scrubbed counters will be dripped upon and another dirty bowl and ice cream scoop will be added to the sink.

It's not that I'm bitter. I just like to see everyone be as honest as possible.

A Whole Lotta Baloney

2006-04-02T17:42:00.000-07:00

A few days ago I went to the deli to buy some meat. Here is the conversation that ensued between me and the lady behind the counter:

Me: "I'd like to get a pound of this Italian turkey, please."

Her: "Which one?"

Me: "This Italian turkey right here. One pound. Please slice it thin."

She rummaged around behind the counter for a good five minutes. Finally she asked, "Do you see a package that I can slice?" Since I wasn't with her behind the counter, I couldn't really see anything. I said, "I guess you could slice the package that I see right here, couldn't you?"

Her: "Which package?"

Me: "The Italian turkey. (pointing) Right there."

Her: (pointing to the one next to it) "This one?"

Me: "No, that one right there."

Her: "This one?"

Me: "Yes. That one."

Her: "How much do you want?"

Me: "One pound, please."

Her: (taking it out of the case) "How do you want it sliced?"

Me: "Thin."

She spent the next five minutes unwrapping the turkey and trying to find the right price for it, which was clearly marked on the outside counter.

Me: "I believe it says $8.99 a pound right here."

Her: (to another co-worker). "Do you know the price for this? And the code?"

She put the turkey on the slicer. Then she turned around and said,

"How much do you want?"

Me: "One. Pound."

Her: "How do you want this sliced?"

Me: "I'm coming back there and slicing the dang thing myself. Get out of my way."

No, what I really said was,

"Thin."

She sliced the meat and placed it on the scales.

Her: "You wanted a pound and a half, right?"

Me: "One. One. Pound."

Her: "It's a little over one pound. Is that ok?"

Me: "Yes. In the name of all that's good and holy in this world, yes."

Her: "Anything else for you today?"

And, believe it or not, I actually ordered a half pound of provolone.

I fought the computer and the computer won.

2006-03-29T15:54:00.000-08:00

I spent about an hour and a half on the phone today, first with Charter and then with Apple, trying to figure out why in the world our internet connection was moving about as slow as molasses in January - to use an over-used Southern expression. First I talked to a really nice guy at Charter, who ended up telling me that our megabytes and gigabytes were, in fact, running up to par, and the problem lay not with our internet service, but with our computer. He very helpfully gave me the toll-free number to Apple, where another very nice and very patient guy helped me figure out that we really didn’t know why our internet was so slow. We got stuck when I couldn’t remember Aaron’s password to get into Systems Preferences. He then emailed me some instructions that I was to follow to reinstall our Safari, which I assured him I could handle. As soon as we hung up, the internet went down entirely. I called it a day and went for a long walk out by the lake. When it comes to computer innards, I feel about as comfortable as a Republican sitting next to Al Franken at a dinner honoring Spike Lee.

Aaron is bummed today because he talked to a gallery who think they can sell only his representational work, something he did for about two seconds six months ago. They like his stuff, but the majority of his work might not be a good fit for them, sales-wise. I always feel bad in situations like this, because I don’t know that much about art or the art world, and I feel like I always end up saying stupid things along the lines of, “There, there. There, there.” I feel pretty useless. I always try to relate his disappointments to how I would feel if someone didn’t think my writing would be a good fit for their publishing house. So many people love Aaron’s work. I really believe that one day he is going to hit it big. When that day comes, I want a maid and a Lexus. In that order.

How we came to live with a crazy bitch

2006-03-24T12:25:00.000-08:00

Aaron and I decided one day, seemingly out of the blue, to get a dog. We had a wedding coming up in a few short months, I hated my job and was desperately seeking better employment, and we’d just moved into a two-bedroom house on the other end of town. We didn’t think we had enough going on in our lives. Stress levels were only at about a 9.5 out of 10 and we needed something that would really set us over the edge into extreme hypertension.

We’d talked previously about getting a Boston terrier. Aaron’s grandfather had always kept Boston Terriers, one who had been killed by country singer Billy Dean’s dog. It was the family’s claim to fame. Boston Terriers were good, solid, dependable dogs, dogs that might bark only at strangers, dogs that were kid-friendly (if we ever decided to do that), and needed only to be run around the back yard once in a while for exercise. We wanted something uncomplicated, squat, docile and easy-going. Instead, we got a leggy, high-strung drama queen.

One Sunday, as we drove around the countryside, Aaron turned to me and said, “Let’s go by the pound. Just to look.” I said, “Sure, just to look,” and we both knew we were going to by parents by the end of the ride.

We entered the pound and looked at all the cute puppies, crazy pit bulls, and lethargic mixed breeds who knew better than to depend on their looks and so instead were trying to come off as well behaved. A black and white medium sized pup sitting with her back smushed up against the bars of her kennel sat looking at us with feigned casualness. Aaron was drawn to her immediately. “Let’s ask to see this one,” he said, as I made goo-goo eyes at a small ball of fur on a top kennel while trying to keep my knees from getting snapped off by a Doberman that seemed to be frothing at the mouth.

We stepped outside into one of two visiting areas that looked like small preschool play centers. We stood nervously as an employee brought the puppy in and set her onto the floor. She immediately wet the floor and jumped up onto Aaron. We petted and played with her while the guy told us that she was about three months old and had been found wandering around out in the cold. They’d named her Heidi, and he couldn’t believe someone hadn’t already snapped her up.

He left the room and gave us some time alone with Heidi. Aaron and I looked at each other and nodded. We couldn’t wait to get her home. We notified the guy, who grinned happily and brought us a sheaf of papers to fill out and sign. After filling out all contact information and our veterinarian’s name, completing a short essay on what we would do in case of emergency, drawing a diagram of where we planned to house her, and noting the amount of food we would give her, in ounces, we handed the clipboard back and stood awkwardly as the guy asked us a few questions. “Do you promise to always have a plan for leaving the dog in a responsible person’s care if you have an emergency that keeps you away from the house?’ he asked. “We do,” we responded.

“Will you give this animal the best care you can, assuming all responsibility for its well-being, recognizing that it is unable to properly care for itself?’

“We do.”

“If you find that you made too hasty a decision today, cannot care for the dog, and must return it to the pound, do you acknowledge that you will not be due a refund in any form, that you will officially be branded Worst Dog Owners Ever by the State of North Carolina, and that a bumper sticker stating such will be sent to you in the mail which you must keep on your vehicle at all times?”

“We do.”

The guy then ended, “Having heard these promises you have now made, and believing that you look like a couple of pretty decent people, by the power vested in me by the state of North Carolina, I now declare you the Owners and Caregivers of Heidi.”

Heidi (who we immediately renamed Missy) ran through her pee and jumped on Aaron and me, baptizing us in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. I think I heard the guy in the next play area mutter, “Amen.”

What we have here is a failure to communicate

2006-03-24T12:16:00.000-08:00

Today is Friday, which means tonight is date night. When Aaron and I were dating he came up with the great idea of setting aside one night a week for us to spend time together. He got the idea from his parents, who left him and his siblings with a babysitter and a pizza every Friday so they could regain some sanity (the parents, not the kids). Apparently he thinks he did this in exchange for having all day Saturday to himself, but I don’t remember it that way. I remember him offering it up as a way to ensure that we would have time to grow closer together, just the two of us. No matter what happened the rest of the week, this night would be reserved for only him and me. What Aaron didn’t realize at the time was that he could have told me straight out he was bargaining for Saturdays to himself and I would have jumped at that a lot quicker. I need my “me time”. It’s too bad Aaron married a woman who is so hard inside.

I only work until noon on Fridays. That means one whole hour less of light rock piped into my life. One hour less of Michael Bolton, Shania Twain, and that craptacular new song called “You’re Beautiful”, or something like that, where the guy seems to be attempting to sing a love song to some girl he saw for about 30 seconds on a subway. Instead, he comes across sounding like some horribly depressed loner who’s gone over the deep end obsessing about her and doing who knows what alone in his dingy, cramped apartment. Can’t figure out how that one made it up the charts; it gives me the creeps and makes me depressed all at the same time.

Other than the music, I like my job well enough. I go in at 8:00 and do data entry until my eyes start to bleed. Then I leave at 1:00 and rush home to do what I love, which is promote my husband’s art and write. The job helps pay the bills, though, and it’s a whole lot better than some of the places I’ve been, where I spent my time hiding in the bathroom from my boss, wondering if there was some type of lethal poison that, when eaten in a hot dog, could not be traced.

So, date night. I see that Aaron has mention Capote, but I, being the thoughtful and self-sacrificing wife I am, was really thinking more of seeing it Saturday since I knew Aaron didn’t get any sleep last night. When I called him on my way to work this morning and announced that I’d just seen it was playing at the Brew ‘N View, I failed to tell him this. And so we end where we began - with a slight malfunction in communication.

Hooray for Hollywood

2006-03-24T12:12:00.000-08:00

It has been a beautiful day today, sunny and cool and perfect for hike in the mountains. Tonight are the Oscars, which Aaron will not allow to be watched in his presence. I’m into the Oscars this year, because I want almost everyone who is nominated to win. I want Phillip Seymour Hoffman to win because he’s such a great actor and is overweight and doesn’t seem to give a crap. I want Heath Ledger to win because, as I said to my sister once, “he’s the reason I get up most mornings.” I want George Clooney to win because he just seems like such a nice guy, almost sheepish, and I’ve been a fan of his since he was on ER. Aaron makes fun of his big hair days on Roseanne, but I don’t care. I want Reese Witherspoon to win because she’s so Girl Power. I want Felicity Huffman to win because she’s so down to earth. And I want Amy Adams to win because I’ve never seen someone able to pull off such a convincing southern accent who wasn’t from the South. Heck, I’ve seen southern actresses who couldn’t pull off convincing southern accents (think Julia Roberts in “Steel Magnolias”). All very vapid and flimsy reasons for people to win Oscars, but isn’t that what Hollywood’s all about?

But instead of watching the Oscars, we’ll be watching a Sherlock Holmes mystery on PBS. I’m into that, too. There’s nothing better than a good British mystery. The very accent just makes you feel smarter. I’ll probably fall asleep 30 minutes into it, though. I’m bad about that. Last night Aaron was watching what appeared to be a great movie on FMC. I missed the first 30 minutes of it because I felt I just had to get the laundry done. I finally sat down to watch it and was asleep by 9:00. I fell over into the corner of the couch sometime during my siesta so that my head was at an odd angle to the rest of my body. Aaron would poke me periodically and ask me why I didn’t go on to bed. He loves to torture me when I fall asleep on the couch. He waits until I hit a point where I’m so far gone I can’t possibly drag myself up and into bed. Then he will very, very lightly tickle me on the cheek or under my nose, causing me to wake with a start. It makes me really, really irritated. So angry that if I were more awake I’d pop him one across the jaw. But I am completely defenseless in my haze of sleep and can therefore only angrily mutter “SttoooooOOOOOpppppp!!”. This amuses him.

Cheerio, dahlings. And may the best Reese win.

Where livin's easy and the life is good

2006-03-24T12:09:00.000-08:00

We ended up watching the Oscars. The world’s greatest detective was a repeat. Aaron thought Jon Stewart was consistently funny. He also was pulling for Phillip Seymour Hoffman, but went to bed too early and didn’t see him win.

I, on the other hand, valiantly stayed awake until 11:00 pm, until just after Reese won it. I was so proud of her. I think I can safely say that if it weren’t for “Legally Blonde”, my life would be a shambles.

I am always slightly ashamed of myself for being so enamored with the stars. I think it’s a malady with which many women struggle. My friend Amber, who is one of the smartest and hippest women I know, buys People Magazine and hides it from her husband. I used to work with a company who printed People. They promised to send me a free copy each week but failed to do so. When their contract came up for renewal, I went with another vendor.

Aaron enjoyed the awards, I could tell. Halfway through the ceremonies he told me he wanted to become famous. Then we practiced what we would say to all the interviewers as we walked down the red carpet. It made me a little less embarrassed that I’d been practicing my Oscar acceptance speech in front of the bathroom mirror a couple hours earlier.

Must see TV

2006-03-24T12:07:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow we are nixing our Directv in favor of basic cable and high speed internet. We won’t save any money, but instead of paying a bunch of money to flip through 300 channels for two hours a night, we’ll be paying a bunch of money to surf the net in style and pare down what we watch.

Last night, Aaron was flipping through channels as I washed dishes. “Man!” he exclaimed. “There’s nothin’ on!!” I told him he’d better get used to it, since in another couple days he’d have even less to choose from. He reminded me that would be a welcome relief, since all tv had to offer anyway was a bunch of crap.

So instead of paying for more of nothing, we’ll be paying for less of nothing.

Basically, we watch NBC and PBS at night. During dinner we watch The Simpsons on FOX. On Thursday night, we watch “My Name Is Earl” and “The Office”. Other than that, we both have our own shows we enjoy. Aaron likes “Mythbusters” on Discovery, for which he will soon have to find a replacement. I find “Mythbusters” only mildly interesting from time to time. It seems all they ever do on there is measure each other’s farts and blow things up. Sometimes they blow up each other’s farts. Aaron says it’s all in the name of Science, and I should be glad someone out there is teaching kids that science can be fun.

Waiting for Godot

2006-03-24T12:03:00.000-08:00

The cable guy is supposed to come out anytime from 1:00 pm to 5:00 pm today to install our internet and basic cable. It’s 3:30 right now.

I’ve been working on my Application for Employment for a local publishing company and cracking and eating pecans. They also gave me a copyediting and proofreading quiz that is due back on Monday. It isn’t terribly difficult, but I’m nervous about making stupid mistakes on it. I had my mother come for lunch and proof it with me. She noticed some things I didn’t, and I noticed some things she didn’t. The way she threw around words like “gerund” and “participle” amazed me. I can look at something and tell you if it is correct or not, but she can remember the actual term. She taught elementary school for over 15 years.

There’s a difference between old school and new school grammar. My mother suggested commas where I wouldn’t put them. Nowadays, we newfangled writers and teachers don’t like to see a lot of commas. But her way was probably technically correct. I decided I’d play it safe and go old school. You can really argue a comma in a lot of different situations. For instance, would you put a comma in the following sentence?

“For a settlement I will suggest either getting a new bicycle or having the old one repaired.”

Mom said a comma should technically go after “settlement”.

Let’s have some Friday afternoon fun. I’ll give you a few sentences from the test, and you see if you can figure them out. Correct all errors in spelling, grammar, and punctuation.

1. The mechanic adjusted our carburator but it was only at out insistance that the distributor was examined by him.

2. Its bad if not worse than last year.

3. Facing a big-league pitcher with a bat on your shoulder and trying to hit his delivery, is another vital experience in gaining an understanding of the game about which you are trying to write vividly.

That last one’s a doozy. There are so many things wrong with it, I don’t know where to begin.

Missy's near miss

2006-03-24T12:02:00.000-08:00

I almost killed our dog a few minutes ago. Time after time, I’ve let her off her run in the backyard to make her own way around the back of the house and through the back door. Today, I didn’t have a box of treats with me like I usually do. And I should have noticed she was a little more hyper than usual, but it didn’t really register in my mind.

As she rounded the corner at top speed, an alarm went off in my head. I picked up speed myself and followed her, yelling at her to go right inside. As I got to the back door, I didn’t see her in her usual place, waiting for me. My heart sank. That very same moment, I heard an incredible screech of tires on the road in front of the house. A huge work truck was bearing down on its breaks as hard as it could. I saw a flash of black and white. For a split second, I wondered if I should call her or not. I couldn’t tell where she was in relation to the truck, and I thought calling out to her might make her run back in front of it. Then I saw her; she had run directly in front of the truck and, scared to death, had kept running, as though she were leading the way as it skidded and slid behind her. It probably saved her life.

“MISSY!” I yelled, “GET BACK HERE!” But she didn’t need me to tell her. Terrified, she had already bounded back up into the yard and onto the front porch. I hadn’t even had time to make it to the front yard yet. The truck went on down the road. I locked Missy onto the front porch with a baby gate as I tried to find our hidden key. There was no way I was going to let her out of my sight to go back around through the back door.

I let Missy in, where she jumped up on the couch. Then she headed toward the back door, which was still open, but thought twice about going out again. I quickly closed that door and then sat down. I called Aaron. As I sat out on the front porch, telling him about it, I could smell burning rubber. The truck had left marks all the way down the road in front of our house.

Missy has been sitting on the couch ever since, peeking out the front window from time to time. I’ve been alternately tearily telling her how much I love her and gruffly chastising her for running away.

I’m gonna have to do some yoga to relax.
Monday, March 13, 2006

The day the music died

2006-03-24T12:01:00.000-08:00

Today the piped-in soft rock in my office cut off suddenly for FIVE WHOLE MINUTES. There I was, tapping away on the keyboard, entering the address of a very nice man who had just been explaining to me how he’d suffered from the gout on and off for the past five years and how he was going to have to sue his insurance company over the car wreck he’d been in, when “I Know This Much is True” began to sound really scratchy. Then it cut out in some places. I started to get hopeful. I finished my call, hung up, and began opening an envelope when suddenly it struck me. It was quiet. Too quiet. The girl whose office I share had gotten up to use the copier. All around me, I heard papers rustling and phones softly ringing. The music had stopped! I wanted to shout for joy at the sudden peace I’d found in the middle of a Monday. I instantly began to cheer up.

I could just imagine the Main Music Controller in the Music Control Room begin to panic. “EVERYONE TO THEIR POSTS! EVERYONE TO THEIR POSTS! GOOD LORD, PEOPLE, THIS IS NOT A DRILL! WE’VE LOST THE MUSIC, I REPEAT, THE MUSIC HAS BEEN ABORTED!!” In my mind, I saw men and women running back and forth, papers flying everywhere, a siren screaming in the background with red lights flashing. I imagined the Main Music Controller running up to a man cowering at his desk. “THE MUSIC HAS BEEN ABORTED! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, MAN, GET AHOLD OF YOURSELF! IF WE DON’T GET THE MUSIC BACK ON THESE PEOPLE MIGHT START THINKING FOR THEMSELVES. FOR THEMSELVES!” And then he slapped him soundly across the face.

I chuckled to myself just as my office partner came back. She gave me a funny look out of the corner of her eye. At that moment, “Take It To The Limit” came on over the speakers.

I could just hear all the guys up in Music Control breathe a huge sigh of relief.

Situation Averted.

Diversity Training

2006-03-24T11:58:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I took a class on diversity training during my morning job. A lot of the people I work with seem really nice, but since I only work there part time, I don’t get to talk to them much, so I was hoping that by going to this class I’d get to meet some new people. That didn’t happen, but here are some things I learned during Diversity Training:

1. Women control 80 percent of the spending in most households.
2. The Hispanic population in western North Carolina has increased by 129 percent in the past five years.
3. Never, no matter how hungry you are, should you gulp down a huge bowl of chili 10 minutes before attending an hour-long Diversity Training class, during which there are no bathroom breaks.