Thursday, July 31, 2003

things you absolutely do not need to know about me...

  • My older brother secretly pasted his boogers on the underside of our couch throughout his childhood. (I've been waiting to say that in public all my life!)
  • I would give formal burials to butterflies when I was a kid, complete with a cross made of twigs. (hey, it's a lot of work to get out of a cocoon!)
  • I have to eat everything salty on my plate before I can eat anything sweet.
  • I run the A/C with the windows down and the sunroof open if it's a really pretty day, but too hot for just the windows.
  • I will only wear pantyhose if you put it in writing that I have to. (You did know a man invented these?)
  • I am always late first thing in the morning. (I don't know why. My dad is always late, too.)
  • I am never late to a movie--ok, rarely.
  • I am twice as messy as my husband--maybe three times.
  • The older I get, the more I honk my car horn.
  • I always read the Metro Pulse from the back to the front.
  • I think advertising is evil. (That's what my degree is in.)

  • on being southern...

    The frog tried to look as big as the elephant, and burst.
    -African Proverb

    I spent many years "erasing" my accent in my teens and 20's. My parents grew up farming and scraping by in the Depression here in East Tennessee. I would consider them "country folks" to a certain extent and I desperately wanted to have nothing to do with that. So, I dedicated myself to battle the stereotype of the Southerner-undereducated and uncultured.

    All this work to de-Southernize made me quite weary. The strange thing was the more education I received, the more I didn't care about my "Southern-ness." In fact, the more educated I became, the more my interest grew in Appalachian culture, so much so that I constantly irritate my parents for stories of their families during the Great Depression. The stories are often very poignant, touching and sometimes terribly heartbreaking.

    These days I love both laughing at and being Southern. It is a great enigma to be Southern. I catch myself saying goofy things at times like "he was flyin'!" when I see someone speeding down our street, or my favorite original "(s)he can bite my big fat white southern-biscuit-eatin' ass." My accent also changes greatly according to my anger level. Moderate anger brings out my strongest accent as in "buncha da-a-a-mn rednecks!" But, lo and behold, if you really piss me off, I articulate with such clarity that it's like a personality change. When I saw the dead duck (see the post: friendly geezers and putrid half-humans) I was articulating like a mad Shakespearean actor.

    My accent also changes depending on who I am talking to. I hide it a bit when I'm talking to a Yank, er, I mean, Northerner, but I really let it hang loose when I'm talking to some 90+ year-old farmer in overalls sellin' 'maters on the side of the road. I think my accent has become an element of slang that I put away when I feel the need to be more proper. It's merely an accessory--a little Southern chaaaaam to hang from my bracelet.


    feeling like petrified dog poop today...will write more later.

    Wednesday, July 30, 2003


    Click for a big kitty...
    He's a beauty, my little Atticus. He's 11 years old now. I named him after a character in my favorite book, To Kill A Mockingbird.

    fundamentally strange

    When a finger points at the moon, the imbecile looks at the finger.
    -Chinese Proverb

    I was thinking while I was out to lunch today about Jesus' hair. I am not sure just what train of thought derailed far enough to get to that subject, but it did and so I thought some more about it.

    I grew up going to a very strict fundamentalist Baptist church (automatic 5 year therapy term). I mean this church thought that the Southern Baptist Convention was a bunch of leftists. Boys' hair had to be cut above the ears and girls couldn't wear sundresses or shorts (even for the softball team-needless to say I didn't play). Now, this was the 1970's mind you, the decade of hip-huggers and shorts that barely qualified to have a crotch in them. I mean, you always saw girls' and guy's underwear hanging out in gym class. No one even gave it second thought unless one of the guys' nuts made its way to fresh air. So what?

    But every Sunday, my family conveniently drove me back into the dark ages, which happened to be in the next county. Even as a clueless kid, I knew something was weird about all this. We had record burnings, which was freaky to me. I watched Barbara Streisand burn. Huh? What did she do, I wondered? Could I have it before it melts? I look back and guess that some husband was using it as an excuse to burn his wife's vinyl Babs collection.

    I digress.

    Anyway, I was thinking about all those things and how there used to be such a big deal about the length of men's hair (damn hippies!) and then I remembered one, if not one hundred, paintings of Jesus. The dude had long hair and a big fuzzy beard. How can you enforce style as part of a religion I wonder? He was trying to tell me something way back then.

    Bubba says "yes"!

    Well, by way of King Bubba, I am now listed in the Rocky Top Brigade. Click on the Tennessee flag in the blogroll area to see what other blogging Tennesseans (or those with ties to TN) are doing. And thanks to the weirdo across the hall for the kind referral...


    I feel like roadkill today...make it stop. More later...

    Tuesday, July 29, 2003

    which type are you?

    A Native American grandfather talking to his young grandson tells the boy he has two wolves inside of him struggling with each other. The first is the wolf of peace, love and kindness. The other wolf is fear, greed and hatred.
    "Which wolf will win, grandfather?" asks the young boy.
    "Which ever one I feed," replied the grandfather.

    Paying homage to my Cherokee heritage. Of course the beautiful dark skin stopped with ME. You can definitely tell my mother has a good bit of Cherokee heritage. And, of course, my dad had to be a pasty German mutt. I did get the cheekbones, though.

    Read The Education of Little Tree if you ever get a chance. It's a beautifully told story.

    feeling better today, despite…

    Apparently my husband and I are under official bad karma attack. We are going through the roughest financial period of our lives and guess what shows up yesterday—a letter from the IRS. That’s right. We made a mistake on our taxes several years ago that is going to cost us thousands (we will gladly accept your donations through PayPal). When the devil is on a roll, he goes for the jugular. It just sucks, especially considering the number of people who purposely cheat on their taxes. We just made a big dumb mistake. Don’t they give discounts to people who didn’t do it on purpose? I’m guessing “no.”

    Five things I couldn’t do if my life depended on it:

    1. water ski
    2. snow ski
    3. rollerblade
    4. ice skate
    5. eat fois gras or veal

    Did you see a trend in the first four? I can rollerskate (kind of), but I do not like activities where my feet move without my permission. There’s just something wrong with it and my brain refuses to cooperate. I even took a rollerblading CLASS. I was purple from my waist to my knees. I’m fairly coordinated and play piano, flute, a little fiddle and have played sports, but not the moving feet thing. Fois gras and veal are just evil—I don’t eat meat anyway, but they are the most abusive of animal meat products.

    Monday, July 28, 2003

    hoorah for puppies! they make things better...

    Welcome to Ramona, the new puppy of my co-worker across the hall. His first-ever puppy. She's a cutie!

    friendly old geezers and putrid half-humans

    I feel like shit today. That is all. Move along.

    No, wait, I do have something to say. Let me tell you this story:

    There’s a neat little pond about 10 minutes away from our house situated in an older neighborhood where we love to go feed the ducks and geese. These guys are totally tame because so many people come to feed them. The pond is surrounded by small houses and the birds loiter and waddle around in the surrounding yards, crossing the street in little duck gangs. They eat straight from your hand, off your shoulder, head—wherever.

    So, the husband and I were there with our loaf of bread at dusk and this old Grizzly Adams-looking dude with a big grey beard, cap and dirty t-shirt comes sauntering over and asks us if we’re catching any fish. (Here’s a recap of the more interesting parts of the conversation.)

    “No, we’re just feeding the ducks.”

    “Oh. Say, you guys know anything about birds?”

    “No, not really.”

    About this time, a car speeds down the road that circles the pond. The driver floors the gas and makes so much noise that we have to stop talking.

    “Jerk,” we say under our breath.

    Grizzly informs us that the police are patrolling the pond more because of people speeding through the area.

    “Good,” we say.

    He gets back to the bird story. “Well. You know a bird that’s 5 feet tall?”

    “An ostrich maybe.”

    “That don’t fly.”

    “An ostrich doesn’t fly.”

    “I’m talkin’ about a bird that’s got a wingspan of 70 feet.” Then we figure out he’s thinking of a bird that does fly.

    “70 feet?! Uh, that sounds pre-historical to me. Maybe a pterodactyl?”

    “Would they have information on that kind of thing at the library?”

    “I’m sure they would.”

    “I seen it on…you know that movie star with the pointy ears?”


    “Yeah! He was on one of them shows where he talks about strange stuff…”

    “Oh, yeah, we remember that show (but we couldn’t think of the name of it)…mysterious something?”

    “Yeah. They talked about a big bird with a wingspan of 70 feet swoopin’ down and grabbin’ this little boy by the back of the collar and flyin’ off with him…but then he dropped him back down right in his [father’s] arms.”

    “Oh…wow. That’s pretty wild.”

    “It was up in Ohio or Illinois or something.”


    The same car comes around the pond again, only doing 40 mph over the speed limit this time. We all scowl at the ignorant driver. By this time the mosquitoes are in full-feast mode and we’ve been out of bread for 10 minutes.

    “Well, we’re getting eaten by mosquitoes, so we’re gonna head out, I guess.”

    “Oh, ok. You all have a nice night!” He waves good-bye.

    “You, too.”

    We get in the car and decide the old guy has been hitting the sauce and I notice something on the side of the road. It’s one of our little ducks, dead. Now, remember the scene in “Something about Mary” where the crazy serial killer short-circuits in Ben Stiller’s car? Multiply that by at least 10.

    How big of a pussy do you need to be to run over DUCKS and get a kick out of it? I don’t know if it was the car that sped by while we were talking to our sauced-up old geezer-friend, but if it wasn’t, it was someone equally as stupid. It had also been recent because there were no insects on the bird. These ducks know the rules and get out of your way, but YOU HAVE TO SLOW DOWN FOR THEM. I am wondering if it was our little limping duck to whom we always gave extra snacks. I didn’t see him last night and he would have been an easy target. Anyway, I had to drug myself with cream cheese dip last night just to calm down (quick quiz: has this girl ever had an eating disorder in her life? Y or N). How could you get a laugh out of killing something so tame and harmless? Red-rum. Red-rum! RED-RUM! RED-RUM!!! The only thing that gives me comfort is the old “what goes around comes around.” There’s a special place in hell for these people and I hope I get to open the furnace door and shove them in with my big right foot. I’ll be wearing yo’ mama’s army boots.

    Did I mention I feel crappy today? Hugs and kisses. Bah!

    Sunday, July 27, 2003


    The husband and I went out for the large-two-topping-wheat-crust-chicago-style-pizza special at Stephano's and after driving around a bit and in general picking our noses while taking in the sights we have taken in approximately three million times before, we returned home. Then I fed the dogs and wandered around the house aimlessly. Then, I saw it. Puke on the bed again...puke on the Ralph Lauren sheets that I THOUGHT were on sale...dried with a smattering of felted hair dispersed throughout the golden crust. It was a little small to be one of Baxter's vomits (the white kitty in the back of the boat), but it might have been "part deux" of one of his "vomitaculars." Baxter usually pukes in two parts--one gigantic spew that makes you want to call 911 and then a mini-hack that's mostly juice. *breathe into a paper bag* So guess what I get to do tonight? That's right...wash...again.

    comments changed

    I switched my commenting to HaloScan so I could personalize them a little more. Unfortunately, I lost some witty comments by friends, so ...hate that. You must entertain me again sometime. Yack a hairball today!

    And to really screw up your psyche for the day, here's Mark Ryden's art: Click here dingleberry.

    Saturday, July 26, 2003

    oh, my eyes!

    This crazy image was found at Maximum Aardvark. Where's the Advil?

    Been out farting around at bookstores and dinner---had a delicious tofu sandwich at the Mellow Mushroom. Since you-know-who is still feeling quite diluted, there will be no ticker-tape parades tonight. I did buy a new paper journal for the really major whining and philosophizing I need to do. I've kept journals most of my life, especially in my 20's, and have 1000's of pages of personal ruminations--and they're all going into the crematorium with me when I bite the big one. As much as I like typing this journal for fun, there's no substitute for acid-free paper and a fine-tipped fountain pen. Black ink, of course. Ooooh, delicious. I love pens. I hate writing with bad poisons the whole experience.

    One more thought, since I'm so damn bored I could start my hair on fire for entertainment...if you have cats, have you noticed that you ARE NOT ALLOWED to sit on the toilet without their immediate supervision? What is this all about? Atticus, especially, (the one squished at the front of the boat and to the left) is compelled to paw the door open, or whatever he has to do, so he can stare at me the whole time I am on the toilet. It's like he's trying to brainwash me or something. "Mother cat, you must obey my commands. Listen to my purr. You are a giant steaming turd. Flush yourself away...away...AWAY!!!!!" Well, I don't know what he's thinking--maybe I should get that stupid Meowlingual and get some interpretation. He talks all the time anyway. I could really get some use out of it. He's probably saying, "How could you take my testicles away?!" or "Get me my kitty crack*, now!!!" or "Move your fat ass over to the treats and make yourself useful." Of course, I think he's saying, "Aw, pick me up, you're the best mom ever..."

    *catnip, of course

    why you should always have a camera with you

    I went down to Burger King to get some lunch for myself and a certain hungover husband of mine (night out with the boys) and I ordered him some cheeseburgers and for myself a veggie burger. I went through the drivethrough and after I paid I was told that it would be a couple of minutes on my veggie burger because "it's made up fresh" (read: it's frozen and we have to thaw the shit out because no one but you orders that crap around here). Anyway, so I dutifully pull up out of the way and wait for my special "fresh" delivery and I start hearing the theme to the Andy Griffith show. It was a little twilight zone-ish as I couldn't tell where it was coming from...surely BK wasn't piping the Andy Griffith theme into the kids' play area. Anyway, it got louder.

    I looked over at the adjacent side street and there it was. A perfect replica of Sheriff Andy Taylor's police car cruising down the street. We're talking the really old one. Perfect black and white with the big gumdrop of a siren in the middle of the roof. Inside, was some crazy bloke dressed up like Barney or Andy and was waving to everyone and blaring the siren. I was wondering if he was going mad from the loudspeaker playing the 30 second clip over and over (beginning with the whistling).

    Anyway, I wasn't the only person noticing this oddity. This homeless dude without a variety of front teeth rides past my car on his bike and looks at me and yells, "Dat's Barney Fiiiife!!!" and he proceeds to ride down toward the car which is stopped at the redlight on the sidestreet. I had to laugh out loud because the guy was bobbing his head up and down to the theme song. He stopped at the passenger side and I could hear him yell into the car "You's Barney Fiiiifffeee!" The guy handed him a flier and the light turned green. As I was secretly dying to know what the flier said, a little chick came out and handed over my food. The homeless guy sat on his bike in the middle of the road (it's a fairly busy intersection) until he got finished reading the flier and then rode his bike back up to where I was just pulling out. He excitedly showed me the flier that advertised a "Mayberry Music Festival" August 2 and said he didn't need it back because he knew where it was. And he rode off. I put the flier on the refrigerator when I got home.

    My veggie burger sucked but the trip turned out to be fun.

    Friday, July 25, 2003

    raccoon vittles

    This has really been bothering me. Dead raccoons. I love raccoons. They are smart and, if they could talk, I am positive they would be incredibly witty. The problem is this...I've seen about 50 of them as hillbilly cuisine on the side of the road. The entire summer. It absolutely breaks my heart.

    Since we moved our offices, I have a shortcut that gives me a wonderful scenic drive--except for the plethora of dead animals. This is so traumatic. I slow down for butterflies, OK? I will cause a 90-car pile up for a stinky, brainless opossum and I shake my fist at God all day when I see a dead puppy on the side of the road. *deep breath* Ok.

    Anyway, I don't ever remember seeing raccoons on the side of the road--ever. I've searched for statistics on overpopulation of raccoons and everything and I can't figure it out. Maybe they are committing suicide in protest to the stupidity of the human race. (That would actually be an understandable reason.)

    And why is it that no one can seem to stop? There are no skidmarks around any of these lovely creatures (they're about as big as a beagle). I don't know. It's all very disconcerting. I can only think that, being noctural animals, they are blasted with so much light that they are momentarily blinded and can't see to escape the evil wheels bearing down on them. (This is also my theory on opossums...just in case you were dying to know.)

    So, I think there's a lot of bad raccoon karma floating around in East Tennessee. There's a bill to be paid and it ain't gonna be pretty.

    have a glass of milk and de-stress

    My wish is that each of you eliminates stress in your life. So first step is to take a stress test. Please take this 1 minute test. Click on the stress test.
    Dolphin Stress Test
    Take care and please stay calm...


    Being the opposite of astute in the morning, I rarely look where I am walking when I'm getting up and heading toward the bathroom to get ready for work. This morning on the way to grab some fresh clothes from the chest I stepped on something cold and wet. Hairball. The really funny thing about it was that I was GRATEFUL to have stepped on JUST a hairball. Usually what I step in is a big greasy pile of kitty vomit, hacked up by our personal vomit machine Baxter (the white kitty in the back of the boat). Now, there's nothing wrong with Baxter. He just eats like a pig and spews up what won't fit later on--usually on the bed while we're gone. Or in my shoes. Or in the fringe of the area rugs.

    Anyway, someone else must have hacked during the night (which I can't believe I slept through) because it's the other cats that expel the long tubes of nastiness. The first time I saw a hairball I thought it was poop. The first time I saw my cats puke one up, I was mortified. I was ready to call 911. Then, it was like, "OH! So THIS is a hairball."

    But nothing could beat Sadie's massive dog vomit on the bed a couple of weeks ago. I could tell she wasn't feeling well, so I was laying on the bed with her. Whine, whine. Aw, Sadie what is it, girl? YAA-A-A-A-A-CK. Oh. She must have puked up 16 ounces of the most foul-smelling vomit I have ever encountered in my life right on the blanket. We gave her two teaspoons of Pepto, but not before she yacked again on the couch. I spent the entire night cleaning up vomit and gagging on the smell. It was truly vile. She got better after the Pepto and hasn't had any problems since, thank God. Needless to say, we have a variety of stain cleaners, Spot Lifter equipment and a poor, worn out (but almost new) vacuum cleaner. We need a new one once a year.

    I actually spun up some of the cats' hair the other day on the Kiwi, but it was a little short. I was too lazy to card it up with much wool.

    Thursday, July 24, 2003

    oh, dear.

    I think blogging might be a bad thing for me. I keep noodling with it, and the editor in me keeps going back and correcting type-os. This can't be good. I haven't made shit this week because I've been glued to this damn computer. Maybe the novelty of a new format will wear off soon and I'll go back to my irritating daily paragraph about minor irritations. Minor irritations? Try Gold Bond Medicated powder...too much advertising. Thanks, Michelle, for visiting. At least one other person read it! Hoo-rah!

    Where Art Thou, Serotonin?

    Is it possible to be intellectually bored to death? Can you reverse the cell maturity process—say, back to age two? I’m so sick of this job that I am hoping to receive far away radio stations in my oldest tooth fillings. Please, anything to create some mental stimulation. I’ve just been here too long. Thirteen years with one company is toooooo long. I am being retarded (as in the verb). Maybe I just have “rigid synapse syndrome.” Could that happen? Petrified electrical impulses? Maybe my serotonin has been replaced by watered-down Five Alive…no, that would be too nutritious…how about day-old Mello Yello or warm malt liquor? Ew.

    Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Stay employed. It’s a good thing to be able to pay the bills. Classes start again next month. Stick with the plan…it’ll be okay.

    he's late

    Today's he's headed to the bathroom almost a full 20 minutes late...

    the “out-of-the-way” bathroom

    Here in the office we all take note of the locations of the bathrooms. There’s one near the front we tell visitors to go to most of the time and then a couple of offices have their own bathrooms (must be nice). But, in the back hallway, there’s that bathroom. You know—the out-of-the-way bathroom.

    At 10:30 a.m. every morning, one of my male co-workers passes by my office to go to the OOTW bathroom. He turned 40 this year. I guess he’s on a schedule now.

    We’re talking about a great psychological study here. How does a group of people, without discussing with one another, pick the OOTW bathroom? It happens every time if there is a choice of bathrooms. Some bathrooms are for dainty business and others are plainly earmarked for gastrointestinal works of art. I suppose, for people who only have one bathroom with many stalls, you could do a study on stall choice.

    To Share or Not to Share?
    Then there’s the question of whether or not to share the fruits of our labor. At first I thought it was only the men leaving the door wide open after creating a work of art, but I think it’s really a mixture of men and women. My suspicion is that this behavior is taught by the family of origin. I don’t remember receiving said instruction, but common sense tells me to spray and leave the door cracked. To fill the entire hallway with flowery poop smell is not appealing to me. Yes, it dissipates quickly, but at what cost? Why not dissipate the aroma slowly and privately? The only victim would be the next user of the OOTW bathroom. If they are not there to create a work of art themselves, then let them go to one of the dainty bathrooms. Or the person could “pre-spray” the area for olfactory comfort.

    Wednesday, July 23, 2003

    feasting on the beasts?

    The Knoxville Zoo has a great fundraiser called Feast with the Beasts. Nearly 40 area restaurants are setting up in the zoo to serve up their best fare for Beast guests. The event is featured in the local CityView magazine and the pub devotes a lot of space to the participating vendors. I have heard of this event for years and never really thought much about it, but as I flipped through the vendors, I saw page after page of close-up photos of filets, tips, ribs, etc. How ironic is this?

    So, these well-bred charitable types will get all dressed up and go dine on marinated dead animals to raise money for the captive ones who look on. “Hey Bobo, sorry I’m eating your distant cousin over here, but DAMN he’s good with this southern-style bar-b-que sauce! Mmmmm--mmmmmm! Can I have me some fried ‘taters with that?!”

    Everyday it strikes me that we are the only natural species that chooses to kill despite the fact that we do not need to in order to survive. Even worse, we kill for sport. The only other species I know of that will kill for reasons other than sustenance is the domestic dog.

    Today’s Bitch Slap…
    goes to the folks who refuse to stop using the expression “12noon.” There is NO REASON TO DO THIS…EVER. Noon is ALWAYS 12 p.m. Just say “noon.” Or, for God’s sake, you can say 12 p.m. if you can’t let go of the numbers. It’s OK. People will understand. Even people with a 6th grade education have seen a couple of spaghetti westerns where they snarled out the term “high noon.” It was hot. The sun was directly above them… If I have to edit that out of a newsletter one more time, I’m going to poke my eyes out with cocktail forks.

    An Extra TWO Bitch Slaps…
    go to me:
  • for not catching “in mass” before my editor got hold of the copy. “En masse” is the proper term, of course. Yea, verily, I was embarrassed and rightly so.
  • for gaining back all TWENTY pounds I lost last year. I was parading around in an 8 last year. Arrrr-r-r-r-rgh!

  • You Are Edward From "Edward Scissorhands."

    You are very shy and often misunderstood. Innocent, sweet, and artistic, you like to pass your days by daydreaming and expressing yourself through the arts. You are a truly unique individual. Unfortunately, you are quite lonely, and few people truly understand you.

    Take The Johnny Depp Quiz!

    Hurrah for death...

    Uday, Qusay are no more (we are told). I am, after reading about their evil tyranny many times, glad they are gone. But, there's something odd about being happy about the death of a human, or any living thing for that matter. When we rejoice for the death of others because they were so completely evil that they deserved no place here, then, my God, are we screwed up or what? I always pretend to be an outsider, an alien if you will, and I can tell you why no other form of life has visited our little rock--we're crazy and stupid. We can't get along with one another...we strip our Earth of its resources with no thought for future generations...we thoughtlessly kill billions of animals for our own use, far beyond what could be justified for survival. Who would want to visit us (if there are such beings)? I would steer clear of the entire universe quite frankly. *sigh* But, there are as many good things to behold as there are evil and so sometimes I just don't pick up the paper and I go about my business being human in my own circle of loved ones (two and four-legged) and it gets me grounded again.

    Tuesday, July 22, 2003

    APA Applauds Final Report of President's New Freedom Commission on Mental Health

    APA Applauds Final Report of President's New Freedom Commission on Mental Health OK, we'll see. Let's hope it's not lipservice on paper.

    nota bene in the release:

  • About 30 percent of our nation's adults suffer from a diagnosable mental or addictive disorder, and 20 percent of our nation’s children display the signs or symptoms of a diagnosable mental disorder within the course of a year.
  • The recommendations offered by the Commission today will enable people with mental disorders to receive more timely and more appropriate care coordinated within a workable mental health service delivery system
  • Supports the call by President Bush for federal legislation to provide full parity between insurance coverage for mental health and physical health care.

    In the meantime, I'm bedding down to watch QUEER EYE FOR THE STRAIGHT GUY on Bravo! It's a great show and done well with tongue-in-cheek (so-to-speak).

  • c'ya LJ

    I think that I am really going to leave Live Journal behind. I've teetered back and forth on it for a long time, but I think I there's more flexibility with Blogger. Read the old journal, HOTBLIGGITYBLOG, here. I think I got too negative in that journal anyway...gonna try to lighten it up a bit.

    I need to start working on my piece for the American Cancer's due Aug. 20 or so. It will be a cloth doll built around the theme of hope. I think I'm going to use real gemstone and pearl embellishment since the auction will be filled with hoity-toidies. I think real materials look so much better anyway--and drive the value up--especially good for a charity auction.

    I manage a question and answer function on our intranet at work and got a funny question in: "A nurse told me I have hoofs for feet..what do i do?" Actually, it was misspelled worse than that, but I had fun with the answer. "Now, you know that you spell 'hoofs' like 'hooves,' right? First you need to find a good farrier to trim and shoe your hooves and we recommend a vet visit at least once a year..." I went on. Of course one person wrote in and said they were offended by my flippant posting, but about 10 others said that it made them laugh out loud and they hoped to see more. Well, I probably can't get away with that, but with some of the questions that come in, I could stay really busy.

    I don't know why I'm in such a freakin' chatty mood today. I guess I'm excited to start a new blog and leave the old one behind. More later.

    She Scooped!

    Rooney here. She loves me. She really loves me. I am now at one with my natural urges. I can frolic and breathe freely in the low-dust, low-track scoopable litter. I'd better go do my business before Baxter lumbers into the garage. Kisses and Purrs!

    What the hell?

    Rooney here. Mom said I could post. Well, you bet your sweet ass I'm gonna. What does she do, but run out of the house, leaving us at least 10, count 'em, 10 piles of crap in the litter boxes. About half of them were Baxter's, who always leaves human turds for us all to walk around. I mean, I like to have a good roll in the stuff, take a whiz and neatly cover it up. Baxter, God love him, his ass hangs out of the box half the time. Oh well, he's kind of old--got the whole bingo-arm swing action happening on the belly. So, mom, if you're reading this, I got a big surprise waiting for you right in the middle of the entryway. We'll see how you like that. Let's plan on getting up earlier so we can do our chores, shall we? It's not like we have opposable thumbs and can do it ourselves. Later.

    Mostly Tuesday...

    Forecast: Looks like it's going to be Tuesday ALL DAY today. The sky will hover above us and the ground will attract falling things (including my middle-aged boobs). Meat-eaters will continue to make fun of vegetarians and my big white deaf cat, Baxter, will continue to puke all over my house with a certain glee. My rose garden will continue to look like the arid desert of the midwest and the weeds will stand lush and green. I will still have to edit our corporate publication and I will still cringe the entire time I am doing it. I will drink far too much Diet Coke today and I will have a Moon Pie at about 10:30 a.m. I will enjoy the Moon Pie and be sad that it is gone when I take the last bite. We will have a staff meeting at lunch. I might have another snack at 3 p.m. if I'm really feeling swine-ish. Gravity will still be in effect and will have taken hold of not only my boobs, but my eyelids as well. The work day will end. I will go home. I will eat AGAIN, rub all six cats and dogs for good luck, daydream about my next hat, hug my husband a couple of times and go to bed. Then, Wednesday will start. Wednesday's forecast looks, the same?

    I have an interesting idea for a figure based on the theme of time. My husband and I chose to not have kids, so we are in that freakish group of people that people just don't understand. I'm pretty sure that we have enough people to run things at the moment, so I don't feel pressed to reproduce. It is pretty funny to try an explain this to someone. They will cock their heads to the side like my dogs do when you say "you hungry?" and then they start asking "why?" and then they say "but why?" and then they say, "but I just don't understand why..." and it goes on and on. "But you'd be such a great mom..." Blah, blah, blah. Then comes the whisper "I just think that's selfish." Mmmmmm? I merely think I know who I am and what I need to do during my time here on Earth. Oh...back to the figure. I have collected together a bunch of mechanical watch pieces that I will incorporate into the doll. We'll have her "smash" the clock. After all, it's a clock that's been placed onto her. Keep your clock hands off of me! We'll see how it develops.

    Forgot to add some of my favorite hatmakers to my links: Hansard Welsh Designs. Of course it's all handfelted wool...wouldn't have anything else.

    Monday, July 21, 2003

    Monday melts into Tuesday...

    What a droll Monday it has been. I try to close my eyes until I get to Friday. Maybe I need to schedule some fiber projects on a specific schedule, so I can bear the corporate drabness. I can't wait to get my new satin labels in for my hats. They will look yummy with that nice touch in the hatband.

    Spun up some more mohair and wool. I have no idea what I'm going to do with it, but I don't know what I'm going to do with the other 20 skeins of fiber I've done either. I can't quit spinning long enough to knit it up. The bane of the fiber can't get your hands on enough of it.

    I'm asking the cats which one of them wants to be my first guest blogger. I think Rooney will probably raise his paw first.

    Share a hat with the one you love

    Guess what? I just missed my 20 year reunion. And...drum roll...I could not care less. Imagine that.

    So, here we are. I would like to take Robin Foley's class this fall at the Folk School. I think my figure-making skills would improve tremendously, even if I didn't want to go down the road of soft sculpture. She is very good and it's an intense class. See Robin's work HERE.

    I tried to get into the hatmaking mood over the weekend, but felt a little under the weather. I did wash up a sheep fleece though. That probably doesn't sound like fun to you, but I think it's kind of fun. I spun some mohair and wool last night, but it was so hot upstairs that I got miserable pretty quickly.

    More later.

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