The long weekend

Greetings and salutations all, I'm knee-deep into a blissfully long holiday weekend!

I've thus far had the priviledge of hosting no less than three great girlfriends on the balcony. Unfortunately, I only had the presence of mind to break out the camera for two of them. I blame the adult beverages.

I don't have long to write today, but here's a quick update:

-Still considering Drastic Action C.

-I have secured a real world writing gig. This could cut down significantly on the fun and games at this here blog, but I'm going to try and keep up!

-The controversy relating to my re-naming of the spouse here rages on. Still, no one likes "MisterT". And I do mean NOBODY. At a marathon girlfriend lunch on Friday it was decided that, if possible, I should take a poll here.

And, despite the fact that I am the self-proclaimed Walter Brennen of Internet Technology, CHECK IT OUT:




Take My Poll

These Days...

What I'm reading.

What I'm watching (also, this).

What I'm listening to.

Most recently seen at the theater (noise on that link).

I highly recommend them all.

Summer Yumminess

I don’t know about you, but my sweet basil (thanks Christa!) is madly productive these days. So much so that MisterT and I have trouble keeping up with it and it is in constant danger of bolting.

I developed this delicious recipe yesterday and it’s too good to keep to myself.

Sweet Basil Quesadillas

4 Flour Tortillas
Handful of washed, dried, chopped sweet basil
½ large or one small chopped onion
1 large clove garlic
Your favorite shredded cheese blend (I used Monterey Jack, Sharp Cheddar and Parmesean, but whatever’s handy will work)
Paprika
Some sort of two sided grill i.e., pannini, George Foreman, I suppose a waffle iron might work too

Place chopped onion in a bowl, sprinkle with olive oil, salt and paprika. Microwave on high for two and a half minutes (instant grilled onions!). Slice garlic clove in half and rub one side of the tortillas with it for flavor. Sprinkle cheese mixture on one half of each of the tortillas and top that with the onions and chopped sweet basil. Fold the empty half of the tortilla over the loaded half forming a half circle. Grill for three minutes each in a two-sided grill (you could probably do it like a grilled cheese in a skillet too). Cut into triangles and serve with salsa for dipping.

The dish makes an excellent summer lunch or appetizer with your favorite draft beverage! I can hardly stand my cooking self.

And now for a couple of secrets just between me, you, and the fence post.

First, I’ve taken matters into my own hands and stolen MisterT’s hummingbird feeder. After all, Harold (and now Maude) were MY friends and it’s just, well, NOT FAIR. So, the feeder is filled, mine, and installed on my balcony. Expect pictures soon.

Secondly, and I can’t say this too loud in case the universe might take notice and devise some cruel joke on me, so I’ll whisper...

Vewry, vewry quietly...

(Today I am happy.)

Random Chattiness

Okay, so it’s been a while since I’ve put up a post of random updates about myself. Today is the day.

Hmmm, firstly, there’s been a lot of backlash about my decision to rename the spouse MisterT. Frankly, nobody, Nobody, NOBODY likes it. Most everyone says it “doesn’t flow” like it used to since the switch. In fact, MisterT himself has had second thoughts about the decision having received calls AT WORK protesting the change. It got to the point where MisterT was ready to give up and give in and approve my going back to calling him the S-word.

On the other hand, it wasn’t the greatest experience for MisterT when upon entering a crowded movie theater somebody yelled, “Hey look! It’s S---n!” and all heads turned in our direction. Well, so it WAS funny, but only if you’re me and not him, right? Also, he had a meeting recently where some of the principles were calling him the S-word. Which, of course, TOTALLY makes me snicker, but probably isn’t the best idea for him, truly.

And so, I’m sticking with MisterT, apologies to everyone. Even though he DID steal my hummingbirds! The little junkies are still zipping by my balcony, completely ignoring my lantana, petunias and pink geraniums, not to mention ME in favor if MisterT’s big bottle o’ bird crack.

Update on the cell phone situation—MisterT, fueled by indignation over his perceived shoddy treatment at the hands of me and Dave the Cingular Guy, through some complicated maneuvering, ultimately managed to get a new razor phone for about $50. He spent a few days waving it around and asking me when I was going to CALL MY FRIEND DAVE and tell him ALL ABOUT his NEW $50 RAZOR. HA! Also, randomly shouting (after hanging up from a cell call), “TAKE THAT, DAVE!” Which, you know, was a little spooky when it happened in restaurants and parking lots and stuff. I suspect MisterT may still be making these out-of-the-blue pronouncements when I’m not around, which probably looks pretty bazaar to the uninformed. But the good news is that he’s feeling much better about the whole thing in general.

I know ya'll have just been on the edge of your seats about my personal situation since I posted the "Wednesday Night Breakdown" entry. Truth is, I'm still in the midst of an existential crisis. Unfortunately, SURPRISE, I am not getting the support I would like to during this delicate time from MisterT.

Take today, for instance. I was once again discussing Drastic Action C on the phone with MisterT. And, would you believe? ONCE AGAIN, he wasn't saying the RIGHT things to me, but rather he was again making EVIL MISTERT statements.

So, since I know he reads this blog, I'm going to post that particular phone conversation noting his actual responses to my statements and also, for his personal growth and development, what he SHOULD HAVE BEEN SAYING. In this fashion, perhaps, he can grow as a person and become more successful in life.

ME
Seriously, I think I'm going to take Drastic Action C

MISTERT
Actual Response: You are just going to finally have to make a decision here.
Ideal Response: Maybe I should take some time off work, and we should take a nice long walk with FurGirl and talk it over.

ME
Okay, I COULD make a decision but it might not be the decision YOU like. Then how will you react?

MISTERT
Actual Response: We all gotta do what we gotta do.
Ideal Response: Honey, whatever YOU want is also what I PERSONALLY want. Most of all I want you to be happy.

ME
Can't you, for once, be a little more supportive?

MISTERT
Actual Response: I can't make the decision for you.
Ideal Response: How about I call the spa and book you a massage while you think it over?

ME
No, but you could HELP me make the decision.

MISTERT
Actual Response: I've got another call.
Ideal Response: I'm clearing my calendar until we get this resolved.

ME
'Bye

MISTERT
Actual Response: *click*
Ideal Response: NEVER LEAVE ME, I BEG YOU!

So, really, I'm fairly optimistic since we're not very far apart here.

Chasing Harold (and Maude)

Last summer, I made a new friend outside on my balcony. Harold, a hummingbird, was partial to my bright pink petunias and angel wing begonia. Harold was a pretty regular visitor all last year and, once or twice, darn near flew into my eyeball.

So, this year, when I put my plants out, I was naturally hoping my little friend would come back.

Unfortunately, someone else was too. A very competitive someone else.

That’s right, the uber competitive MisterT.

And so, when Harold made his first appearance of the year on MY balcony hovering around the Lantana, it was big news around these parts. And, not to be outdone a second year in a row, the cheating, black hearted MisterT ran right on out to the store and bought himself, guess what:

Yep, a hummingbird feeder. He hung it on HIS balcony and, sure enough, not two hours later I spied MY Harold, the sugar eating slut, all a-twitter and orgasmically slurping on MisterT's gaudy cheap-assed plastic flower:

That was yesterday. Today, as MisterT and I sat on his balcony enjoying the storm, a frantic rain soaked Harold flew up to get another fix.

Only THIS TIME, he brought along his girlfriend, Maude:

And, all I have to say about that is:

Don't call ME when it's time to check into the Betty Hummingbird Center. Call your "good friend" MisterT who, I assure you, WILL NOT be around to pick up the pieces.

Happy Father's Day

In the Still of the Night

You should know that my very own mother has a short story up at a new e-zine called Southern Hum. Check it out. We are beside ourselves with excitement! As Mom and I were discussing this exciting development over the phone yesterday, we agreed that writing is more a sickness than a talent. You need to do it, but you don’t want to do it. And sometimes you want to do it, but then you’re embarrassed about it. And then, finally, you write the perfect sentence and it’s fantastic. And then you’re proud of it, but you don’t want anybody to actually SEE it. Unless they’ll like it and then, of course, yes—please do read it! It’s an affliction. Truly.

And, while we're on the subject, what is it about southern writers anyway? Why so much better, so much more colorful? Face it, there's not a yearly volume of short stories published called "Best of the North". No, only "Best of the South". And, hello? Oxford, Mississippi? "Tennessee" Williams? Face it writing's all about the south. And, don't go making some smart-assed "Kentucky isn't the south" comment, either. 'Cause there's a whole state full of southerners here ready to smack you up-side the head with their country hams who think differently.

My POINT, however, is that Mom has come up with something wonderful. Read and enjoy. I hereby predict that this is just the beginning.

Go Mom!

Scene from a Salon

Yesterday, I got my hair “Alvinized” by my favorite stylist and long time friend, (take a guess) Alvin. While I was in the waiting room, I decided to give my Mom a call on my cell phone and discuss a recent short story I’d written that she’d read. Here’s what happened:

ME
Yah…no, that part really happened.

Another woman enters the waiting room, takes a seat, and begins reading a magazine.

ME
Seriously! He got struck by lightening.

ME
(laughing hysterically)
I know, I was totally laughing about it and then I realized the man was ACTUALLY STRUCK BY LIGHTENING. I guess that’s why he was always going around in rubber glasses. And a trench coat, come to think of it. That surely had nothing to do with the lightening strike! Do you think?

ME
(laughing)
I don’t know. No. They never said when he was struck.

ME
Yah, he probably died there. (laughing) Yes! In his trench coat!

ME
No, I didn’t actually steal it. I wish I had!

ME
The file? Yah, I threw it at her.

ME
Yes! Just like a Frisbee.

ME
Oh, PLUS forgot to add that Stacy thought I should take an ax and even Lois’s toes up with her sandals! Yes! (laughing hysterically)

ME
Oh, I know I should. I probably will.

ME
Yah, she was always so much fun to be with, wasn’t she?

OTHER WOMAN IN THE WAITING ROOM
Okay, now I’m scared.

ME
(Suddenly noticing the woman)

OTHER WOMAN IN THE WAITING ROOM
(Looking seriously frightened)

ALVIN
Okay, Suz, I’m ready for you.

ME
Gotta go…

The Hill

So, as evidenced in my last post and in a few previous posts, many of you may remember our friends Mark and Beth. Just this past January, they set off for a new life and new opportunities in the frozen north.

As most of you know, it’s not easy starting over in a new community. It’s sometimes hard to meet kindred spirits and to develop a new social circle in a far away place. It can be lonely without the friends and family we are used to having, in some cases, just next door.

And I think it has been tough on Mark and Beth. Huddled around their small wood burning stove as the howling winds of winter blew in blinding snowstorm after relentless blinding snowstorm, they wondered many a time—had they made the right decision? Was moving away really the right thing to do? Is it really the law that everyone must own a snow-blower in this god forsaken place? And, what the hell wrong with Britney Spears anyway?

As they pondered these and many other important questions, the winter winds finally subsided. The snowdrifts began to melt. The ice receded, the birds sang, the trees began to bud, and the freezing temperatures gave way to a balmy breezy spring.

And, a few months later, something else blew in on the warm pleasant winds of summer.

A friend. A kindred spirit. Someone to hang out with, to tell your troubles to. Someone to call for dinner and a movie. Someone to, you know, say plot your political strategy with?

And people, it just so happens that that friend is Hillary-freakin-Clinton:

(As I understand it, Mark has his eyes closed because he's so shy.)

Dang, guys, we thought it would take you at least a year to make it to the top!

A long distance bouquet for Mark & Beth...

...picked from their garden today.

Wednesday Night Breakdown

It is Wednesday night. I’m not feeling good about. Well…Things That Cannot be Spoken of in the Blog. MisterT and I are at the bar in the kitchen eating a delightful dinner of soup and salad that I have prepared.

ME
Oh….WOE is me woe is me I’ve got Problem A and Problem B and, boy does it ever suck!

MISTERT
(eating salad)

ME
I tell you, I cannot stand Problem A OR Problem B for another second!

MISTERT
(eating soup)

ME
I’m going to take drastic, DRASTIC action about Problem A and Problem B just any minute. I SWEAR TO GOD I AM!

MISTERT
(back to the salad)

ME
Oh, WOE IS ME! These problems are overwhelming and life altering and I’m dying inside. DYING. INSIDE.

MISTERT
(sips his tea)

ME
Maybe you didn’t hear me? In fact, I’M SURE YOU DIDN’T HEAR ME. I’m DYING INSIDE. ME. INSIDE. DEAD.

MISTERT
(Pats my shoulder).
Wow, that’s really too bad.

ME
HEY! Listen. I’m not kidding here. Soon I will be taking DRASTIC ACTION C. I will! Drastic Action C! It will happen!

MISTERT
Wow, Drastic Action C, huh? That sounds serious. Is there anything I can do to help with Drastic Action C?

ME
Oh, FUNNY! HELLO? I am SERIOUS. This would be ME being SERIOUS.

The phone rings. I grab it in mid-screech.

ME
HELLO?!

TELEMARKETER
May I please speak to the male of the house?

ME
Say WHAT?

TELEMARKETER
May I please speak to the male of the house?

ME
Let me get this STRAIGHT. YOU, a telemarketer, DO NOT want to speak to ME.

TELEMARKETER
I’m sorry ma’am, but this is a health insurance survey for the male of the house.

ME
NOT TONIGHT IT’S NOT, B---H!
(I slam the phone down)

MISTERT
(snickering)

ME
The TELEMARKETERS don’t even want to talk to me! NO! I am not GOOD ENOUGH for the telemarketers! Here I am STRUGGLING with Problem A and Problem B and EVEN CONSIDERING DRASTIC ACTION C and, along with being IGNORED by my HUSBAND, I am simultaneously being REJECTED by TELEMARKETERS?! Can I make this SH** UP? No, NO I CANNOT!

MISTERT
Sounds like a blog post.

ME
SHUT. UP. YOU.

Miss Thang

It’s six a.m. when my alarm begins the obnoxious beeping that signals another work day. I crack open an eye just long enough to locate the snooze button, smack it, and snuggle back under the covers in a vain attempt to pretend another early morning isn’t happening. On the floor in her “bed” (a shaggy white 100% extra large cotton bath mat) next to me I hear FurGirl stir, make a noise that is the doggy equivalent of a moan, and settle back in. She, too, is hoping this is really a weekend.

After several more slaps of the snooze, I reluctantly swing my feet to the floor. This is FurGirl’s signal. She stirs again, stands, stretches her front paws as far as possible in front of her while poking her hind end high into the air, and yawns. She then straightens up, trots to the door and waits expectantly.

Time for her morning potty.

I pull on my robe, sleep walk over to the door and open it. She canters toward the back porch with me half awake stumbling behind. I open the back door and give her the command,

“Go potty”.

Fully awake now, FurGirl springs out the door and hurls herself at the metal spiral staircase as if reaching the ground were a timed Olympic event. I’m never quite sure if she runs or rolls down those stairs, the noise could indicate either. But, whatever, I swing the door shut and begin my morning routine.

A few minutes later, as per usual, I revisit the back door and give a little whistle, FurGirl’s signal that potty time is over. Most of the time, within a few seconds or a minute she’ll be climbing back up the staircase and then trotting back in the house.

For whatever reason, today is not the usual day. A minute or more passes…no FurGirl. I sigh. Walk over to the window. There, a floor down and a yard and a half over is FurGirl. Not pottying. Lollygagging.

I sigh again. It IS a beautiful day.

Life, however, must go on. From the window, I whistle again and give a few quick sharp claps. FurGirl glances up ever so quickly at the window and then back down at the ground which she is sniffing intently, rapturously.

She hears me, she just isn’t listening.

I begin to get annoyed. I cross the back porch again, open the door, and begin whistling, clapping and calling FurGirl’s name. I glance back at her through the window and see she is in full-blown denial mode, my calling and clapping having absolutely no impact whatsoever. She is now doing the “Ain’t life grand!” wallow in the grass, all four paws pointing at the sky as she spastically and ecstatically wiggles on her back.

“[Expletive Deleted], FURGIRL,” I shout, louder this time, and begin clapping like a madwoman again.

I am startled from my cacophony by a noise in the family room. It is MisterT, bleary eyed having been roused from sleep by the commotion.

“WHAT in the HELL is going on here?” he hisses.

“FurGirl is ignoring me,” I say dejectedly stopping in mid clap.

“For the love of God, people are trying to SLEEP around here, would you mind shutting the hell up for a minute?” he says and then heads back toward the bedroom, giving a quick whistle just as he disappears through door.

From my vantage point, I have a perfect view of the effect of that particular whistle on the dog. She freezes in mid-wallow and springs into an upright position, all four paws on the ground now, her eyes wide with panic. Her face says,

“Oh NO! It’s THE MAN! Dear God! THE MAN is NEVER EVER, EVER, EVER, awake this early! I am so, SO screwed!”

She blazes back toward the house at top speed, and frantically claws her way up the metal steps.

By the time she comes through the door, however, she’s in her best “I’m a good girl” form. Her tail points jauntily at the sky, her ears are cocked attentively as she trots by smartly (nothing to see here!). Breezing by me as if I were invisible, she sails back into the bedroom.

By the time I get there, both FurGirl and MisterT are back in their beds. FurGirl is pretending to be asleep.

“Oh, I’m just SURE”, I say surveying the scene with my hands on my hips.

“You need to get control of your bitch”, MisterT remarks sleepily flipping over as he pulls the covers to his chin.

“Gee, thanks, Smarty-pants.”

Little Miss Not-So-Innocent.

Left the Building: The Prince of Darkness

In a rare reversal of my earlier ruling, I am today taking back the term "Satan" as it applies to my husband here in the blog.

It has been pointed out to me by a certain anonymous and occassionally devilish party that there are those that could possibly take the whole "Satan" thing the wrong way. As in the biblical fire and brimstone "epitomy-of-evil kind" of way. Someone, God forbid, could actually confuse my very own husband with Lucifer himself, causing a whole host of non-merry mix-ups possibly culminating with actual real life consequences for very own selves.

And, while I concur that the pen is certainly mightier than the sword, I really don't think that even the most fundamental and/or pentecostal among us would read my writing here and actually come away thinking the whole "Satan" thing is anything other than what it is. And, people, what it is is (now hear this): A JOKE. Me! Kidding! Not serious! But kidding! I did not marry the dark lord of hell! No! But rather I married an entirely lesser demon who, at best, can merely be categorized as possibly (and only occassionally) "meaner than a junkyard dog" which, as we know is not really mean as much as just in need of a good flea dip, a fresh bucket of water, and a scratch behind the ears now and then.

Which is not to say that I don't take these things seriously. Because I do. When the certain unidentified party brought his (or her) concerns about the term "Satan" to me, I became truly alarmed and conducted an informal poll of all five of my readers. And, lo and behold, ALL FIVE were aware that the whole "Satan" thing was A JOKE! Not serious! But a joke!

When questioned further on whether or not they thought ANYONE would actually SERIOUSLY be offended by the term "Satan" as it has been used in my blog they were all surprised at the thought that ANYONE would see it for anything other than what it is which is a joke! Not serious! But a joke!

Of course, we must take into account the fact that all five of my readers are of above average intelligence and exceptionally quick witted and thus catch on rapidly to the unspoken subtext of the JOKE. So, (according to the unidentified party) there could be OTHER, UNKNOWN PERSONS reading this blog who are actually coming away thinking, yes, this poor woman is in fact married to the Prince of Darkness.

A worst case scenario would go something like this:

JOE BOB

Ethel! This here girl married the devil!

ETHEL

(faintly) What?!

JOE BOB

Says so right in this here blog thingy. Says "my husband Satan".

ETHEL
(now truly alarmed) Oh, no, Joe Bob, the poor thing!

JOE BOB

Yep, been married to him a while. Look, this here's his pitcher.

ETHEL

Haven't we seen him on TV?

JOE BOB

My God, Ethel, I think you're right. Call the preacher! We got to do something about this here situation!

ETHEL

(hits star 1 on the phone--Ethel and Joe Bob have the preacher on speed dial)

Brother Billy Joe? Yes, this here's Ethel. We think we have located the devil and he's right here in our midst!

BROTHER BILLY JOE

My God, Ethel, we must convene an emergency prayer meetin'!

ETHEL

Me and Joe Bob are just fit to be tied! We've seen the devil on TV and also on the innernet!

BROTHER BILLY JOE

What does the Dark Lord look like?

ETHEL

Just regular. Except! He's a-wearin' some of them there Birkenstocks!

BROTHER BILLY JOE
That's him for sure!

***

And, well, you can take it from there. In my own defense, all I can say is: I DO NOT BELIEVE IN SATAN. Therefore, the term does not have a whole lot of power for me and, frankly, I find it a bit amusing. In a kind of a cartoonish sort of way. Which is why every time my cell phone rings and the caller ID actually says, "Satan Calling", it never fails to amuse me.

But I digress. The point is this: I will hereafter never again refer to my husband in this blog as "Satan". And, resisting the temptation to re-christen him "Lucifer" (har!), he will now forevermore be referred to here as

"MisterT".

Amen.

A Memorable Weekend

What have I been doing? Oh, nothing much. Jut having a festival and graduation. You?

Destiny Calling

(In the car)

SATAN
I’m stopping off at the Cingular store to see what they can do for me and my cell phone problem.

ME
Okay, maybe I’ll check about my phone too. It’s pretty old.

(In the store)

CINGULAR GUY
So…what can I do for you?

SATAN
I dropped my phone and the front screen is cracked and not working.

CINGULAR GUY
Can I see it?

SATAN
(Hands him the phone).

CINGULAR GUY
Yep, it’s broken.

SATAN
Thanks for the news flash.

CINGULAR GUY
How long have you had it?

SATAN
Six or seven months.

CINGULAR GUY
Got insurance?

SATAN
No

CINGULAR GUY
I’m afraid you’ll have to buy another phone.

SATAN
How much?

CINGULAR GUY
$300

SATAN
Okay, that’s ridiculous. So, I’m just screwed here?

CINGULAR GUY
Have you had the phone for twelve months yet?

SATAN
No, six or seven.

CINGULAR GUY
Can’t help you.

SATAN
You’ve got to be kidding me…

CINGULAR GUY
It’s really not up to me (pointing at the Cingular logo on his shirt).

SATAN
But…

ME
Okay, so on to me (I hand him my prehistoric Nokia).

ME
Can I get a new phone? Or something?

CINGULAR GUY
How long have you had this one?

ME
Ages.

CINGULAR GUY
Let me look up your account…okay, yes, you’re eligible for a free upgrade after rebate.

ME
So, which phone is free?

CINGULAR GUY
Pretty much any of these (he gestures toward the majority of phones on display).

SATAN
Okay, so wait a minute. She just gets to PICK OUT A FREE PHONE?

CINGULAR GUY
She’s had her current phone for almost two years and her contract is nearly up…

SATAN
Whatever.

ME
Which phone can I download a cool ring tone on?

SATAN
And THIS is your criteria?! RING TONES?!

CINGULAR GUY
Pretty much any of them.

ME
This one is cute (looking at the Samsung)!

SATAN
(pissed)

CINGULAR GUY
Oh, also? You get two free accessories. How about a headset?

SATAN
She’s NOT getting a free headset.

CINGULAR GUY
Maybe a car charger and case?

ME
Gosh…I don’t really need any of that stuff…

SATAN
(REALLY PISSED)

ME
Let’s see…okay, go ahead and give me the charger and case.

SATAN
Jesus…

CINGULAR GUY
So, we’ll just get your new contract ready…

ME
Hey! I just remembered! I have a Cingular rebate VISA card from when I bought my son’s phone…


CINGULAR GUY
Let’s see, I could run it for you in the morning and apply it to your bill? How would that be?

ME
That would be super!

SATAN
!@# $$%%*(%#

ME
I just dread re-typing all my cell numbers into my phone. It’ll take me FOREVER.

CINGULAR GUY
(Examines my old phone.) No…looks like you’ve got a sim card here. (He pops a small card out of my old phone and into the new Samsung). Yep! All your numbers are transferred.

ME
NO WAY! Just like that?!

SATAN
FAN-FREAKING-TASTIC!

ME
(To the Cingular guy) He’s not mad at you (giggles).

CINGULAR GUY
(giggles)
Like I said, it’s not up to me (points again at the Cingular logo on his shirt).

SATAN
(So. Not. Laughing.)

ME
Well, I guess that’s it then! Thanks a lot!

SATAN
Oh, yes. THANKS. THANKYOUVERYMUCH. REALLY.

***

Cut to this morning, when I called the Cingular guy back to check on combining mine and my son’s bill to see if we can save a few bucks. He calls me back.

(my phone rings)

CINGULAR GUY
Suz!

ME
Dave!

DAVE THE CINGULAR GUY
So, looks like you and your son can save about $50/month if we combine your contracts.

ME
Really?!

DAVE THE CINGULAR GUY
So, how about it?

ME
Might as well! Oh, and Dave? What if we combined my husband’s contract as well—could he get a new phone?

DAVE THE CINGULAR GUY & ME
(laugh hysterically)

DAVE THE CINGULAR GUY
The amazing thing is that your contract is up TOMORROW, which means by calling TODAY you just saved yourself eighty dollars!

ME
Why that’s super, Dave!

DAVE THE CINGULAR GUY
Don’t tell your husband, okay?

ME
No problem, Dave. And Dave?

DAVE THE CINGULAR GUY
Yah?

ME
I think I’ve changed my mind about that headset. Can I exchange my car charger for a headset after all by any chance?

DAVE
You betcha! But don’t…

ME
Don’t worry, I won’t tell him that either.

The T-Shirts Arrive!

There has been alot of interest in what the festival t-shirts look like.

Today I was fortunate enough to receive a sample hot off the press and just happen to know a beautiful girl who enjoys modeling.

Sunday Stroll

We've got a little festival coming up and are a tad busy. If you know me for reals and have not yet signed up for volunteer duty, call me THIS INSTANT and get on the schedule. We're needy!

Meantime, a few images for you from our Sunday morning walk. The end picture is the last we took in San Antonio and my favorite from the trip. I assure you that we, neither of us, were the least bit drunk at the time. Also, we had not illegally smuggled beer into our hotel room without paying the corking fee and weren't, at any time that evening, seen drunkenly singing along to the "perfect Country Western song".

Further Conversations with Satan

(My cell phone rings)

ME
Hello?

SATAN
Hello?

ME
Hello?

SATAN
Hey. I’m driving back from a meeting…

ME
Hmm….

SATAN
Listing to that NPR show, you know the one, umm….

ME
All Things Considered?

SATAN
No.

ME
Fresh Breeze?

SATAN
No.

ME
Okay, don’t know.

SATAN
Anyway, they’re talking about blogs.

ME
Yah?

SATAN
And, it’s a big deal.

ME
What is?

SATAN
What you write. Professionally, I mean.

ME
Like this is news to me? Anyway. I don’t write about work. Ever.

SATAN
No, you just call me SATAN!

ME
And?

SATAN
People could take that the wrong way.

ME
But, obviously, it’s meant to be humorous.

SATAN
ANYONE could read it and take it the wrong way.

ME
Like I said, I thought about all this sort of thing before I started. I don’t write about work or…

SATAN
BUT, not everybody THINKS like YOU.

ME
So, what, someone is going to get offended because YOU DON’T LIKE BANGS?

SATAN
NO, someone is going to read “SATAN” and assume I’m sacrificing BABY BUNNIES in the BACK YARD…

ME
You mean you’ve quit?

SATAN
(click)

Rhyme Time (Run....run for your lives!!!)

FurGirl is better
but I’m still a mess

I haven’t watched Wheel
in, like, two weeks, more or less.

I should write more often
but that's not my style.

Don’t give up on me please
I’ll be back in a while

Monday Minutia

Just when you think the internet has nothing to offer.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Jesus Cheetoh

Yes, friends, Jesus has taken time off from his busy schedule of dealing with war, famine, and pestilence, sitting at the throne of god and whatnot, and wrought a miracle in Dorothy’s bag of Cheetohs. Hallelujah brothers and sisters! Can you say aMEN?! I knew ya could!

I am, perhaps, less surprised than anyone by such an occurrence as alert readers will recall that I myself have experienced a miracle in my very own family room. Although, it’s not as surprising to me as to other people (Satan) that the Virgin enjoys a little “Wheel” now and again.

And now, I’m afraid, on to less joyous news. It pains me to report that our poor FurGirl has returned from her local vacation accommodations somewhat less than her old self.

It all started well enough. I dropped her at the local kennel the day before we left for vacation on April 13th. Housed in a double-run and looking confused but nonetheless excited when I last saw her, FurGirl appeared much the same when I went to pick her up on the 27th.

As I led a spastically excited FurGirl to the car while talking to the Dog Lady (kennel owner), I noticed that upon reaching a patch of grass, the dog immediately squatted to pee. As the Dog Lady crooned to FurGirl that she was “her favorite baby”, I loaded her (the dog, of course) into my passenger seat, and commanded her to “sit” (which she mostly did).

On the drive home, as FurGirl panted in and goobered on my car from excitement, I noticed she smelled a little strange, and not just normal dog-stinky strange, but like she may have had a bath. Which was curious, I thought. Closer to home (a short drive from the kennel), FurGirl started to whine, and I could tell she desperately needed to potty again. Given her seemingly desperate need to pee just a few minutes earlier, I wondered at that time to myself if she’d been adequately toileted while I was away.

I however quickly forgot my concern once we were home and everything seemed back to normal.

That was Thursday. Since Satan and I were tired from the trip, neither of us took her for a long walk until Saturday when Satan took her out. It was then that he noticed poor FurGirl squatting to pee much more than usual. After a time, he realized that, although she was squatting, she wasn’t getting any results (as in—nothing coming out). He kept this info to himself until Sunday, when we were walking her together and then pointed out the problem to me.

Poor FurGirl was squatting every ten or fifteen yards or so and actually shaking with the effort of trying to go, to no avail.

A hundred different horrifying scenarios as to what terrible fate may have befallen our poor FurGirl at the kennel while I was away immediately began leaping to mind.

“Do you suppose she’s been….violated?”, I asked Satan

“Violated"?, he said.

“Yes, violated by God! By some strange mutt with a nasty case of the doggy gock”, I said, picturing a Francis Farmer scene that included a terrified defenseless crouching FurGirl and a snarling, vicious Rotweiller.

“Nah”, he said.

“Yah, you’re probably right”, I said, relieved.

“She’s probably going to die though”, he said calmly. “And, let’s face it, it’ll be all your fault” he added, as we both watched, for the umpteenth time, poor FurGirl squatting and shaking at the corner of 5th and Broadway. “After all, it was YOUR idea to take her to that kennel”, he reminded me.

“Don’t try to reassure assure me,” I said. “Really. Don’t try”, I repeated as a yet again squatting and shaking (but not peeing) FurGirl looked at me forlornly.

Cut to this morning, when I was up bright and early and on the phone with the vet’s office at the stroke of eight a.m. (Retriever! Shaking! Not peeing! Kennel! Attack!).

They told me to bring her right over.

Once in the examining room, I explained the situation to the vet. “Do you suppose,” I asking cringingly, “that something…well…AWFUL happened to poor Furgirl at the kennel”?

The vet looked at me uncomprehendingly for a moment and then said, “Oh, ahem, probably not, more likely she didn’t get to pee as often as she’s used to and developed an infection.”

***

I've just spoken to the vet and, still unable to get a urine sample from her, they are keeping poor FurGirl overnight.

All kidding aside, I'm a little worried.