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 |  Groovy Blog v 2.0 |
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I drove over to the University last night to watch the Montana Lady Griz b-ball team in action. By myself. It was sad, really. Being there...alone....among nearly 4,000 other screaming fans. But, I've gotten used to going to games alone, since a family member usually only joins me about half of the time. It was a fun and nasty game with lots of fouls and pushing and shoving and scowling, but we came out on top which sets up the HUGE season finale tomorrow afternoon against Portland State. We're both tied for first place...winner takes all. I will be there. Probably 'alone'.  Being the final game of the season, tomorrow will also be 'Senior Day'. All of the Seniors will be honored with a short tribute before the game. I have to say, Senior Day is emotional, even for me. I love living in a college town, and this particular town really supports their Griz. The Lady Griz have a long winning tradition and have routinely been in the top 25 in the nation in attendance figures, regularly beating out schools from much larger communities. The Griz teams are the only game in town and there is tremendous pride here. Living in a relatively small college community, we get to know these players very well. They truly do feel like family, so when it comes time to say goodbye to them, as we will to four more Seniors tomorrow, it's a little sad. Montana recruits mainly from within the state, so there is an extra dose of pride watching these men and women come here full of promise from stellar high school careers, but still green and unpolished for Division 1 college ball. We get to watch them grow up, so to speak, in their four years in a Montana uniform. They truly do become family. I've been going to these games for many years, and I've seen many Senior Nights. It'll bring a tear to my eye tomorrow watching thousands of other 'family' members in attendance say goodbye to another wonderful group of our Montana girls with a rousing send-off, remembering how well they represented our team and our community for the past four years. All of our hearts will be swelling with pride. It's tough to say goodbye to your kids. That's my sappy entry for the month. It won't happen again, I promise.  Go Griz!!! |
| Okay, I had this poll years ago in my previous life as a blogger, but times change and bloggers come and go, so maybe the results will be different. Brown won last time, which was hardly a surprise, but I do remember being at least a little surprised at the number of people with green eyes like me. So....IF I can figure out how to set up a poll, I'll try again. This website is pretty cool, too: http://museum.thetech.org/ugenetics/eyeCalc/eyecalculator.html You can calculate what eye color your kids will have, but since I already have kids, I had to check to see if they got it right. They did for the most part, though apparently I was supposed to have six alien babies, four of whom should have brown eyes! Tell me those kids' eyes on that site don't look like something that came off the mother ship in Close Encounters! Anyway, two-thirds of my kids DO have brown eyes, so I guess they got the percentage right. Or, is it two-thirds of their eyes were brown? They ARE aliens, apparently. Interesting that my twins don't make up that two-third. Well, one of them makes up one-half of that two-thirds while the other makes up three-thirds of the one-third though I'm not sure which half is one-third alien and which third is two-thirds of one-half human. Take my poll, please! Pretty please? Oh, and don't forget to say 'Hi' and tell me what you chose and how that makes you feel. |
 As I just started to type this, I looked out the kitchen window and noticed Creepy Stalker Woman drive by out front. She was speeding and had music blaring very loud, so obviously was not in stalking mode. I found her house the other day, by the way. She actually does live in the neighborhood. Yay. But, since she still doesn't know that I know that she doesn't know that I know....uh....that I was followed, I figured if it ever happened again during one of my walks around the neighborhood, that I would do everything exactly the same and not let on that I know, but instead of walking to my home, I would calmly walk to hers where I would take a seat on her front steps and call 9-1-1. I was driving across town the other day and happened to come up behind my brother in the car just in front of me. He didn't see me, so I sent this text: “Never text while driving.” He found me. The Tagalongs and Thin Mints arrived yesterday. More temptation. I will be strong, I will be strong, I will be strong. Friggin' Girl Scouts.....as bad as Dr. Seuss.  I own a Zune and not an iPod. I love my Zune. My daughter also owns one and she let me in on a little feature last night I didn't even know they had. Maybe iPods have this, too, but I can go to the Zune website and sign in to my personal profile and it will tell me how many songs I've played since I've owned the player and how many times I've played each song. Shelby and I had fun comparing last night. I learned that I've listened to 4881 songs since I bought it last May (not different songs...some are repeats, obviously. 4881 'plays' I guess I should say). My most-played song is Ashton Shepherd's “Sounds So Good”, coming in at 497 times, followed by Keith Urban's “Stupid Boy” at 211 plays, and sitting in third is my current favorite song, Kelly Clarkson's “My Life Would Suck Without You” at 157 plays, which kind of surprised me since I only put that song on my Zune less than a week ago. I must really like it.  A question for all you couples out there. This topic came up in my own house last weekend. Shouldn't a 'date night' be mutually appealing to both involved? Meaning, if a couple is planning a real night out together, wouldn't it make sense to do something each person might actually be interested in? Yeah, yeah....I know what some people are going to say – just being together should be enough. Whatever. Date nights are rare enough, so it is my firm belief that both people should be in agreement of the night's festivities, otherwise it just becomes a hostage situation. And speaking of death , I came up with a whole bunch of better options for my future lifeless body while making a smoothie this morning. I mean, it's not like we have a whole lot of choices, right? Bury or burn, burn or bury, etc., etc. I personally chose to be char-broiled, crispified, and carcinogenated into a fine and fragrant ashy powder (How could I not be fragrant, even after death? Years of shower gel usage WILL pay off!). The reasons for this choice are, 1) my small savings account conflicts with the high cost of dying, and 2) I never wanted a depressing cold, gray headstone for survivors to visit. One where they'll feel obligated to waste money to have some meaningful and eternally fitting slogan chiseled into its face. My personal headstone choice: David's Here His Phone Was Orange Thx 4 Visitin'  (small savings account, remember? Those letters cost $$$!)But, looking at my blender this morning, I saw a huge set of additional options: chop, grate, grind, stir, puree, whip, mix, blend, frappe, or liquefy. I'm leaning toward frappe or liquefy. Both sound fun. But I do know that once I get officially frapped into a human smoothie, I want to be poured out over unsuspecting hippies which would probably cause them to melt like The Wicked Witch of the West. She was green. (I have now used the word 'green' in every March entry so far. It's lana bardot  's fault, but now it's a quest for the remainder of the month. Much easier than a blue month. ) |
| This is in honor of Special Kay and the final entry of her blog. A Dr. Seuss birthday-inspired final entry. And since I completely forgot I was supposed to write something Seuss-inspired myself until I saw her entry this morning, this was scratched out in a hurry. But the events, memories, and thoughts presented within are very real and sincere. I have fond memories of the Dr. Seuss books. When I was about 7-years-old, my parents subscribed to some sort of book club that sent us a new Seuss book every month. I always new the approximate date they would arrive and would make the long walk out our dirt lane to the mailbox each day until it came. Though I thought some of the characters were a little strange, the books always left me with a happy feeling after reading them. They were without a doubt my favorite books at the time. Until the day Green Eggs and Ham showed up in the mailbox. After only a few pages, I knew something was different. I felt disturbed. Something strange was digging into my 7-year-old brain, and I wasn't familiar with it. Years later, after reaching adulthood and reading the bible, I decided it was the same feeling Eve must have had after she bit into the apple. My innocence was lost. But I couldn't put the book down. It felt wrong somehow, but the temptation was too great. And the more I read of the exploits of Sam I Am, the more confused I became. There was a reason the main character in the book had no name – he represented me! And all the other impressionable children out there whose innocence was rocked the day they first opened that book. Sam I Am was Satan, or at the very least a drug pusher, though I didn't recognize him at the time. He was pressuring me to sin; to take the forbidden Green Eggs and Ham and be happy, while all the other suddenly creepy-looking characters in the book started to gather around that nameless creature – me – and stare, tempting me to follow along or suffer unknown consequences. And the nameless creature DID fall to temptation. And he WAS happy for doing so. Surely this was a sign, so upon finishing the book I stole some cigarettes from my mother's purse and took up smoking. Okay, everything but that last part is true. But I did feel different after reading the book. Like life would never be quite the same again. My life of sin had begun. Even today, whenever I see Green Eggs and Ham somewhere, I get the urge to steal some kids lunch money or have an affair or something. Some books stay with you forever. Sorry, Kay....I really do like Dr. Seuss, but I just had to share my confusing childhood experience. |
| My wife intentionally hurt our car the other day with an umbrella. I was giving her a ride to work and as she rounded the front of the car, she slipped on a patch of ice and dropped her coffee cup. The really cool one with the moose on it. The one that matches our toothbrush holder and honey pot. It smashed into 43 pieces (rough estimate) and my wife screamed an expletive. “Crap!” That's about as profane as she gets, so I knew she was mad. She straightened herself and took a mighty swing with her umbrella – similar to chopping a piece of wood or a teen girl from Friday the 13th – only this time the poor defenseless victim happened to be the hood of our car, and not something deserving like a chunk of firewood or a half-naked screaming teenager. Now, my initial reaction was one mixed with anger and laughter. I wasn't thrilled she was trying to destroy our vehicle, but I so rarely see her express anger (see expletive above), I had to smile. I tried to act mad at her striking the car, but I couldn't do it. By the time I dropped her off at work, we were both laughing about the scene in 'The Four Seasons' where Alan Alda finally unleashes some of his inner rage and the moose head on the wall of the lodge winds up in the fireplace. (another moose associated with rage?) I told her it was her 'Alan Alda' moment and I was proud of her. For me, there has never been a problem with releasing my inner rage at inanimate objects. There is absolutely nothing on this earth that can transform me into The Hulk like whacking my arm on a counter or stubbing my toe on the coffee table. People can and do suck sometimes, but there's nothing a person can say or do to me that can release that kind of rage. I just get annoyed with people, but if a lifeless object causes me pain, then that object, or some other non-living object residing nearby, must die. I'm sure this makes me sound like a man in serious need of anger management, but I'm honestly a very calm person as long as the lifeless objects of the world mind their own business and leave me alone. I have destroyed quite a few of these objects over the years (or tried to), but they had it coming. My greatest 'hit', however, is one that still haunts me because the evidence remains not far from my side of the bed. My wife's grandma had given her an antique sewing machine/cabinet years ago. The machine folds up into the cabinet as does a little shelf extension on hinges. It's usually in a corner of our bedroom, but one time years ago, my wife had set it up in the living room because she was working on a big project and didn't want to be cooped up away from everyone. She had taken a break, but the machine was pulled out and the shelf fully extended. I can't remember exactly what I was doing near the machine, but as I turned away, I whacked my hand extremely hard on the corner of the extended shelf and instantly saw deep deep shades of Hulk green. Something had to pay. Now, in these brief and intense Hulk moments, the object that caused you pain isn't necessarily the one that dies. Whatever non-living object is most accessible and can feel the full brunt of your rage before it burns out (and the hottest part burns out faster than a shooting star, so you need to act quickly), is what must die. In this case, the sewing machine shelf that caused me pain just happened to be that accessible object. Time stood still and my wife froze – familiar with the Hulk and no doubt saying a quick prayer – but it was too late. I made a fist and slammed it down as hard as I could X 10 on the end of the shelf, splitting the wood near the hinges and leaving it half-dangling from the rest of the cabinet. Another interesting thing happens once the rage is released. Your body feels instantly free. Imagine Patrick Swayze in 'Ghost' jumping in and out of human bodies. That's what happens – the Patrick Swayze/rage jumps out of my body, and in typical cases, he just floats around out there with nowhere to go, no doubt waiting to be summoned by the next Hulk moment. But, in cases like the sewing machine, Patrick/rage jumped out of my body and into my wife's instantaneously. “Just great! That's MY sewing machine!” she yelled as she pushed by me to survey the damage, which was substantial. I suggested she hit something non-husband like in shape to release her rage. Since there was no moose around, I suggested the sewing machine since it was already broken. Not one of my smartest moves. She has never let me forget that one, which is probably why she put the cabinet in the corner of the bedroom on MY side of the bed. It's the first thing I see every morning when I crawl out of bed. |
| I was going to write about something else today, but I just have to share what happened to me last night because it kind of freaked me out! I had just finished preparing a corned beef casserole (a wonderful family recipe that's been handed down for generations and is easy to make! See me for details. ) and had put it in the oven. It was about 5 p.m. and it takes about an hour to bake, so I thought I'd go for a walk. I've used a GPS and plotted out several walking routes around our neighborhood and the one adjacent – one a two-mile walk, the other three miles. I usually only do my running on the nearby mountain trails, but my wife and I like to take walks around the neighborhood, so I wanted to have some idea of how far we travel.After putting the casserole in the oven, I put on my sweats, grabbed my Zune, and headed down our street. About three blocks from home, there is a metal mailbox just off a side street with about 30 locked boxes for all the people who live down that street. As I approached it, I noticed an SUV pull up to the boxes on its way out of that street, and two young girls got out to check their mailbox (I'd guess one was 5-years-old and the other about 8). At least I think they were checking mail, as it seemed they were standing in front of the box as I got closer, but I wasn't really paying attention. The lady driving the car had her door open and we made eye contact as I got closer. But she kept staring intently at me, so I dropped my gaze and kept walking. I had to walk directly in front of her car, and as I did I glanced up and she was still locked on me, watching me closely as I went by. She was a very pretty woman with dark, almost-black hair, about 30-years-old I'd say, so of course I wanted to flatter myself in thinking, “Yeah, I've still got it”  , but something about her stare kind of unnerved me.I continued down the street and the lady had pulled out onto the same one and drove by me at a normal rate of speed. She had an out-of-state plate that I think was from Illinois, but it was too dirty to be certain. At the end of the street, she stopped at the stop sign and wouldn't go. There was no traffic to hold her up, but she stayed right there. I was still a block or so away, but getting closer. A truck came up behind her and had to go around because she wouldn't move. When I got up next to her car, I didn't even look at her, but turned to the right and headed down the sidewalk of a busier street. I didn't really think she was waiting at the stop sign for me, but just figured she was distracted with her kids or something. As I walked down the busier street, I noticed her car go by me again, going in the same direction but driving at normal speeds. I figured that was that, and I was just being paranoid, but then I saw her pull a U-turn and come back my way. I looked down and kept on walking, but when I raised my head, I noticed she had stopped on the opposite side of the street from me and had her window down staring at me. I thought maybe she had said something, so I stopped, pulled out my earbuds and said “Excuse me?” She just looked calmly at me and said, “Huh?” I said, “Oh, I thought you said something to me.” Calm and cool, she replied, “No,” as she slowly pulled away, staring at me the whole time. Okay, at this point I'm figuring that's truly that...finally! She probably thought she recognized me, but after stopping and talking with me, realized she was wrong. I started to calm down and continued walking my normal route into the nearby new subdivision. Several blocks down the next street, she passed me again! It was at this point any flattering thoughts officially vanished. I was being hunted. She was driving the speed limit and went all the way to the end of the street – about four blocks away – and turned around and parked on the other side of the street facing me. Normally I walk to the end of the street, but I turned right at the next intersection, still a good three blocks from her. All the while I'm acting cool, not giving any indication I know I'm being followed.I went all the way to the end of the street I was on, occasionally glancing to the side, hoping to catch something out of the corner of my eye. I didn't see anything and honestly thought she'd given up. I looped around and headed back toward home on a new street in the subdivision that only has houses built on one side so far. I looked to the right through the yards along the street I'd just been on and I caught sight of her car between two houses. She was still following me! Now, the logical thing to do would be to simply stop and wait for her and ask just what the heck she wanted from me. But I'm not logical. The game was on! So, I continued down this new street, planning my escape. I could now tell she was following from a distance, so she no doubt wanted to know where I lived without being seen, for some reason. I couldn't go home the way I came. As I got to the end of the new development, I cut across a construction zone and jumped a fence where there's a small playground about two blocks from home. It's a shortcut between our neighborhood and the new development (if you're walking). She would not be able to follow me through there and would have to circle back the way she came. As I walked across the playground and out onto the street, I heard someone yell something behind me. I did not turn around. They yelled again. I ignored it (I still had my earbuds in, but my music was off). I probably should have just turned around at that point and gotten to the bottom of the whole thing, but I was kind of freaked out so I ignored the yells.I knew she would hurry back to my neighborhood to see if she could find me, so as soon as I was out of sight of the playground, I ran home. I looked back our long street before I disappeared into our yard and did not see her coming yet. When I got inside, I had just started telling my daughter that I was being stalked, when I saw the SUV drive by our street slowly. My daughter shrieked and peeked out the curtains. “Oh my gosh, this is the creepiest thing ever!” she yelled, and for the next 45 minutes or more, the SUV cruised slowly up and down our street and every nearby side street. Again, the smart thing to do would have been to go outside, stop the woman, and ask what the heck was going on. But for some reason, I didn't want to. I did not want her to have any idea at all of where I lived. Trying to analyze this, I'm now wondering if I look like someone from her past who caused her harm in some way. Was she trying to find out where I live from a safe distance so she could call the cops? If so, she's a lousy tracker. She drove right by me on three occasions and made herself visible. Plus, she actually stopped on the street and I had a few words with her...what was that all about? Why didn't she say something then? And out-of-state plates? How would I possibly know her? Yet, she was getting mail (I think) so she must live nearby, which makes me feel really good. Plus, she had her kids in the car the whole time! Very very confusing and more than a little creepy. I do know I won't be making my evening walks for a while. At least not without my Ruger and grizzly bear pepper spray. I'll just stay home and make casseroles. That's my creepy story for the day. If you don't hear from me anymore, I swear I did not give up blogging for Lent – I'm either dead or in jail for a crime I did not commit! |
| Tomorrow Lent begins. I don't know if I'll give up anything this year. In my previous life as a blogger several years ago, I shared the agony of my sacrifice for Lent. That year, I had decided to give up coffee. Let me tell you, my nerves went haywire, I got massive headaches, and basically felt like crap. And that was before I even started! Once I did start, my nerves went haywire, I got headaches, and basically felt like crap X 10. It was one of the stupidest experiences of my life, but I survived. Just about the time I was starting to feel pretty good physically, Lent was over and I started drinking coffee again. I went through the whole re-caffeinating process, which is like reverse detox. The idea is to sacrifice something that would be a great temptation. Similar to Jesus and his 40 days of temptation – what would be a great sacrifice and something I would be tempted to do during those 40 days of Lent? The obvious answer would be blogging. But giving up blogging would be wrong and just plain unbiblical, I'm sure. Maybe I could just give up a part of blogging for 40 days....like emoticons. Though, by the end of Lent, I might have no blogging friends left. Comments like “Well, aren't you just the dumb-ass today! ” look better than “Well, aren't you just the dumb-ass today!” Not much, but a little. Okay, the emoticons stay. Maybe I'll try blogging for 40 days without using the letter 'R'.You know, as I looked through Proverbs in the bible this morning, I was struck once again by the chronological order of some of them. First there's Prov. 18:22 which says, “He who finds a wife finds what is good, and receives favor from the Lord..” Next chapter has Prov. 19:15, “Laziness brings on deep sleep, and the shiftless man goes hungry.” A bit later comes Prov. 21:9, “Better to live on the corner of a roof, than share a house with a quarrelsome wife.” If they ever find Proverbs, The Lost Episodes, I would expect there'd be, “Foolish is the man who buys his wife sharp objects, for he will bleed.” Happy Pancake Day! I have had none yet, but there is still time. Oh, and thanks Adriana Noir for the birthday badge. Aren't you just the proverbial 'ray' of sunshine!  |
| I'm starting to get bombarded with e-mails advertising vacation packages to Yellowstone and other parts of Wyoming. They got my info from our little family trip down that way last summer, no doubt. I've never been a vacation type of person in the typical sense of the word. As a kid, our family never went to Hawaii for a week or Mexico or even Disneyland. And that was just fine with us. We had no desire for any of that, for some reason. But, just as my little family did last summer, my parents often took us on closer vacations to places like Yellowstone and Jackson Hole. I have wonderful memories of those trips. There was something about those vacations filled with foreign mountain wilderness areas and rustic log-built restaurants and shops – the whole 'western' tourist atmosphere – that my brothers and I couldn't get enough of. Any other vacation destination would've been a step down in our opinion. Fortunately, my kids have followed in our footsteps. I say 'fortunately', because I've never been in a position to afford a grand vacation to an exotic locale. Not saying the kids wouldn't have fun in Hawaii for a week, but that honestly would never be their first choice. And we love road trips! They prefer our little daytrips and three-day weekends around the Rockies. At least they humor me and say they do. If I ever did a cross-country road trip, I would seek out all the bizarre and corny attractions, ala Chevy Chase. You know, that second largest ball of twine? Stuff like that. And I'd like to be in five states at once. I would hit the Four Corners Monument where I could be in Utah, Colorado, Arizona, and New Mexico at the same time, but on the way down I'd leave a body part under a rock along the interstate in Idaho somewhere. Hopefully it would be there when I come back because otherwise that would suck, especially if it was a part I might need. I've been to the Atlantic, the Pacific, much of the Midwest, and all of the West, but one area of the country I've always wanted to visit and probably never will (see above paragraph about being financially challenged), is the deep south. My daughter and I watched 'Man in the Moon' the other night (remember the 1991 coming-of-age movie with a very young Reese Witherspoon?) and those desires to visit the south resurfaced. The movie was filmed in Louisiana and the setting is exactly what I think of when I envision the south. Watching 'Fried Green Tomatoes' gives me that same southern longing. I would love to experience a sticky, humid, southern summer night sometime before I die. I want lightning bugs, sweet tea, magnolias, pretty girls with fetching southern accents, and all those other stereotypical bits of the south that may or may not even exist anymore. Perhaps that's why I was always drawn to the writing of Carson McCullers and Eudora Welty. One thing I would NOT want to experience are the many creepy crawly insect creatures of the south. We don't have that up here in Montana, and that's just fine by me. I've had dozens of encounters with bears over the years, a few with mountain lions, and even been chased by a moose, but I'd take any of those experiences over having just one unidentified large-legged, multi-colored, multi-winged, bug-eyed and fanged, rodent-sized insect drop onto my shoulder while walking under a cypress tree. I would probably die instantly. I'm sure there are frightening new species being formed deep in a southern bog somewhere as I speak. And Kay Jay's recent blog account of brain-burrowing, flying cockroaches didn't do much to curb those fears. On second thought maybe I'll just stay up here with the grizzlies and cougars where it's safe. So...any big vacation plans this year? Oh yeah....thanks peachbug for the birthday badge yesterday! You are  ! My second lil bloggy woggy turned one-year-old. My how time flies! |
| I noticed this morning that Carl's letters seem to be fading. Carl is my laptop, in case you didn't know. He just turned three years old a week ago, which is 78 in computer/dog years. He was ill for a while, but he's been doing much better since his recent lobotomy. He almost feels like a kid again, but that'll change when he once again comes to the realization that he's 78 years old and not the hip young computer he once was. It's only a matter of time. But for now, he's performing well in his ignorance. Anyway, I noticed that there are now six letters that have worn off Carl's keys. I, O, H, L, N, M are completely gone, and K & P are fading fast. It's a good thing I learned how to type the right way in high school or I wouldn't even know what letters Carl is missing and my blog entries might not make as much sense....like yesterday's! (I also learned shorthand in high school, thinking it might help while trying to scribble notes in college courses, but it turns out you have to actually go to class to put those skills to use.) So, I found myself wondering why those particular letters are faded or gone. What can I spell with them? Loin? Oil? Honk? All fine words, to be sure. State abbreviations 'OH' and 'IL'? Then I noticed something else – all of these letters are on the right side of Carl's keyboard. Now, it's no secret I lean far to the right politically, but I had no idea it affected my balance and keyboard striking. This was perplexing. Eggs bring clarity to my life, so I cooked some for breakfast and pondered this Carl mystery. Coffee brings clarity, too, so I made more. Vacuuming does not bring clarity, but the carpet was a mess so I did that, too, all the while contemplating why Carl was only fading on the right side. Did he have a stroke? No, that's the left side that's affected...right? But, then, Carl is facing me so it would be his left....right? I put on fresh underwear, both for clarity and, well, it's Thursday, and thought some more. And then it hit me! The answer is right down there in yesterday's entry. Fingernails! I only grow them on my right hand for guitar playing, thus Carl is only suffering on his right...or is it his left?....side. Can't believe I couldn't figure that out without the aid of eggs and underwear, but at least I can sleep now and won't need eggs or fresh undies for....heck, who knows? And Carl deserves better so I'll try to give him a fresh coat of letter paint soon. I'm sure some of you smarty-pants were screaming “It's your fingernails, stupid!” after the first line. Yeah yeah, I know....I'm slow. Hey, it took me ten years of wheat bread denial to finally figure out that peanut butter & jelly sandwiches taste better with white bread, but I figure stuff out eventually. |
| I'm going to try writing an entry with absolutely nothing in my brain. No ideas, no plan. Sort of like a word association test or a mini campfire creative. I'll just let the previous thought wander into a new thought. This could get ugly. I have to start somewhere, however, so I'll begin with the most significant event of the past few days of my life – even more important than receiving my new bisexual orange phone yesterday. I broke a nail. Yep, while up in the mountains last Sunday, I noticed that the beautiful fingernail on my right index finger was completely broken. I grow nails on my right hand for guitar picking, and opening the occasion stubborn box of Count Chocula. This sucks, because as you men all know, they take forever to grow to that perfect length. I taught myself how to play the guitar when I was a senior in high school. That first guitar was a classical guitar and you need fingernails to play classical guitar. I was even a classical guitar major at Montana State University in Bozeman, Montana, for a brief time. I didn't get my music degree but I did meet my wife there. We both worked in a buffet restaurant. While traveling through Bozeman last summer, we took a pic of the two of us standing outside the same building, though it's no longer a restaurant. We don't have any buffet restaurants in my town right now and that's a shame. I like large food, so buffets fit my style. And I admit it, I also like McDonald's. Value Meal #1, large size, extra double cheeseburger. My former girlfriend was always amazed at how fast I could eat a Big Mac. Maybe 'amazed' isn't the right word. She was from France. She was a twin . We dated for 3 ½ years before I met my wife and talked of getting married. Glad we didn't or I might have had to learn French. I did learn some phrases, though I've mostly forgotten them. She always told me she would have twins one day since her mom and grandma both had twins. Turns out I had twins and she did not. Ha! And her son was born on my birthday. Double Ha! She will be haunted by me forever. I've only been haunted that one time I blogged about back in Pennsylvania. At least I think I was haunted. I still have family in PA. Most of my cousins live there, in fact, and I haven't seen them since I was 8-years-old. That's kind of sad, I guess. I have seen pics of them, though, and my cousin Becky is really cute. You know, in a cousinly/sisterly kind of way, though I never had a sister. Maybe that explains why I seem to get along better with women than men – I never had any girls around to hate while growing up. Ha. And, on that subject of getting along with women, I have been falsely accused in the past of being a babe collector here on the blog pages, which is entirely absurd. I am definitely bisexual when it comes to blog reading! But I have to say, most of the men I've commented to here usually ignore me for some reason, so I stopped trying as much as I used to. And I can't help that there are more women than men here. Besides, we bloggers have no gender anyway. We are a different species that all blend together and have no reproductive organs once we log on. Speaking of different species, remember the movie 'Species' about the sexy but deadly half-human, half-alien who was desperate to mate and reproduce to create deadly offspring to destroy mankind? I'm thinking mankind is definitely vulnerable to an alien sex attack, probably more than anything else (besides reality shows, maybe), so this ploy could work. It is a great weakness of our planet. If beautiful aliens did come calling, we'd all be toast. I like sourdough toast the best. With plum jam. But our stupid toaster either doesn't toast enough or goes to the other extreme and burns the edges. Fortunately I have long fingernails to scrape off the black stuff. But I broke a nail the other day. Guess that means it's time to stop now. I thought this would turn out better than this so maybe it wasn't such a good idea, but it's still kind of fun to let your mind wander wherever it wants. More than usual, that is. |
| My very pretty phone has perished. There I was up in the mountains last Sunday and found a pocket of space that had cell service, so I sent a text to my son asking who won Daytona. It was the last task my pretty phone would ever make. Time of death: 5:56 p.m., mst. My phone is only survived by me, its adopted father, and the only one who truly appreciated its metallic magenta exterior. The website said 'pink', but I knew better. Though it may have only needed a battery/heart transplant, I figured it was a good excuse to buy a new phone. I ordered one yesterday from the Verizon website and its scheduled to arrive today sometime. I actively text with a few of you here, so if you sent me anything between 5:56 p.m., mst on Sunday and now, that message is currently drifting aimlessly in cyberspace, looking for a home. My new phone will be the G'zone Boulder (in unisex burnt orange....or maybe it was bisexual burnt orange, I forget) – a phone supposedly built to military specs, and one you can destroy and it won't be destroyed. I can throw it against a wall, drop it in the creek, etc., etc., and it'll keep on texting. Before ordering it, I checked out the customer reviews over on CNET and there were a surprising number who said it is indestructible, but the sound quality is not good. However, a few people said there is a software upgrade for the phone that will fix that problem, and my son happens to have a few friends who own the Boulder and they said the sound quality is just fine. So I went with it. Besides, who uses their phones to talk anymore anyway? I checked my bill for last month and I sent and received 1,074 text messages! Wow, and I used to get mad at myself for having more than 25 a month. What can I say, I'm a texting convert. Like I mentioned in a recent entry, texting is the non-commital, one-night-stand of the communication world. If you call someone to ask a simple question like how much they paid for their iPod, the next thing you know you're making dinner plans then they'll probably ask you to help out with their garage sale that weekend, and possibly want you to help remodel their house. Why get tied up in a lengthy phone conversation when you can have all of the fun and none of that excess baggage? My sister-in-law gave me a rather large bottle of whiskey the other day, which made me happy. She said it had been sitting around their house forever and no one was drinking it, so she asked if I wanted it. Do hippies smell??? I usually don't drink much at all, and even at that only on weekdays and weekends, but I was mourning the loss of my pretty phone so I accepted. What I don't have anymore is an acceptable whiskey-drinking glass. I used to have a good, solid, no-frills glass that was the perfect size and geometric shape, but it broke a few weeks ago while pouring Diet Coke into it, of all things. Just went and cracked on me for no good reason. And it was a good glass, too! It looked like something J.R. Ewing would have used while arguing with Sue Ellen at Southfork. So I searched into the dark recesses of our cupboards and found an old glass mug. It's also the perfect size, extremely thick to withstand inebriated and exaggerated arm flinging during inebriated and exaggerated storytelling (the perfect match for my Boulder phone!), and in big red letters on the side it says “I HAVE TWINS”. Perfect, wouldn't you say! |
| When I got to the Y this morning, I decided I wasn't in the mood to run so I went down on the basketball court to shoot some hoops. Deadeye granny was there again. In fact, it was just she and I, but I didn't watch her this morning because I couldn't stand to see her miss another shot, so I said hello and went down to the other end to shoot around. Back in the day, I used to shoot a lot of hoops. One game I'd play with myself (it's always fun to play with yourself) is I'd see how many free throws I could make in a row without missing. So, I tried that this morning. In the old days I could routinely make somewhere in the teens before missing – not bad, but not great. Today I could only make six in a row. But, when granny left, I decided to go down to her end of the court and try. I swear I made my first 27 free throws on her end without missing. Granny's sharpshooting aura still lingered at that end of the court, not unlike the fumes of noxious bodily gases lingering in the air long after a slob has carelessly released them into the atmosphere before leaving the area. Yesterday my wife brought home one of those picture puzzle things. This one was a photo of a bunch of coffee beans and supposedly hidden somewhere within them was a man. She said that no one at her workplace could find him. I'm sure you've seen those 3D type photo puzzles where there's supposed to be an image within the image, but you have to relax your eyes or cross your eyes or something strange to see it. I have never been able to get those to work for me, but this coffee bean pic had the same look as one of those 3D puzzles, so I stared at it cross-eyed for about five minutes. Nothing. I tried relaxing my eyes and focusing just beyond the photo. Nothing. I tried holding it farther away and tilting my head like a bird while squinting and this time I think I saw the Virgin Mary eating nachos with Bigfoot, but I couldn't be sure. Finally, I gave up on the eye strain and simply started looking at each individual coffee bean, 'Where's Waldo' style. Within five seconds I found the stupid man! One of the beans was a face. Sheesh. I could've seen it if I hadn't been cross-eyed and squinting for half an hour! There's a valuable life lesson in there somewhere: Sometimes we try too hard to cross our eyes to see within the coffee beans of life, which makes everything in our world oblong and brown, when what we really should be doing is simply drinking the coffee and ignoring mankind. I'm glad I discovered this truth today. But I was inspired to make my own picture puzzle. Squint really hard, cross your eyes, hold your breath, put your face really really close to the screen, and try to find the human heart within the candy hearts. It's not easy so don't feel bad if you can't find it at first. Just keep trying. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Last night the kids were gone and my wife and I had the place to ourselves. Of course we did what any sex-starved couple would do and turned on the t.v. The movie 'Always' was on, and we both like that film, so we settled in to watch it. It was filmed in Montana, so we're a little biased, but it's a pretty good show. When the scene came where Holly Hunter is alone in her house, reliving memories of her dead boyfriend (Richard Dreyfuss, who is now an angel and in the room with her, though she doesn't know it) and listening to their favorite song, I turned to my wife and asked why we didn't have a favorite song. “Let's get one,” she said. “You can't just get one,” I replied. “It has to mean something. I think it's too late for us. We're approaching death.” “No, let's get one.” “Right. Okay.” “Let's pick one fast,” she said. “It doesn't work that way, but okay,” I said. “How about the freecreditreport.com song?” “No.” “'Disco Duck'? 'My Uncle Used To Love Me But She Died'?” “No and no.” “'Don't Fear the Reaper?'” “No.” Well, fine. She can pick one, but absolutely nothing from Kenny Rogers! Please tell me we're not the only couple without a favorite song. Please? |
| Shoulda gone to free....credit....report dot com (yeehaw!), I coulda seen this comin' at me like an atom bomb.. That was the first thing in my brain when I woke up yesterday morning. And it's still there! Bastards. Though I do like that 'yeehaw' part. She's human after all! Every morning when I run on the indoor track at the Y, down below on the basketball court is a tiny Asian woman, who I'm guessing is around 137-years-old, shooting baskets. She always shoots them underhanded – 'granny style', or in her case, 'great-great-great-great granny style'. I have never seen her miss a shot.....EVER! Until today. She finally missed one. I was so disappointed, because there are certain things in this life that you come to depend on. Things that will never change. God, the sunrise, teenage odor, yellow backgrounds, and prehistoric granny never missing. Now, for the second time within a week, one of life's constants has been shot down. Very distressing. I got so mad I threw my water bottle down at granny and told her she totally sucked! Kidding. But I'd better not see her miss again! And speaking of running, my wife brought home a brochure last night for this year's Missoula Marathon, thinking I might be interested. Not sure why she'd think that. Why would I want to be part of this organized mass suicide, and pay $60 for the privilege? Or maybe that's how she hopes to get rid of me without having any criminal charges? Since I've never been accused of being a smart man, it is somewhat tempting. The farthest I've ever run before is about half of the 26-mile marathon distance, and typically only go about 7 miles on my runs now. So this means I would likely perish before the halfway point. And, since there would be no one behind me at that point, they wouldn't find my body for days. This could possibly increase my body odor. The marathon's not until July 12 (which also happens to be a very big day in the life of gennivre this year. Ha.), so I have some time to think about it and maybe even consult deadeye dinosaur granny, providing she doesn't miss any more between now and then and shake my confidence in her mentoring skills even further. Or, I could just work on increasing my intelligence between now and then which would increase my couch time and peanut butter cup intake and possibly get me started training for an appearance on The Biggest Loser! My wife works in a small printing/design/copy/shipping business, and last night she also brought home a few packs of Valentine's conversation hearts, personalized for their business. You know what I'm talking about, right? Those little chalky candy hearts that taste like Tums, but have the opposite effect? Well, instead of the typical 'I LUV U' and 'KISS ME' type messages, hers said things like 'SHIP', 'COPY', 'FAX', etc. Though, I've seen their inflated prices so I'm surprised they didn't say 'RIP OFF' or 'GOUGED' or 'HA! U SHOP HERE?'. I've seen some pretty nasty, but kinda funny, x-rated conversation hearts over the years, but had no idea you could get them personalized to a specific business or demographic. Hippies could have 'TREE HUG R', 'STONED', 'I H8 BUSH', and Democrats could have...well, the same ones. What about us WDCers? We should have our own hearts. 'BLOG HOG', 'U R 5 STAR', 'LUV GPS', 'COMMENT ME'. Okay, those are lame. I'm sure I could come up with some better ones if I took the time, but I like food and think I'll go find some now. Oh! An update on my friend, Dan, from last entry. He finally got word that his online 'girlfriend' is alive and well and not stricken with cancer. Big surprise, huh? Where did he hear all this? From the girl's husband. Yikes! Poor Dan. |
| I was up until 3:30 a.m. talking with one of my best friends last night. First via phone, and then through MySpace after my battery died. Dan had received the distressing news earlier in the day that a very dear online friend would probably not live through the day. Her cancer had reached the final stages and it was now just a matter of time. Dan has never met Aubrey in real life. They found each other through a mutual website in the summer of 2006 and eventually fell in love. She is 14 years younger than Dan, and has a son, age 9, from a previous marriage. He introduced me to her over on MySpace several years ago and I immediately loved her. Bre had such an infectious positive and energetic attitude and spirit to her. I was so happy for Dan because he's always been somewhat of a lovable loser when it comes to women and love, which is unfair because he is extremely kind, loyal, and devoted. Truly a rare, selfless breed. Over the past few years, I've gotten to know Bre better. We like a lot of the same Christian music and would often talk about that together, either via e-mail or instant messenger. She had recently moved from Tampa, Florida, to Ft. Collins, CO. (Dan lives in another part of Montana.) Though I worried a bit about the age difference – wondering if someone so youthful in spirit really was 'sold-out' for Dan – mostly I was just happy that perhaps he finally found his soulmate. Then, in late summer 2007, Bre was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. Dan was devastated. Bre backed off the relationship. It was a very difficult time for him, and we talked a lot. Bre did not want anyone to know about her cancer, but Dan told me anyway because he had no one else to talk to and was going through near breakdowns frequently. So, I had to continue to talk with Bre as if I knew nothing, which was hard. I left cryptic uplifting messages for her here and there, but for the most part continued to interact as I always had. But the last I'd spoken with her was just before Christmas. 2008 was a very rocky on-again, off-again year for Dan and Bre. She wanted him to say goodbye for good. She wanted him back. She didn't know what she wanted. It was all extremely difficult for Dan who was more in love and emotionally attached than he'd ever been in his life. He wanted the break; he wanted a chance to begin the healing process, but he also wanted to share in whatever life she had left. The events of the last two days have shaken Dan like I've never seen before. He was a wreck when he called – just waiting helplessly for final word. The twist? After talking with Dan for hours and putting dates, times, conversations, and details of their relationship together, I am now nearly 100% convinced Bre's life, and impending death, are a hoax. There is proof that she is indeed a woman named Aubrey, that she does have a 9-year-old son, and that she really is the woman in her pictures, but almost everything beyond that is a lie in my opinion. Dan has been too close and too emotionally attached to see it clearly, but even he was questioning some inconsistencies last night. I told Dan the cold hard truth last night of what I believe has been an incredible deception, and to his credit he did at least consider it a possibility. But he also told me that he would never forgive himself if it turned out she really is dying and he didn't take it seriously. And, to be honest, while I'm completely sure that much of what Bre has shared about her life is false (and we have the facts to prove it), I'm not completely sure about the cancer story. I have this tiny shred of belief that it could be true. But even that has too many inconsistences, an at this point, given her deception to date, it's hard to give her any benefit of the doubt. I am angry at being deceived, but most of all I am angry for what she's put Dan through these past few years. This is really really not good. Borderline criminal, in my opinion. And if it turns out I'm wrong, then shame on me and I will apologize, but there are literally dozens of things I could share here that don't add up and I have to believe I'm right about this. This is one of the dangers of the online world. There are success stories, but there are far too many of the other kind, where people play games with other's emotions and mess up their very lives. I'm sure we've all dealt with deception and games in some way or another from online 'friends' and acquaintances . Heck, we might be dealing with it right now and not even know it. So, in that spirit, and with what's been going on with Dan this weekend, I can't keep this secret in any longer. My name is not David, it is actually Svetlana and I'm a 13-year-old girl living in the Republic of Bashkortostan. I want to be a lesbian when I grow up and I like cheese. Now....is there anything you want to tell me? Nyet??? p.s. – I promise I catch up with blogs later today. I in hurry and must go feed Anastasia's goats now. I be back! Dobryj Dyen! |
| It's time for another visit from Dr. Po5, licensed Blogologist with a Ph.D (pretty hefty diploma) in S.O.B. (Science of Blogology). Dr. Po5 has an informal blogging survey for you this morning, and if you've been paying attention, you'll notice that these kind of surveys only show up when the good doctor doesn't particularly feel the urge to come up with a real blog entry. Your participation in this survey is mandatory. I will ask five questions (of course) relating to the science of blogging. After each, I will give my own personal answer. Please be as honest as possible. Thank you and good luck. 1.When you leave a comment in another member's blog, do you ever return to that blog to read other comments after yours? Dr. Po5 says: Typically, no. Unless CC is involved, as he is the master of making a comment box come alive. But usually, no. 2.Do you send a personal reply to blog comments? Dr. Po5 says: I'm about 50/50 on this one. I tend to not send one to people who don't send one to me, simply because I want to honor their style and not get too pushy. However, I'm pretty random about it and follow no real rules. 3.If someone replies to your blog comments personally, but never pays return visits to you blog, will you continue to read and comment in theirs? Dr. Po5 says: Yes. If I never hear anything at all, blog comment or e-mail reply, then I will stop commenting, but if I do hear from them – even if it's just a personal e-mail reply and never a return blog visit – I will still read and comment in their blog. 4.Do you ever blog out of guilt? Dr. Po5 says: Yes. Not very often, but yes. Funny thing is, I know that nobody here really cares if we take a few days (or a week or a month or whatever) off here and there, yet I'm guilty of feeling guilty on very rare occasions and coming in and reading and commenting even though my heart's not in it that particular day. Haven't had one of those in a long time, though. Usually, I'll just not log on for a day or two if I'm feeling internet overload. 5.Does your blogging personality accurately reflect your everyday personality? Dr. Po5 says: Yes....and no. Obviously we can be bolder in our blogs than we are in real life, and that holds true for me to some degree. And upon first meeting me, you'll probably ask, “Who is this quiet dude? Where's Party?” However, once you get to know me and I get comfortable with you, I am very similar to my blog personality. So, yes...eventually. Bonus question (sorry, Scarlett):Do you ever check a new blogger's port to learn more about them and to see if they have a personal pic? Dr. Po5 says: Yep! This concludes my survey. Please turn your papers upside down and leave them on my desk. Apples are okay, but I prefer peanut butter cups. Especially the special Easter egg kind with lots of extra peanut butter. They're cheaper by the six-pack. Just saying... Thank you for your participation, and whatever your plans are for this weekend, please practice safe....whatever. Practice makes perfect. |
| I got a pleasant little surprise while checking out the County Highpointers website this morning. All these years I mistakenly believed that Squaw Peak, the prominent spire about 20 miles northwest of town, was our county's highpoint. Thanks to some misguided local guidebooks, I think a lot of people here might believe that as well. My family and I have climbed it several times, so I figured that was one highpoint I had in the bag, but I learned on the website that Squaw Peak is not even close to being the county highpoint. The real top dog is Lowary Peak – a very remote mountain nestled in the southern part of the Mission Mountains well north of here. Everyone assumed (myself included) that all of the Missions were part of the next county up. Not so, I guess. Anyway, I've already climbed Lowary, so...Yay! That was my pleasant surprise. Several years back, my brother and I and a few friends climbed E. St. Mary's Peak in the Missions one fine summer day, and since we were still feeling pretty good on the summit, we decided to head deeper into the range and climb Lowary and nearby Black Buck Peak as well. Little did I know at the time it was our county highpoint. I always thought it was Squaw, which, by the way, recently had its name changed to 'Ch-paa-qn' because some people thought the word 'squaw' was offensive. No one calls it by its new Indian name, however. Probably because they can't pronounce it without getting a cramp, plus they don't know what it means, though I'm betting it's Indian for “I'd like to buy a vowel, Pat.”Speaking of counties, we have 56 of them here in Montana. Aren't I just a master of the whiplash segue? But you have to admit, there's at least a tiny thread holding this sudden blog plot twist together. Our state government keeps things simple by assigning a number – 1 through 56 – to the beginning of every license plate, depending on which county you register your car or truck. So, a typical car plate would be 1C-1111 and a truck would be 1T-1111. I know of no other states that do this. Other state plates always seem to have a random mix of letters and numbers – 3L19T6 or something like that. Maybe there really is a rhyme or reason to it that you understand? It seems pretty random to me, though. Not so here in Montana. Our government loves to label us, and it's licensing racism I tell ya'! Everyone has pre-conditioned ideas about you just by your number. A '1' means you're from Butte and are Irish, Catholic, and/or old. A '2' means you live in Cascade County where the wind always blows so your golf scores are high and your lawn furniture never stays in your own lawn. And your town is dying. A '3' means you're one of the richest Montanans, which ain't saying much. A '4'.....well, a 4 is one of the worst numbers you can have, and unfortunately I have it. 4 means hippies, liberals, granolas, etc. I am frightened when I travel to other parts of our mostly conservative state. I make sure to always wear my 'Hippies Smell' t-shirt and keep my McCain/Palin bumper sticker fully waxed and shined. '5' means politicians and their groupies (state capital). '6' is hated Bobcat country (sorry Chewie). '7' means you drive really really fast. But '13' is the other worst number you can have. 13s hail from neighboring Ravalli County and are absolutely the worst drivers on the planet. When you see a 13 coming your way, pull off the road immediately. Far far off the road, but first make sure the 13 isn't going there too as 13s live by their own set of road and off-road rules. They also carry guns in their vehicles and have been known to flash them if you violate those rules. Just as each snowflake is different or each kernel of Orville Redenbacher is unique, so is each 13 driver. You never know what you're going to get, but the things they do with their vehicles will astound you. In their minds, it truly is their road and everyone else is trespassing. I was driving home alone once from Bakersfield, California when a truck pulled alongside me on the interstate while cruising through the desert. The large, bearded driver honked, smiled, and held up his can of beer before speeding off ahead of me. A Montana '13'! I contemplated pulling off the highway, but I'm not sure if their unpredictable driving powers extend beyond state lines. |
| My sleep-deprived mind is all messed up these days, so I'm going to list some things I've been pondering too much of lately, hoping it'll free up some of my brain's hard drive by doing so. Keeping with Scarlett's Rules, of course. -- Many years ago, when our oldest son, Levi, was three-years-old and our twins were zero (less than one, but alive), I took them all for a walk down to a local park about three blocks from our house. At the park was a restroom/maintenance building about 25 feet long that featured covered entrances on opposite sides – one for the boys bathroom, one for the girls. Basically it was an enclosed walkway with open ends, so you could go in the west side and out the east, and the bathroom door was within that walkway. As we left the park that day, I pushed the twins' stroller down the path that ran along the length of that building, but my three-year-old broke away and gave me a coy little grin as he ducked into the covered pathway. I smiled but kept going, intent on rounding the building and catching up with him on the other side of this open-ended 'tunnel'. But when I got over there, he was nowhere to be found. I figured he was hiding from me in the walkway, but when I pushed the stroller over to it, he wasn't there. Suddenly panic was starting to set in. I checked in the bathroom. Nothing. It had taken no more than 15-20 seconds from the time Levi went into the walkway and out of sight till the time I came around the building to where he should have been. Now I was in full panic mode. I was hysterical – screaming his name as I raced around the building again with the stroller at high speed. The park was fairly open so there was nowhere for him to hide. I felt so helpless and had no idea what to do anymore, so I raced out to the street and looked toward home and sure enough, almost the full three blocks away, I could see Levi marching home. I have no idea how he got there so fast, and for some reason I was surprised he even knew the way. I could tell by his stride and his heaving head and shoulders that he was crying. The twins and I flew down that street as I yelled Levi's name as loud as I could. Finally he heard me and turned around and gave me the saddest expression of frustration as he threw his hands in the air. I felt so bad for him! I hugged him, I cried, I apologized over and over and over, and told him I would never have left him like that. That was many years ago and it had a happy ending. So why does that memory haunt me lately? I keep thinking of it and it always makes me want to cry. Why now? -- How is it possible to never get a good night's sleep and still keep going? Wouldn't you think the human body would eventually crash? But I never do. And each night is the same as the one before – 15 minutes of sleep here, maybe 30 minutes there, but the minutes awake far outnumber those asleep. Last night: To bed at midnight, tossed and turned and slept a little till about 3 a.m., laid completely awake in bed till 4:30 a.m., then finally got up and started the coffee. This is typical, yet I don't feel exhausted during the day. And I'd love to use these special no-sleep powers for productivity, but unfortunately those hours between midnight and about 7 a.m. are worthless – too awake to sleep, but a little too groggy to do anything. In-between, worthless wasted hours. I really don't want drugs, but I want to sleep again. -- Have you ever experienced a real-life but non-sexual, non-affair 'Fatal Attraction' kind of thing? A mistake or bad decision that keeps haunting you and won't go away no matter how hard you keep trying? I have. -- Does contemplating the universe make you feel like you're in a cartoon? Okay, maybe that's just me. But when I think hard about the universe and how it just keeps going and going and never ends - and how could it end, really, because there would have to be something on the other side of that end – I seriously start to get in a dreamlike, surreal state of mind. As if none of us really exist. I have to shake my thoughts clear and drink a Sugar-Free Rockstar to come back to reality. Or is it reality? -- Why do all of my shirts come out of the dryer inside-out when they didn't go in that way? Yet, when I try to fool the dryer and pull the shirts inside-out before I put them in, they still come out inside-out. Why, I ask you? Why? Okay, now that I've got that out of my system, I want more coffee. Is today Wednesday? Yeah, I think so. Oh! It's my niece's birthday! Thanks for reminding me. |
| Okay, I just finished doing my taxes this morning and for the first time in my life I have to PAY federal! Damn you, Obama! And is it just me or is this new WDC white not really white? Maybe I'm just having withdrawals, or maybe it's like when you stare at a light for over six years and finally turn away you still see the light. I'm still seeing yellow. But I swear it's more of a Smoker's Teeth White (a new Crayola color, perhaps?) and not a white white. Look at the white envelopes on the blog page – don't they look Crest White Strip white next to the Smoker's White background? Okay, it probably is just me. It could take a while for my WDC jaundice to completely go away. A very important personal anniversary date is fast approaching! February 12 is less than two weeks away and I haven't made any plans yet to celebrate. On that day three years ago, I went wireless. I will always remember that date, as it ranks right up there with my kids' birthdays, which are in March or April I believe, and my wedding anniversary that happens every year when it's cold outside (possibly winter?) because I seem to remember there was snow on the ground. I can still remember how excited I was when I came home with my new laptop and wireless router that day. It reminded me somewhat of the freedom I felt the day I was finally born, though I wasn't quite as naked. No longer was I chained to the desktop unit in the corner of the living room, but in my haste to explore the freedom to blog in the bathroom, I don't think I set up the security encryption correctly. And three procrastinated years later, I'm still not sure. I can't help but get this nagging feeling that I'm providing free internet for the neighborhood, and beyond. All those cars parked outside and people sitting in the yard with their laptops kind of gave it away. Well, I don't want to share anymore! I want everyone OFF my gravy train! What can I say, I'm a Republican. Science has proven if you turn off a porchlight, the moths will leave and go find another porchlight...or get eaten by a bat. Either of those fates are okay with me. But I don't necessarily want to turn off my porchlight, I just want to block it from the bat bait. I would be safely inside my protective shield and would see the light all by myself and be happy. To make this easier to understand, I quote the 80s prophet Corey Hart who once sang, “I wear my sunglasses at night, so I can see the light that's right before my eyes.” I never knew what the heck Corey was talking about, and figured he was probably just stoned, but now I see he was a router-encryption visionary decades ahead of his time. And he may have been stoned. I wasn't quite sure how to do what Corey suggests, though, so I went to my router's website where I was told to log on, but don't worry there's no password required, it said...just leave that box blank. I left the box blank and was rudely denied access and then prompted to answer a secret question that I never set up in the first place. Something deep like 'Is it farther to Seattle or by bus?' (a heads-up...the answer is not 14), so I started over and set up my own secret question: “How many ashtrays did you make in freshman pottery class?” (That answer is 14) So, I finally got in and set up a new password, but short of knocking on my neighbors' doors and asking if they're suddenly having trouble downloading porn, I don't know if it worked. But, come to think of it, no one's sitting out on our lawn anymore so that's a good sign. Perhaps I am finally my porchlight's only moth, and a porchlight with only one moth shines much brighter than one with many moths. And if it doesn't work and the people return to my lawn, maybe I can sell coffee and snacks to make a little money to pay for my friggin' taxes! |
| I have a serious question about...*gasp*...writing. I know, I know...this is totally not the place to bring up such a subject, but I'm a little desperate and need feedback. Okay, I'm not desperate but I do need feedback. Okay, I don't need feedback, but I'd sure like some. It's time for my annual 'let's get serious about writing' kick. About a year ago, I entered the humor writing contest over at humorpress.com and won first place. Some of you may remember me blogging about it back then. I even won $100 that my wife immediately ripped off to buy shoes. When they posted the winners on their site, I did a quick check of the competition, reading through the 2nd through 5th place finishers. I probably shouldn't have done that because afterward I felt a little out of place. At the end of every single one of these entries was a website link to more of that writer's work. The second place guy had a column in L.A., the third place lady had one in New York, another guy wrote for a paper in Ohio, and the other was a writer from Florida who had a few books published. Then there was me sitting up there with no link and no resume whatsoever. I'm sure they were thinking, “Who's this clown?” I felt kind of unworthy all of the sudden. I'm not fishing for compliments here, even though I have been a little depressed about the weather lately and could use some cheering up . I'm just interested if any of you have put together your writing on a website or blog somewhere and use that for marketing purposes. I know Andra and Loraine do, but is there anyone else? How expensive is that? Less than a million? 'Cause that's pretty much all I've got until the stimulus kicks in and I get my check from the White House. Has a website or blog really helped your marketing? And will it work in Europe or do I need a different plug? I've thought about a website, but I don't know. I've noticed some people use blogger.com to promote and I already have an account there. I don't think linking my wdc blog would be right since I'm way too random here and people might come visit and leave stupider, totally forgetting where they just were and questioning why. Maybe I should dust off that dormant blogger.com account and spruce it up with a focused theme of essays? I'd love to hear from anyone who has experience with this, or anyone at all who has some thoughts on the subject. Or even those who just like cheese. Thanks! And I know we all have limited blogging time and lots of favorites to read through already, but if you have a few minutes I think you'll really enjoy L.L. Zern 's blog. Funny lady! |
| It's kind of hard to concentrate on a blog entry knowing what Eric and Debi Wharton are going through today, but since I didn't have much to say anyway, I'll go for it. You can check Kim Ashby or bugzy is baaaccck!! 's blogs for Eric and Debi updates. Keep those prayers coming! Okay, WDC must have their anti-crappy-entry software firmly in place that automatically detects pointlessly random entries and locks up the system, because the second I clicked 'submit entry' the website froze up faster than an Eskimo turd! Took me, like, nine days to post this! Okay, let's see... It was 4 below zero when I went for my run this morning. Let me tell you, my lungs were burning, my legs were really creaky, and it took forever to get loosened up. Imagine if I'd been outside! Yeah, we still have that family membership at the YMCA that I pull out on emergencies like 4-below days. The trouble with running on the indoor track is I always lose track of how many laps I've done, but I'd guess I ran about 70 or 80 miles this morning. No more than 100.My wife can be funny when she wants to. She was in a hurry and frantically trying to put together a recipe yesterday while I was trying to tell her about something totally amazing, though I can't remember what at the moment. She kept making measuring mistakes so I asked if she wanted me to stop talking. She said, “No, you can keep talking, but I can't listen right now.” Funny.Then, I was telling her that I was thinking I might start fasting one day a week again. I'd done it before years ago and it's a great way to increase irritability and take up smoking, but yesterday my wife said she'd look for a good 'fasting cookbook' for me. Funny.Today I saw a hippie smoking a cigarette. That is something you don't see often. He was probably one of those oxymorons Tor was talking about yesterday. Also today, I lucked into finding the armored truck that could finance my dreams. As I was waiting at an intersection, I noticed the truck parked near an ATM machine (but not that close), motor running, with the door wide open while one of the security guys was crouched in front of the machine servicing it in some way. The other guy who was probably supposed to be watching his back was off to the side, his back to his partner and the truck, completely oblivious to anything except whatever he was casually kicking around on the ground while he puffed on a cigarette. Coulda had it. I would've been rich and never had to blog again. And the heartache I talked about with my youngest son a while back finally hit the fan. His (now-former) girlfriend told him Saturday night that she wanted to split up. It was a rough night, filled with tears and emotions he was experiencing for the first time. That natural parental animal instinct took over and I just wanted to keep him close and lick his wounds, but he got grossed out and my tongue got dry, so we just talked instead. Well this concludes this boring entry, but at least my BER is currently at an astounding 50% for 2009, though I might lose points for excessive pointlessness. |
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