New-ier and improve-ier for 2007.


Another reason to turn off the tube.

Besides the chance of a random Ryan Seacrest sighting (damn, that guy freaks me out).

TV time shortens attention spans -- even in infants



The Good Life.

Last night, we went out to the lot, in an attempt to make some headway on resolving the crawdad situation.

It was a balmy 60 degrees. While The Weez and Weez The Elder dug trenches to locate the offending drain tiles, Small Child and I wandered through the park area that backs up to our land. We saw a family of five whitetail deer, numerous "kurd-uls" (squirrels), and an incredibly cuddly-looking rabbit. We played hide-and-seek among the newly-budding trees. We sat in the greening grass and ate cashews. We chased each other around and laughed like goons. We waved "good night" to the sun, as it made its crimson-and-gold way to bed.

It was absolutely perfect.



An Auspicious Beginning.

Four years ago today, I woke up in a king-sized bed with three other women, huddled together for warmth, in a dark hotel room, which had no power, no heat, and no running water.

I stumbled in the darkness to find my clothes, which were entirely unsuited to the weather. I hastily attempted to keep my toes from frostbite by putting thick wool socks on under my Birks.

There was a frantic knock on the door -- one of my best friends' cars had been plowed in by several feet of snow, and she urgently needed to leave to make it to her appointment on time. Could I help her?

I trundled down the concrete stairway, out into the snow-blindingly bright morning. We used makeshift shovels to clear a path for her car, stopping only long enough to blow life back into our red, chapped fingers. She got in the car and attempted to throw it in reverse, but the high-pitched spinning sound (all too familiar to those of use who live in Da Nortwoods) made it clear that she would need to be pushed out.

I hunkered down in front of the car, placed my hand under the bumper, leaned my shoulder to the hood, and rocked. Once. . .twice. . . three times. . . crack-splash! The layer of ice that I'd been standing on gave way, plunging me into several inches of frigid slush. And remember. . . Birks and socks. As I was already soaked, there was nothing to do but keep pushing, and a few solid efforts later, the offending vehicle was free.

I turned my attention to my own car. It was less-precariously positioned, so I was able to back it out of the spot with little trouble. I hurriedly grabbed all of my necessities, and headed out in search of a hot shower and a cup of coffee, wherever it might be found.

Some people might think that this was a horrible start to their wedding day (for that is, indeed, what day it was). I think it was the best possible beginning. At some point, the mini-crises just became a great adventure. And what better way to adventure than surrounded by everyone who loves you, with your best friend by your side?

I'm pleased to say I've enjoyed the adventure almost every day since.

Happy anniversary to me!



Cinematic Decor, Part The Third.

Paul Edgecomb is a slightly cynical veteran prison guard on Death row in the 1930's. His faith, and sanity, deteriorated by looking at bathrooms in normal ranges of color, Edgecomb is about to have a complete turn around in attitude. Enter The Bathroom. It has ten foot ceilings. It has day-glo curliqueues embedded in the tile. It's been accused of the murder (or at least, malicious blinding) of two children...

And Edgecomb, as well as the other prison guards - Brutus, a sympathetic guard, and Percy, a stuck up, perverse, and violent person, are in for a strange experience that involves freaky sculpture, retinally-damaging paint, and the revelation about The Bathroom's true identity.

We now bring you our feature presentation:

The Green Tile

More frightening than Tom Hanks in drag.



Sportin' wood.

My lot, that is.

They delivered a whole crapload of 2 x 4s to the front of the garage today. Methinks there may be framing going on starting tomorrow!!!


And loud guffaws ensued.

It is a mystery to me why this trogoldyte doesn't have comments enabled.

Mmmmm. . . misogyny.


An Easter Carol.

Because really, why should Christmas be the religious celebration with all the upbeat ditties?

[To the tune of "Here Comes Peter Cottontail"]

Here comes Jesus of Nazareth
Hopping down the road to death!
Hippity-hoppity, Easter's on its way.

He was nay-uled to a tree
Got salvation for you and me!
Hippity-hoppity, Easter's on its way.

Look, there's Simon the Cerean
And Miss Mary Magadalene.
Once he dies, they will anoint him,
Find a cave, and put him in. Oh!

Here comes Jesus of Nazareth
Hopping down the road to death!
Hippity-hoppity, Happy Good Friday!

If I don't post any more, you'll know that I've been struck down for my blasphemy.



Tragic Interior Decorating Options, Part The Second.

In The Veegee-na Monoblog's continuing thematic quest to match cinematic titles with interior decor, it gives me great pleasure to unveil:

Bram Stoker's Bathula

Love never dies. But if it did, it would feel perfectly at home taking a bath here.



A Mini-Script.

Overheard in my kitchen.

Small Child: Nose! [giggles]
Small Child: Hair! [more giggles]
Small Child: Ear! [still more giggles]
The Weez: Small Child! Quit playing with your cheese slices!



Sacrilegious Illumination.

In keeping up with current cinematic offerings, and the liturgical season, it brings me great. . . ah. . . probably damnation to offer you the following:

The Passion of the Sconce

Jesus wept, y'all.



Catching up on correspondence.

Letters relating to my home-in-process.

Dear Stickley, makers of quality furniture,

Why do you torture me? Why? I was well-aware that my tastes vastly outpace my budget; I was trying to live within my means. And yet, you taunt me with your 21st Century Collection.

Clean lines, beautiful woods, elegant detailing? A look that is simultaneous sophisticated and natural? Why must you toy with my emotions so?

Now I must go searching for knock-offs. If I get fired for searching the internet for replicas, I'm totally blaming you.

Dear Crawdads (or do you prefer being called "Crayfish" now? It's all so confusing),

I noticed that you had managed to make your way from the swamp area in the county park, about a quarter mile from my lot, actually INTO my yard. I would like to thank you for making your presence known, and helpfully pointing out the fact that there's a FUCKING DRAINPIPE running underground from the pond in the park THROUGH MY DAMN YARD.

I realize that YOU certainly did not put the pipe there, little crawdads. (That would be ridiculous. You don't have opposable thumbs, or even a frontal lobe.) And I don't really blame you for availing yourself of what, to a crawdad, is probably a lot like the Chunnel. However, I regret to inform you that the public transport was a one-way deal, because we're going to find the drain tube and cap that motherfucker off so fast it will make your little freaky eye-stalks spin.

I do hope that y'all make yourselves at home in your new surroundings. Come for dinner, even. I'll just put on a kettle and melt some butter. . . .

To the contractors who were capping my foundation the other day:

I am paying you good money to work on my house. Please do not spend time that could be used actually making progress on the damn thing ogling my ass as I walk around the property.

Thank you for your prompt attention to this matter, and also your oh-so-kind catcalls. Idiots.