I must have somehow gone temporarily mad when I signed up for the women's retreat at my new church.
Actually, I was temporarily exhausted and at my wit's end with how we were going to go make fall happen in our house. At that point, I still couldn't wrap my mind around how our four adult arms and four adult legs were going to get everyone everywhere they needed to be. AND intact and sane, that is. I figured this would be my stretch goal: if I was still alive come November 13th, I owed it to myself to go on this retreat and relax.
I attempted, that ill-fated day, to convince one of the Moms I quasi-knew to join me. With hope in my heart that she'd be signing up the following, and last, weekend, I penned my name and handed over my credit card.
Turned out, my newish friend couldn't attend. I was completely on my own.
Now I know some people who would have taken this as a challenge and made up some game against themselves where they attempted to get to know five people they didn't know when they arrived on Friday.
Me? I'm kinda a one-trick pony. I generally like to go with a smallish group of people and stick kind of close. If I don't quickly find someone warming up to my warped personality, I engross myself in reading, writing, and napping. That's not all bad, but it certainly doesn't fit the concept behind the weekend.*
I'm going with the attitude "What the heck?" and, I'm sure, will get to know some of the other lovely ladies at the church. I'm not going to put myself full-out-there unless I've had at least one glass of liquid courage** OR so much chocolate I'm running on a pure sugar high.
So, I'm starting at the neighborhood Exxon. Where I intend to buy one of every kind of chocolate known to man.
I think that should probably do it. That and my bottle of Fetzer.....
*UNLESS, this happened to be a silent retreat. I checked. It isn't.
**The antithesis to my time in Baptist land? On our checklist of things to bring: a bottle of wine. Wine glass optional, but only to distinguish your fermented grapes from that of your neighbor. OH YEAH!
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
The little number 100
When I started this adventure, my goal was to get a friend off my back. A friend who kept telling me I needed to write. Little did he know, he was right!
I found out I do need to write. Kind of like Ted Kennedy used to need booze. Or I need coffee to remain vertical after 10a.m.
My whole goal when I hit 50 posts was to get to 100. That seemed totally plausible.
When I saw Julie and Julia, I decided it would be cool if this thing made money.
So, reality check time:
1. My friend regularly reads this post and often comments. I'm afraid, if I stop now, I'll catch all kind of flack. What have I gotten myself into?
2. My need for writing is, to quote Mike, "an obsession." Just because I've chosen writing over showering some days doesn't make it so, Mister!
3. I hope I don't give up at 100. I have a real talent of hitting goals then completely torching whatever I was doing. Check back tomorrow to see if 101 is here or not. No guarantees.
4. I have no more money today than I did 100 posts ago. In fact, if the time I spent writing these blessed things was spent writing a REAL book, I'd be halfway done by now. Crap.
In the process, I've discovered what I think God wanted me to discover all along: this writing thing works for me. It isn't the torture other people experience when they try to put words on paper. I can do it without pain or angst. Maybe not perfectly, but well enough to get my point across and make people chuckle every once in a while.
I don't know what the next 100 posts hold, or if there will even be another 100, but I thank you for reading this far.
It has been my pleasure to serve as your writer.
I found out I do need to write. Kind of like Ted Kennedy used to need booze. Or I need coffee to remain vertical after 10a.m.
My whole goal when I hit 50 posts was to get to 100. That seemed totally plausible.
When I saw Julie and Julia, I decided it would be cool if this thing made money.
So, reality check time:
1. My friend regularly reads this post and often comments. I'm afraid, if I stop now, I'll catch all kind of flack. What have I gotten myself into?
2. My need for writing is, to quote Mike, "an obsession." Just because I've chosen writing over showering some days doesn't make it so, Mister!
3. I hope I don't give up at 100. I have a real talent of hitting goals then completely torching whatever I was doing. Check back tomorrow to see if 101 is here or not. No guarantees.
4. I have no more money today than I did 100 posts ago. In fact, if the time I spent writing these blessed things was spent writing a REAL book, I'd be halfway done by now. Crap.
In the process, I've discovered what I think God wanted me to discover all along: this writing thing works for me. It isn't the torture other people experience when they try to put words on paper. I can do it without pain or angst. Maybe not perfectly, but well enough to get my point across and make people chuckle every once in a while.
I don't know what the next 100 posts hold, or if there will even be another 100, but I thank you for reading this far.
It has been my pleasure to serve as your writer.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Piles, Piles, EVERYWHERE
"Hi. I'm Jill. And I'm an addict."
"Hi Jill"
"It's been (looking at cell phone clock) 1 hour and 20 minutes since I created a pile."
Gasps of horror. One woman passes out cold. I wonder when I'll be able to leave the building, speed home, and ORGANIZE something, into a PILE.
Yes, sports fans, I am a piler. Add that to my sugar addiction and you get a FAST PILER.
I think this problem has been an issue all along, it just came in different forms when I was younger. Such as the fact that I had my books on a shelf, with a card catalog*, all arranged by the Dewey decimal system. I don't remember anybody ever checking out a book, but I was READY for the chance to be the Huber Library.
So, I've always been an organizer. The organization has just morphed over time.
I don't remember my first pile, but I can certainly look around my house and tell you about the ones that are the most current.
Right now, there are approximately 10,503 piles in this house. Among them:
1. Bills that need to be filed. At least two feet deep.
2. Credit card receipts for which we haven't received a bill. At least 150 of them.
3. Books and magazines. Unread, "I'll get to them soon", editions that are patiently collecting dust in my bedside table, on top of my desk, and in the driver's-side pockets of both cars.
4. Coupons. Oh, the coupons. They actually have a manila file-folder home, but they rarely seem to make it there before they expire. Which always make me wonder: why did I clip them to begin with?
5. Recipes. From soup to bread to desserts and beyond. I even have one buried somewhere that tells me how to boil eggs properly. If I made one recipe a day from the pile, I'd die trying.
I could go on naming the rest of my piles, but, frankly, I need the time to actually try to get them where they rightfully belong.
Seems to me there is a 50's-era-horror-story-"B"-movie wrapped up in my piles. They are big. They are prevalent. And they seem to be prolific. Kind of like too many rabbits in too small a cage with intense hormones and no supervision.
I'll get working on the manuscript right after I work on roping in this problem. But, before the piles take over this house and, ultimately, the planet.
How does the title "Bunny Piles from Beyond" work for ya?
*Index cards in a box.
"Hi Jill"
"It's been (looking at cell phone clock) 1 hour and 20 minutes since I created a pile."
Gasps of horror. One woman passes out cold. I wonder when I'll be able to leave the building, speed home, and ORGANIZE something, into a PILE.
Yes, sports fans, I am a piler. Add that to my sugar addiction and you get a FAST PILER.
I think this problem has been an issue all along, it just came in different forms when I was younger. Such as the fact that I had my books on a shelf, with a card catalog*, all arranged by the Dewey decimal system. I don't remember anybody ever checking out a book, but I was READY for the chance to be the Huber Library.
So, I've always been an organizer. The organization has just morphed over time.
I don't remember my first pile, but I can certainly look around my house and tell you about the ones that are the most current.
Right now, there are approximately 10,503 piles in this house. Among them:
1. Bills that need to be filed. At least two feet deep.
2. Credit card receipts for which we haven't received a bill. At least 150 of them.
3. Books and magazines. Unread, "I'll get to them soon", editions that are patiently collecting dust in my bedside table, on top of my desk, and in the driver's-side pockets of both cars.
4. Coupons. Oh, the coupons. They actually have a manila file-folder home, but they rarely seem to make it there before they expire. Which always make me wonder: why did I clip them to begin with?
5. Recipes. From soup to bread to desserts and beyond. I even have one buried somewhere that tells me how to boil eggs properly. If I made one recipe a day from the pile, I'd die trying.
I could go on naming the rest of my piles, but, frankly, I need the time to actually try to get them where they rightfully belong.
Seems to me there is a 50's-era-horror-story-"B"-movie wrapped up in my piles. They are big. They are prevalent. And they seem to be prolific. Kind of like too many rabbits in too small a cage with intense hormones and no supervision.
I'll get working on the manuscript right after I work on roping in this problem. But, before the piles take over this house and, ultimately, the planet.
How does the title "Bunny Piles from Beyond" work for ya?
*Index cards in a box.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
School Days, School Days
We are sub-seven days away from school starting up for the boys of the Nowell house and, as far as I can tell, everyone is ready for the routine of Fall to kick in.
Except me. I'm lamenting the fact that school ushers in early mornings. With early mornings come earlier bedtimes and with earlier bedtimes, I have to be an adult again.
WHINE.
Why, you ask, would I have to become an adult AGAIN? Did I lose my status somewhere along the way? Why, YES, I think I did.
In retrospect, I've been a "pseudo-adult" all Summer long. Case in point:
1. I usually wake when the kids come padding into the room, rubbing the sleep out of their eyes, to see if I'll cave in and let them watch cartoons "just once"*. I can USUALLY be relied upon to actually get OUT of bed within a half hour of them entering the room.
2. If the kids return to try their cunning negotiation skills on me again, I firmly refuse their TV request and delay breakfast for another 15 minutes because, in my mind, it's Summer and we shouldn't be on such a rigid schedule**.
3. On more than one occasion, the doorbell has gotten me out of bed, as some contractor has shown up sub-9am, sending me into a dressing frenzy that looks like a cross between the Tazmanian Devil and a model backstage at a designer runway show***.
4. Breakfast has recently slipped into the uncomfortable time slot of brunch, during days that DON'T start with "S"****.
5. Cleaning? I have but one, worn out excuse: every day, new people enter this house to work on some sort of renovation. They always produce dust, dirt, or general odors. No sane person would clean in this environment.
6. I resolved to try to save the environment this year and, accordingly, am only using my "real" everyday china. Therefore, there are always dirty dishes in this house. Why try to keep up with a never-ending proposition?
7. Lunch? Well, let's just say, it's on the fly and occurs sometime before dinner. On more than one occasion, it has resembled a heavy snack on an airplane.
8. Afternoons. Can you say "catch-up" time? Budget work, blogging, laundry, blogging, driving kids to destinations, blogging*****. Need I say more?
9. Our house now has cocktail hour by the pool. Since the kids like to swim almost every afternoon, I sacrifice and enjoy a tasty beverage, poolside, while playing fully-clothed lifeguard******. Can someone help me get the song "Cocomo" out of my mind? HA, ha. Now it's in yours, too.
10. Laundry. Oh My Jeepers. I used to complain because it took so long. Now, it finishes too FAST! I can't keep up with all the laundry in the baskets that is clean. If this is supposed to be efficiency, I'm a monkey's Aunt.
10. Dinner? Dinner-schminner. It's been on the table before dark-thirty every single night since school let out****. And, it's been balanced, thank you very much; I've made sure each munchkin knows how to carry his plate with BOTH hands.
11. Bedtime. Well, let's just say that, if the kids make it to a horitzontal position before 8:30pm, Mike and I are doing the happy dance. We, on the other hand, are asleep in front of the TV by 9:15pm and actually get up to brush our teeth between midnight and 3 a.m. on a regular basis.
What has gotten into us? We used to have sticks up our posteriors. Did they break? Have the fair Nowells gone mad?
I'm not sure. THAT'S for sure. I hope not; I hate surgical procedures. NO--I don't THINK so.
What I do think is a feeling of being "home" settled into our bones once Summer actually began. The house was no longer so foreign; it was ours. Even though it wasn't perfect or perfectly finished, it finally wasn't in the way of our "routine". So, we let down our guard and sunk into the process of letting go of our lives on Heathermore Drive and took on this new life on Briar Cove.
And, we love it. For the first time, in a long time, we've had lazy afternoons, unscheduled periods of rest, and the ability to say "yes" at the last minute. It has felt really good.
But, just around the corner, the routine machine is kicking into high gear. I hope it doesn't suck me into it's grips quite as heavily as it has in years past. We've worked on keeping our after-school activities to a bare minimum and I hope this will add sanity to our lives this Fall.
Now, if I can just figure where to hire a cabana boy and how to have cocktail hour, poolside, year round, MY school days will be PERFECT.
*Truth is, I'd probably agree to letting them shave my head bald if they'd let me sleep ten more minutes. Let's just keep that OUR little secret, though.
**Maybe, just maybe, my prayers will be answered and someone will slip in the front door with a breakfast buffet and I'll be spared morning kitchen duty.
***HUGE emphasis on the Tazmanian Devil in this sentence. Need I admit: uncombed hair and unbrushed teeth. I really should pay these guys a premium.
****This is SO uncharacteristic of me I can't even describe it. I've always been the three square meals and a bag of Oreos in between kind of girl. BRUNCH is NOT part of that equation.
*****I think someone in this house might lose his mind if this doesn't become a PAYING gig. It's somewhat of an obsession.
******And, in case you don't think a clothed lifeguard can save a life, I dove in earlier in the Summer to save a swimmer who was precariously slipping under water well above his head. Scared the living crud out of everyone in the pool, including the potential drowning victim.
****Though I BARELY made it one particularly fine July evening when the margaritas were flowing.....
Except me. I'm lamenting the fact that school ushers in early mornings. With early mornings come earlier bedtimes and with earlier bedtimes, I have to be an adult again.
WHINE.
Why, you ask, would I have to become an adult AGAIN? Did I lose my status somewhere along the way? Why, YES, I think I did.
In retrospect, I've been a "pseudo-adult" all Summer long. Case in point:
1. I usually wake when the kids come padding into the room, rubbing the sleep out of their eyes, to see if I'll cave in and let them watch cartoons "just once"*. I can USUALLY be relied upon to actually get OUT of bed within a half hour of them entering the room.
2. If the kids return to try their cunning negotiation skills on me again, I firmly refuse their TV request and delay breakfast for another 15 minutes because, in my mind, it's Summer and we shouldn't be on such a rigid schedule**.
3. On more than one occasion, the doorbell has gotten me out of bed, as some contractor has shown up sub-9am, sending me into a dressing frenzy that looks like a cross between the Tazmanian Devil and a model backstage at a designer runway show***.
4. Breakfast has recently slipped into the uncomfortable time slot of brunch, during days that DON'T start with "S"****.
5. Cleaning? I have but one, worn out excuse: every day, new people enter this house to work on some sort of renovation. They always produce dust, dirt, or general odors. No sane person would clean in this environment.
6. I resolved to try to save the environment this year and, accordingly, am only using my "real" everyday china. Therefore, there are always dirty dishes in this house. Why try to keep up with a never-ending proposition?
7. Lunch? Well, let's just say, it's on the fly and occurs sometime before dinner. On more than one occasion, it has resembled a heavy snack on an airplane.
8. Afternoons. Can you say "catch-up" time? Budget work, blogging, laundry, blogging, driving kids to destinations, blogging*****. Need I say more?
9. Our house now has cocktail hour by the pool. Since the kids like to swim almost every afternoon, I sacrifice and enjoy a tasty beverage, poolside, while playing fully-clothed lifeguard******. Can someone help me get the song "Cocomo" out of my mind? HA, ha. Now it's in yours, too.
10. Laundry. Oh My Jeepers. I used to complain because it took so long. Now, it finishes too FAST! I can't keep up with all the laundry in the baskets that is clean. If this is supposed to be efficiency, I'm a monkey's Aunt.
10. Dinner? Dinner-schminner. It's been on the table before dark-thirty every single night since school let out****. And, it's been balanced, thank you very much; I've made sure each munchkin knows how to carry his plate with BOTH hands.
11. Bedtime. Well, let's just say that, if the kids make it to a horitzontal position before 8:30pm, Mike and I are doing the happy dance. We, on the other hand, are asleep in front of the TV by 9:15pm and actually get up to brush our teeth between midnight and 3 a.m. on a regular basis.
What has gotten into us? We used to have sticks up our posteriors. Did they break? Have the fair Nowells gone mad?
I'm not sure. THAT'S for sure. I hope not; I hate surgical procedures. NO--I don't THINK so.
What I do think is a feeling of being "home" settled into our bones once Summer actually began. The house was no longer so foreign; it was ours. Even though it wasn't perfect or perfectly finished, it finally wasn't in the way of our "routine". So, we let down our guard and sunk into the process of letting go of our lives on Heathermore Drive and took on this new life on Briar Cove.
And, we love it. For the first time, in a long time, we've had lazy afternoons, unscheduled periods of rest, and the ability to say "yes" at the last minute. It has felt really good.
But, just around the corner, the routine machine is kicking into high gear. I hope it doesn't suck me into it's grips quite as heavily as it has in years past. We've worked on keeping our after-school activities to a bare minimum and I hope this will add sanity to our lives this Fall.
Now, if I can just figure where to hire a cabana boy and how to have cocktail hour, poolside, year round, MY school days will be PERFECT.
*Truth is, I'd probably agree to letting them shave my head bald if they'd let me sleep ten more minutes. Let's just keep that OUR little secret, though.
**Maybe, just maybe, my prayers will be answered and someone will slip in the front door with a breakfast buffet and I'll be spared morning kitchen duty.
***HUGE emphasis on the Tazmanian Devil in this sentence. Need I admit: uncombed hair and unbrushed teeth. I really should pay these guys a premium.
****This is SO uncharacteristic of me I can't even describe it. I've always been the three square meals and a bag of Oreos in between kind of girl. BRUNCH is NOT part of that equation.
*****I think someone in this house might lose his mind if this doesn't become a PAYING gig. It's somewhat of an obsession.
******And, in case you don't think a clothed lifeguard can save a life, I dove in earlier in the Summer to save a swimmer who was precariously slipping under water well above his head. Scared the living crud out of everyone in the pool, including the potential drowning victim.
****Though I BARELY made it one particularly fine July evening when the margaritas were flowing.....
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
HGTV's unfortunate programming decision
If you are like me, inspiration comes at odd hours and I often don't have control over it. Take the night/morning this blog was born: I created the site and wrote six entries right then. Who knew I had so much pent up writing inside of me?
Which brings me to my topic: HGTV. I love HGTV. I pretty much love anything that has to do with decorating, redecorating, looking at houses, cooking, etc. But, the people at HGTV have made a colossal mistake. Or, maybe they just don't get people like me*; if they did, at 3am they wouldn't put up that heinous message that says "Good Night from HGTV" and turn the station over for TWO AND A HALF HOURS to "Paid Programming" (Billy Mays will live on FOREVER if I can't get this oversight corrected! Oh, the horrors.)
I'm reduced to either:
1) putting the pedal to the metal and getting the project done without the fun of watching Candice Olson, The Iron Chef, or Carter Oosterhouse while I work -OR-
2) going to bed and not being able to sleep because I haven't finished my project.
Is there a good answer here, folks? I think not.
So, later today, after my tall cuppajoe, a good workout at the gym, and a few cartoons*, I'll attack this problem by sending HGTV an email detailing how their messed up programming is having a negative impact on my life.
Do you think they'll give a YIP?
*In about four hours I'll be stopping by Exxon for my 24-ounce coffee. And my bladder WON'T thank me.....
**A treat for the kids; sleepytime for Mom!
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Sarcastic Writing 101
I recently read a letter from someone I've never even met, sent to me by someone else I know really well. Now, I have an opinion about this person I've never met* because he shoots off on any topic, regardless of whether he has a clue about it or not. You know the type: he thinks he can tell his wife how to birth children because he's watched an episode of "A Birth Story". He repairs the house based on being a "Home Improvement" junkie. He saw Jet Li across the airport at LAX, made a jackass out of himself by screaming to get Mr Li's attention, and now thinks they are "acquainted.** You've met him. And he drives you bonkers.
Now stop comparing him to ME.
So, this person has an opinion about a certain local issue. He doesn't really have a good point, just an opinion with a lot of fluff around it, but cobbles this nonsense together to form a letter. Then, he sends it to every politician from Amarillo to Brownsville.
Now, I am all for sharing your opinion*** but please bring at least two brain cells to the conversation, K? Case in point: I was completely ignorant back in Junior High****. While watching the news with my parents, I actually thought I had enough information to comment, ABOUT APARTHEID, "Why don't those people stop griping?" The hole in my parent's faces proved that your lower jaw CAN spontaneously disconnect from the rest of your skull and fall to the floor with a thud. Thankfully, my parents didn't immediately write me off; my father explained the error of my thinking and I learned a BIG history lesson. And, a bit about arguing a point, too.
So, back to our sponsor, Mr. Know-it-All. With everything his mind could muster, he wrote this letter about the injustices being committed upon humanity. It was a tour-de-force of thin-spun nothingness. Arguments that would make you stop and go "Huh?" And, after emptying his brain into this epistle, he signed it "Regards". REGARDS? Not, "Your angry constituent" or "Disappointed in Dallas"? No, "Regards", for crying out loud!
This is tantamount to sending a letter to Proctor and Gamble explaining how the phrase "have a happy period" on a tampon box is beyond annoying, only to sign with a smiley face.***** Kind of takes the teeth out of it, huh?
TSK, TSK, TSK. Obviously, letter writers in this country don't know diddly about sarcasm, so allow moi to give you a bit of an ed-u-macation****** with a couple of pithy examples:
Example #1:
Harry-
Leaving me in the parking lot with a dozen inebriated friends of yours with libidos the size of New York was NOT a wise idea. I'm sure you'll understand that I WON'T be paying the hospital bill for Lee's arm, especially after you told me how much you loved bragging to him about the fact that I'm more of a karate master than he. Apparently, Lee missed that conversation.
Choose the most appropriate closing:
1. See you tonight!
2. Kiss my very dark black belt,
3. Hugs and kisses :)
If you chose 1 or 3, read on. If you chose 2, call me and I'll share the Halloween-from-Hades story with you. No joking.
Example #2:
Dear Sirs--
I am returning the flat iron I ordered from your company for a full refund, per your TV commercials. Included with this letter are beautician bills to cover the cost of adding hair extensions after your product managed to reduce my tresses to two inches over every bit of my scalp. If I don't receive both a) a full-refund for your cheap piece of junk AND b) a check made payable to "Vicki's Clip and Curl", I will have my attorney's office contact you forthwith.
Close with:
1. Burning up
2. Balls in your court
3. Most sincerely
Boring, predictable, yet ever in style, number 3 wins the day. Though, I think number 1 is awfully clever.
Hopefully you've learned a couple of things today:
1. Your blogger friend hasn't always been smart OR witty. Your arguments and opinions about my current state of intelligence/ingenuity are welcome when you bring carrot cake as part of the discussion.
2. If you write a letter then forward it on thinking you made a great point, you better have made a great point. If not, you are subject to anonymous blog ridicule.
Write on, people!
*He's a complete bonehead.
**And, on a first-name basis!
***No comments from the peanut gallery, please. Especially you, Mom and Dad.
****And no smarty-pants comments about my CURRENT ignorance....
*****This statement REALLY is appearing on tampon boxes. Just don't get caught pilfering through your neighbor's cabinets if your cheap rear buys generic tampons and you are too curious to spend the extra coin to check it out in the privacy of your own home.
******Not to be confused with an education, which would come from a professional. Which I am not.
Now stop comparing him to ME.
So, this person has an opinion about a certain local issue. He doesn't really have a good point, just an opinion with a lot of fluff around it, but cobbles this nonsense together to form a letter. Then, he sends it to every politician from Amarillo to Brownsville.
Now, I am all for sharing your opinion*** but please bring at least two brain cells to the conversation, K? Case in point: I was completely ignorant back in Junior High****. While watching the news with my parents, I actually thought I had enough information to comment, ABOUT APARTHEID, "Why don't those people stop griping?" The hole in my parent's faces proved that your lower jaw CAN spontaneously disconnect from the rest of your skull and fall to the floor with a thud. Thankfully, my parents didn't immediately write me off; my father explained the error of my thinking and I learned a BIG history lesson. And, a bit about arguing a point, too.
So, back to our sponsor, Mr. Know-it-All. With everything his mind could muster, he wrote this letter about the injustices being committed upon humanity. It was a tour-de-force of thin-spun nothingness. Arguments that would make you stop and go "Huh?" And, after emptying his brain into this epistle, he signed it "Regards". REGARDS? Not, "Your angry constituent" or "Disappointed in Dallas"? No, "Regards", for crying out loud!
This is tantamount to sending a letter to Proctor and Gamble explaining how the phrase "have a happy period" on a tampon box is beyond annoying, only to sign with a smiley face.***** Kind of takes the teeth out of it, huh?
TSK, TSK, TSK. Obviously, letter writers in this country don't know diddly about sarcasm, so allow moi to give you a bit of an ed-u-macation****** with a couple of pithy examples:
Example #1:
Harry-
Leaving me in the parking lot with a dozen inebriated friends of yours with libidos the size of New York was NOT a wise idea. I'm sure you'll understand that I WON'T be paying the hospital bill for Lee's arm, especially after you told me how much you loved bragging to him about the fact that I'm more of a karate master than he. Apparently, Lee missed that conversation.
Choose the most appropriate closing:
1. See you tonight!
2. Kiss my very dark black belt,
3. Hugs and kisses :)
If you chose 1 or 3, read on. If you chose 2, call me and I'll share the Halloween-from-Hades story with you. No joking.
Example #2:
Dear Sirs--
I am returning the flat iron I ordered from your company for a full refund, per your TV commercials. Included with this letter are beautician bills to cover the cost of adding hair extensions after your product managed to reduce my tresses to two inches over every bit of my scalp. If I don't receive both a) a full-refund for your cheap piece of junk AND b) a check made payable to "Vicki's Clip and Curl", I will have my attorney's office contact you forthwith.
Close with:
1. Burning up
2. Balls in your court
3. Most sincerely
Boring, predictable, yet ever in style, number 3 wins the day. Though, I think number 1 is awfully clever.
Hopefully you've learned a couple of things today:
1. Your blogger friend hasn't always been smart OR witty. Your arguments and opinions about my current state of intelligence/ingenuity are welcome when you bring carrot cake as part of the discussion.
2. If you write a letter then forward it on thinking you made a great point, you better have made a great point. If not, you are subject to anonymous blog ridicule.
Write on, people!
*He's a complete bonehead.
**And, on a first-name basis!
***No comments from the peanut gallery, please. Especially you, Mom and Dad.
****And no smarty-pants comments about my CURRENT ignorance....
*****This statement REALLY is appearing on tampon boxes. Just don't get caught pilfering through your neighbor's cabinets if your cheap rear buys generic tampons and you are too curious to spend the extra coin to check it out in the privacy of your own home.
******Not to be confused with an education, which would come from a professional. Which I am not.
Monday, July 20, 2009
The burning question: WHATZUP W/ THE *****?
In case you haven't noticed*, I am a fan of the *.** This all began when Mike took me to a Barnes and Noble on a "married" date***. I was cruising through some section and noticed a book with a cute outline of a dress on the cover and, upon reading a few sentences, realized it was quite possibly the funniest book I'd ever read!**** Literally, my post-birth bladder couldn't handle it and we almost had an accident.*****
ANYHOO, this book had a * after almost every sentence. I could hardly wait for the next * to reference me to the bottom of the page where another morsel of hysterical sidenote had been written. This literally SPOKE to me.******
So, thanks to a married date, you are forced to make a choice:
1. Read through my blog entries, ignoring the *'s, and enjoy the comments at the end
-OR-
2. Everytime you see a *, move the slider bar to the bottom and try to locate the pithy comment that accompanies the *.*******
Aren't you glad I solved THAT mystery for you?********
*Immediately return to the first post and OPEN YOUR EYES.
**The single * at the end of the sentence wasn't a reference. But I guess you figured that out? Smart, smart readers.....
***You know the kind: Dinner, movie, Barnes and Noble. The stop at BN is only because you hired a sitter and it would seem goofy to return home at 8pm on a Saturday night. Shoot--8pm used to be when you got started SHOWERING when you were dating as a single. Plus, every minute you stay out past your kid's bedtime is one more minute they have to fall asleep before you arrive. Hence, going to Barnes and Noble is something like foreplay!
****Jen Lancaster is a wordsmith AND a diva.
*****Notice I didn't write "I almost had an accident" but "WE almost had an accident". THAT would be the royal WE, as in me and Mike, because, had my bladder burst on the spot I sure wouldn't be running for the first available employee to "clean up the spill on aisle 5", I'd be sprinting to the bathroom with my contraband book, bounding through the doors setting off the "book alarm", so I could hold in the silver button on the wind tunnel hand dryer while thrusting my pelvis forward to try and dry my peepee pants. Thus, I would already HAVE a job and Mike would get to make the embarrassing walk to the service desk and do the honors on that one!! Now THAT'S a royal WEE.
******And, I bet, you are completely digging it, aren't you????
*******Blogger does not accept responsibility for reader's whiplash, carpel tunnel syndrome, or my inability to humor you.
********No.
ANYHOO, this book had a * after almost every sentence. I could hardly wait for the next * to reference me to the bottom of the page where another morsel of hysterical sidenote had been written. This literally SPOKE to me.******
So, thanks to a married date, you are forced to make a choice:
1. Read through my blog entries, ignoring the *'s, and enjoy the comments at the end
-OR-
2. Everytime you see a *, move the slider bar to the bottom and try to locate the pithy comment that accompanies the *.*******
Aren't you glad I solved THAT mystery for you?********
*Immediately return to the first post and OPEN YOUR EYES.
**The single * at the end of the sentence wasn't a reference. But I guess you figured that out? Smart, smart readers.....
***You know the kind: Dinner, movie, Barnes and Noble. The stop at BN is only because you hired a sitter and it would seem goofy to return home at 8pm on a Saturday night. Shoot--8pm used to be when you got started SHOWERING when you were dating as a single. Plus, every minute you stay out past your kid's bedtime is one more minute they have to fall asleep before you arrive. Hence, going to Barnes and Noble is something like foreplay!
****Jen Lancaster is a wordsmith AND a diva.
*****Notice I didn't write "I almost had an accident" but "WE almost had an accident". THAT would be the royal WE, as in me and Mike, because, had my bladder burst on the spot I sure wouldn't be running for the first available employee to "clean up the spill on aisle 5", I'd be sprinting to the bathroom with my contraband book, bounding through the doors setting off the "book alarm", so I could hold in the silver button on the wind tunnel hand dryer while thrusting my pelvis forward to try and dry my peepee pants. Thus, I would already HAVE a job and Mike would get to make the embarrassing walk to the service desk and do the honors on that one!! Now THAT'S a royal WEE.
******And, I bet, you are completely digging it, aren't you????
*******Blogger does not accept responsibility for reader's whiplash, carpel tunnel syndrome, or my inability to humor you.
********No.
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