and there was light and it was freakin’ awesome…

Okay, so here’s the story. We’ve been in this house ten months and for all ten months the streetlight in our front yard has been out. Although the obvious question is “why did you ignore the issue for ten months,” that is not the question I’m answering in this post.

So, here we go…

Upon my request, Hubby emailed the home owners association to ask about getting the light turned on (in the spirit of full disclosure, this first step happened about six months ago). The HOA told him that we needed to talk to the city. So, I told him I’d take care of it (that was about six months and one day ago).

Well, apparently there is a statute of limitations on procrastination, because last Wednesday morning I finally called the street department of our fine city and told them about our light. The city worker informed me that a local electric company, Oncor, takes care of all the streetlights. Sooooo, I called Oncor and worked my way through their hellish nifty little phone menu and, when I was at last able to speak to a human, I explained my problem. The woman on the phone replied, “I’m sorry, but there is not a streetlight at that address.”

I happened to be standing at my window, looking at the light in my yard, and I started to laugh. My husband walked past, and so I told him what the Oncor woman had just said, he replied, “She’s right. At this point it’s just a pole with a decorative top.” I shared my husband’s clever comment with the not-very oh-so polite Oncor service representative. She was not amused.

When, despite her many assurances that there was no light, I continued to believe my eyes rather than her words, she finally heaved a sigh and told me that she would have someone call me back. Now I’ll admit, when she hung up I thought, “suuuure you will…” But amazingly less than half an hour later someone else did call back.

This new person seemed less cranky but equally convinced that there was no light in my yard. The woman asked me go out and see if there were any numbers on the pole. So I went outside and sure enough, there were big orange numbers which I read off to her…and then I also read off the numbers on the Oncor box sitting right next to the streetlight. She told me that the streetlight was not one of their lights…but that the box was one of their streetlights. Hmmmm…. In fact, she went on to tell me that there were no streetlights at all on my side of the street (there are many, btw). However, she finally agreed to send a technician to take a look at things.

So I finally got off the phone and went to work and figured that in another ten months I’d try again. But the next morning when I got out of bed too-freakin-early, poured myself a cup of coffee and then went outside in the still-dark morning to get the paper, what do I see outside? Yes!! A light!

I’m sure there’s a moral here somewhere, but I’ll be damned if I can figure it out. Ask–No Insist and ye shall receive? I don’t know.

What I do know is that the video below is what I should have put with my last post where I mentioned 70’s bowchickawowow porno music. I’m pretty sure that’s the soundtrack playing in this guy’s head while he’s doing whatever in the hell he thinks he’s doing.

How is this for a resolution?

To live fully, to love wastefully and to have the courage to be my most complete self. *

I found this statement in a totally unrelated article, but I liked it so I stole it. (Yes, I plagiarized my New Year’s resolution. Perhaps this bodes poorly for my writing in 2012.)

So, because of a special event we have coming up later in the month, my job has been a little whack lately…and in just over a week we’re flying up to Boston with our youngest son to get him settled in at college. These two things and my usual freakish control issues tendency to worry have combined to create a ridiculous puddle of overwhelmedness that I keep wanting to splash around in. Prime time for wallowing is apparently 2:30 a.m. even though I do understand that there are few actual problems that can be solved at 2:30 a.m. **

But, I know the craziness is temporary and soon my job will return to it’s normal occasionally-stressful-but-mostly-fun self. And my house will be too quiet and calm with my musician son so many miles away. I might have to take up another hobby. Maybe chess. Or boxing. Or….

Oh just check out the video. Previously mentioned musician-son found it for me, and it’s so random and strange that it’s somehow totally awesome.


*And finish, really finish, my stupid book and start another one. (This part is all mine.)

**Okay, some problems can be solved in the wee hours. Once we had a dog to whom my husband someone gave about a cup of bacon grease as a treat. As I recall we had to get out of bed at 2:30 a.m. and clean up, solve that problem.***

***Okay, I know adding an endnote to an endnote is probably against the rules, but did anyone else notice that I talked about a puddle in one paragraph, and then in that paragraph’s endnote I mention an entirely unrelated incident that also concerned a puddle of sorts? This was totally unintentional, but perhaps one more sign that I should be in therapy of some sort. Or maybe at least go buy red galoshes.

it’s all rainbows and unicorns

So, I had an art teacher five or six years ago who told our class, “You can draw anything you want in this class…but I don’t want to see any rainbows or crying unicorns.”

I will admit that when I picked up a pencil and looked at a blank piece of paper that first day, I really…I mean really, really wanted to draw a freakin’ rainbow and a crying unicorn. I didn’t. of course. I just drew whatever he’d suggested that we work on that first day, but I still remember the feeling of that pencil in my hand, and the grin on my face. God, how hard I had to fight to keep myself from acting like a five year old.

So, is this a silly story about resisting a childish impulse? Or is it an allegory about the string of concessions that is an adult’s life–day after day doing what should be done rather than following a heart’s desire? Or is it just a sorry excuse for a blog post? You be the judge.

I’ll leave you with this:

Happiness isn’t at the end of the rainbow.
Happiness is at the beginning of the rainbow.
Following the rainbow is happiness,
not getting to the end of it.
– Werner Erhard

the most boring and random blogpost ever

What’s up around here? Well the tree is up and fluffed, but not yet decorated. (You can tell we have an artificial tree…you never need to fluff a real tree. They are naturally fluffy. Like Michael Buble’s hair.)

I had to go in to work on Friday and Saturday. (Be on the lookout for flying pigs, because let me tell you, getting this slacker to the office on a Friday or a Saturday ain’t easy, and I went in both days.)

Sunday, it was cold and rainy, and we went with some friends on a holiday tour of freakin’ huge big, lovely homes (benefiting Children’s Advocacy Center), Did I mention it was cold and rainy? There was even a golf cart ride involved to get to one of the homes. A cold, wet golf cart ride. Then we went out to eat at Chuys which has great tortilla soup, but I hate that my entire body and all my clothes smell bad after eating there. Sorta like when you shop in Abercrombie and Fitch* you come out smelling like Fierce, except at Chuy’s you come out smelling like B.O.**

I warned you this would be boring and I can’t believe you’re still reading. Shouldn’t you be doing a mole check, or plucking some nose hairs or something?

Anyway, I’ve been doing some writing, but not as much as I’d like since other real life stuff keeps getting in the way. Plus, a couple weeks ago I had someone who knows what he’s talking about read my novel (yes that same book I keep saying I’m almost finished fiddling with), and he gave me some very helpful feedback. This was almost as sucky as it was awesome, because he was right about the weaknesses he pointed out, and now that I can see them I need to fix them. Even though I’m amazingly just a teensy bit tired of working on the stupid fucking book.

*Speaking of Abercrombie and Fitch (and those are words I never thought I’d type) from that photo up there, doesn’t Michael Buble look like he could totally be on one of their shopping bags? Just slip that shirt off, honey…I’ll help…

**No, I didn’t sweat at Chuys…I just think cumin smells like B.O., especially when it’s on a shirt. And a sweater. And jeans. And I would add “my hair” but ever since I got the worst-haircut-ever it no longer reaches my nose (even the right side which is about a half-inch longer than the left.) Oh well, last night that was probably a blessing.

Now that this post has throughly toured boring, it’s time for random since I promised both. I’m not a huge Michael Buble fan, but this video made me smile. (And btw, I really like the whole song…so search for Feeling Good by Buble after you watch this and listen to the song–it’s great.

that’s disgusting…can I have one, please?

The whole celebrity culture thing – I’m fascinated by, and repelled by, and yet I end up knowing about it.
—Anderson Cooper

Okay, so I just finished a mystery (which I enjoyed very much): Mansions of the Dead, by Sarah Stewart Taylor. I won’t give anything away by mentioning that mourning jewelry played an important role in the novel. That’s mourning jewelry as in jewelry made from hair. Like, dead people’s hair. I know, right?

So, as I read about this jewelry I had two equal reactions:

  1. Yuck
  2. I want one

Crazy, right? It’s inexplicable…I am both repelled and fascinated. I mentioned this to my husband who gave me one of his you-have-completely-lost-your-mind (again) looks. I believe he comes down pretty firmly on the repelled side of this equation.

To try to nip this new obsession interest in the bud, I ordered an antique carved jet necklace (non-hairy mourning jewelry) on ebay, which is pretty cool, really. But, I’ll be honest, I don’t know if it’s going to be enough. I’m a little worried it’s going to be like when I want a cookie, but I eat an apple because I know it’s a better choice, but then I end up eating the cookie later anyway because…well because the apple wasn’t what I was obsessing about wanting.

Seriously, I’m maybe the least gothy person I know…Doris Day rather than Helena Boham Carter. And I’m not really into collecting things either. The only thing I have a lot of is books, and they’re not rare books or anything; they’re just ones I’ve read or plan to read. So, would I actually wear something that has some dead nineteenth century person’s hair in it? Could I? I will say it would be quite the conversation starter…or possibly ender.

I must confess…lately, I’m starting to worry that as I get older my light quirkiness just might condense into a dark, sticky fruitcake-lady battiness.  Sigh.

for some weekend highlights

Friday: *
Got my wip (work in progress) manuscript ready to be distributed to my victims readers, who are:

1. S—–, who lives in California with whom I took an online writing class a couple years ago. She loves the same kind of books I love and seems like a no-nonsense type person who wouldn’t have too much trouble pointing out the suckiness.

2. L——, someone I’ve never met but who is a friend of a friend at work, H—–. This friend assures me that L—– would love to read the book, and that she’ll be a great reader/critiquer. The nice thing about this is, since I don’t know L—–, she’ll be able to point out all the suckiness without having to face my newly crushed soul every day afterwards. My friend at work neglected, however, to tell me until after the whole thing with L—– was set up, that L—– is an English teacher, so now I have just the teensy bit of terror concern about her reading it since I have not yet proof-read the book for the sort of typos that make English teachers cranky.

3. The last copy will be read by H—–, aforementioned friend at work. Although this goes against my policy of using readers who don’t know me well (or at all), H—–  has assured me that she will have no problem pointing out all of my book’s suckiness and then coming to work every day and sitting just ten feet away from the soul she personally helped crush. I think I am now either in awe of her, or frightened of her. Or both.

Spent most of the day painting (on a canvas, not a wall) and am mostly finished but not completely. I haven’t decided yet whether or not it sucks…when it’s finished maybe I’ll post it here and let my 10 many readers decide. I just can’t get enough soul-crushing. I’ve come to crave it.

Then I started a couple loads of laundry, and flipped on the TV and watched the last 20 minutes of Pulp Fiction (the best movie ever) and the first 20 minutes of Sex in the City II (from what I saw, the worst movie ever.) Went to dinner with the hubster, then came home and watched baseball (Go Rangers!) and spent sometime reading this blog which, to be honest, is much, much better than mine. All 10 of you should probably just stop reading my blog and read thebloggess instead. Seriously–she is fucking hilarious.

It wasn’t until right before bed that I remembered the laundry, but that’s okay because the stuff in the dryer was just the ninja-wear (the black scrubs the hubster wears to work every day). Somebody will be looking a little rumpled this week, but it won’t be me.

Drank my morning coffee and relaxed while watching the hubster mutilate spatchcock** cornish game hens to get them ready for dinner (I was too horrified fascinated to take a photo, so I got the one above from here). I then helped out by cleaning up the crime scene kitchen.

All the kids came over for dinner. DD and her BF brought over the granddog a spazzy darling 8 month old lab named Lexie. She and the greyhounds played–sort of (Lexie raced around playing with their toys while they chased her and considered eating her). Dinner was typical (some good, some burnt) but it was a fun evening–at least for me. Why is it that as soon as we finally get them to move out, all we want is for them to come home and eat mutilated food with us?

And now it’s Monday and there you have it. My weekend in a nutshell (if the nut was really, really big, or the font was really, really small because this post got a little too long, didn’t it?)

Enough about me. How was your weekend?


* Friday counts as a weekend day because I usually only work Monday-Thursday because I am a slacker.
**Even though most verbs put in front of the word chicken sound like a euphamism for self-love, spatchcock the chicken does not. Maybe it’s because spatchcock is a German word. Even the German word for masturbation, selbstbefriedigung (I can’t make this shit up) doesn’t sound very self-lovey.

Oh! And who knew? Google spatchcock on youtube, and you’ll discover that it has another entirely different meaning! This is not what the hubster did in the kitchen yesterday morning, but the day would have been way, way funnier if it were:


on heartache and tortillas

So there’s one grocery store in town (Fresh for those of you who live here) that has home-made (well Fresh-made) tortillas available. Often they’re still warm, ten or so wrapped in a bag in a big bin in the bakery department. (That last sentence was brought to you by the letter B.)

So, the other evening after work, I stopped by to pick some up to go with dinner, and when I got to the bin it was empty. (Insert annoyed face here).

I found the bakery worker person and inquired about the unfortunate emptiness of said bin and she told me they were sold out. (Insert, apparently, a really really sad face here.) I heaved a sigh, and said something like, “That’s the only reason I came all the way out here…” (this store is less than a mile from my house) and then asked her, pitifully, where the crappy, prepackaged tortillas were.

She pointed me toward a nearby aisle, and I was wandering along it, listlessly, when suddenly the girl reappeared with a bag of tortillas in her hand.

“I was saving these to take home with me,” she said as she handed them to me. “But you can have them…”


So, I’m unpacking the grocery bag, telling this story to the hubster, and when I get to the part about how the young bakery worker found me on the bread aisle and handed me her bag of tortillas, his eyes widened.

“And you took them?” he asked.

“Well…” I look into the sack and see the tortillas lying there in the bottom, and realize that perhaps accepting them from the girl had been a little bit of a dick move. “Yeah…”

He just shook his head and started to laugh.

I am shameless.

In in the spirit of all things Mexican with some interspecies fun thrown in, I bring you this…

okay, this is random but…

Way back in the day (which was just a few weeks ago because this is a pretty new blog) I wrote about submitting a sex scene to my critique group and titled the post: “how do you spell awkward…”

So, when I look at my blog statistics, the top searches that have brought someone to my blog are:

  • “how do you spell awkward”  Bravo!
  • “how do you spell akward”  Close, but no cigar
  • “how do you spell aquward”  Creative, but no ciguarre
  • “nit pickers”   I don’t remember saying nit pickers in a post, but I guess I did.
  • and then this: “They don’t need me anymore.” I had this in a post talking about my kids’ ages, so it wasn’t really sad when I used it. But, I’m a little bummed when I imagine somebody typing that into google and hitting enter.

Anyway, I feel a little bad about the awkward post fooling all those people into thinking I’m some spelling site. (Anyone who knows me knows how funny that is.) So I thought, I should change that title but my very next thought was, What if that lowers my blog visitor number...

Pitiful, right?

Actually, I think I’m going to start titling all my posts what I perceive to be common google searches. Like:

  • What are the symptoms of gonorrhea   I was going to write STDthatrhymeswithdiarrhea instead of gonorrhea, but that would be pussying out, right?
  • Where can I find free gay rhymeswithcorn  Okay, I am pussying out.
  • Where can I find free straight rhymeswithcorn   Meow.
  • How come if someone wanted to name a town in Louisiana “Nackadish” they spelled it “Natchitoches”  Okay, that one’s probably not a top search, but I really would like to know.

And, just because I’ve got a feline theme going here and everyone loves kittens and apples, and so having a video that features both kittens and apples will surely result in some enormous swell of visitors, I give you this:

are they really deaf…or just so crazy?

So about my neighbors…

Are they really deaf or just so crazy in love with their giant dog that they don’t notice that he barks a lot. A LOT! A LOT!


Now I have some friends who are Buddhists (internet & email friends, not local friends because finding a Buddhist here in small-town East Texas is even harder than finding a fellow Democrat) and these friends would tell me that all suffering is caused by desire.

I admire these friends and their calm, zenny wisdom. In fact I’m willing to cede the point; my suffering is not in fact caused by the barking. It is caused by my desire that the dog take a fucking break once in awhile.

Between meditation sessions* I have toyed with the idea of leaving a note on their porch…not a mean note exactly, I’m no David Thorne. Perhaps a nice little note. Maybe one along the lines of:


Dear neighbor,
You have a beautiful dog. Have you noticed that he barks A LOT! A LOT! A LOT?
Someone who really likes dogs, but also likes to sleep at night. Ohmmmmmm….


Of course, I must remember that it could be worse…**


*  In the interest of full disclosure I must confess that my meditation practice exists only as one of those things I “ought” to do. Like exfoliating or eating yellow vegetables. 

**  In the interest of even fuller disclosure I must confess that I’m pretty sure my subdivision has a zero goat tolerance, so the following situation is not a realistic depiction of a “worse” that could actually “be”. But it’s damn hard to find a way to segue to a video of a goat who sings like Usher. And this, my friends, cheers me up like meditating never has…