If you had walked into my house five minutes ago this is the scene you would have stumbled upon:
Someone, perhaps a small child, is wailing in the other room. I am panting, sweating out of breath, red in the face. Blood streaming down my leg. Black soot all over the right side of my body. Scott is in another room yelling to someone in broken Spanglish, WHAT IF IT'S CANCER CAUSING?! AND THE CARPET IS RUINED! I am holding the dog in a death grip and he is barking his head off and trying desperately to get down and attack the workmen. The sound of an 80 year old plaster cast mantle piece is shattering. And I'm yelling to Tempel, I DON'T GIVE A SHIT! And Tempel is yelling back, BUT SHE'LL DIE! SHE SAID SHE WOULD BE ON THIS HUNGER STRIKE FOR THE REST OF HER LIFE! YOU CAN'T LET MY SISTER DIE!
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Monday, July 13, 2009
A Wikkid good trip to New England. Part Three.
Our last stop in our three city tour of New England was in Greenwich, Connecticut. Home of the rich, powerful, and morally bankrupt. I was going to title this post, ""Twenty-three hours in SnobWich." But that would be an insult. To snobby people.
This was me trying to get a donut for Parker at a bakery in Greenwich:
Them: What can we get for you ma'am?
Me: Can I get a donut and a coffee?
Them: We don't have donuts.
Me: Oh. Well... what do you have?
Them: We have French pastries.
Me: Of course you do. Ok, well then I'll just take two of those chocolate chip cookies.
Them: Actually these are gluten free macrobiotic cookies made with organic soy and free range eggs.
Me: Oooookkkkkaaaayyyyyy. And I'll also have coffee.
Them: We have french pressed fair trade organic coffee from Guatemala.
Me: Super. I'll take it on ice.
Them: We don't have ice.
Parker took one bite of the so-called cookie and promptly spit it out on the sidewalk.
Greenwich is an amazing and terrible town. The town is the amazing part, the people are the terrible part.
We were there for just one night so that we could visit TempelsbestfriendGeorgia who was there visiting her aunt.
So we get to the mansion - it was in fact a mansion - and the minute we walk in my friend Rebecca (Georgia's mother) says, "Make yourself at home, I have to run to the store." And just like that I am left alone in the mansion with my two children. One of them has meth-like ADD and the other has a serious case of Imusttouchtheshinything-itis.
The girls are running around like 13-year old boys in a whore house and squealing and screeching and I'm chasing them screaming Do not touch ANYthing! and then we finally have sort of a calm moment when they found the pool table so I go in the other room for ONE minute and then I hear BAM! and I come tearing in the kitchen I told you not to touch any ---
And then I see the biggest most frantic freaked out squirrel leap from the couch to the silk drapes and then PING! tear across the kitchen and SMASH! hit the window. And I'm thinking really? Really?! You leave me here alone in this house for ten minutes and this shit happens on my watch? The girls and I opened every door and with much screaming (on their part) and much flailing of arms (on my part) we tried to shoo the thing out the door. But it ran up the chimney instead. I figured that must be where it had come from.
There were no visible cracks inside the crystal egg on the mantle. Ahem.
As an awful coincidence, the most gracious and sweet woman with whom we were staying was hosting a dinner party for eight Greenwich society matrons the night we were there.
I don't think I can properly describe the scene. I am simply too inept a writer to capture it. These women - they don't adhere to any social norms for conversation that I have ever witnessed. It was something altogether different.
There was no back and forth, no reciprocity. It was simply a constant stream of bragging vomit meant to impress. Meant to out-do.
It was gross.
It was a Three Handed Brag Game. Someone would make an opening statement, a second person would bump number one out of contention for the title with her statement, and then boom! the third person would pull the trump card and win all the marbles. There was never a fourth. The game seemed to play in rounds of three.
One: I've just gotten back from our house in Sea Island.
Two: I'm just headed to my house at the Cape. It was built in 1910 you know. I do hope it's weathering all this rain.
Three: Oh you would love my house in Little Compton. It was built in 1878 and is simply covered in handpainted murals.
Score!
One: I just had brunch with Mrs. X.
Two: I've just hosted a dinner party for Mrs. Y.
Three: I've just sponsored Mrs. Z at the club.
Score!
One: We had the loveliest charter out to the Cape last week.
Two: We've just redecorated the Gulfstream.
Three: My daughter is taking our 727 every weekend to visit her boyfriend.
Score!
One: I'm hosting the Breast Cancer Event at my house this season.
Two: I'm chairing the Breast Cancer Committee this season.
Three: I had cancer this season.
Score!
It was brutal. Then when we were sitting on the patio eating dinner one of the kids in the pool (they were being watched by a babysitter) started crying. I was so happy, finally a reason to flee the table! So I leap up and rush towards the pool and careen smack into the biggest bucket of molten Citronella wax the world has ever seen causing me to fall down and an enormous wax tsunami wave to spill out onto the granite flagstone patio. Yep. I fell. On my face.
So I'm covered in smelly wax thinking, Oh shit! how am I going to get this off the granite? And you know not one of them helped me up or asked me if I had burned my leg. Nor did they inquire to the state of my long white linen Old Navy skirt, may she rest in peace. I loved that skirt.
Bitches man.
Then at the end of dinner the maid comes out and whispers in my friend's ear, "There's a squirrel in the living room."
My squirrel! He's back! Rebecca, the maid, and I went in to and cornered the little fella and shooed him out the door. To which one of the women said, "My lord was that a rat?!"
I wanted to say Yes. Yes, that was a rat. There are rats in the living room. Which is where we keep them right before we slaughter them in the kitchen. What were you planning to eat for dinner?
But I didn't.
I just rolled my eyes at her and cracked my skirt a little so I could sit down. It was a bad few hours. Especially since Rebecca, my touchstone to normal, kept leaving me with those women. I spent a lot of time sneaking off to the kitchen to hang out with the maid.
This was me trying to get a donut for Parker at a bakery in Greenwich:
Them: What can we get for you ma'am?
Me: Can I get a donut and a coffee?
Them: We don't have donuts.
Me: Oh. Well... what do you have?
Them: We have French pastries.
Me: Of course you do. Ok, well then I'll just take two of those chocolate chip cookies.
Them: Actually these are gluten free macrobiotic cookies made with organic soy and free range eggs.
Me: Oooookkkkkaaaayyyyyy. And I'll also have coffee.
Them: We have french pressed fair trade organic coffee from Guatemala.
Me: Super. I'll take it on ice.
Them: We don't have ice.
Parker took one bite of the so-called cookie and promptly spit it out on the sidewalk.
Greenwich is an amazing and terrible town. The town is the amazing part, the people are the terrible part.
We were there for just one night so that we could visit TempelsbestfriendGeorgia who was there visiting her aunt.
So we get to the mansion - it was in fact a mansion - and the minute we walk in my friend Rebecca (Georgia's mother) says, "Make yourself at home, I have to run to the store." And just like that I am left alone in the mansion with my two children. One of them has meth-like ADD and the other has a serious case of Imusttouchtheshinything-itis.
The girls are running around like 13-year old boys in a whore house and squealing and screeching and I'm chasing them screaming Do not touch ANYthing! and then we finally have sort of a calm moment when they found the pool table so I go in the other room for ONE minute and then I hear BAM! and I come tearing in the kitchen I told you not to touch any ---
And then I see the biggest most frantic freaked out squirrel leap from the couch to the silk drapes and then PING! tear across the kitchen and SMASH! hit the window. And I'm thinking really? Really?! You leave me here alone in this house for ten minutes and this shit happens on my watch? The girls and I opened every door and with much screaming (on their part) and much flailing of arms (on my part) we tried to shoo the thing out the door. But it ran up the chimney instead. I figured that must be where it had come from.
There were no visible cracks inside the crystal egg on the mantle. Ahem.
As an awful coincidence, the most gracious and sweet woman with whom we were staying was hosting a dinner party for eight Greenwich society matrons the night we were there.
I don't think I can properly describe the scene. I am simply too inept a writer to capture it. These women - they don't adhere to any social norms for conversation that I have ever witnessed. It was something altogether different.
There was no back and forth, no reciprocity. It was simply a constant stream of bragging vomit meant to impress. Meant to out-do.
It was gross.
It was a Three Handed Brag Game. Someone would make an opening statement, a second person would bump number one out of contention for the title with her statement, and then boom! the third person would pull the trump card and win all the marbles. There was never a fourth. The game seemed to play in rounds of three.
One: I've just gotten back from our house in Sea Island.
Two: I'm just headed to my house at the Cape. It was built in 1910 you know. I do hope it's weathering all this rain.
Three: Oh you would love my house in Little Compton. It was built in 1878 and is simply covered in handpainted murals.
Score!
One: I just had brunch with Mrs. X.
Two: I've just hosted a dinner party for Mrs. Y.
Three: I've just sponsored Mrs. Z at the club.
Score!
One: We had the loveliest charter out to the Cape last week.
Two: We've just redecorated the Gulfstream.
Three: My daughter is taking our 727 every weekend to visit her boyfriend.
Score!
One: I'm hosting the Breast Cancer Event at my house this season.
Two: I'm chairing the Breast Cancer Committee this season.
Three: I had cancer this season.
Score!
It was brutal. Then when we were sitting on the patio eating dinner one of the kids in the pool (they were being watched by a babysitter) started crying. I was so happy, finally a reason to flee the table! So I leap up and rush towards the pool and careen smack into the biggest bucket of molten Citronella wax the world has ever seen causing me to fall down and an enormous wax tsunami wave to spill out onto the granite flagstone patio. Yep. I fell. On my face.
So I'm covered in smelly wax thinking, Oh shit! how am I going to get this off the granite? And you know not one of them helped me up or asked me if I had burned my leg. Nor did they inquire to the state of my long white linen Old Navy skirt, may she rest in peace. I loved that skirt.
Bitches man.
Then at the end of dinner the maid comes out and whispers in my friend's ear, "There's a squirrel in the living room."
My squirrel! He's back! Rebecca, the maid, and I went in to and cornered the little fella and shooed him out the door. To which one of the women said, "My lord was that a rat?!"
I wanted to say Yes. Yes, that was a rat. There are rats in the living room. Which is where we keep them right before we slaughter them in the kitchen. What were you planning to eat for dinner?
But I didn't.
I just rolled my eyes at her and cracked my skirt a little so I could sit down. It was a bad few hours. Especially since Rebecca, my touchstone to normal, kept leaving me with those women. I spent a lot of time sneaking off to the kitchen to hang out with the maid.
Ok, so I'm a hater. I'm clearly prejudiced against the super-rich. It's my burden and I will just have to learn to live with it.
But it was a nice 23 hours with the kids. And Greenwich is a beautiful town. And now we're home. With loads of donuts. Good old fashioned enriched wheat flour deep fried donuts.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
A Wikkid good trip to New England. Part Two.
Stop Number Two on our tour of New England was to the home of Ms. Picket. I can't tell you exactly where Ms. Picket's home is because she hasn't mentioned it on her blog and I'm not going to invite my entire family to stay at her house and then start outing her on the internet.
It's the Blog Code, dude.
All week Scott kept asking me, "Are you nervous about meeting Darcy?"
Um, nope.
All week my friends kept asking me, "Do you think she's really an old man or a Craig's List Killer?"
Um, nope.
I knew what she was and who she was long before we pulled up to the door with the red carpet unfurled. She and I have been emailing each other every day for over a year. And it was a hard year. Scott's father died. Darcy's husband got laid off. Just like half of the other people we know. Our kids went through troubles. We went through troubles because of our kids.
And through all of it she and I were clicking away at each other via email for support and laughs and venting and bitching. (*see below)
So was it weird when I first met her? Finally? In real life?
Um, nope.
It was just two old friends and their families hanging out for a few days in the summer.
The only moment when I had a second of holyshitpitinmystomachcringe was when we walked across the shallow water to the beach and Darcy says over her shoulder, "Oh by the way, the gang's still here."
What the...
The gang. The Picket Posse. The three other families that Darcy spends her vacations and birthdays and holidays with. Oh hello tight-nit circle of friends. I'm Carolyn from the internet and I am not a weirdo. My kids might be but it depends on their mood. I shall now entertain you with my nervous laughter and inappropriate wit. And the occasional jazz hand. Tah dah.
Of course they were all very nice. And they didn't look at all nervous about the fact that I already knew all about them. Like an internet stalker/identity thief. Hi girls. *waving* Or at least Hi Liz, because I made her promise to read me every day. That's not weird right?
It's the Blog Code, dude.
All week Scott kept asking me, "Are you nervous about meeting Darcy?"
Um, nope.
All week my friends kept asking me, "Do you think she's really an old man or a Craig's List Killer?"
Um, nope.
I knew what she was and who she was long before we pulled up to the door with the red carpet unfurled. She and I have been emailing each other every day for over a year. And it was a hard year. Scott's father died. Darcy's husband got laid off. Just like half of the other people we know. Our kids went through troubles. We went through troubles because of our kids.
And through all of it she and I were clicking away at each other via email for support and laughs and venting and bitching. (*see below)
So was it weird when I first met her? Finally? In real life?
Um, nope.
It was just two old friends and their families hanging out for a few days in the summer.
The only moment when I had a second of holyshitpitinmystomachcringe was when we walked across the shallow water to the beach and Darcy says over her shoulder, "Oh by the way, the gang's still here."
What the...
The gang. The Picket Posse. The three other families that Darcy spends her vacations and birthdays and holidays with. Oh hello tight-nit circle of friends. I'm Carolyn from the internet and I am not a weirdo. My kids might be but it depends on their mood. I shall now entertain you with my nervous laughter and inappropriate wit. And the occasional jazz hand. Tah dah.
Of course they were all very nice. And they didn't look at all nervous about the fact that I already knew all about them. Like an internet stalker/identity thief. Hi girls. *waving* Or at least Hi Liz, because I made her promise to read me every day. That's not weird right?
Ms. Picket (who wrote a better post about this trip than I seem to be writing) and Dana's Brain (who has some very unattractive pictures of us on her blog) and For Myself (who is apparently still reeling and hasn't written anything about the meeting yet) and I got together to
The next day we went out on the boat and Paul taught Parker how to drive. So now, yeah we love Paul. And the kids all hung out and whined and jumped in the freezing water and laughed and picked on Kipp because he's the youngest and a boy which is apparently a crime on the high seas.
This picture of all of the kids on the back of the boat was the last one I took before my camera died. Stupid camera.
Which come to think of it, maybe it is.
***************
Oh and by the way, if you're curious about this year of emails, about the unlikely - or at least unconventional - friendship between Carolyn Online and Ms. Picket . . . Well, you can read all about it in THE BOOK. Um, yeah. We wrote a book. Or compiled a book. I guess "compiled" would be a more technically correct term. A year of emails (actually a tiny fraction of the emails we wrote because we um wrote a lot of emails) interspersed with blog posts.
It is unconventional and fun and voyeuristic and hopefully will be ready for you to scoop up at the Blogher Convention Bookstore. It will also be available for you online after the Blogher Convention.
If I were you I'd buy the book. Don't wait for the movie. Oh you know I'm kidding. There's no movie in the works. Yet. But if there were I wonder who they'd cast as the leads to play me and Darcy. Who would Hollywood cast to play you?
Friday, July 10, 2009
A Wikkid good trip to New England. Part One.
This is the first of three posts where I talk about my trip to New England with my family. Sorry man. But it'll be a good read. With felonies and bacterial infections.
And who doesn't love bacterial infections?
***************
My girls like to fly. There are Cokes and Sprites.
Parker got our her Bag 'O Shit the second she could and started coloring. Then she pulled the scissors out of her carry on bag. And the 12 oz. bottle of liquid glue.
What's a little FAA Federal Regulation non-compliance when you're having fun on a plane? We're lawbreakers. But it was an accident. I didn't even know about the scissors.
If I knew she could get away with that I would've put the hairspray in her bag.Our first trip in our three city tour of New England was Bristol, Rhode Island. We were visiting one of my best friends. And you know what she has? A baby.
Parker went full-on Mommy Dearest with that poor thing. Following her around, demanding to hold her, yelling at anyone else who came to near.
She would cry and whine if the baby showed an interest in anyone else.
You have to LOVE ME the most!
And this is a problem because Scott is Parker's father. And babies love Scott. Actually all kids love Scott.
I think maybe he puts out a pheromone that smells like chocolate chip cookies. It's just a theory I'm working on.
Ahhh I love Rhode Island.
Atlanta is a hot sticky humid heat island in the summer. And Rhode Island is cool and breezy and all oceany. What's not to like?
But sometimes Rhode Island pitches a little fit. It is the smallest state and you know how the baby of the family can be.
I know you're thinking how can a state pitch a fit? Well, let me tell you. It throws mud at you. At one of those throwitupinaday carnivals. Seriously deep and thick mud. The kind that steals your flip flops right off your feet and then mocks you with that shuurthuruup noise when you pull it out.
And just when you think you can do some deep breathing e
xercises to get over the fact that you and your children are covered in a mud swarming with bacteria and quite possibly non-healing staph infections...THEN it takes a slug - A SLUG - and plants in on your calf where you walk around with it for THREE hours without even noticing and then you feel so skeeved that you can't really sleep. That's how a state can pitch a fit.
I think Rhode Island felt bad about the whole slug incident though. The next day it was all, "Sorry man. I'm just kind of small and when I see how much you like it up here I get nervous. I don't really have room for anyone else. And you know about
my strict state-wide zoning code that requires I have one Duncan Donuts per every four residents."I explained to Rhode Island that although I do have a mad crush on it I have been there in the winter and therefore have no intention of ever actually living there. We made peace and got along just fine after that.
Even the girls were feelin' the love. Tempel made a Baby Bjorn for the Gecko she won off the carnies and it looks like it's doing jazz hands.
I don't know why I think that's so funny.
Bristol has the oldest Fourth of July parade in the country so they take that shit seriously. The parade was three hours long. But Jules got up at 4:30 AM and set up chairs and whatnot and got a spot for us to call our own for the morning so the three hour tour was not bad.
Plus there were four Duncan Donuts within walking distance so we had plenty of coffee at hand.
Seriously, RI what's up with all the Duncan Donuts? It's a little weird.
Nevermind, I don't want to get RI all mad again and have her start tossing leaches at my head. Forget I said anything.
Anyway, leaches and slugs aside we had a fantastic frantic fun-filled few days in Rhode Island with Jules and her family and some dear friends who came down from Boston.
And I left there as infatuated as ever with that little bit of the Ocean State.
It's hard not to love it when you spend your evenings hanging out on a porch with three other couples laughing your ass off while the kids all play together elsewhere. And then you can get up and ride bikes all day along the water.
To the nearest Duncan Donuts for coffee.
***************
Our second stop on our three city tour was to the town of Ms. Picket. Stay tuned...
But if you can't wait for me to post about it and are wondering how it went from the Picket's perspective you can read her post.
I think that restraining order was a total misunderstanding and we'll be able to head back up there in three to five years.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
And they're back.
So my goal for remote blogging via my Blackberry while we were traipsing around New England was a complete bust. Apparently my Blackberry, having been born and raised in Atlanta, is not quite over the War of Northern Aggression and simply refused to work properly while up in those Yankee towns.
But we're back!
And it was great!
I kind of freaked right when I flew off because Braja of Lost and Found in India decided to give me all sorts of blog love and put me in the Spotlight Diamond Dance. Wait, no that's for strippers. It was The Diamond Post.
She also posted a whole blogpost declaring that her followers should come follow me because I needed help. Or therapy. Which is awesome. And true although I'm not entirely sure which of my various problems she was planning to fix. But I'm all for it Braja! Post a telethon. I'll show up in a tuxedo and look needy.
Then the post she had written for the telethon just imploded and disappeared. So maybe she got me confused with another blogger and didn't mean to link to me and was like oh shoot, that's not the one I wanted. And then I went and disappeared for a week so she she was probably in India wiping her brow going phew! that Carolyn Online won't mention that little misunderstanding and then I go and blow it by blathering here. Sorry, Braja. It's how I roll.
Hi Braja's people! *Waving* Welcome. Sorry I was such a slacker and was gone for a full week right when you showed up. It wasn't you. Swear. It was the Southern Belle Blackberry.
Anyway, about our trip. I know you're all dying to know how the first encounter with Ms. Picket went. It wasn't just one blogger meeting another In Real Life for the first time. I mean we email each other every day. We talk constantly. Although never on the phone. She is one of my best friends. But I didn't actually know what she looked like.
So was I nervous? Would it be weird?
No. And no.
Excited, not nervous. And it was weird how very not-weird it was. I'll be posting all about it in a few days. I'm still in the holy-shit-where's-my-toothbrush mode of the post-trip reentry.
It's funny because all of my friends were asking me if I thought Ms. Picket was actually a 13 year old boy - or maybe a 65 year old man - pretending to be a grown woman/mom. And her friends were asking her if maybe this is a big scam I pull. You know, pretend to be a normal blogger and then invite myself to her house and just stay. And dispose of the bodies at my leisure.
These silly people. I mean I know Darcy (that would be Ms. Picket's real name - I'm blowing it all wide open here folks) doesn't post pictures of herself so you can't really know what she even looks like. And I guess if you're of the paranoid mind that people are lying online all the time then you could suppose all kinds of things.
But at the end of the day the reality is that Darcy and I already knew each other really well even if we didn't really know what the other one looked like. So young, old, male, female... when you know a person's soul the looks don't matter.
So without further ado - here's a snapshot of Ms. Picket when we were out on her boat.
But we're back!
And it was great!
I kind of freaked right when I flew off because Braja of Lost and Found in India decided to give me all sorts of blog love and put me in the Spotlight Diamond Dance. Wait, no that's for strippers. It was The Diamond Post.
She also posted a whole blogpost declaring that her followers should come follow me because I needed help. Or therapy. Which is awesome. And true although I'm not entirely sure which of my various problems she was planning to fix. But I'm all for it Braja! Post a telethon. I'll show up in a tuxedo and look needy.
Then the post she had written for the telethon just imploded and disappeared. So maybe she got me confused with another blogger and didn't mean to link to me and was like oh shoot, that's not the one I wanted. And then I went and disappeared for a week so she she was probably in India wiping her brow going phew! that Carolyn Online won't mention that little misunderstanding and then I go and blow it by blathering here. Sorry, Braja. It's how I roll.
Hi Braja's people! *Waving* Welcome. Sorry I was such a slacker and was gone for a full week right when you showed up. It wasn't you. Swear. It was the Southern Belle Blackberry.
Anyway, about our trip. I know you're all dying to know how the first encounter with Ms. Picket went. It wasn't just one blogger meeting another In Real Life for the first time. I mean we email each other every day. We talk constantly. Although never on the phone. She is one of my best friends. But I didn't actually know what she looked like.
So was I nervous? Would it be weird?
No. And no.
Excited, not nervous. And it was weird how very not-weird it was. I'll be posting all about it in a few days. I'm still in the holy-shit-where's-my-toothbrush mode of the post-trip reentry.
It's funny because all of my friends were asking me if I thought Ms. Picket was actually a 13 year old boy - or maybe a 65 year old man - pretending to be a grown woman/mom. And her friends were asking her if maybe this is a big scam I pull. You know, pretend to be a normal blogger and then invite myself to her house and just stay. And dispose of the bodies at my leisure.
These silly people. I mean I know Darcy (that would be Ms. Picket's real name - I'm blowing it all wide open here folks) doesn't post pictures of herself so you can't really know what she even looks like. And I guess if you're of the paranoid mind that people are lying online all the time then you could suppose all kinds of things.
But at the end of the day the reality is that Darcy and I already knew each other really well even if we didn't really know what the other one looked like. So young, old, male, female... when you know a person's soul the looks don't matter.
So without further ado - here's a snapshot of Ms. Picket when we were out on her boat.
She was awesome. And you can call her Cappy.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Organ thieves be damned! You'll never catch me!
We're leaving for our trip up to New England today. Normally you know I'm not allowed to mention if we're out of town because the whole M.O. of identity thieves is to find out when you'll be gone through your blog then go to your empty house and kidnap your dog and drug him and harvest his organs and leave him in a bathtub with a note about not having any kidneys left or something. Which is stupid because my dog can't even read.
But my house will NOT be unguarded this week so you Ruffie toting organ thieves can just back off. We have two people staying here to house sit and dog sit. And we have our team of construction fellas with large hammers and drills and what not here at all times of the day. So I would pretty much steer clear of the homestead unless you want to go the way of Jimmy Hoffa. We're pouring concrete. That's all I'm saying.
I was this close /--/ (that's typing code for me holding my thumb and forefinger really really close together) to canceling the trip this morning. I don't know if you're aware of this . . . but Michael Jackson has died. Shocking. You may not have seen much about it on the news. I was thinking of just staying here this weekend in case there's a small clip or something on CNN about his life and death for the next SEVENTY TWO HOURS STRAIGHT. Good lord people, save the Man in the Mirror crap for the music channels and Move. On.
Sorry. I know some of you loved that little freak. Power to the glove and peace to the family and all that.
Anyway, so I'll be on a plane with the spawnage leaving Atlanta and connecting through Cleveland of all places and then meeting Scott in Boston. Scott's on a separate flight. Because he's a lucky dog that's why. Then we drive down to Rhode Island.
It should be an easy day. I'll hypnotize Tempel with her Nintendo DS and I'll tell Parker that some kid in the back said she was cute. She'll spend the whole flight flipping her hair and looking coyly over her shoulder. This will leave me free to read a magazine. Flying with the kids is not what it used to be.
We don't speak of what it used to be.
I think the statute of limitations has run out on that anyway.
So our first stop is Rhode Island. Rhode Island. It just sounds cute. Cute and tiny and quaint and seaside-ish. I'm going to try and do mobile blog posts from my Blackberry throughout the trip. This has never ever worked for me before but I don't see why I should let that stop me.
Catch you freaks on the flip side.
But my house will NOT be unguarded this week so you Ruffie toting organ thieves can just back off. We have two people staying here to house sit and dog sit. And we have our team of construction fellas with large hammers and drills and what not here at all times of the day. So I would pretty much steer clear of the homestead unless you want to go the way of Jimmy Hoffa. We're pouring concrete. That's all I'm saying.
I was this close /--/ (that's typing code for me holding my thumb and forefinger really really close together) to canceling the trip this morning. I don't know if you're aware of this . . . but Michael Jackson has died. Shocking. You may not have seen much about it on the news. I was thinking of just staying here this weekend in case there's a small clip or something on CNN about his life and death for the next SEVENTY TWO HOURS STRAIGHT. Good lord people, save the Man in the Mirror crap for the music channels and Move. On.
Sorry. I know some of you loved that little freak. Power to the glove and peace to the family and all that.
Anyway, so I'll be on a plane with the spawnage leaving Atlanta and connecting through Cleveland of all places and then meeting Scott in Boston. Scott's on a separate flight. Because he's a lucky dog that's why. Then we drive down to Rhode Island.
It should be an easy day. I'll hypnotize Tempel with her Nintendo DS and I'll tell Parker that some kid in the back said she was cute. She'll spend the whole flight flipping her hair and looking coyly over her shoulder. This will leave me free to read a magazine. Flying with the kids is not what it used to be.
We don't speak of what it used to be.
I think the statute of limitations has run out on that anyway.
So our first stop is Rhode Island. Rhode Island. It just sounds cute. Cute and tiny and quaint and seaside-ish. I'm going to try and do mobile blog posts from my Blackberry throughout the trip. This has never ever worked for me before but I don't see why I should let that stop me.
Catch you freaks on the flip side.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
The Garagemahal: Phase One, Part B
We're still in Phase One of the garagemahal. But we're in Part B of Phase One. Part B is where nothing much is happening. We're still just a big dirt hole. Our dirt hole just sits there. Mocking me. I'm so big. Yes hole, yes you are. I'm the biggest hole you've ever seen. Don't be so full of yourself. You're nothing compared to the Grand Canyon. But you've never been to the Grand Canyon. See? It mocks me.
Yesterday I took a sledge hammer to the old garage floor. We have to tear that up because it's basically 70 year old concrete floating over an elaborate system of chipmunk tunnels. For some reason that's not considered a structurally sound base on which to build. So since we're tearing it out anyway I smacked at it with a sledge hammer. It was remarkably satisfying. I recommend it highly. Of course today my back hurts a little. The sledge hammer mocks me too.
The guy on the right is my builder. You know in those movies when the cartoon character comes to life and has to live in the real world? I think he might be the human version of Diego, Dora's industrious little cousin from south of the border.
We moved it to a temporary holding facility otherwise known as a baby pool.
So in the immortal words of Casey Kasem: This long distance dedication goes out to Scott, a type-A worrier and lover of vegetation, from his beloved Japanese Maple who is a little brown around the edges and thinks the baby pool is a little trailer-trash for her taste but is still hangin' in there.
From Maple to Scott...
Yesterday I took a sledge hammer to the old garage floor. We have to tear that up because it's basically 70 year old concrete floating over an elaborate system of chipmunk tunnels. For some reason that's not considered a structurally sound base on which to build. So since we're tearing it out anyway I smacked at it with a sledge hammer. It was remarkably satisfying. I recommend it highly. Of course today my back hurts a little. The sledge hammer mocks me too.
The guy on the right is my builder. You know in those movies when the cartoon character comes to life and has to live in the real world? I think he might be the human version of Diego, Dora's industrious little cousin from south of the border.
To get ready for this hurry up and wait phase Scott made me help him move a tree.
Move. A. Tree.
Granted it was a smallish Japanese Maple but still a tree. And you know what's hard? Moving a tree. We had to call in reinforcements.
We moved it to a temporary holding facility otherwise known as a baby pool.
Scott's very worried about his tree. He loves that tree. He frets over it. Will it be ok? Is it traumatized by the move? Did we cut too many roots? Will! She! Live!?
So in the immortal words of Casey Kasem: This long distance dedication goes out to Scott, a type-A worrier and lover of vegetation, from his beloved Japanese Maple who is a little brown around the edges and thinks the baby pool is a little trailer-trash for her taste but is still hangin' in there.
From Maple to Scott...
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