The Blundering Blogger

The Ultimatum...

2012-02-29T19:26:00.000-06:00

I've achieved time travel...

2011-11-17T05:08:00.001-06:00

But it's not nearly as exciting as it sounds. Well, part of it is exciting. I am appearing on another blog as a guest!

All Fooked Up is where I'll be today. (Really, you weren't thinking I'd be on one of those beautiful Martha Stewart-y type blogs were you? Not that I'm not crafty. I am SO crafty it's not even funny.) So that is the really good and exciting news! I'm here and I'm on someone else's blog.

OH, and get this. Somehow I have even managed to FOLLOW myself. Yes, you read that right. I have been following my own effing blog! (how is this even possible, for God's sake?) Even more impressive, I'm doing it incognito! The icon isn't my picture. It's that exclamation point at the bottom.

Have any of you noticed this and not told me? I'm going to give you all the benefit of the doubt, but I'd like you to know that I consider this to be the equivalent of having toilet paper hanging out of my skirt. Friends don't let friends wander back into the ~~bar~~ restaurant with toilet paper hanging, people! And to make sure my readers of the male persuasion understand this example, I'll use a sports expression. AWW, COME ON MAN!

So, thanks to the interwebs, I have become a time traveler. Officially wreaking havoc in three places at once. (until I can figure out how to unfollow myself, anyway) You're welcome.

Don't forget to check out All Fooked Up ! I'm on the Go Ahead, Amuse me part of it. Let me tell you, she is one funny chick. Especially the conversation she had with her mother-in-law about circumcision.

Casualty Report.....Temper, Temper

2011-11-03T17:53:00.001-05:00

Let's begin with the good news...

Halloween came and went and I got all the decorations up and down without:

a) falling off the ladder
b) electrocuting myself with various lighting escapades or
c) drinking too much wine and forcing the Lt. Col to drive me into New Orleans to search for vampires.

It's a WIN!

However...

I put an inordinate amount of time into my Halloween candy this year. In years past when our kids were younger and we lived on military bases, we'd have a few hundred trick-or-treaters. It was fun, but complete mayhem. We are talking forty or fifty giant sized bags of candy and setting up the whole damn living room on the porch because there's no point in even trying to go inside before 10 p.m. The stream of ghouls was that steady. It was like Black Friday. Remember when those people got crushed in the stampede for High Def LCD televisions that year? Yeah, like that. With Sugar highs. And no accountability because they're in disguise! *shiver*

So I was never able to do anything fun with treats back then. I was forced to use candy to defend myself by throwing it at the parade of malevolence that descended upon us in crushing waves. As much as I ADORE candy, I knew I'd be going to HELL for such a blasphemous use of it. (But it does feel great to peg some of those little assholes in the back of the head with a ring pop every now and then, I'll admit. Not the nice ones, just the ones without manners! Reminds me of trying to knock down the milk bottles at the fair.) What the hell was I talking about again? Oh yeah. FUN with treats.

When we moved to the coast last year we were barely unpacked by Halloween. So I went out and bought my 873,000 dollars worth of candy and told the Lt. Col to take the front gate off the hinges to avoid having it ripped off and flung recklessly into the street during the craziness. Then we had 32 well mannered, chaperoned, appropriately aged, adorably costumed trick-or-treaters who actually said "Trick or Treat!" and "Please" and "Thank You" and "HAPPY HALLOWEEN!"

"Oh dear GOD, we HAVE GOT to move immediately!" I told the Lt. Col in a panic.

"What for?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Umm... NO."

"Jesus Christ, man! Are you blind? We've moved to fucking STEPFORD! Except, obviously someone with brains finally realized it's not the women they should RE-PROGRAMME. It's the KIDS! (The damn kids are ALWAYS the problem.) We have to get the hell out of here. Call the realtor!"

"I think we've just been living on base too long. We're INSTITUTIONALIZED and we've forgotten how to be Southerners."

"Oh. You know what? You might actually be right."

"That's it. We're outta here. Pack a bag."

"HUH?"

"If I'm finally right for the first time in...um....EVER, they've gotten to you too!"

THWACK!

"OUCH!"

"HA! My aim's as good as ever, asshole!"

I was ready for the STEPFORD children this time. Here's what I put together.

(To the left you'll notice the Lt. Col online buying a football helmet to defend himself from my deadly aim and notoriously bad temper.)

Anyhoo, I spent hours picking out candy necklaces, chocolate, goblin finger puppets, glow in the dark bracelets, blow pops....lots of cute goodies and these little cauldrons to put them in. Then........

We had exactly EIGHT Trick-or-Treaters. I GIVE UP! Next year it's gonna be Moscato and stalking Vampires.

Being Stalked for Fun and Pleasure

2011-10-23T10:14:00.000-05:00

I have always wanted my very own stalker. No really. To be the center of someone's universe so completely that they have to know your every move, habit, like, dislike etc... (And just to clarify, I'm not talking about the Teenager's toddler years when the Lt. Col and I were one hundred percent certain she was a stalker by nature and neither of us could even pee in private)

No, I'm talking about the kind of stalker who's not dependent on me for survival. The kind who chooses to follow me because of my complete awesomeness, but with zero insane desires to strangle me or some such nonsense because I simply do not have time for extracurricular strangling around here. (And maybe leaves me little presents like Boo Radley did for Scout and Jem - except better stuff than gum and trinkets...I'm thinking silver bracelets and Godiva, just in case any potential stalkers are reading this) I mean, how flattering would that be? Billions of people on the planet and I am so impossible to live without, that someone has to stalk me. That's real LOVE, people (or real something, anyway).

So, the Lt. Col rolls into the driveway one day a few weeks ago (yes, I am such a procrastinator, that's how late this post is) and walks in with a raised eyebrow.

Lt. Col: "What's going on here?"

Me: "I'm finally being stalked. Isn't it great?"

Lt. Col: "Since I left home ten hours ago you've acquired a stalker AND a dog?"

Me: "It's a twofer deal. She's also my stalker."

Lt. Col: "I can't wait to hear this one."

Me: "Well, I drove Sidekick to school this morning... and Francesca here, began stalking me on the way. She chased us for at least a mile and a half before she leapt into the car."

Lt. Col: "She leapt into a moving car with closed windows? How did that happen?" (He suspects I'm providing a less than accurate account because in addition to wanting a stalker, I've also been wanting a dog for a long time)

Me: "Oh, no, I stopped. I was just going to pet her and compliment her stalking. But when I opened the door, she jumped into the car and refused to leave." I am smiling, scratching behind Francesca's ears. "She's a VERY loyal stalker."

Lt. Col: "Mmmmhmmmm. Really, you took someone's dog?"

Me: "Noooo, someone's dog car jacked me. Sort of. Haven't you been listening to me? This is why it took so long to get stalking laws on the books. Nobody listens to the victim!"

ENTER: Teenager and Sidekick.

Teenager: "Okay, we've got the flyers printed out."

Sidekick: "We're going to take her with us because maybe someone will recognize her."

Me: "Easy come easy go, I guess."

Teenager: "I sure HOPE it's easy go. We do NOT need a dog around here!"

Turns out, Francesca had a microchip and belonged to the owners of a phenomenal restaurant here in town. But I'm not giving them any free publicity because A) I'm jealous that they have such a cute dog, B) I'm pouting that I no longer have a fun stalker, And C) They gave her a super lame name - Cabbie. (Francesca was MY name for her) I'm posting her picture so you can see how freakin ADORABLE she is. Without further ado...
Best. Stalker. Ever.

My (not so secret) Obsession...

2011-10-13T22:21:00.000-05:00

Okay, it probably seems like I'm a little bit obsessed with cars lately, what with Enitsirhc's health problems, getting rear ended by the FBI and what have you. Oh hell, you might as well know the truth. I am and have ALWAYS been obsessed with cars. I love 'em. Can't help myself.

I spent so many Saturday nights with my dad at red dirt tracks watching stock car races it's a miracle I don't have hearing loss.

When I was a little bitty thing, my dad and his buddies built my sister and me the coolest custom Go-Kart on earth. I wish i had a picture of it to show you. (There probably is one somewhere because my mom is like the freakin' paparazzi with the camera even to this day, but that's a post for another time)

Anyway, my Go-Kart was not one of those pitiful stop and go things you ride at amusement parks today. This baby had four on the floor, a real roll cage and REVERSE. (For those of you who don't speak fluent Pit Crew, that's a standard H pattern manual transmission with four gears plus reverse) It was candy apple metallic red with big tires and a custom steering wheel.

Best. Thing. Ever.

But I'm off topic a little bit. Actually I'm writing to tell you about a really NEAT event that happens on the Gulf Coast. It's called CRUISIN' THE COAST and they have it every October. Thousands of people who restore old cars meet up on the coast and drive their classics up and down Highway 90 for about a forty mile stretch. I considered doing some cruisin' in the Caddy, but nobody would ride with me. :( Can you believe that?

So the Lt. Col consoled me by filling our ice chest with wine and sitting on the side of the highway taking pictures of the Cruisers. I have to say, that was probably more fun because I could really pay attention to the cars going by. (Until my third glass of wine, that is. After that, the Lt. Col had to remind me that 1)Hitchhiking is probably illegal and 2) The Cruisers probably won't stop for crazy drunk chicks, so 3) Why don't I just remain seated on Enitsirhc's tailgate before I get run over and ruin someone's masterpiece?)

If I were a technical genius, I'd create a nifty slide show on here of photos, but don't get your hopes up for that. Today I'm posting two pictures because I am too lazy to email them all to myself from the Lt. Col's computer. But I might add one or two onto the next several posts, just cause they are SO beautiful and how often do you get to see cars like this on the road? Here are the first two. ENJOY!

Update on Enitsirhc...

2011-10-04T21:19:00.004-05:00

Today Logan, ( my adorable new mechanic boyfriend ) called me up.

"Hey Dana, it's Logan at Bimmerwerks. I'm just calling to check on Enitsirhc. How's she doing?"

"Logan, you are the best mechanic boyfriend EVER! You're a freakin' Bimmer GENIUS! She is doing so great we even took her on a road trip weekend before last and she made nary a peep! Of course, now she has taken to monster collecting. But I guess that's not your area of expertise is it?"

"Probably not. But there's bound to be someone here in NOLA who can address that issue for you."

"Yeah, probably. They're actually kind of cute, though. And not nearly as annoying as all those lights on the dash panel. Maybe I'll *let* her keep them. Thanks again for everything."

I wasn't even joking about her new hobby. Here is what she looks like: (sorry for the crappy cell phone photography)

The signs reads: PLEASE DON'T FEED MY MONSTERS! (They probably have cooties) We do LOVE some Halloween around here.

Sorry GOD, I'm accident prone...

2011-09-29T21:42:00.000-05:00

Today the Lt. Col and I bicycled down the street a ways to skulk around in the shrubs and examine the construction of some hurricane plantation shutters on a house that's for sale.

On the way back, I noticed I was being stalked by at least nine butterflies! It felt like a miracle or at the very least, a message from THE CREATOR or THE UNIVERSE or something. I wanted to commemorate it, but obviously I couldn't take a picture of myself. And the Lt. Col won't ride too close to me for fear of a wipeout. (He already had one of those and I wasn't even involved.) So, here I was, riding along with all these butterflies. Mostly they stayed behind me but sometimes they came up beside me. This picture I drew is an accurate representation. (Except for the fact I'm hovering over the road, which can only be explained by my complete lack of artistic ability. Oh, and I wasn't really wearing a helmet either, but Mr. We Might Get Sued wants me to be responsible with my drawings and advocate bicycle safety...helmet probably saved his life, yada yada yada. Helmets sure didn't save my tailbone when I wrecked. My ass hurt to sit down for three whole months.) Anyway...

"Look at me! I'm the friggin' PIED PIPER of the butterfly kingdom!" I yelled backward. Then I wobbled and nearly ran into the curb, so I decided to pay more attention to the road. ( I was riding slow because butterflies can't keep up in a headwind if you ride like Lance Armstrong or something, just FYI.)

But it got me to thinking about the migration pattern of the Monarchs. I'm waaaay too lazy to research it, but I know they go up to Canada somewhere and back down to Mexico (I saw that on NatGeo). Sometimes it takes them five generations to make the whole trip. Since it's fall, I figure they must be heading back to Mexico, cause paper thin wings can't possibly fare well in subzero temperatures.

Pondering those delicate wings reminded me of mean kids who catch them and injure them with rough play. Or stick pins in them for collections. Or try to put dental floss leashes on a bunch of them during ill-fated attempts to fly (so I've HEARD, anyway). And I thought to myself, "These butterflies need an ADVOCATE, that's what."

So I tested their loyalty to me as a leader by swerving all over the street to see if they would blindly follow. And they DID. We looked like a beautifully choreographed orange, black (and semi-faded summer tan) ribbon dance, weaving and swerving until some asshole darted out of his driveway and wiped out half of our Troupe with the grill of his Lincoln Town Car. The ugly incident didn't end there, though.

"Have you been drinking?" The Lt. Col yelled from behind me. Distracted by my own grief and the Lt. Col's road rage, I hit some loose gravel, skidded, and nearly took out a landscaper who was working on a retaining wall. I don't think I lost any more subjects, but the magic was clearly gone. (And there's a sprinkler installer who probably won't come within twenty yards of me again.)

At that point it was clear to me that butterflies could benefit from some genetic alteration to toughen them up.

1) They probably need stingers to stop mean kids from fucking with them.

And 2) They need some kind of armor to protect them from cars.

Or 3) Maybe they just need to fly faster for evasion purposes.

We'll probably have to cross breed them with wasps and hummingbirds. But I'm allergic to wasps and so is the Lt. Col. So we'd have to wear those Bee Keeping uniforms, probably. And maybe keep an Epi-Pen on us in case of anaphylactic shock. Also, the wasps might sting the butterflies accidentally unless we artificially inseminate them. But how in the world would we extract wasp sperm? Hummingbirds lay eggs, so now we're into inter-species breeding and that might not work at all. Man, being a butterfly geneticist is probably better left to the experts. Still, it's an idea worth considering. The honey bees are disappearing. Probably also due to those assholes in Lincoln Town Cars.

This one's going on the idea page.

CASUALTY REPORT!!!!....PREEMPTIVE STRIKE

2011-09-29T13:01:00.000-05:00

VERY SERIOUS BUSINESS HERE!!!! Okay I'm about to change the feedburner address thingie on my FOLLOW BY EMAIL and I know many of you use this option to follow me. PLEASE GO AND FOLLOW ME AGAIN SO I DON'T LOSE YOU! I WOULD MISS YOU TERRIBLY!

The reason for all the hoopla is that I used to have a blog at WordPress in the BEGINNING of my blogging days. WordPress didn't like me at all and I found a happier home at Blogger (I'm way too accident prone and jinxy to use WordPress. Plus, Blogger had all sorts of cute designs and swirly looking fonts and such that were easy to use.)

A few weeks ago, Lisa from http://lisascreativespace.wordpress.com (her blog's great, btw, and if you enjoy being crafty or creative, you should check it out) said to me "Hey, did you know that your FOLLOW BY EMAIL button took me to some place called Traipsing Around the Beach?" and I was like "OMG, how in the HELL am I going to fix that, being so technically jinxed like I am?"

As is so often the case in my life, BLUNDERING really has its advantages! I was screwing around with my page layout because somehow my entire blog roll has disappeared except for the heading and really, how stupid has that been looking and for how long? Seriously, how long? I really ought to click on the VIEW BLOG more often, I guess. Whatever. That's off topic. So I clicked on the follow by email to see if I could write something clever for that title and BAM! There was the culprit, sitting right in front of me. (Why I didn't think to look there before is one of those mysteries that probably won't be solved, mainly because who cares anyway...)

SO, off I went to feedburner and got a current TheBlunderingBlogger feed for this blog. And my fear is that the result will be you guys won't get emails from me AT ALL now unless you all go and click on the NEW FOLLOW BY EMAIL button (or whatever smart-ass remark might be there now that I'm trying to be clever). Because you can just NEVER predict what's going to happen in the virtual world when you go changing code on something.

I'll go ahead and apologize in advance. If the world ends tomorrow, it's probably because I screwed up feedburner and caused international incidents resulting in war. If not, maybe nobody will have to look upon the front page of that HIDEOUS blog I used before. I say it's worth the risk.
Sorry for the interruption!
Back to your regularly scheduled programming......BUT PLEASE DON'T FORGET TO FOLLOW ME ON THE NEW BUTTON!

Brilliance.... free like library books!

2011-09-27T23:04:00.000-05:00

I feel ramblous today. Yes, I do KNOW ramblous is not technically a word (yet), but I've decided to add it to my vocabulary anyway. After all, a few years ago McJob was not a word, either and now it is (at least in the urban dictionary and I'm too lazy to check Webster's at the moment). Anyway, new words that I make up are part of what I'm about to discuss. I didn't make up McJob, though.

I'm going to post a page on here for all my great ideas, both past and present. Sometimes I put my money where my mouth is and actually try my ideas out. That's usually when I end up with a blog post, for better or worse as the case may be.

Such is the life of a great idea generator. I'll probably end up as famous as Thomas Edison or maybe even Wile E. Coyote.

Here I am....THINKING

I have had MILLIONS of ideas in my life. That's just an estimate. It might even be a BILLION. So I tell the Lt. Col my great idea about dedicating a page to great ideas. Of course Mr. Safety First has a question about it.

Lt. Col: "Aren't you worried that some idiot will actually attempt these ideas and end up suing your- and by your I mean OUR- asses off?" (I'm sure he did not intentionally call us idiots. Language is not his forte. He's more of a math guy.)

Me: "Are you kidding? I'll probably have to sue people left and right because they'll STEAL my great ideas and use them to get rich instead of being benevolent like I am. Just look at gift baskets, for example." (I invented gift baskets, which I'd like to point out are NOT dangerous at all.)

Lt. Col: "Are you saying you invented weaving?"

Me: "Of course not! I invented arranging things nicely inside baskets and giving it as a gift."

Lt. Col: "Oh. Okay. Well, that's a pretty general idea. Nothing you could have patented, even if you were the first person to have the idea." (He says were like he doubts the veracity of my claim.)

Me: "That's the problem with most of my ideas. They aren't specific enough. If I start writing them down and stuff, I'll probably work out the kinks. All the crafting blog friends I've made online have a niche. I need a niche."

Lt. Col: "Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of."

Me: "You're afraid of crafters? I never knew that."

Lt. Col: "Um, NO. I'm afraid of you and niche marketing."

Me: "Don't worry. I won't leave you for Thor when I get rich. And I guess I won't be inviting any crafters over, either." (I won't have to leave him because, as Enitsirhc already pointed out, I am quite capable of pulling off polygamy when and if it becomes necessary.)

Lt. Col: "Well, you'd better not. Run off with Thor, that is. I'm not worried about crafters. In fact, you should probably focus on crafts as long as you aren't using anything sharp or hot. How about a macaroni necklace? Yarn and noodles. I can't think of a single way you could injure yourself or innocent bystanders with those. But - I've survived you for a quarter century. I'd hate to have to kick Thor's ass if you figure out a way to make money off being accident prone then run away with him."

Me: "You'd kick THOR'S ass for ME? *swoon* That's so sweet." (Note to self: Keep Thor a secret for his own protection) "How would you do it? Would you use your hand-to-hand combat skills learned in the Marines? Or would you steal a helicopter and have someone shoot at him with a fifty-cal?" (I'm fairly certain the USMC would NOT sanction a battle with Thor, so he'd have to sneak the helo away.)

Lt. Col: "I'd use the element of surprise."

Marines....they are a steely-eyed and silent bunch. You NEVER see 'em coming.

So, here's the deal. Even though the Lt. Col has threatened Thor out right (and may or may not be afraid of crafters), I'm going to press on with my GREAT IDEAS page. If that results in a war between the USA and one or more GODS, you'll know who to blame... The Lt. Col!

*ps If you want to find out the meaning of ramblous, you'll have to check out my great ideas page, which I hope to have up in the next few days.

Bimmerwerks...Car repair and legal advice!

2011-09-20T17:09:00.000-05:00

Hi There! If you haven't been here before you need to get to the beginning of the story--

Read this first...
Then this...

Okay, so here we are at Bimmerwerks. I wish I'd taken a picture of their parking lot and shop from the outside for you because one look at it and you'd go "Seriously, did you take Enitsirhc there?"

And I'd tell you "Why, yes. Yes I did. She needed tough love." (More on that later)

This is where I have to do the dreaded backstory dump because when I found Bimmerwerks I didn't mention it here on the blog. I also didn't mention what DROVE me to Bimmerwerks in the first place. Just goes to show, you can never predict when the FBI will intrude in your life and you should always be planning ahead because they don't CALL first!

Before we moved from Virginia I had a super awesome BMW mechanic named Jimmy. Enitsirhc loved him. Without a doubt this is some kind of teenage rebellion on Enitsirhc's part, which I do NOT have time for. If you've been reading my blog for awhile you know that I create enough disasters on my own. I can do without Enitsirhc's drama. Anyway...

Her battery died back in January, forcing me to have her towed right out of my damn driveway. It looked just like some toddler pitching a fit on the floor in public.

Finally the Lt. Col said, "Aren't you going to get off the pavement and follow them?"

The nearest place to me appeared reputable, so I sent her there. It was a pretty building with an open glass front and no cars out front. I felt like I was driving up to a valet at a hotel. Plus, the mechanics were all wearing perfectly spotless white lab coats and carrying clipboards. WOW. Impressive, right? Hell, I'm a nurse and my lab coat is almost never spotless.

Soooo, that dead battery turned into something akin to a mortgage payment on a beach house. My own fault.

Mistake No. 1: I told them to give her the old once over. (In mechanic-ese, this apparently means find as much shit to charge me for as you can.)

I took her home and within a week she was lighting up like a Christmas tree. NONE of this was going on before. But they gave her a damn good wash/wax/detailing, I'll give 'em that.

Mistakes No. 2, 3, 4 and 5: I sent her back repeatedly because she still wasn't fixed. (But she was the cleanest damn car on the coast) *And I don't think they are dishonest. They just don't know what the hell they are doing*

Are you paying attention? I know this stuff is boring, but there's a lesson in this post. Don't make me take out my ruler.( I went to private school and I KNOW how to use it.) Plus, we're almost back to the present.

A couple more mortgage payment size bills later and still without satisfaction, I was ready to ditch Enitsirhc (probably by climbing in and driving into Lake Ponchartrain because we all know you don't get rid of a car like Enitsirhc without dying alongside her).

I flung myself onto our couch with my forearm on my forehead to illustrate my abject despair. My daughter's sidekick said "I used to have a BMW. You probably just need a better mechanic. One time we put some new headlights in and my car got so freaked out my dad had to drive it all the way to Atlanta to get the computer reprogrammed."

"Ohhhhh." I moaned. "I need Vicodin. Or Vodka. Or a Voodoo priest or something."

"Here." She said, pushing my laptop toward me. "This place has some good reviews."

*Okay this is where you're OFFICIALLY caught up. It wasn't all that painful, was it?*

It takes Bimmerwerks a month to figure out what has Enitsirhc's panties in a wad, (or as my Aussie friend Cocktail Kate would say, her knickers in a twist) but they pull it off. (the problem, not the knickers)

After our rear ending, the teenager cautiously inches the big-ass truck up to Bimmerwerks and into the crevice that barely exists among a multitude of Bimmers which are practically stacked on top of each other. Big Jim, the guy who actually owns the place, calls it THE HERD.

"Good God." The teenager remarks. A woman of few words.

Inside, I say "Well hello everyone! Sorry I'm late. We got tangled up in a rear-ending near the Canal St. exit, but we're fine."

"What were you driving?" Logan's greasy hands are covered in GoJo and he's reaching over the receptionist for a towel to wipe them.

"Oh that's the best part!" I point through the tiny window. He looks out, sees the big-ass truck, and laughs.

"What's this? You got rear-ended?" Big Jim looks away from another customer wearing a tailored suit. Big Jim usually holds two conversations at once. He's quite gifted that way.

"Yes sir. By FBI agents, no less!"

"OH FANTASTIC! CHA-CHING!" Big Jim looks like he's going to jump out of his seat and dance, even though he's been visiting the chiropractor for a pinched nerve. If you aren't a southerner you're probably wondering 'how in the hell does she know that? (Because we always inquire about well being, dammit. But only most of us lie about how we are. Some tell the truth.)

I can't imagine why my accident news is so great, seeing as how I might've been carted off to FBI jail (wherever that is) for all this business with Enitsirhc.

Theeeeennn I remember! Bimmerwerks is a HOBBY for Big Jim. He's really an ATTORNEY. He loves litigation and BMWs in that order. And he loves BMWs so much that he opened a shop for his sons. They like to restore them, race them, you name it. I guess when you've sued the pants off corporations and billionaires all over the world, you can afford to play with BMWs as a hobby.

The guy in the suit takes one look at Big Jim's reaction and bolts. I give my credit card to Logan because the receptionist seems to be gone, too. Logan and I are captives. Well, maybe Logan is just staying for moral support. Or to make sure I pay before Big Jim convinces me to leave with him and file a suit at his law firm.

"The city is crawling with Feds. They've got a real emergency on their hands. They've dropped everything to search for those nudie pictures of Scarlet Johansen, didn't you know? You can't walk an inch without bumping into one of them! Here's what you have to do!" Big Jim starts explaining.

But all it sounds like to me is... Smoothie King, yum yum yum, there's one right on the corner. I wonder what that new 'Lean' shake tastes like? But those things have SO many calories and they're pretty expensive for a drink. I should just have a salad at home. I wonder how old the dingy paneling on these walls is? Logan is such a cutie. Think I'll divorce the Lt. Col and marry Logan so I can always have a working Bimmer. Wait, maybe I could get away with having two husbands! Polygamists do it all the time. I could totally pull it off. The Lt. Col goes to bed really early. I could hang with Logan every evening. The Lt. Col wouldn't miss me unless he got up to pee before midnight. This could work. What the hell am I saying? Don't I have enough to do around here without adding another man to the equation? Damn you, Enitsirhc! Get out of my head! The bitch is like Lord Voldemort...

"Mmm Hmmm... That's a lot to think about. I'll certainly document every single bit of it." I say to Big Jim because, oddly, I don't remember anything he said beyond that. I gotta tell the truth here. I am not the litigious type. And legalese, whether it's spoken or written or delivered via intravenous dextrose solution kind of puts me into a trance.

"Here's your receipt." Logan says, reaching to hand it and my credit card to me. A greasy minion arrives with my key.

"Thank you so much, Logan! Do you mind if I take a picture of you for my blog? I want people to see what a real mechanic looks like."

"Um, okay." He laughs and poses.

Take note, folks. HERE is the lesson I spoke of earlier. This is what a good mechanic should be wearing. And it AINT a white lab coat. If the parking lot is not FULL of cars waiting to be fixed, keep driving!

A good mechanic does not have time to DETAIL cars, either. Logan fixed Enitsirhc AND replaced transmission fluid for about 25% of what the other place charged me to GUESS at what was wrong.

NO you CANNOT have him. Go find your own!

*ONE more thing... As I went to my email to get this picture, there was an email from the old place reminding me that I'm due for a routine engine service (because they can track how many miles my car has on it - a little creepy, but that's technology I guess). Anyway, that's not the point. The POINT is that Bimmerwerks doesn't even HAVE a website. They don't NEED one. Yet somehow they pop up in all the important reviews for dependable BMW work.

Word of mouth. When it comes to business (or books) you can't beat it.

But it's probably just their way of looking out for me....(pt 2 of FBI)

2011-09-17T20:23:00.000-05:00

(If you haven't read Now the FBI is on my ass... you'll want to read that or this entire post won't make a lick of sense.)

Now for obvious reasons, I have to use pseudonyms for these agents because

A) what if they're undercover agents and I manage to OUT them like what happened to that CIA chick Valerie Plame a few years back?

and B) It was like being rear ended by an armed Bozo the clown, so I'm fairly certain they don't want their identities attached to this incident.

So Agents "Howard" and "Johnson" (hereafter referred to as Ho and Jo or better yet, HoJo!) get out of the Ford. Jo kind of wanders around, assessing the damage and making sure we know she was "pushed" into us by that Corolla. Like anyone cares what caused her to stick her head up our ass!

"Well let me get your information, just cuz, you know, that's how it's supposed to be done. Not that anything will happen to you." Agent Jo says.

Wow, nothing gets by you FBI agents, does it? Where would we be in America without this kind of intelligence looking out for us?

Amazingly, I'm still feeling pretty magnanimous (not to mention smarter by the millisecond). So I say, "Sure, whatever helps you explain it to your insurance company."

In about two minutes, NOPD arrives in the form of a short round officer with his pants tucked into his knee high boots (dear God, WHO in hell gives this kind of fashion advice?)

"I'd like to get a statement, also." Agent Jo informs me.

Oh, but something tells me you might not LIKE me to STATE OUT LOUD in front of my minor child what I'm really beginning to think about this. Then, another thought pops into my head and I decide to take a different approach.

"Oh sure, no problem! Glad to help. As long as I can get to Bimmerwerks in time to claim Enitsirhc, we're all in good shape. Oh, incidentally, I have a question for you guys."

"What's your question?" HoJo are suddenly in their element. The ALL KNOWING and OMNIPOTENT Federal Bureau of Investigation, at your service.

"Purely hypothetically speaking, of course." I say. HoJo nods. "This FRIEND of mine knows someone who is concerned that she might be extradited to say, oh I don't know, let's just say Germany because I don't remember which country she mentioned specifically."

Now they are REALLY paying attention cause they think they are about to get a HUGE tip and make a giant BUST and something good will come of this embarrassment they are suffering in downtown New Orleans rush hour traffic after all. Their eyes and ears perk up like German Shepherds.

"MmmHmmm....." They say, all cool and laid back, like. (This always works on dumb people, in case y'all don't watch crime dramas on television like I do, just FYI)

"Well, this person thinks she may have - through absolutely NO fault of her own - committed a crime against a German - or possibly a Bavarian, that part's a little murky, but whatever."

"What accidental crime does she believe she committed?" They are still playing it cool, leaning against the median like we're all hanging out at Jamba Juice or something.

"Well, that's the problem. Nobody can figure it out. The German in question DEFINITELY has been injured in some way, but even specialists don't know what the problem is. So I told my friend, 'Hey, no proof, no crime!' am I right?"

They stare at me as if I have no respect for the law. So I say "Don't get me wrong, I love justice as much as Judge Judy, but hey, you gotta have PROOF, right?"

"Were there any witnesses to the alleged crime?" HoJo is a smooth operating team, I can tell. Poker faces all around.

"Oh, LOADS of witnesses. Everybody who hangs out with this chick expects disaster in some form. But nobody saw anything. They all swear she never put a finger out of line with the victim."

"What does the victim say?" HoJo's critical thinking skills are kicking in now.

"Not ONE word. Can you believe that? It's complete and total silence from the victim. You'd think the victim would be all 'She drove me through three feet of standing water and NEVER gave me fluids and put the wrong windshield wipers on me-"

"Wait, did you just say WINDSHIELD WIPERS?" HoJo rudely interrupts.

"Yes. But it wasn't my - I mean, HER fault! It's what the computer at Auto Zone TOLD her to do!"

"Is this victim a CAR?" HoJo is incredulous.

"Oh, didn't I mention that up front?" I ask just as Sergeant Fashion Disaster calls out over his loud speaker (heaven forbid he should leave the comfort of his cruiser's a/c - or for that matter, expose Canal St. to his ensemble again) that our insurance information seems to be out of date. Oh lovely. Time to turn on the Belle.

"Oh dear, my daughter must have forgotten to get her current insurance card off the desk. But it's renewed every six months, so the next expiration date will be March 1st. Wow, this is a NICE car and you keep it so clean! I'll bet criminals appreciate that when they ride in the back."

He smiles. "March first," he says and keys it into the computer. I'm a friggin' JEDI.

"So, we're good to go here, then?" I bat my eyelashes and smile.

"Yes Ma'am. This sheet has all the information on it and you can call that number if you have any questions."

Back at THE SCENE, HoJo watches my return. They're dying to hear the rest of my crime story, I can tell. "Okay, so where was I?" I ask.

"You can't be extradited for doing something to a car." Agent Jo says, grinning a little. Then she looks sad and adds "Man, I JUST got this car like a month ago."

WHEW! I feel like hugging her. Mainly because I know she isn't going to haul me off to the POKEY to await extradition to Germany, but also because she looks like she's gonna cry about her car.

"Oh, they'll fix it up good as new." I tell her. "You should see my bumper. If you had rear-ended Enitsirhc, I could've gotten a new one too. Damn! But that would've been DEVASTATING for your insurance, so I guess it's better this way. You'll probably want to have Bluetooth installed, so you can have BOTH hands on the wheel from now on though." I pat her shoulder and motion to the teenager to hit the road.

"Enitsirhc awaits!" I shout.

I read Agent Ho's lips and quizzical expression over the traffic whizzing by ..."Who the hell is Enitsirhc?"

He has paid ZERO attention to my ENTIRE confession! GOD, they should not even LET men into the FBI.

(Check in again soon because I still have to tell you about Bimmerwerks and what happened there...)

Now the FBI is on my ass...pt 1

2011-09-16T13:33:00.000-05:00

Well, today was a fun day let me tell you! God, where do I even begin?

First and certainly most importantly, one of my mechanics called. As you all know, I'm avoiding extradition to Germany (in my own mind, anyway - they haven't overtly threatened me yet). So, when my caller ID showed Logan's name I expected the worst. I'm used to bad news about Enitsirhc (that's Christine spelled backwards, which is what I'm calling her now. I hope she doesn't figure it out...).

"Hey Dana, this is Logan at Bimmerwerks." (We are all on a first name basis now that they've been intimate with Enitsirhc.) "How are you today?"

"Oh, hi Logan! I'm great, how about you?" The world could be ENDING, but here in Dixie, we always inquire about well being, dammit. We also LIE like politicians and claim we are fantastic, even when we are driving possessed vehicles like Enitsirhc (or in my case, spending ass loads of cash and not driving).

"I have some news for you. It looks like we've made a miraculous leap."

Oh GAWD that cannot be good. Miraculous Leap = MONEY.

"Lay it on me, Logan. Rip it quick like a band-aid stuck to hair."

"Well, your alternator is corroded with power steering fluid from leaking hoses. That can cause voltage surges and freak the transmission brain out."

"Hmmm....I would imagine so." I say this thoughtfully so I sound like an educated consumer. "And is there an estimate on remedying this voltage challenged brain?" One can never be TOO politically correct, right?

"Yeah, you'll need a new alternator and power steering hoses and a flibber-di-jibberty thing-a-ma-bob. Go take out a second mortgage on your house and deliver the cash to the Official Cemetery Tour Guide at Reverend Zombie's House of Voodoo on Rue St. Peter at precisely 1:37 p.m."

"Whatever it takes to get Enitsirhc back on the road. I'll come get her at three."

Then the real work begins. Getting the teenager out of bed to give me a ride to Bimmerwerks. She's refusing to ride in the Caddy anymore (I cannot imagine why).

Negotiations begin. Her price for giving me a ride is that she will drive her big-ass truck which gets negative 12 miles per gallon and I'll provide a Coke Icee to be purchased en route. I can live with that - probably - but she drives like me and Mario Andretti. Except NOT in a good way. A totaled Volkswagen Jetta and a leaning pine tree somewhere outside Hattiesburg Mississippi will back me up on this.

In fairness, today's incident was not her fault. I did warn her of the scary driving in NOLA. The brake slamming, especially. Told her to lay off the ass-riding until she was back on the open interstate. No more than five minutes later, we were both sure she had stomped a hole in the floorboard to avoid hitting a stopped car ahead of us when...

BAM! Suddenly we get a blue Ford Fusion enema! And the Ford gets a Corolla colonic.

Naturally the teenager is freaked, asking "Ohmygod! What do I do?"

"Stay calm and put it in park." I say. "We need to see if everyone is okay and check the damage."

"That BITCH is on the PHONE!" My teenager rants. (Um, yeah, we cussed during her formative years cause she's the baby and by the third kid, who gives a rip?) Okay, so much for staying calm. We get out and examine our truck bumper which doesn't have a single scratch on it. This revelation does have a calming effect. The big trailer ball and hitch, sticking out about a foot, leaves a deep gouge in the grill of the Ford, as illustrated by my usually-crappy-but-good-today-cell phone photography.

So we giggle a little and wave the whole thing off and tell the other driver (who hasn't even stepped out of her car to see if we're okay yet - HELLLOOOO! Are you talking to Jesus on that fucking phone or what?) no harm done. We'll just be on our way and won't file a claim against her insurance.

As the offending driver, that's her signal to be all

"OhMyGodareyousure?ThankYouSoMuchForNotDestroyingMyInsuranceBill! I'mSoSorryThankYouAgainAreYouSureYou'reOkay?

And she's supposed to do it all run-on-sentencey without spaces between words like that because she's so grateful for our generosity. And we all move on feeling lucky, magnanimous and expecting some good karma.

But NO. Instead, she and her partner step out, wearing guns, badges and handcuffs like this is an episode of...

"OMG it's Deputy Chief Brenda Lee Johnson and FBI Agent Fritz Howard!" I'm totally excited for like three whole seconds. But even though it LOOKS like them, it's not cause DUH, they work in Los Angeles! (Okay, and they're only characters on a TV show - but wouldn't it be cool to get rear ended for something great like a crime fighting drama? That could totally happen to me...)

Alas, these are REAL FBI agents...(stay tuned, we aren't even to the good part yet)

We got STYLE...(and NASA Rockets)

2011-09-08T21:46:00.000-05:00

If you thought I was exaggerating about accidentally killing more machines than electromagnetic pulse (see Why technology won't be the end of civilization at my house ) you should see what I've been driving for two weeks. It's a twenty year old Cadillac Sedan Deville (a hand-me-down from my mother-in-law).

It is just SUCH a shame that I can't figure out how to turn my ability into a revenue stream. I mean, what we are really talking here is like.... a total SUPERPOWER if you want to know the truth of it. I have now officially CONFOUNDED the Ultimate Driving Machine and its team. It's true. Even the BMW mechanics in GERMANY can't figure it out.

All over the globe they are officially throwing up their hands and pointing accusatory fingers in my general direction. (I'm pretty sure they can't extradite me to Germany and I'm really glad about that because I imagine you get burned at the stake for confounding German engineers)

Am I the ultimate weapon of mass destruction or WHAT? I can't decide whether to be a proud American or cry about my Precious, whose dash panel looks like that UFO from Close Encounters. (If it starts to play music and you don't hear from me in another week or so, assume I've been abducted) But for now I'm still driving the Caddy, which makes for lots of fun on the road.

Yesterday my daughter and her sidekick asked if I wanted to go shopping with them. Translation: Will you go with us and pay for all our crap? So of course I said "absolutely" secretly giggling at imagining the two of them cruising down the highway with me in my stylin' Caddy.

Being seniors this year, they loaded up on window chalk because what's the good of being a senior if you can't go around declaring your superiority via auto glass to everyone on Interstate Ten, right? After paying for a cart full of beauty products, junk food and enough window chalk to rewrite the twenty-two trillion pages of Obamacare, we swung through Sonic for a sugar rush.

That's probably where I erred. Either that or telling the guy at Sonic I could tell he wanted me cause my car is so hot. He wanted me. I *know* he did. (Both of the girls agreed, saying things like OMG! he's half your age! This is SO embarrassing!) I said "I totally agree! What a freak!" and they looked at me like they could not believe what was going on. So we went home because I am after all, a married woman.

Later, the Lt. Col. comes in from work and says "Is there something you'd like to tell me?"

Me: "Um, no. I don't think so. Why?"

Lt. Col.: "Are you out trolling for some Nasa Rocket?"

Me: "Why - are you offering me one?" I got really excited there for a second. Everybody knows I love things that go fast.

Lt. Col.: "Come see."

So I follow him out to the carport to find this...........

And this.......

And finally.......

THEN-- (and I'm SO sorry to report that I do NOT have a picture of this because he drove into NEW ORLEANS and onto the Marine Forces North Command compound before realizing it was there) the Lt. Col. discovered PIMP WAGON on his rear glass.

Don't be jealous. We can't ALL have Nasa Rockets (or twenty year old Cadillacs).

Four deaths and one of them might not be my fault...

2011-08-29T06:36:00.000-05:00

Last Tuesday my elderly great uncle JC died and the Lt. Col. and I drove back to our Home of Record (that's what the military calls it) which sounds so much nicer than what everyone in Louisiana calls it - Crazy Town. No, I did not just make that up!

A big state run mental institution is located in our hometown and the state ships 'em in like sugar cane from all over the boot. Louisiana grows crazies like Nebraska grows corn. Hey, I don't mean it in a bad way. I, for one, LOVE crazy! Crazy is fun and unpredictable and never boring. But today I'm talking about death. I just figured you might want to know where I'm from, which happens to be Crazy Town, mmmmkay?

A few months ago my Aunt Odelia, known to everyone as DeeDee (the aforementioned Uncle JC's wife) died of cancer. They were like an extra set of grandparents to me because I grew up next door to them. JC was my paternal grandmother's baby brother. He was what we like to call a 'colorful character' down here in the south. So if you haven't put two and two together yet, you might want to do that now. When they call you a 'colorful character' and you already live in Crazy Town.....well, anyhoo.......

My sister and I spent many days playing at DeeDee's and JC's. DeeDee's lush, shaded yard nurtured every flower imaginable. She was a magician with plants. People drove for miles to get unique specimens for their own gardens.

Dead-heading flowers with DeeDee was a religious experience and she was devout. Thanks to DeeDee I can dead-head with the best of them. (Unfortunately, I don't often get to that part cause the plant itself is usually dead first. But I am good to go if I ever trick one into living.)

JC taught me some cool stuff, too. For example, he believed every person ought to know how to recite some tongue twisters and limericks by heart. "How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?" That sort of thing. But the best thing he taught, stays with me to this day. I can recite the alphabet backward! Don't believe me?

Z-Y-X-W-V-U-T-S-R-Q-P-O-N-M-L-K-J-I-H-G-F-E-D-C-B-A

Well, that's not nearly as impressive on paper as it is in person. Believe me, it is IM-pressive in person. I always get applause. Then they all say 'Please come down from the table before you fall and land on the Margarita Machine' or something to that effect. You can't blame them. Backward alphabet reciters are FEW and FAR BETWEEN. It's like the best party entertainment E-V-E-R.

Anyway, I got to thinking about all the fun we had with DeeDee and JC's granddaughters who are close in age to my sister and me. DeeDee had a swing set in her yard near the Mimosa tree (those are the ones with the leaves that look like ferns and they have pink fuzzy pom pom like blossoms -not that this is vital information, but Mimosa trees are just the most awesome things ever in my opinion). Our favorite game was Charlie's Angels (Back when Farrah was still an Angel. Not the Demi Moore or Cameron Diaz versions). This was also prior to the internet when kids still had to do their own imagining.

We'd force the youngest to be Bosley and she'd cry, which halted the game for at least five minutes while we explained how vital Bosley was to the mission. How, truth to tell, Bosley was always the REAL hero. She never asked why if Bosley was so all fired important none of us ever wanted to be him. The baby always gets screwed. Don't judge me! It's the law of the jungle. You know you are guilty of it too! Unless you happen to be the baby, in which case, sorry. But I guess you'll take note of that birth order thing on the next go around, won't you?

So, once we had Bosley back on the team, we'd immediately spot the bad guys who never failed to scale buildings precipitating dangerous chases for the Angels. We were always up to the task with the aid of the Mimosa Tower which directly overhung the the Swing Set Catwalk.

With Bosley shouting directions from base command, we climbed Mimosa Tower and positioned ourselves to drop like spiders onto the top of Swing Set Catwalk, which was in serious need of maintenance by city officials. (Imaginary governments suck nearly as bad as the real ones!) A strong breeze easily sent it leaning left, forcing the three of us to lean the opposite direction while chasing the bad guys (eight feet in the air) across. (You should see my balance skills on Wii Fit today....I kick ASS on that tightrope, let me tell you) Usually we'd have just nabbed the killer and cuffed him as DeeDee would peek out to check on us.

"OH MY GOD! What are you girls doing up there! Come down this very instant before you break your necks! What have I told y'all about standing on top of that rickety old swing set? Are y'all just TRYING to kill yourselves? JC, did you see what they are doing out here? You are sitting on the porch for crying out loud!"

"Odelia, don't torment the children. Let 'em play."

DeeDee would roll her eyes and shake her head, then change her tactics. "Anybody who wants grape Kool-Aid and cheese sandwiches needs to be on this porch in thirty seconds."

Those were the magic words. Who gave a hoot about treating prisoners humanely when there was grape Kool-Aid to be had? The bad guy was always abandoned (in various states of pretend bondage and torturous environments like the giant fire ant hill near the ditch).

You probably wonder how someone as accident prone as I am, ever made it to the age of eighteen, much less middle age. Truth is, I'm charmed. I am blessed by the love, guidance and prayers of a lot of people who love me. People like DeeDee and JC. (Okay, maybe not so much on the guidance from JC, but you gotta love that he respected a good bad guy chase enough not to interrupt it.)

So after the funeral, we came home to find THIS going on out front.

It's like a friggin' race to the afterlife around here!
Do you recognize Lazarus from a few months ago? Probably not as there's barely anything of him left. It's not from over trimming, either *hanging my head*. His neighbors seem to be experiencing technical difficulties as well.

The Lt. Col. is quite displeased with this turn of events. He picked out those blue daze plants himself. They used to be super green and full, hanging down over the sides of the pots and blooming these adorable cornflower blue (just like the color in the crayon box) blossoms. I assure him I've not been harassing them one tiny bit. He isn't buying it.

"You've been whispering to them, haven't you?" He asks with a cocked eyebrow.

"No way!" I deny because I really haven't. (I'd have to actually lay eyes on them to do that and frankly, I forgot they were out there, which also means they've had no water in two weeks....OOPS!) *damn needy ass botanicals*

I wonder how stuffed the mailbox is?

Casualty Report......Full Frontal!

2011-08-19T21:09:00.000-05:00

A week or two ago I found this couple getting it on right outside the front door! It was such a sight, I snapped pics with my cell phone.

With my penchant for killing all things technical, you might imagine I would absolutely SUCK at photography and you'd be correct! Mostly.

How I managed to get these great shots, remains a mystery to both of us. You and me, I mean, because obviously the exhibitionist tendencies displayed here show the porn stars of the moth kingdom at work.

Being a nurse and all, I'm prone to taking a scientific approach. Plus, those guys were at it for 24 HOURS! So the moth girls have some real studs in the bedroom (or at least next to the front door). I studied them from every angle and was just about to lift up their skirts when the Lt. Col. showed up.

"What are you doing?" He asked, causing me to have a coronary event because he totally sneaked up and I didn't hear him. He loves to do that. (I probably looked a little pervy too, what with all my ogling and being completely oblivious to my surroundings)

"Trying to find a penis to distinguish gender." (I was all official sounding even after my heart attack because I'm professional like that)

"You don't need a penis to figure that out."

"Speak for yourself. I've always found it a reliable indicator. Plus I'm not performing exploratory vaginal exams today." (Really, I just wanted to see who gets to be on top in moth sex because they did NOT appear to be taking turns)

"The guy is the little one who looks like he's dying." Such a romantic, my Lt. Col.

So I spent nearly a week wondering why in my entire lifetime I've never seen moths doing it ANYWHERE, much less right here for the whole neighborhood to see.

Then, two days ago we forgot to lock our bedroom door. We still have a teenager living at home. That's probably as much as needs to be said about that. We are all scarred for life now.

Isn't it amazing how teenagers only care about privacy if it is their own?

"YOU KNOW THERE'S A LOCK ON THIS DOOR FOR A REASON!" She hollered at us, completely ungrateful for our life-giving procreation talents. (The nerve of someone who had the audacity to weigh 10 lbs. 5 oz. at birth!)

"Oh, suddenly the champion of KNOCKING BEFORE YOU ENTER isn't following her own advice, I see!" I've used the old 'and just how do you think you got here?' response on the other kids - so it's been rendered ineffective. Less verbally skilled parents would've tried to pretend it wasn't what it looked like, but not us! We are all about taking responsibility around here--besides, there was no other POSSIBLE explanation for what she barged in on other than naked Yoga maybe, but I don't think she'd have bought it. (The Lt. Col. is quite inflexible on all things related to long muscles and 'girly exercise')

After our impertinent offspring turned on her heels and stormed out, I asked the Lt. Col. "I wonder if you looked like you were dying?"
He was unamused.

Why technology won't be the end of civilization at my house......

2011-08-09T00:08:00.000-05:00

If you've seen the movie Terminator, you know that SkyNet takes over the world and machines rule. Never gonna happen, people. At least not as long as I'm alive, anyway. I have accidentally killed more machines than electromagnetic pulse (if you have to ask what that is, you don't WANT to know.....*trust me*)

I have to sneak up on cash registers. Sometimes I ask the person in line behind me to pretend that my stuff is really theirs. Then in a stealth move, I leap back into line and swipe my credit card before the machine has time to identify me and seize up.

Ask how many computers I've bought in the last ten years. No, don't. I don't want to remember.

Anyway, it's a sad, sad, sad day here at the beach. The gadget that currently holds the record for surviving around me the longest has.......oh I cannot even bear to say it.........gone on to be with his loved ones at that great motherboard in the sky. *sniff*

RIP Poddy.....you have been a good and faithful servant.

Here are a few of the things he survived over his six year lifespan:

......Extended time at the bottom of my purse with emery boards, gummy worms and God knows what other hazards.

......Being dropped so many times he asked if he could go skydiving for his birthday one year and did I think they might give him a tiny parachute to keep as a souvenir? (A less secure owner might have taken that as a slam)

......Me, forgetting him in my black car (also with black interior) with the panoramic sunroof open on a hundred degree day. His clicker wheel shriveled and the center button fell out completely, but he soldiered on for another three years

.......A couple of hours he spent in the freezer when I tried to hurriedly cool him off after the 'car greenhouse' incident. It was supposed to be five minutes or so in the freezer, but hey, shit happens. Anyway, he thawed out and cranked up the tunes like he'd been rejuvenated in a fire and ice sauna.

.......Throughout Poddy's tenure he never once mentioned the fact that I bought newer versions with ginormous hard drives and touch screens.

He was a good boy. Then one day he hit puberty and just could not quit booting himself up. See his Apple on the screen? His Apple kept popping up every two seconds, literally! Booting and rebooting....24/7... and sadly, that was the end. Rest in Peace sweet Podman. I will miss you!

Casualty Report...Heat Index

2011-07-26T10:34:00.000-05:00

Well, tonight we had lasagna for dinner. You know what that means.

Turning on the oven......

Misjudging the placement of the middle rack.....

Not opening the oven door wide enough.... (due to the fact our central air has been (dys)functioning like government, i.e. creating a huge bill and delivering nothing but hot air. Good times, huh?

Okay, that's not fair. Even broken, my a/c is doing a FAR better job than those clowns in D.C.!

Time to break out the aloe vera (and the nostalgia) for a second. Reminds me of a burn I got on a date a LONG time ago. (With a boy who shall remain nameless, no matter how much the Lt. Col. pesters) A Harley, no helmets, a red-hot pipe.... never mind, you get the picture. My calf sported a red spot about twice the size of this one. *in a pinch, if you don't have aloe, Noxema provides relief. Although Sprite was all I had handy during the Harley incident. FYI, I don't recommend sticky liquid or carbonation if it's avoidable.*

Oh, but speaking of motorcycles and totally off the subject - if you want to read a REALLY interesting autobiography, give HELL'S ANGEL by Ralph "Sonny" Barger a try. He's one of the founding members of Hell's Angels (just exactly the sort of character I need to avoid like orange lipstick and the Ebola virus). But, talk about an interesting life! And I'll bet Sonny would've WARNED me about the tail pipe.

Is it any wonder I've developed a deep and abiding love for salad? Not to mention a spouse who drives a station wagon. (Ounce of prevention, people, that's all I'm sayin'!)

Salad is not necessarily less dangerous for me, though. Never underestimate a lettuce knife! (Gawd, don't even ask)

Confession....

2011-07-22T14:59:00.000-05:00

The Lt. Col has badgered me into confessing that I don't ALWAYS beat him at PacMan. There. I said it. Happy now? Somebody has been skipping his nap time and drinking way too many energy drinks around here, apparently. Clearly he has never figured out that girls like to let boys win *sometimes*. (He gets all feisty like this every time the Tour de France comes on. I'm blaming Europe.)

Here's to you Harry Potter.....

2011-07-14T18:23:00.000-05:00

My mother always says "Everything happens for a reason." That woman KNOWS what she is talking about. Today, getting knocked up at 19 has PAID OFF, people!

Did my ~~baby daddy~~ high school sweetheart strike it rich? HA! You must be high if you think that's what I'm gonna say. The military is the last place anybody's going to obtain wealth.

Have I learned some literary award-worthy lesson to pen about the meaning of life as a result of my indiscretions? Oh, let me stop you right there. I intend to stay in a good mood. Stop trying to bring me down, you!

No, it is neither of those things, but it is dance-naked-on-the-beach celebration worthy. Are you ready? Today my children are all old enough to DRIVE themselves to the Harry Potter midnight opening. But that isn't the big news. The BIG news is that I do not have to wait for hours at the theater to see it myself because they are SAVING my place in line! *cue the Hallelujah chorus (When I go early to the theater it is only to kick the Lt. Col's ass at PacMan)

They are loading up the candy that I like, but can't get at the theater and heading out shortly with our tickets and a mountain of 3D glasses. (I've even got my BFF here visiting from out of state and vodka (wine bottles are too big) in my purse...squee!) I'm overcome. *sniff* Maybe somebody up there really is looking out for me!

Casualty Report...Knee-Capped

2011-07-12T13:18:00.000-05:00

Between the Wii balance thing-a-majig, the laptop cords, the footstools and various other debris in my living room, it was only a matter of time. This picture was taken immediately after the...um...entanglement. I'd call it a fracas, but for that to be correct, I'm pretty sure there has to be equal give and take involved. That wasn't (and frankly is NEVER) the case in my situation. Not one of the offenders suffered a lick. :( On the bright side--it scabbed over and healed very quickly, although the spot is still sore. Thanks be to the tree gods, I have wood floors and not scored and stained concrete!

Btw, it sounded like a thunderstorm in here when it happened and the Lt. Col. didn't even so much as ask "What's going on in there?" It leads a girl to wonder whether he's immune to my destructive tendencies or if all those years of flying helicopters, blowing up things for fun (and possibly my rather loud music listening habit) have finally deafened him.

Nah. I'm betting Deadliest Catch on the bedroom TV beat me fair and square. It's hard to compete with fishermen getting whacked in the head by fifty pound chunks of ice.

They aren't Orgasms....

2011-07-07T01:37:00.000-05:00

You're only supposed to get ONE wedding, people!

There’s a trend out there in LOVE land. The question is...what the hell to name it? When it first became noticeable, it wasn’t exactly a trend yet. So it happened a few more times before I thought, “Wait a freakin’ second, here.” For lack of a better term, and because nobody else seems to be naming it, I am calling it Wedding Squared. (If I could figure out how to work the superscript, I’d abbreviate it W2)

In the last fifteen years (give or take) I have personally known at LEAST six couples who’ve gotten married twice. Not married, divorced and then remarried (although some of the same ~~indecisive crazies~~ lovely couples have done that, too). No, I mean like, “Hey let’s get married on Tuesday for real and then have a big Beach/Plantation/Church/Casino/whatever wedding on Friday. But let’s don’t tell about the REAL wedding. Let’s keep that one a secret from the bride’s (or the groom’s) entire family so as not to offend the (put your belief system of choice in here).” WTF???

Used to be if you wanted to get married in secret, you ran off to Vegas or the Justice of the Peace and only told people when or if you damn well pleased. But the idea was that you did NOT want people to know.

In some cultures the two ceremony thing is perfectly normal. The Japanese don’t let anyone except parents into their REAL wedding at the Shinto temple. Everyone else gets to attend the big after party, which includes a ceremony, but is more like a reception. None of the ~~boneheads~~ lovely couples of whom I’m speaking are Japanese.

Our military friends often have the sneak ceremonies due to unforeseen deployments and such (totally understandable). I’m not referring to military couples. The most recent example (civilian) as recounted to me was so odd, I’m still amused a whole month later. The groom went to his BACHELOR PARTY on his ACTUAL honeymoon night and got 'fake married' the next day, HUNGOVER. While I can totally see how that may be every guy’s fantasy, I hardly see how it was any fun for the bride. (Unless he sent her that dude who plays THOR as a wedding present, in which case a hearty "THANK YOU and ROCK ON, Groomie!" was due him)

At the root of practically ALL of these Re-Weddings is - as you might imagine - religion. The very institution that claims sole ownership of the Marriage Sacrament, is also the reason couples are bleeding their bank accounts dry, wearing their families to a frazzle and zigzagging across the city to sanctuaries, temples and cathedrals for an entire week. All of this to appease two or three different family members and one God who is probably laughing his/her ass off.

If two out of every three marriages end in divorce, how will all these extra weddings throw off the statistics? Are they secretly getting married twice to increase their chances of success? Would that even work? Math is no friend of mine, but it sounds like a plausible theory. Wait....if two out of every three marriages end in divorce....oh fuck it. Told you I suck at Math.

And another question. With all these shenanigans going on, why in the world aren't gay couples allowed to marry in every state? They should form their own religion, country, government or whatever it takes and dive in without permission from our dumb-ass barely-even-functioning government. (Although one does have to wonder why they'd deign to get involved in such a marital mess to begin with. Who needs dueling in-laws - or outlaws, depending on whom you're marrying- and extra secret nuptials added to the fray?)

How hypocritical is it that the very people wanting to “defend the sanctity of marriage” are some of the same ones abusing the institution. It’s like telling your neighbor he can’t have kids while yours play the real life version of Frogger in the street.

And BTW, I’d like to know what’s wrong with doing it the old-fashioned ROMANTIC way like I did - getting knocked up at nineteen, pissing off BOTH sets of parents, barfing all the way to the altar - where the only people NOT boycotting were the minister and our dumb-ass teenage friends. Ahhh...the good old days! *fondly remembers when the term shotgun wedding meant that both families wanted to shoot the groom and bride* (there's nothing like the parental threat of violence to keep those rebellious teenage declarations of 'But I LOVE him/her' going strong for the next twenty-five years) Seriously, you weren't thinking you'd get through this post without hearing about an escapade of mine, were you?

Maybe I’m being a tad overly dramatic about secret ceremonies. These lovebirds aren’t really getting married twice. They are doing it for real once and faking it the second time. (insert your own joke here) Anymore, as Pachelbel’s Canon wafts over the congregation, I find myself wondering

A) “Is this the real wedding or are these black-and-white-clad-clowns already hitched and pretending?" *wonders if those are real formals or that body paint like Demi Moore wore on the cover of Vanity Fair*

B) "Have they also procreated a bunch of secret children scattered out here among the guests?

Or C) Will they borrow some kids in a few years and pretend to be parents, too?” Now, THERE is an idea with legs! That sort of brings new meaning to the phrase 'it takes a village'. *imagines a planned and gated community passing around three or four kids on a rotating schedule*

"Hey kiddos, I'm your Ice-Cream-for-Breakfast and Riding-Bicycles-Without-Helmets Mommy! shhh...it's our little secret. I know I'm your favorite." Man, I could really get into that kind of carpool parenting!

The final thought is usually, “Oh, screw it. There’s wine and Shrimp Etoufee’ waiting at the reception. Who cares whether they’re faking getting married? Maybe they just want to avoid the inevitable and costly divorce down the road.” It ain’t my business.

Just KNOW THIS you bunch of wedding throwing addicts:

Invite me to the shindig (be it real or fake) with the WINE! I want to go to the ceremony with the WINE! And the food (although the food is less important anywhere north of the Mason Dixon Line). But did I mention the WINE?

Has anyone else witnessed this rising phenomenon? It is ~~possible~~ probable this is a goofy American trend and those of you around the globe will think we’re all nuts over here. Really, there’s no place quite like the good old USA for muddling up culture, tradition and religion. We actually take pride in it. (Just listen to the Star Spangled Banner being mangled at the next Superbowl if you don't believe me!)

Could be I’m the only person privy to all this sordid information. People certainly LOVE to confess secrets to me. Still....is anyone else noticing this fake wedding trend?

THIS close to.....

2011-07-05T10:21:00.000-05:00

An injury free 4th of July. It's a crying shame, I tell you. I was THIS close. I swear it! The day was over. Do you hear me? O-V-E-R.

And not just the day, either. The entire four day weekend I had worked as hard as a hooker on lower third and managed to keep my skin intact and unbruised. Let me also explain I had worked these four days with and around power tools (not the fun kind that hookers use either, just sayin). I'm talking about the sort that come from Lowes and Home Depot and cost a small fortune. I also hauled sheetrock (Jesus that stuff's heavy!), corrugated aluminum (heavy and sharp) and moved furniture. It's tiring to even talk about all of it, but you get the idea. Naturally, with such a run of injury free days, I got cocky.

The Lt. Col. and I strolled over to the beach tonight to drink wine and watch the amazing fireworks over sand and water. He took some great pics. Like the one to the left.

And this one....

From the water......

And my favorite......

So when everything was over, we scurried like crabs across the street to our house. With sand all over, we needed to shower.

In a selfless gesture, I offered to use our daughter's bathroom, which in the best of times is a maze of flat irons, hair dryers, dirty towels and and mountains of makeup. (I won't discuss what the worst of times is like because she really could star in her own episode of Hoarders) Her tub is littered with about thirty bottles of soap, conditioner, shampoo and God only knows what other beauty products.

I'm still not sure exactly what happened. I turned around to search for a razor and either slipped on a bottle or got tangled in the shower curtain (not that the cause matters). Next thing I knew, I was sitting in the tub after doing sort of a bouncy, slidy thing off the side. I'll have a big bruise, but it's way too close to my ass to be taking pictures for the blog viewing public. I know you're disappointed. Thought you'd get to see my ass didncha?

Nope.

Hope you had a nice Independence Day, anyway.

Casualty Report.....

2011-06-20T20:46:00.000-05:00

Do you see anything wrong with this picture? (Besides the fact that I've inappropriately placed my germ-y foot up on my writing desk)

My pinky toe is missing half its nail! OWWEE!

Man, this hurts almost as bad as that time I experimented to see if the pressure washer would feel like a foot massage. It DOES NOT in case any of you are wondering. (Just take my word for it, okay?)

That tiny piece of nail left was clinging for dear life and I'm entirely too prissy to add pain by ripping it off. I'm prepared to live with the consequences. (Ha! As if I have a choice)

I must tell you, however, that losing the pinky nail is NOTHING compared to opening the front door and raking the big nail completely back, which I have also done. (Hobbled myself at Christmas trying to hang a wreath. Ho Fucking Ho!) In the pain addled haze of that episode, I substituted alcohol for hydrogen peroxide because (hell, I don't know) and nearly passed out, spared only by my Jacuzzi tub which I leaned over and fell into. Never...I repeat....NEVER pour alcohol on an open wound that is gushing blood. (I'm a bit of a germ-o-phobe)

Soooo.... Today I'm missing most of my pinky toenail, thanks to a clothing rack at a retail store that shall remain nameless. (No free advertising for those assholes!) Back to your regularly scheduled programming.

They said it would happen...

2011-06-19T23:52:00.000-05:00

Everyone says, "Oh, just pick a theme and start blogging."

If you blog, you know it's not that simple. I figured it would be easier to be the Seinfeld of blogging (you know, the blog about nothing). Turns out, that's REALLY hard.

Yet, a funny thing has happened on my way to Blogville. I found a THEME in most of my posts. Are you ready for it? I am mistake and accident prone. There. I said it. It's official. (People who know me only shake their heads and snigger at this revelation. No kidding, they think.)

The next part of this post is going on my 'about me' over there. I've also changed the name of the blog as you may have noticed if you aren't a newbie.

I screw up. Often and with verve. I kill plants. I end up in Chinese whorehouses while searching for a foot massage. My children total cars (that I continue providing) like it's a job. I wear bruises, scrapes and splinters to complement my Gucci and Tiffany accessories.

If you are a blade, sharp corner, fiery poker or scalding liquid, chances are you and I are bound for intimacy. I am living proof there is no such thing as Vampires. I'd surely have run one down with the car by now and been left mummified in the driver's seat, iTunes blaring on repeat until someone in the area got sick of heavy metal and stalked over to call me a jackass.

It's time to embrace my inner dingbat. Everyone says "You gotta offer people something of value." Well, one thing I know how to do well is screw up and be happy about it. Watch me. You can do it too!

Lazarus returns.....

2011-06-14T08:56:00.000-05:00

Sooooo..... I can now report that ultimatums appear to work on obstinate herbs. Mr. Basil survived both my ~~neglectful~~ somewhat inattentive nurturing and the ~~verbal onslaught~~ gentle chiding I hurled in a fit of emotional angst. He perked back up after a nice drink. In celebration, I changed his name to Lazarus.

Then I got some useful advice from one of those relatives I told you about. You know, the ones capable of reanimating dead twigs and such. When it comes to Basil, apparently you're supposed to trim it just above the first joint. So I grabbed the kitchen shears and went to town on Lazarus. Here's what I harvested! (But we aren't going to discuss what poor Lazzi looks like after his haircut. He's also avoiding the camera.)

Secure the Crime Scene....

2011-06-08T18:24:00.000-05:00

I've killed again. Only yesterday my basil appeared content enough. Now would you look at what has happened? Okay, maybe it was more like two or three days ago. (don't you dare judge me - after all, look at what I'm capable of!) Anyway, here we are. At the brink of another eulogy.

I know what you are thinking. Go ahead, you might as well admit it.

"Dear God, this woman is a NURSE! She's out there looking after some body's loved one in the reckless manner she cared for this herb."

Yeah, that's right. I am a registered nurse. Not a botanist, fortunately, for all things dependent upon soil, light and water for survival. People are much more durable. It's really hard to accidentally kill them. (Alright, that's not exactly true - but shh...let's keep that one to ourselves) Don't think me callous. I am quite devastated by the loss. Nothing compares to fresh basil in pasta and on pizza. This is probably my tenth attempt to grow the damn plant. It seemed to be thriving. Okay, okay, that's an outright lie. If green things thrive around me, it's usually out of spite rather than affection. But it did have a blossom, which I took as a positive sign.

I feel that I have been duped. This plant was faking me out, I tell you! It grew at least four inches since I planted it and smelled divine. I am issuing an ultimatum. Screw all these politically correct niceties of plant tending. If I don't see an immediate recovery, I will snip that sucker into a bazillion pieces and eat it on my pasta and pizza anyway. Roll with THAT, Mr. Basil plant!

PS. I genuinely desire to have a peaceful relationship with Mr. Basil. I implore you, dear readers, tell me what I am doing wrong! (Besides forgetting to water him, I mean.) Hey, maybe I put his planter too close to the terrorist MAILBOX. I'm gonna have to name that box Dr. Lecter. (Whew! That's definitely it. I knew this situation couldn't possibly be ALL my fault)

My mailman hates me and....

2011-06-04T22:51:00.000-05:00

It's not cause I have a big mean dog. I have the DESPISED mailbox. Can you tell from looking at its picture? Fairly innocuous looking, I know. Don't let that sly demeanor fool you. According to my mailman, the box in question was sent straight from the depths of hell, intent on torturing HIM specifically.

I should take a moment to explain something to you before I reveal the grievance leveled against that terror hanging near my front gate. As you're probably aware from my bio, I live on the gulf coast. Well, you can't live on the gulf coast unless you want to live in the deep south. Oh, alright. I admit it. I'm really a Southern Belle. No, really. I am! Despite all these unbecoming behaviors you will witness on my blog, at heart I am just as Southern Belle as they come. I don't make dresses out of the curtains or anything, but I would shoot a Yankee if I had to. (JUST KIDDING!) sort of Never mind that. I won't shoot you (Yankee or not). I promise.

The point is that down here in the south, people tolerate a lot. If you aren't from the south, you might think the exact opposite because of what you've seen on television. I'm here to tell you, it's a load of crap. The intolerance, I mean. Southerners are far and away the most tolerant people in the USA. I can say that because I've lived all over and traveled a lot. You will not find more hospitable and tolerant people anywhere. (Although southern California runs a pretty tight race for the tolerance, just FYI)

So, you can only imagine my mortification when my mailman felt the need to KNOCK ON MY DOOR to rat out that hell spawn masquerading as a mailbox.

"Good morning, Mrs. Strange." He smiled.

"Good morning, er, um...." (shit, shouldn't he be wearing a name tag somewhere?)...."wow, it's getting really warm out here. Looks like summer has arrived!" (When you don't know a person's name, change the subject. Weather is always appropriate to discuss in the south.)

"Yes, looks like it'll be a scorcher. Humidity's already at 88%. Here's a package for you."

"Thanks! That's really nice of you to bring it all the way to the door."

"Well, I wanted to ask if you could park your truck nearer to the end of the fence so I can get my mail truck close enough to put the mail in your box."

"Oh, that's my daughter's truck. I'll take care of that for you. Sorry."

"And there's a screw missing from your mail box. The top is nearly falling off."

I knew this, of course. It's not like it doesn't bug the hell outta me. I mean, I have to fight the thing to GET mail out of it too! I commiserated with him as any good southern girl would do. "Oh, I KNOW! It's driving me crazy. I am planning to replace the whole thing, just haven't gotten around to it yet."

This was just the opportunity he was waiting for, apparently, as he launched into a tirade on mailboxes. For a second there I thought he was going to go POSTAL over that mailbox business. Those 'pretty little boxes' are a disaster to put mail into, collect it out of and don't EVEN get him started on how wet my mail is going to get during rainy season. (Lord knows how I'd cry if the Piggly Wiggly circular drowned) And I can just FORGET ever receiving a package in that dinky excuse for a box. It's a travesty of epic proportions, all these beach houses with lovely yet dysfunctional mailboxes. (Heaven help us if God turns out to be a mailman)

Let me save your poor abused mailmen (or women, I guess) a meltdown and tell you now. Get yourself a plain old UGLY ASS rural mailbox. If mailboxes can induce orgasms, (and based on his impassioned plea, I find myself wondering) that rural mailbox will knock your letter carrier out in two seconds flat. Don't be surprised if you find him snoozing under it.

Beach Rapture Update....

2011-05-21T10:19:00.000-05:00

Ok, either it is as I have always suspected (Heaven is actually the beach) or something has gone horribly awry with this Rapture business. I'm still here and I assume if you are reading my post you are still here. So far, everyone I know is also still here, even our cat Buddy. Of all of us I figured he'd surely be the one to get into Heaven.

Therefore I am left to conclude we all gained admittance, even though everything looks exactly the same as it did yesterday. I have but one tiny complaint. I was just SURE Heaven would have more closet space and a bigger bathroom! The gender mystery is finally solved. God is definitely a man. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a few SEALS to kick out of my guest cottage.

Rapture Time Management....

2011-05-20T11:22:00.000-05:00

In order to become a nurse you have to learn how to manage time at the theoretical level because you never have enough of it. This whole Rapture thing has put my mind into overdrive. All I can think about is all the things I won't have time to do before Saturday (which, in case you are time sensitive also - happens to be tomorrow!).

Dammit, a little warning woulda been nice! I can't think of the name of the dude who's running this Rapture Show, but his time management skills absolutely SUCK! You'd think God would've picked somebody better. Seems like God's a 'let's get to it' sort of person, being that he created the world in only seven days. Maybe Mr. Rapture simply hung around long enough to rise through the ranks, no matter how unqualified he is. Who among us hasn't seen that happen? I digress.

Back to the point. The things I WON'T have time to do before the Rapture scheduled for tomorrow.

1. Renew that ridiculously expensive wind and hail policy they force you to purchase when you live at the beach! :)

2. Read the second book in the Forest of Hands and Teeth trilogy by Carrie Ryan. (Who knew we might be facing our own Zombie Apocalypse? Sort of takes the bite out of the imagined ones, doesn't it?)

3. Commit grand theft auto and lead the police on a Thelma and Louise style chase through the desert. (Ordinarily in a situation like this I'd throw caution to the wind, but who wants to be in jail during a Zombie Apocalypse? Not me!)

Since this is a post about time management and by my estimation I've got possibly twelve hours til the end of times, I'm going to throw on some workout gear and hit the gym. Hint: the people striving to be good ALWAYS survive in these apocalyptic events. PLUS, my gym happens to be on a Naval base and I'm hoping to hook up with some SEALS. If not, I can always make the Lt. Col. steal a helicopter and fly us to the mountains. Always think BACKUP plans, people. Time management and backup plans!

Don't wait for the fist.....(Finale)

2011-05-16T21:24:00.000-05:00

"Oh, look! Let's get a foot massage at this place!" My friend pointed to the notorious color coded footprint sign with a bunch of Cantonese (and English because Hong Kong has two official languages) written in the blocks. Let me just explain something here, for a second.

There are no sprawling mini malls in Hong Kong. Everything goes straight up and you can't tell diddly squat about a building from standing outside because they are all connected. It may look like nothing of consequence, but once you are in there the place could go on for MILES of corridors. We had already been lost earlier in the day (not to mention accidentally taking the subway so far away from the city that when we stepped off, the locals looked at us like we'd just time traveled from another dimension). We vowed to scatter bread crumbs in order to find our way out this time, should it prove necessary.

We walked inside and felt encouraged as there were no suspicious looking doorways leading to god knew where. There was only an elevator. We pressed the button and waited. Ding. We stepped inside. Adventurous souls that we were, we pressed two. Ding. The door opened to a small space with a counter and a nice looking lady who smiled. So far, so good.

"Massage?" I asked tentatively because the little voice that tells me I'm screwing up was revving up. I could feel it. The woman looked at us and kept smiling. "I think we're in the wrong place." I told my friend. But just as I said it, another lady rounded a corner and motioned for us to follow her. So we did.

Right into a room full of OLD NAKED CHINESE MEN. Okay, they weren't completely naked. They were wearing very thin robes, very loosely tied (if at all). We were the only two chicks attending this soiree. We quietly thanked the deity we hadn't been asked to disrobe before entering the room! Even the folks doing the foot massages were of the manly persuasion. They led us to two open recliners and we took our seats in mortification, but held our heads high regardless. Several of the scantily clad customers glanced over in amusement, but seemed friendly enough.

We rolled up our pants legs and leaned back. In the beginning we felt great. They applied Tiger Balm which created a nice tingly sensation to our feet and calves. Somewhere in there, the Terminator took over. This happened around the time that we noticed the old dudes around us were all wearing wrist bands with numbers on them. Every so often a woman would appear in the doorway and call a number. One of the gents would follow to a different room.

Just as I became convinced my Tibia and Fibula were exposed to open air (and quite possibly on fire) in more than one location, my friend leaned over and whispered, "Oh God. This. Is. A. WHOREHOUSE!" Indeed. Giggles ensued, delirium quickly followed as the pain escalated. We laughed. We cried. We laughed some more until we gasped for oxygen, our chests heaving with the effort. We were and are those clueless Americans everyone talks about.

We STILL laugh about it and I imagine there are about fifteen or twenty old Chinese dudes who laugh when they think of it, too (to say nothing of the hookers). As we walked out, our tired feet felt much better, but I'll never forget my friend's first declaration after we cleared the elevator. "I knew I was in trouble when my guy balled up his fist," she leaned over to examine her left calf, laughing.

Your takeaway here? Don't wait for the fist. Speak up! It's supposed to feel GOOD! If you have a massage adventure, I'd love to hear about it.

Don't wait for the fist.....(pt 2)

2011-05-14T22:18:00.000-05:00

So, today I'm continuing my post on what I've learned about massages.

In the Philippines when they offer you "The Special", be aware that they aren't referring to an ergonomic table, or a complimentary bottle of massage oil, no sirree! You don't want to learn that one the hard way. And if you do that's none of my business.

Thai massage is my favorite. The Thai techniques are basically a passive form of Yoga, which I love anyway. But Yoga, as anyone who has ever practiced it can tell you, is hard work! Except when someone else is doing it for you and you are getting all the stretching benefits PLUS an excellent kneading of your muscles in the process. In Thailand you can get a two hour massage for about twenty American dollars. I have NEVER had a painful Thai massage. In fact, I once fell asleep during my massage and didn't even remember the person leaving!

China is unpredictable (but to be fair, so am I). One of the first massages I had was in Hong Kong about twelve or thirteen years ago. A friend and I up and decided to breeze over there from Japan. On an unrelated side note, Hong Kong was where I learned that it is possible to have a bout with claustrophobia in the outdoors on a sidewalk.

Yes, China really is as crowded as they say it is and I think there are at least a billion people on the sidewalks during rush hour. Nathan Road makes Manhattan feel like that empty stretch of interstate in west Texas that never seems to reach New Mexico. Seriously. But I digress. My pal and I shopped like....well, like Americans I guess - all day and relentlessly, stopping only once to eat at Koh-i-Noor (the best Indian food I've ever eaten). By evening our feet were killing us and we briefly considered just crashing at Mad Dog's Saloon and drinking wine all night. But then that killer shopping instinct reminded us of Temple Street night market and we soldiered on. Again, I digress. Sorry about that. Next post I promise to get to the funniest lesson I learned. It's too long to tack onto this one.

Don't wait for the fist.....(pt 1)

2011-05-13T14:08:00.000-05:00

Since I moved to the beach last fall, I haven't had a massage. Until last week. I finally found some nice Chinese folks who own such an establishment in one of the malls around here. I went in and asked for the works.

Let me just go ahead and say up front here that you really don't ever know what you are going to get when it comes to massages. Sometimes it's like the Terminator is working you over and other times the person takes a less aggressive approach. Then there are the times where they begin and everything feels great but somehow the Terminator switches places with the person and your skin begins to feel as though it is being rubbed right off your skeletal framework.

You're really supposed to speak up when that happens, but the pain sort of sneaks up on you and you begin to question your own judgment. You think to yourself 'surely I'm imagining this discomfort because I felt so good five minutes ago' or 'it'll get better again here in a minute since it started out so well'. If it sounds like I know whereof I speak, it's because I do.

In the next few posts I shall share a few things I've learned about massages. Stay tuned......

Wheels

2011-05-09T09:23:00.000-05:00

I'm not gonna say how old I am today, cause I'm a girl and there's a rule about that. All I can tell you is that I got exactly what I wanted for my birthday and I feel like I'm about five years old! It is so beautiful, I really ought to be singing when I ride it. Or at least put a basket on the front so my furry little Buddy can ride like Toto.

I Wish

2011-05-02T20:13:00.000-05:00

Tonight as I caught up on the blogs I follow, an idea dropped into my noggin. I constantly read agents expressing frustration about writers and unrealistic expectations. One thing I have noticed most agents commenting about repeatedly is their inability to critique every query.

Wouldn't it be nice if some of them would critique queries on the side for a fee? Query Shark is a real gift to writers. I have done some serious learning at that blog (and she does it out of the goodness of her heart!). For crying out loud though, one ~~woman~~ shark can only do so much.

I'd pay a small fortune to have her critique my query or my first chapter if she offered that as a paid service. I wonder if there are any agents (reputable and good, not the scammers) out there offering this as a service? I realize they have day jobs, but I imagine they could make decent money moonlighting while providing a much needed service to writers. This seems like a good idea to me unless such an activity would be a considered conflict of interest. Just a thought. Your thoughts?

Finally Coming Around....

2011-05-01T22:09:00.000-05:00

I just heard Bin Laden is DEAD! Geraldo Rivera actually cheered on national television and clapped when the news was confirmed. I'm only sorry it took so long and so many of the lives of our friends in the military to get him. He wasn't worth a single American (or any other) human life on this planet. It couldn't have been a comfortable ten years for him, running like the coward he was, trying to keep up dialysis. I hope it was hell on earth for him. It certainly must have felt that way to the woman he used as a shield at the end. His death won't bring anyone back, but at least he won't be killing again.

Yipee!!!

2011-04-17T18:42:00.000-05:00

I cannot contain my excitement, so please bear with me. Today I took time out to browse iTunes. My playlists were in serious need of updating. However, besides writing and books, music is the other area where if I wander off, I might not come back. Reinforcements have to be sent in. The search and rescue effort is lengthy and expensive (usually some sort of a bribe is involved, including but not limited to jewelry, shoes, dinner somewhere besides here...you get the picture)

I don't know how I ever lived without iTunes, even though it wears me out to go there. There can never be too much music (or writing)! I will happily wade through the stuff that hurts my ears to find the things I love. And iTunes makes it so easy. The only real problem is time. You really have to commit to a few hours of sifting if you're picky like I am. I haven't listened to the radio for at least five years (maybe six). In my car it is K-DANA twenty-four seven. (or W-DANA I suppose, since I'm east of the Mississippi)

The point of this post is to tell you how excited I am about what I found on iTunes today! The CARS have a new release coming out on May 10th, titled MOVE LIKE THIS. I previewed and pre-ordered and it TOTALLY ROCKS! This is probably not news to anybody who follows the music scene on a regular basis. I haven't, because as previously mentioned, the Lt.Col. doesn't like to pry me out of iTunes kicking and screaming. So I wait till he's gone and I dive in. I don't usually find more than five or ten songs in several hours of searching. It's EXTREMELY rare for me to buy an entire album (do they still call them albums anymore, even?) In the last ten years I can think of three albums I've bought (including the one I just mentioned). The other two were within the last three years. They are HELLO FASCINATION (Breathe Carolina) and THE AIRBORNE TOXIC EVENT (The Airborne Toxic Event) I am not one of these people who just puts music on and doesn't care what it sounds like. I really listen every single time. Therefore, I must really really like it or it can't come live with me. I need to be completely in love with ninety-nine percent of the album to buy the whole thing. Sort of like when I picked out the Lt. Col. (except he didn't have a title back then). The other songs I bought today are listed below in case you're interested.

What we do - DEVO (They're still around too!)
Country Song - Seether
Stereo Love - Edward Maya and Vika Jigulina
Hello - Martin Solveig and Dragonette
The show goes on - Lupe Fiasco
Little Lion Man - Mumford and Sons

The Lt. Col. is gone for a few days so I'm gonna pack a bag and move into iTunes to do some serious excavating in the alternative genre. I plan to put my iPod playlists on here when I get time. I use music a lot when I write. It's like my own personal soundtrack for the novel. Are you picky about your tunes? If you are a writer, do you use music to write? What's on your playlist?

Wine, Whine and Timing

2011-04-10T10:38:00.000-05:00

A few years ago I discovered the reason I didn't like wine. I had been drinking the wrong kind! I felt a bit idiotic. I assumed it was like beer. Either you liked it or you didn't, but the taste was similar regardless. Turns out I was judging all wines based on a few. Shame on me! What's the equivalent word for wine racism? Is there one? I digress.

Anyhoo... Back in the fall of 2004 when all our husbands were in Iraq having their fun chasing Muqtada Al Sadr in that cemetery, I hosted a Wine, Chocolate and Psychic party for the squadron wives (have I mentioned I'm married to a Marine Corps Helicopter pilot?). Well, somebody brought an adorably skinny bottle of wine that was so freaking cute I had to open it for that reason alone. Oh. My. God.

Julian Gold, named for the mountaintop mining town in southern California where the grapes are grown, to this day remains one of my favorites. The bottle is so tiny, it only holds about two glasses' worth. Back in '04 it cost eleven dollars a bottle. Then apparently the whole world discovered the fabulous Menghini Winery, and now Julian Gold is closer to twenty dollars and worth every cent. Now I have to order before it's even harvested and have it shipped to me by the case. Without this preemptive action I'd be, in the colorful language my daddy sometimes uses, "out and dragging". Most dessert wines are bottled skinny. I've never bothered to find out why. I don't really care. They are sweet and delicious - all I need to know. There's something else I don't know everything about, either. Writing.

Last week in www.writerschatroom.com another writer was voicing frustration about not being able to find a good critique group. I've heard comments from several well known writers that critiquing is overrated. I don't question their assertions. I'm certainly not qualified to critique anybody. I know what I like. I know when something works for me as a reader, but I can't quantify WHAT is making it work. And apparently neither can anyone else. Charlaine Harris says on her website that her agent didn't like Dead Until Dark at first. It took TWO YEARS to sell it to publishers. The series is breaking practically every record out there now. Somebody likes it. A lot of somebodies.

Writing for an audience is like speaking to them. It's all about timing. Right message, right crowd, right venue. Connection. Critiquing can't line up the stars like that for any of us. It's not the end of the world if you can't find a critique partner. Crack open a bottle of wine and relax. Do try to stay away from Julian Gold, though. It's hard enough for me to keep on hand as it is!

After I've written something I know whether it works. Will it work for every single person who reads it? Of course not. Does that matter? Ask Charlaine Harris.

I wonder....

2011-04-06T19:54:00.000-05:00

Recently I've read a lot of articles about self publishing. Wait, let me back up a second. It's always better to start at the beginning if possible. Back in January (maybe December, I can't remember for sure) I was at the gym looking for something to read on my iPad while I walked on the treadmill.

Based on what I had been reading, Amazon recommended a book titled SWITCHED. It was only ninety-nine cents, which made me think there was a pricing error. I looked a little closer and figured out it was a self published work. There was no 'look inside' option, which is the way I decide whether to buy an ebook. An author has about three sentences to pull me in and another page or two to keep me there before I will spend money. Same goes for traditional print. I read for pleasure. No pleasure, no purchase.

Here comes the big hairy BUT. In the case of SWITCHED, because it was only ninety-nine cents, I figured what the heck? If it's atrocious, I'll simply delete it. What can anyone buy for less than a dollar these days? Truth to tell, I'd have bought it regardless after I realized it was a self published book simply BECAUSE of the price. I loved that someone had the audacity to undercut the competition by that kind of a margin. (I secretly figure the prices of ebooks by traditional publishers will go up as soon as they manage to kill off all the print bookstores, but that's a topic for another day) So I hit the one click purchase option, got SWITCHED inside a minute and began reading and walking. Lo and behold, it was actually pretty good!

From all the horror stories I've heard about how awful self publishing is, I couldn't believe what I was reading. I stood there, jaw hanging, trying not to trip over my own feet. There was a plot. The writer had VOICE and style. The story line was interesting and new to me because I didn't know a thing about trolls (or Trylle as they are called in the book). I didn't notice too many typos or grammar problems. Is it the best book I've ever read? No. Was it worth ninety-nine cents? Absolutely.

SWITCHED is better than many books I've read that were published in the traditional manner. That makes me wonder whether everyone out there trying to get published should seriously consider the self publishing route. As a writer, I understand how difficult it is to put out an error free work. But as a reader all I really care about is whether I'm being entertained. Don't get me wrong, I don't enjoy typos or disregard for grammar, which is bound to happen without (and let's face it, sometimes with) lots of editing and proofing. It's annoying. But give me voice, style and story any day over perfection when I'm reading for fun. The idea that I have the ability to lounge on the couch and decide whether a book is right for me without that book having been funneled from the publishing industry is fun. Without the ebook possibility, nearly a million (or whatever the number is up to now) people may never have read Amanda Hocking's work. And her work IS worthy of being read. The really upsetting thought is this: What if the publishing industry has passed on the twenty-first century's Harper Lee equivalent because a writer didn't manage to get her work to the right agent/publisher at the right time?

So, what I'd like to know from you is whether you read more for entertainment or more for a writer's ability to turn out a perfect work? Do you think you are capable of deciding what you'd like to read or would you rather use the gatekeepers of the publishing industry, examples being agents and editors? What is an acceptable price for an ebook in your opinion?

The Great Flip Flop Roundup of 2011 Begins

2011-03-29T21:10:00.000-05:00

When I lived in Japan I got used to wearing shoes I could easily slip off. I read somewhere that eighty percent of the dirt that comes into the house is brought in by shoes! EIGHTY PERCENT! It was easy to remove shoes in Japan because they have the proper setup for the custom. Cute little entries with nicely organized cubby holes make the process almost fun.

There's just one problem. The Japanese don't generally share the addiction issue to shoes that I nurture. Therefore, I picked up a flip flop problem during my Japanese tenure. Oh well, another good intention gone horribly awry. The picture above represents my first day of summer shoe shopping. What can I say?

Please say a little prayer, send a good thought, or donate to the Red Cross http://www.redcross.org/en/ for the Japanese if you are able. They are an amazing culture and a generous people. And they didn't judge me for owning ridiculous numbers of shoes.

No criticism here.

2011-03-28T10:02:00.000-05:00

When it comes to books I know what I like. But I don't generally recommend books to anyone. I stopped doing that after someone assumed I was slyly giving out parenting advice. I am the *model* of genius parenting, in case you didn't know. NOT! I can barely parent my own freaking hooligans. Why would I tell someone else how to do it? Dr. T. Berry Brazleton, I am not!

So, I quit offering books to people unless I knew their tastes were similar to mine. And that left exactly one person, whom I've known since second grade. I still trade books with her. When I finished writing my first novel a few weeks ago, she was the first person I asked to be a beta reader. I spent the day with her, left a bag of books on her table and came home with an even bigger bag.

It was the first time we'd laid eyes each other since college, even though we keep in touch. Books broke the ice for us in second grade when I was the new kid - when she used a vocabulary that no seven year old ought to have, but I understood because I was a reader too. We were accelerated readers before there was a club. Hanging out with her made me feel seven again.

I miss the old me. The girl who'd run around telling everyone how fantastic such and such book was. I am reclaiming her. If somewhere, someone decides I am symbolically hinting that their couch cushions are the wrong shade of chartreuse for their living room walls, well, sorry. It's a risk I'll take.

Sooo..... If you are a writer, you should read MATHILDA SAVITCH by Victor Lodato. Of course, I am immediately drawn into any book that begins with 'I want to be awful' since I just adore trouble. The actual story is way depressing and will leave you wanting to shoot yourself, probably. But the judicious and elegant way Lodato uses language and humor is so beautiful, it's worth risking your own suicide. Seriously.

How many licks...

2011-03-27T12:23:00.000-05:00

I was licking the daylights out of a Tootsie Pop (a few of them, actually) last night when I got to thinking about that old commercial. Remember it? How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop? Don’t get all excited. I haven’t solved that mystery.

I also haven’t solved the mystery of how many licks it takes up side cedar and pine trees before my daughters learn how to avoid them. Our innocent angels maintain these devious trees jump right out into the street.

Yet, in two decades of driving, not one of those leafy bastards has dared leap into my lane. Am I alone here? Are my daughters being targeted as a result of global warming or what?

We are down one GMC Envoy and a very dependable Volkswagen Jetta TDI that got fifty (yes you read it right, 50!) miles to the gallon. Not to mention the damage done to the old bank account. New cars ain’t cheap lately in case nobody’s noticed.

Somebody better come up with a few answers and QUICK, because dammit if I find my X5 hugging a live oak, somebody’s gonna DIE.
I’d still like to know how many licks on the lollipop question, too, if anyone knows.

Choose already.

2011-03-27T12:04:00.000-05:00

It’s official. I cannot pick just ONE topic for this blog. I started it nearly two years ago and changed the title about ten times. So there it is. I refuse to choose. When you hang out here, be prepared to traipse. Hey, traipsing is FUN! Trust me, I’m the expert. It’s like being an independent voter. No party can count on you. You’re the one everybody wants! The base is boring. Dependable. The fliers are the wild cards. You never know where they might land. Wait, are we still talking about political parties here? Cause it sounds like Cheerleading all of a sudden. Well, there you go. We’re traipsing already! Welcome. Stick around, I’m unpredictable.