Thursday, April 30, 2009
I bring out my big 'uns when I want something.
While most of you picture big 'uns as advantageous Double Ds - my big 'uns happen to be big and brown, puppy-dog, heavily-lashed eyes. Always have been. Which is way funny 'cause Spouse and his college cronies used the covert operative phrase “nice eyes” to describe a girl with big you-know-whats.
Isn't it ironic (don't you think) that Spouse would meet and marry someone who's “nice eyes” got her way more than nice boobs would? Just a little ironic. (It's like rain on your wedding day. Or a free ride when you've already paid. Or good advice that you just can't take.)
Incidentally, I'm very much aware that having the upper deck on the chest would get me much more than my turd-colored eyes, but I'm trying to tell a story here.
When I want something, I open the eyes as big as possible, blink and bat those great lashes, tilt the head a few degrees to the left, and raise the eyebrows ever so slightly... all while saying “Plllleeeaaase?”
Sometimes I get what I want. Would you care for an example?
Spouse and I had been married about a month. Running Brother Bruce had a house for sale in his awesome “hood”. How did I know this hood to be so awesome? Because RBB wouldn't shut up about it. “My hood is so awesome. My hood is so great. My hood is all that.” For miles and miles he'd go on and on about his awesome hood.
I wanted a house in that hood.
So when Running Brother Bruce announced a house for sale in his hood, I was all over it. We made an appointment with the real-i-tor and paid a visit. The guided tour of our future mansion met the 80% rule.
What exactly is this 80% rule, I hear you ask? It's my rule that says: Step back, determine if you're 80% happy and go for it! Don't bother the poor muddled brain with details that don't matter. (Isn't it too bad that I cannot use the rule more often? Note to self: Step back and be 80% happy more often.)
Anyway. During the tour, Spouse and I went into the unfinished basement to make-out. Just kidding. He wanted to look at construction stuff – you know, plumbing, heat ducts, whether or not the basement was tall enough for his 6 feet several inches (this was pre-accident, so he was taller).
It was at this time, that I pulled out the big 'uns on him. I looked up, opened those puppy-dog eyes wide, blinked and batted, tilted and raised, then said “Can we buy it? Pllleeeeaaase?”
Grinning, Spouse looked down at me and replied, “Show me your spreadsheet.” Which sounds dirty I know, but it's not. It means, “Show me the numbers in nice neat columns to prove we can afford it.”
And that is the first example of how my big 'uns got me what I wanted. Ready for a second?
Roughly four weeks ago, Spouse came home from work with an announcement. “I'm going to a VMware developer conference in DisneyWorld.” I answered with “DisneyWhat? DisneyWhere? DisneyWho? DisneyWhen?”
Turns out Spouse was going to DisneyWorld during the Yahoo's spring break. Why? To learn how to integrate his fancy software with VMware's fancy software. Sounds dirty, doesn't it? Well it's not, so don't get excited. Picture this instead: Spouse riding coasters with other geeks in Florida while the Yahoos and I bare the fierce winter elements of spring break - which also coincides nicely with the IRS deadline of April 15.
Once again, it was time to bring out the big 'uns. Once again, I did the open wide, blink and bat, tilt and raise, all while saying, “Pllleeeeaasse?”
Once again, Spouse replied with “Show me your spreadsheet.”
Sunday, April 26, 2009
I have a thing for hats.
If you know me (well), you'll know that I have a 20 gallon bucket full of beanies, a closet full of caps, and a hallowed wardrobe to house the makings of hats. I make hats while watching TV, traveling and porch sitting. I've been known to make and break friendships over hats.
I have a thing for hats.
Do you see why, my friend, that I burst at the seems over this week's forthcoming Derby? (Derby, you ask? Don't tell me you know nothing of The Derby!)
This year, May the second, is the day in which millions of women (and men) will don a sequinned sombrero, a bewitching bonnet, or a feathered fedora. An event where the highest of society bedecks themselves in a titillating tam, a beaded bucket, or a heavenly flourished helmut.
They race horses too. But that's the side-show.
In the spirit of it all, I've managed to waste plenty of time finding the right hats for me. As usual, one of any item just isn't enough.
Froth. Feathers. Fun!
This one goes well with my name.
Now Spouse knows where all the lost neckties go...
Here's a retro-veiled pillbox.
Goes with that pencil skirt and carton of virginia slims.
Polka dots, roses and tulle. Oh my!
I dig the shape of this one.
The color's good for the heat too.
Aphrodisiac for the tin man?
Cheeseburger in paradise.
Picture this with a turquoise frock. Fabulous.
The obligatory pink one.
Love the netting and top hat shape.
This one says, "I'm a feisty pheasant. Dare you to catch me!"
Extremely partial to this one...
The Mad Hatter meets Jane Austen.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Let me tell you about the first day I met Vera. Spouse and I had just purchased our house. To finalize some details, we needed to make a mid-day excursion to the new "hood". I believe this particular trip involved a vinyl perimeter to contain the Chow Chow and the Lab Lab. Spouse was unseasonably mopey - having sold his precious Honda CBR to finance the operation. Notice the reoccurring theme of motorcycle metamorphosis around here.
Spouse and I were lounging about in the front yard, waiting for the contractor, (imagine that... waiting for the contractor) when Vera wondered down - just like a new neighbor in the movies would wander. A terrier half-breed was skipping beside her. (She wasn't Vera yet, however. Vera came later.)
So Vera picks up the precious pup, strokes it lovingly and says, "Have you seen the UPS guy?"
"Okay. If you see him, send him up." With that, Vera turned around, dog nuzzled safely on her shoulder and walked home.
That's a very special dog, I thought to myself.
Let me tell you about the second time I met Vera. On Memorial Day 2000, Spouse and I moved in. While heaving and ho-ing some uselessly large object, Vera pulled up in her shiny, silver, rim-pimped Lexus GS 350. The window rolled down slowly - just like a limo window would roll down slowly in the movies - to reveal that same terrier half-breed. On the lap of Vera. Grinning. Vera shouts above her obnoxiosly loud tunes, "We [as in me and the dog] are going to the grocery store. Need anything?"
That's a very special dog, I thought again.
That dog's name is Ziggy.
(For the record, I never got a ride in that car. Vera did take me to the grocery store on occasion though.)
Fast-forward eightish years. Vera phones one evening with, "Come see my new tat!"
"Right on!" I say and run up. Vera, half-dressed, answered the door and flipped around - just like an ice skater would answer the door and flip around in the movies. A third of her back's real estate was dedicated to an uncommonly accurate portrait of Ziggy, the terrier half-breed.
A very special dog indeed.
Ziggy passed away two days ago at the age of 16. The hood will do some serious mourning.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Yesterday, I phoned the Winder to confess my crappy-mom sin-nature. As mention in the post of yesterday, I had allowed Yahoo #1 to push a button, send me over the edge and lost it.
('Round here, capitalization is strategic. All caps are a BIG deal.)
So I explain it all to the Winder. I start out with blatant justification, move on to humble acceptance (of my behavior), and finish with prevention. "If I had gotten up to run, everything would have been fine" said I. "If I don't start the day out tired, I'm in trouble."
The Winder, in all 180 degrees of her genius, replies with: "Yeah. That's the thing about you... If you don't beat your mind up first, it'll get the best of you later."
True. So dad-gum true.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
I'm a woman with many buttons. Screeeecccch!!!! Did I just call myself "woman"? Ouch! Might as well be ma'am. Let's try again. I'm a young, un-wrinkled, ageless beauty with many buttons.
What are buttons supposed to do? They're made to trigger something. They're made to cause reactions. They're made to go off.
If you're one of my Yahoos (which obviously you're not, since I've grounded the kiddies from reading my blog in that it might reveal who their mother really is)... again, if you're one of my Yahoos, note that my largest and most reactive button is the one you press when you cannot find your shoes.
At our house there are two (not one, mind you) TWO designated receptacles for shoes. The shoe basket and the closet of your ownership. I don't enforce this rule because I'm a neat-nazi. It's not the clutter that bugs me. What bothers me about the lack of shoe placement is the mad where-the-hell-are-the-shoes dash that happens 30 seconds before you need to be somewhere.
Yes... my can't-find-the-shoes button causes an eruptive genetic outpouring from eighteen of my angriest ancestors.
Bad morning. Now we're going to watch Yahoo #1 do his walk-a-thon in sandals. Natural consequences folks... natural consequences.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Monday, April 13, 2009
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Friday, April 10, 2009
Spouse, you can move your tight "A" over, cause I have a new love!
It's copy and paste.
Did you ever take a sacrificial moment out of your day to commemorate the advances of copy and paste? Do you see just how improved your life is with that handy little tool? The best invention since the wagon wheel or the pioneer?
Think about it. Copy and paste isn't the bomb, it exceeds the bomb.
(Just for this, I'm creating a new label called Passion.)
Thursday, April 09, 2009
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Business today would be different had the Titanic made it's destination.
Why? Because more business-related analogies were spawned by the sinking of the Titanic than any other historic event. How else would you describe your CEO bailing before the business crumbles? Or the CFO sticking it out to the end? Or the stock market? Or employee compensation?
You need the Titanic to describe it adequately.
Without the Titanic it would be something like this: The CEO could see that the business had more debt than it could ever account for and wouldn't make the numbers. So he resigned and held a press conference and the stock plummeted and the people were ticked because he knew what would happen and dumped his 30 million in stock before he resigned. Now the employees have their blood, sweat, tears and shoe allowance locked up in a crappy stock that isn't worth anything.
With the Titanic: The Captain jumped on the life boat and let the Titanic sink.
See?! We owe it all to the Titanic.
Tune in next time where I pay tribute to Jim Jones.
Thursday, April 02, 2009
I love April Fools Day. I love pranks. I love Lost. I love Vera.
Vera gets a Lost April Fool's Day Prank.
Don't get it? Well get watching already! http://abc.go.com/
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
I like food. I like to blog. I also like the Rookie-Cookie. So much so that I wanna be just like her. So in honor of all things delicious, I'm changing my blog to a Food Blog.
My first recipe? Lemmon Poppysead Muffuns.
Don't they just look divine?
1 3/4 cups flower - 3/4 cup choogar, plus more for sprinklin' - 2 tsp baking powdah - 1/4 tsp baking soder - 1/4 cup salt - 1 egg, beaten til it screams - 3/4 cup margarinemilk - 1/4 cup fresh lemmon juice (make sure it's picked from the tree or it won't work) - 1/2 cup heavily salted butter, frozen - 1 Tbsp poppy seeds or heroin (whichever you have) - 1 Tbsp zest (soap).
Mix it and bake it at whatever temperature you wish. Yum.