Friday, December 29, 2006

Good morning fruitcake

And I'm not talking the variety with nuts and candied fruits.

I probably shouldn't have answered my phone at 7 a.m. during my Christmas break, but what the hell. I did.

And now I have officially undergone a rite of passage for every woman in our society: the pervert prank caller.

I suppose some people might have been outraged or highly flustered to have someone they don't know whisper, "What kind of panties are you wearing?" at 7 a.m. over the phone. I was more having to hold back all sorts of colorful comments, things like, "It's flippin' 7 a.m., what the hell do you think I am wearing?" or "No man, what are YOU wearing?"

And to make matters worse, I was immediatly transported to that scene in Mel Brooks' "High Anxiety," when Madeline Kahn thinks someone has made a similar call to her. "I know a lot of the other girls are turned on by these sort of kinky phone calls, but I really couldn't care less ... what are you wearing? Jeans? I bet they're tight."

Of course, good judgement prevailed and I said nothing and hung up. I eventually had to unplug the phone because he kept calling. The dude must have been really desperate for some phone sex or something. Like, has he never heard of the Internet?

I now feel I am finally part of the common experience. Wow. Thanks pervert dude.


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Holiday midway

Past Christmas and not quite New Year's. Sounds like the perfect time for a greeting.

Happy holidays, all!

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Monday, December 18, 2006

Wisdom of a Whitney mix

I always find something that fits.

"This is hell, this is hell
I am sorry to tell you
It never gets better or worse
But you get used to it after a spell
For heaven is hell in reverse."
-Elvis Costello, "This is hell"

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Alarm buzzing.
Eyeballs open.
Shower too short.
Kids fighting.
Cold car.
Late for school.
Windy walk to the office.
Irritating e-mails.

It's not even noon and already my jaw hurts from clenching. This could be a loooong week.

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Sunday, December 17, 2006

Happy llama-days!

Sing along! You know you want to.
Llama Song

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Sucks having a Satan mother

I've finally reached the end of my proverbial rope with my middle child, who has had a week to clean her room. Today, after six hours of time to clean her room and do what amounted to one sink full of dishes, I was dismayed to find that she had accomplished almost nothing. So I made good on my promise and now every one of her toys and other belongings is in plastic garbage bags. No crap. No crap to pick up, right? Alas, instead of being thrilled with this wonderful reprieve from cleaning she has received, her only response was two words (punctuated with lots of screaming and crying):

"You suck."

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Chocolate casualty

I am perhaps the only person I know who can injure themselves while making candy. Note to self: Using your full body weight to bust a bar of dipping chocolate in half is extraordinarly painful when said bar breaks and said full body weight is brought down on the tip of your thumbnail.

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