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    It’s like high school, only worser

    July 27, 2006

    So I am leaving for BlogHer tomorrow.  Oh, no, according to my clock, that would be today. 

    I’m leaving for BlogHer today.

    As I have taken a few spare moments to peruse some of the bloggers attending, I have noticed a common theme.

    Pedicures, manicures, new hair styles, new hair colors, new wardrobes.

    I called up my sister, also attending, to discuss this phenomenon.

    K:  It’s like the first day of 10th or 11th grade.
    J:  Oh, yeah.  Hey, I can’t talk long because I’m going to Andry to get my hair cut.
    K:  E tu, Brute?
    J:  Hell yeah.  And I might go shopping after my haircut.

    This is just like high school all over again.  All the cool kids can’t WAIT to be together again after summers in France RIPPED THEM APART, the geeks can’t wait for the math competitions to start because Band Camp just wasn’t enough in the summer and the kids stuck in the middle just hope that THIS YEAR, when the yearbook comes out, the cast-iron BITCHES on Yearbook won’t poke their eyes out in their photo. 

    The A-listers are the cheerleaders (who just can’t WAIT to see one another again and drink cocktails in the lobby bar), the B-listers have all the student government positions and it goes south from there.  Marelle, when she realized that I was going to BlogHer, screeched in a manner that can only be described as deafening and asked me to get a certain A-lister’s autograph for her.  Not only has Marelle forgotten our high school experience, she apparently ignored me for the prior 10 minute conversation.

    Which makes it like High School all over again.  Because I haven’t even found my clean underwear yet and it is T minus 9 hours until takeoff.  So if you are a Blogger going to BlogHer and you don’t fit the alphabet soup, look me up.  I’ll be wearing the “Stay At Home Blogger” t-shirt.  That I just got finished printing up.  I probably should have thrown in a load of laundry first. 

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    May God cut out my tongue and feed it to the dogs

    June 9, 2006

    Normally I would be referring to some comment that has come spontaneously out of my mouth and has resulted in a horrific situation where someone is not talking to me ever again.  This does not pertain to this story (THANK GOD!!!)

    Yesterday they dropped off gravel to revitalize our driveway.  Someone offered to revitalize it by way of concrete, but I thought about the PERSONAL revitalization I could do for $15,000 rather than giving my driveway a facelift.  So $200 gravel it is. 

    I made Derek order it because the guy was so very snotty when I called and tried to get prices.  Did YOU know that there are 100 different sizes of gravel?  Do you CARE if there are 100 different sizes of gravel?  Yeah, neither do I.  Just send over a truckload of small gravel.  How difficult is that?  

    I wasn’t here when it showed up, which is why the jackass dumped it for 20 feet instead of the entire driveway.  I guess he figured that no tip, no service.  He was nice enough to dump 2 of that 20 on the sidewalk.  I was sorry I wasn’t here to heckle him.   I called Derek.

    K:  Five tons of gravel doesn’t look like much.
    D:  It’s not enough? 
    K:  Oh my gosh, there is nothing here. 
    D:  Whatever.  We tried.

    This morning when I got up at 6, because someone, and I’m not going to point any fingers, woke up screaming and screamed long enough to wear himself out yet keep me up, I decided to go outside and spread that gravel.

    Do you have any idea how much 5 tons of gravel is?  That would be 10,000 effing pounds of gravel.  “There is nothing here” my ass.  I would KILL to have a do-over for yesterday–me with a $20 in hand and the dump truck driver slowing dumping gravel over my entire driveway. 

    But who are we kidding?  What is my time worth these days?  Not that much any more.  I guess the manual labor is good for me.  And it was a nice bonus that my shoveling may have awakened the next door neighbors that have finally completed the McMansion next door that only took 8 months of pounding day and night to complete. 

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    “Drivin’ that train, High on cocaine”

    May 4, 2006

    “Trouble ahead, Trouble behind, and you know that notion JUST crossed my mind.”

    The first sign that you should just go back to bed and call it a day is when you find yourself waking up singing “Casey Jones,” especially if you don’t even KNOW what it is like to take cocaine.  Or how to drive a train, for that matter.

    We are a lazy people.  I would just like to blame the entire American people for that, but I’m really just referring to everyone I know. 

    My friend B was notorious in the old days for being able to find ANYPLACE, and as quickly as possible.  If she were on Survivor Exile Island, she would be able find the Panamanian equivalent to Neiman Marcus in under 30 minutes.  But now she has Alice, the navigator, who does all her work. 
     
    When B was leaving our house the last time, I watched her hit the Home button on the navigation system in her car. 

    K:  What are you doing?
    B:  It’s in the car.  I use it.
    K:  While you are going 200 miles, it only requires taking SIX turns to pull into your driveway.
    B:  Yeah.
    K:  You are going HOME.  The place where your parents brought you home from the hospital.  The place were you have spent the better part, and I mean BETTER PART of your 30 + years on this earth.
    B:  I know.  Isn’t it terrible?

    I can only imagine how many right turns the thing would make her do before she realized she was going in the wrong direction. 

    For me, I used to be able to park my Grandma/PoPo Grand Marquis in a compact spot in a parking garage.  Now I couldn’t park a Cooper Mini in an RV spot.  I don’t know what happened.

    And for my husband, it is his ability to find things.  Or as I like to refer to it, his TOTAL, and MINDBLOWING INABILITY to find anything.  This morning I was lying in bed, singing “Casey Jones,” and pretending that if I kept my eyes closed, maybe the day wouldn’t happen.  I’ve been staying up to late working on Baby Brewing, trying to come up with clever new maternity t-shirts.  Derek yelled up the stairs.

    D:  Where’s the bread?
    K:  What bread?  (knowing exactly what bread he was looking for but hoping that asking him would assist him in his ability to identify the object of his desire)
    D:  The Martin’s potato bread.
    K:  It’s on the butcher block table.
    D:  No, it’s not.
    K:  Oh, yes it is.  Right on top.
    D:  I can’t find it.

    Are you eyes shut?  Are you even in the kitchen?  The man could not find shoes if they were on his feet.  This is a new thing for him.  He used to be really good at, say, taking care of himself.  I began to think motherly thoughts.  “If I have to come down there, you are going to get it.  And I mean that, mister.”

    I stomped out of the bedroom with thoughts of murder.  Actually life-taking. Stomp, stomp, stomp down the stairs and around the corner.

    I could have found the bread with my eyes closed.  Right on TOP of the mess on the butcher block table, where I told him it was.  I slammed it down on the counter, effectively making panini bread.

    HELP! 

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