Tuesday, February 27, 2007

PSA - Don't Be A Stupid Neighbor

We currently live in a townhouse. Dear looorrrrrrrrrrrrrrrd I cannot wait to move and normally I would rather stick jalapeno peppers up my nose than go through the hassle of moving.

The house is fine, although we could use more room. The development is not bad, its a small court surrounded by trees. Most of the people are great, but we have had some interesting characters over the last few years.

The guy that lived next door started off okay but then he got a little weird.

Ok, he got a LOT weird.

And he started dating girls that were usually between 18 and 22, often with drinking problems. Duh-RAMA every night. They'd come staggering in around 1am and either start shrieking at each other or start tearing each other's clothes off and shrieking at the ceiling. Either way, we, the unhappy neighbors who share a bedroom wall, did not get much sleep.

And at least twice a month he and his current poptart would get into a huge screaming "I am SO breaking up with you!!" fight and someone's belongings would be thrown across the postage stamp-sized front yard.

(the winning fight was the one in which she and her friends were gathering her clothes up, screaming at the house and as it was a Saturday morning, plenty of people were out and about. Suddenly, he threw open the front door, shaking a rhinestone-Beadazzled bag in front of him and yowled "And HERE'S ALL YOUR DILDOS!!!" and flung the unzipped bag toward the street. Yes. Unzipped. The law of physics being what it is, well... do the math.)

Anyway, he got progressively angrier and weirder and eventually sold the house. There was MUCH rejoicing. The house was purchased with the intent to resell and it stayed empty for about 6 blessedly quiet months.

The couple that live there now are nice enough most of the time but prone to drama. And loud drunken arguments wherein she will apparently lock herself into the bathroom and he will stand outside the door yelling "I wanna talk to youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu. I luuuuuuuuuuv youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu." Worse are the drunken arguments where things are being thrown against walls and I have to call the police because it sounds like domestic violence going on. Last week, they got mad at each other and he locked her out when she went out to her car. So she pounded on the door so loud, she woke up out baby. He'd open the door, yell at her, shut the door & lock it.
She'd pound on the door, yell at him and make him mad enough to open up and yell some more.

So. Much. Drama. All. The. Time.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

They let their dog crap right outside my back gate and then act surprised when I politely ask that it be cleaned up.

They cannot shut doors like normal people. Every door must be slammed so hard, MY house shakes. In fact, we had a break-in back in September and the thief was IN the house with me and the baby. He must have heard me and ran out the back door (stole a PS1 and my digital camera). I heard the door slam and assumed it was the freaking neighbors. It was only later that I figured it out.

Someone over there is learning to play bass guitar. It's so loud, my floor vibrates. They try to keep it at a civilized hour, but when the floor vibrations start making your teeth ache, who cares what time it is??? Plus, they only know the intros to two songs. That's it. Over and over and over.

And elderly man has moved in on the other side of them. I feel sorry for the man. Welcome to the neighborhood, we got KLASS. (And that's with a capital K.)

I cringe, too, because I suspect that I was just as much of a pain in people's asses as these too when I was 20. It makes me want to go back in time and slap myself.

I hate moving, I hate moving, I HATE moving, but I will move my entire house in trashbags and a broken-down Festiva in order to gain some peace.

Warning: Do Not Inhale The Kool-Aid

Clearly, I need a handler. Daily, I prove myself incapable of handling even the most mundane of tasks, such as preparing a pitcher of Black Cherry Kool-Aid at 10:45pm.

When I got up this morning, there was a suspicious pink tint to everything on the counter next to the sink. It I don't figure it out until I blew my nose after sneezing - as I tossed the tissue into the trash, I realize that it's PINK. Pink? Not red, like I've got a nosebleed, but Barbie-doll pink.

I blow my nose again, more pink. Lots of pink.

It dawns on me that I am snorting out Kool-aid. Apparently I managed to inhale a cloud of Kool-aid particles last night while making the danged stuff.

I suppose that also explains the odd fruity smell to everything.

Thursday, February 22, 2007

Do you need representation?????

My teenaged son had to go to court today. He'd been robbed at gunpoint, back in October. Luckily, he'd actually kept his quick mouth shut, complied with the robbers and was not hurt, even if his teenaged pride took a beating. Long story short, they caught the guys and my son had to testify at the preliminary hearing.

We THOUGHT this would have been done back in January but after we'd sat through the ENTIRE docket (and quite an education we received! People say the DUMBEST stuff when arguing traffic tickets. Point in case, the woman who failed to yield and cut off a state trooper and nearly caused an accident. "Well, if I'da KNOWN he was a cop, I'da stopped! DUH!!" As you can imagine, the judge was not appreciative of being told "DUH.") and worked our way up to the felonies and were watching the Amazingly Stupid and Argumentative Meth-Heads have a domestic squabble right there in River City and in front of the judge. Their court-appointed defense lawyer was hardly one to inspire confidence, unless maybe you were a really stupid meth-head. When it was time for them to be herded from the courtroom, the lawyer stopped next to us and says to my son, sternly: "You look worried. Do you NEED representation?!?"
My son's jaw dropped and I told the man (equally sternly) "We're fine."
"We.... are FINE."
My son thought for a moment and remarked "Guess you're right about me needing a haircut. Apparently I DO look like a criminal."

And then about 5 minutes later it suddenly occurred to everyone that we were in the wrong court.

I don't mean the wrong room, I mean the wrong COURT. My son is not 18 yet, therefore the preliminary hearing had to be done in juvenile court, even though the gunman is 18. So we blew the whole day and it had to be rescheduled and we blew nearly a whole day this time. But the judge found probable cause and its being bound over to the grand jury for a felony indictment. Wheels of justice turn really really slowly. This probably won't got to trial before June.

Even better, I'd spent the entire evening in the urgent care, getting same teenaged son's hand sewn shut. He was clowning around with his buddies in a friend's unfinished basement when he tripped over his size-13 feet and fell. He threw his hands out to catch himself, and hit the corner of an electrical switch plate. The gouge was triangular, long and deep as hell. They at least had the wit to call and tell me so I could rush him to get stitches... but were also boneheaded enough to hold the flap of meat OPEN so they could get some digital pictures of it - torn muscle, gushing blood and all.

Wish I could say this sort of thinking was unusual but this IS the same kid who played tackle football in a parking lot, and later dug a small rock out of his knee with a BUTTER KNIFE.

And also ate earthworms on a boy scout camping trip because someone dared him too.

And sat on a cooking knife at Jamboree and had to be carried to the medical tent to get his ass bandaged.

You get the picture.

Sunday, February 18, 2007

I keep asking myself what my purpose is in starting a blog, especially given my hesitance to hand out a lot of personal information. What if someone I know and love is upset by something I write? What if I sound like an idiot? What if I'm even more boring than I thought? Who the hell is going to care about anything I have to say?

Anyway. I'm just pissed at life right now, don't mind me.

And the bra was behind the toilet. I have NO idea why. I found it while rummaging through the Stack of Stuff that apparently lives next to our toilet in the master bathroom. In a laughable attempt at "organization", one of us sorted a collection of hair products, antiperspirants, lotions & such into a plastic basket-type thing especially designed to Collect Your Crap and make you think you're ORGANIZED.

In reality, what it is was seed for the Clutter Monster. Someone (could be me, could be husband), set said basket thingie on the floor next to the toilet. This provided a sensible place to start STACKING things. (not me. So not me.) Newspapers especially, but lots of other things find their way to The Stack. (aww who am I kidding, my entire house is a Stack.) And so it was that I tackled said Stack in an attempt to locate an antiperspirant that might be worth a damn, since I'm having hot flashes worthy of a Saharan heat wave.

And that's when I found the bra. Also one of my husband's forgotten deodorants, since he's now on this Natural Mineral Stone Instead of Anti-Stink Stuff kick. "Wild Rain"????? Who the hell comes up with the names for this stuff, much less the SMELLS. Thank heaven I'm not pregnant anymore (with the frighteningly acute sense of smell) because one stupidly curious sniff would have sent me unconscious, twitching and foaming at the mouth. No wonder that shit was forgotten next to the toilet!

As I said, I'm pissed at life. As if the pre-eclampsia and premature birth of our baby wasn't enough for us, we're now trying to figure out What The Hell is Wrong THIS time and unfortunately one of the possibilities is pancreatic cancer. My reactions range from "Fiddle-dee-dee, I'm not gonna think about it, positive thinking and all that jazz" to soundless shrieking inside my own head. I've got more tests coming and we won't have answers for a bit... I hate feeling like a downer in my own head, but for cripes sake, YOU try looking on the bright side when you get hit between the eyes like that.

I'm not going to go around telling everyone... I have one friend who's pretty much in the same boat right now with a mass in her neck. So we can hold each others hands while we try and look brave and not pee our own pants.

So what do I do? Do you try and brace yourself for the worst and hope for the best? What I want to do is just shove the whole idea back into my mental closet for now, but since this is all new to me, its not working. And my husband, God love the poor man, Googled. He Googled and he scared himself damn near shitless. So... great. He's the sweetest man I ever met to start with (until he pisses me off, bwah hah) and he has spent the last 4 days basically treating me like I'm about to keel over and die.

So while I WANT to sit down and gibber until I stop being scared, apparently I can't. Probably for the best anyway. I hate being scared. I fucking HATE it.

Erin Go Braless

I lost my bra.

In the space of a single night, which consisted of wandering the house in my pajamas, a few cups of tea, 4 bottles of water, some PS2 and a bit of internetting, I have managed to lose a fundamental piece of my daily equipment.

Once, this wouldn't be such a problem. A dark, heavy shirt and we were good to go. The girls were discreet and didn't step out in public, even after two children. Alas, three was definitely the charm.

I knew I was in trouble in my 13th week of pregnancy when I outgrew the second size upgrade. My cups, they overflowed. By the time Jacob was born, I rather resembled the Venus of Willendorf and if I heard one more comment about how fast Jacob was going to put on weight with THOSE things on the job, I was going to bounce them off someone's head and probably kill them.

Anyway. Over the last few months, they stepped down a bit but like Norma Desmond, they're still trying to cling to an image of glory. And without the proper equipment, it ain't happening. Sure, I could spend thousands of dollars and have 'em hauled back up into place but that's not for me. Besides, I've watched people in my life struggle with what was supposed to be a permanent surgical solution... did you know that implants can actually move around in your body? Yep. Nothing like discovering a year or two after expensive surgery that your implant decided it wanted a new zip code and managed to travel your muscle until it made a new home just outside your armpit.

Anyway... I'm sure I'm having another case of Momnesia and I probably put it neatly away somewhere that makes no sense at all. (I know I used to have a brain at one point in my life, even if actions such as marrying the ex suggest otherwise)

I guess now I do have to clean the house before I scare dogs and small children with spectacle of unfettered me.

Saturday, February 17, 2007

"You keep using that word... I do not think it means what you think it means"

My husband took the baby to visit his Halmeoni overnight and the teenager is of course visiting a friend, leaving me here alone. As in... by myself. Just me and the rodents, who really couldn't care less as long as there's something tasty in their dishes.

"Don't do any housework," my husband tells me (and has in fact called twice to remind me) "You really need to relax." Apparently, he's perfectly happy to have me sit on my ass and do no housework at all.

I don't know what to do with this... the housecleaning fairies are in league with the laundry elves and they won't cross my threshhold no matter what. (The Cabinet Door Gnomes are another story. They're like fricking bugs, waiting for the lights to go out. Every morning, I go into the kitchen and find the damn doors open again. I can't catch 'em in the act but they leave their mark nonetheless.)

So I try to follow his suggestion and "relax", despite feeling that I really ought to throw the towels in the wash first, and the kitchen floor needs to be washed... the living room and dining room need a good session with the Dyson and Oh! Right! I was planning on shampooing the carpets the next time they went to...

er, you get the idea. I have spent the last 7 hours, trying to RELAX. I fire up the PS2 and decide to waste some time on FFXII. That lasted 20 minutes. I thought I should download some more music onto my Zune (my 40th Birthday present, it ROCKS). Downloading takes a long time so I thought maybe reading would be good in the interim...

Basically, I have spent all this time chasing my own ass in circles, with absolutely nothing to show for it. A.D.D people don't relax. We need lists. And stuff. And lots of it.

In other news, Jacob has mastered blowing spit bubbles.

This Baby Einstein jumper has been worth Every. Single. PENNY. I can't tell you how much he loves it. When we walk in the door in the afternoons, he has begun reaching for it with one hand and pushing away from me with the other.

All My GerbKids

He knows he's All That. And he's FINE with it, too.

I can't believe he's going to be 8 months old. How'd that happen already??

Friday, February 16, 2007

Ice Ice Baby

Aaaaaaaaaaand the DC area is still under siege by dastardly COLD. And ice. Schools are still closed throughout the tri-state area. I haven't been to the grocery store so I cannot report on the bread/milk/eggs/toilet paper situation, but they're calling for FLURRIES tomorrow night. Cue hand-wringing across the region.

I do feel bad for the people who lost power on Tuesday and still haven't got it back. That BITES. Our furnace died on Christmas eve two years back and we went three or four days without any heat until it could be replaced. At least we had electricity and could run space heaters.

In other news, I made my DH feel bad last night. An insert in the local paper featured one of the Dove pro-age commercials: http://www.doveproage.com/home.asp
I forget what he said. It was something fairly innocent but it had to do with "why the hell are they running THAT in an ad?"
Me? I think it ROCKS. I love their new campaigns. Real Women Have Curves. Beauty Has No Age. And the one with the little girls I find particularly compelling. http://www.campaignforrealbeauty.com/commercial.asp?src=InsideCampaign_commercial
I told my husband "This is the best damn ad I think I've ever seen. These are REAL women, they aren't models, they aren't air-brushed and they aren't false images of what society thinks we ought to look like. I love these ads."
And I do. They certainly make me want to spend my money on their product. I'm 40 years old. I bulge, I sag, I have grey in my hair. I'm ok with that. And I LOVE these ads because they don't say to me that I shouldn't be ok with it. That's awesome.

Thursday, February 15, 2007

I love it when an SUV sits there just a-spinnin' its wheels

Since it dipped down into the single digits last night, with "blustery winds" (confession: every time a meteorologist uses "blustery winds", all I can think of is Piglet getting blown away. Apparently, I am 4 years old.), all that accumulated sleet froze solid.

I have been listening to the whiiiiiiIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIiiiiiiiiiiine of spinning tires for a half-hour now as assorted neighbors with their bigger-than-life SUVs and monster pickups have attempted to get their vehicles out of their frozen parking spaces.

Sweet irony. I in my Camry have already backed out overtop the frozen chunks and gone to take the baby to his home-based daycare. And when I returned, I crunched overtop the frozen piles back into my space. And I can do it again, because it is no threat to MY balls if I don't stomp on the gas pedal like Richard Petty. Why is it that every single one of them has tried to resolve the situation by stomping harder on the gas?

Schadenfreude. Its what's for breakfast.

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

Something There Is That Doesn't Love a Gerbil....

All apologies to Mr. Frost.

They've been talking for days about the Significant Precipitation we were definitely, absolutely, without any doubt gonna get... Anyone familiar with the DC area knows that "significant" generally means anything more than a 1/4 inch and all stores run smack out of bread, milk, eggs and toilet paper.

I mean really. Do people crap more when it snows????

Anyway. the storm went north so we got an assload of sleet and freezing rain and this morning LOOKED pretty but was in fact a cold, nasty bitch. (Hmm. Sounds like some people I have met in life...)

I was scheduled for a 10am CT scan for this issue I've been having with my gut, so I had to leave the house by 8am. My Camry really doesn't like snow & ice much, to my chagrin. LoveloveLOVE my Camry, but I wasn't looking forward to the drive. Someone had actually plowed our court, giving me a false sense of hope... it still took me 20 minutes to dig & rock the car out of my space. (you know... reverse/drive/reverse/drive) and I get to the end of the street to discover the main street out of the development hasn't even been SANDED.

kuh-RAP on crackers. I gird my loins and goose the gas pedal. This hill is known for being a stone bitch near the top - if you don't have enough momentum, you start sliding backwards and please don't be an idiot and STOP.

I get to the critical part of the street and some fucking moron let his stupid collie out to run in the 4 inches of ice.... that dog is hauling its shaggy ass as fast as it can go. I have just enough time to see it coming and then the dumbass dog runs straight out in front of me. I cannot stop. "Oh shhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiti'mgonnahitthismuthereffinDOG"
And I laid on the horn, braked anyway, started skidding, controlled the skid and cussed like a sailor... and at the last second, that dog rolled ass over teakettle BACKWARDS and just missed being crushed.

I nearly peed my pants and I see that guy giving me the finger. There's a leash law for a reason, you tool.

Anyway, I get to the highway and head north without killing anything, including myself.

I get to the radiology place in springfield finally, slide into a parking spot and walk to the building. No one there. I wait, wait wait. For an hour. I can't get anyone on the phone... I do not want to truck on home, I'm not sure I can GET home. Besides, I also have a gastroenterology appointment later in the afternoon just across the road.

Now, here's TMI. I have had a helluva period since Sunday. Bad. REALLY bad. "I have endometrosis and this is the third post-partum period and you KNOW that ain't good." And I need a restroom like... 5 minutes ago. Plus, I really, really have to pee.

There is a lock on the women's room. DAMMIT. I am the only person in this building. There are no restaurants nearby, nothing. And there is a lock on the loo. Finally, I notice there is NO lock on the men's room. What... somebody might steal the tampons??????????

Well, a woman's gotta do what a woman's gotta do. It took me about two minutes to decide that I was too old for this crap anyway.

And it was with a pissed-off, TAKE THAT kind of attitude that I chunked the properly-wrapped (while it would have been a Statement to be indiscreet, I was unable to go that far) Feminine Article into the men's room trash. Lock a chick out of the toilet, will you?? Feh. I go back to sulking in the hall.

Finally, a doctor shows up at 11 and crabbily tells me that he was ASSURED that everyone was notified that the office was opening at noon. I assured him that I would not have dragged my sorry ass through the ice and waited for two hours if that were the case. And it was then determined that the nurse accidentally took the pharmacy number home instead of mine. So she called the pharmacy to tell them they were opening late, not me. And I received numerous apologies. And a CT scan. And they turned out to be really nice people, so I was happy.

Anyway, it turns out that I have Pancreatic Insuffiency and we don't know why. I have to have an MRI next and then possibly an endoscopy. Color me thrilled... I have to take pancreatic enzymes every time I eat anything and let me just tell you also that Barium really, really REALLY pisses the pancreas off. Holy shit. I was scoring the pain as a 7 before this... I had no idea. Momma. My pancreas had WORDS for me after the barium and none of them were nice, but boy I heard it loud and clear.

Anyway, the Mayo clinic has this to say about it:
Pancreatic insufficiency typically results from damage to the pancreas. This may be caused by a variety of conditions. The most common causes are cystic fibrosis in children and chronic inflammation of the pancreas (chronic pancreatitis) in adults. A less common cause of pancreatic insufficiency is pancreatic cancer.

Pardon me while I spit coffee everywhere. The doctor asked detailed questions about any history of CF in the family (none) and it was clear that I hadn't had chronic pancreatitis, so we're just gonna currently work with the assumption that I'm one of those odd ducks who just WHAM! gets a pancreatic insufficiency out of the blue, for no reason. Right.

Also, 90% of the information I found for Pancreatic Insufficiency is about DOGS. Go figure.

Friday, February 9, 2007

Today's Post Has Been Brought to you by the Letter D

For Dammit. And Dingbat.

I had to do a phone appointment with my doctor today as follow-up because they were booked solid. The good news is that Dr. O called promptly when she said she would. The bad news is that a bunch of the tests came back positive and I had to go get a bunch of blood drawn, schedule an appointment with a gastroenterologist and I need a CAT scan. And she wanted me to postpone my dental surgery until we find out what's actually going on. This has me really, really annoyed. I have an extremely high pain tolerance but I'm about ready to start gnawing on the walls.

I went to the drivethrough at the bank... while I remembered my deposit slips this time, I forgot my brain. The teller questioned my math, which obviously made no sense, and when I told her I'd forgotten how to add, she giggled so hard the people in the other cars all looked over.

I went to the grocery store to get the ingredients for my faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaabulous chicken soup and almost forgot CHICKEN. I did forget the celery, though. I also forgot anything to cook for my dinner tonight.

I remembered the baby, though.

Thursday, February 8, 2007

Ok. I get it. I'm falling apart.

I turned 40 last month to a bare minimum of fuss, other than squabbles with my teenaged son. No one was cruel (or stupid) enough to dare any "over the hell" crap, but the message has been conveyed nonetheless. Clearly, my frickin' warranty expired. Since my birthday it has been determined that 85% of my dental work must be COMPLETELY REDONE. Holy cash outlay, Batman. Up to and including an implant with attending bone graft.

(see, once upon a time, an obnoxious little permanent tooth decided to come in... in the roof of my mouth. The clever orthodontist decided to have three teeth pulled to make room to try and move said rebellious chomper forward. Er... it didn't work. To sum up, for years that "set back 1/4 inch from the rest" tooth made it look like I was missing a tooth right next to the front one unless you were close enough to see it. My FIL made a bridge for me before we got married so I wouldn't look like a toothless crack whore for my wedding. It was a WONDERFUL thing. I could really smile for the first time in years without keeping my mouth clamped tight. )

Anyway. The bridge has decided to be as obnoxious as the original tooth and its got to go. Plus, all my fillings on the left side need to be replaced. Plus, a past root canal was screwed up (note: none of the problems were FIL's work. Let me just spell that out.) and they never crowned it.

Ka-ching ka-ching. For example, I get to hand over $3,000 on Valentines Day for the sheer joy of having a hole drilled into my jawbone and having a titanium screw stuck in there.

Next on my list... there's a danged good chance I have gallstones and will need surgery to remove the offending organ. We won't go into detail on that one, but the word of the day is definitely "OW!!!!" Even better, there's a possibility that my body is now not absorbing nutrients properly from my food. Great. Guess that might explain the leg cramps that started two days after the possible gallstone attack.

NEXT, I found a SUMMONS taped to the door yesterday, wherein my son has supposedly been accused of throwing rocks at moving cars (wtf???). I am trying to get a copy of the citation... first, my son's name and address on this thing are wrong... second, another kid allegedly gave the cop my SON'S name when they were cited for all this. I do not know what happened yet, but any way you look at it, its going to cost me.

My son has been acting like an idiot since school started and palling around with kids who skip school and get into stupid shit. And there's my son, acting stupid right along with them. He says he's trying to stop acting stupid, and that's great but I can't seem to get it through his head that if you keep associating with kids that do this shit, everyone will assume for right or wrong that you're doing everything right along with them.

Oh, and my clever doctor says "you really need to stop being stressed, its making all this worse." Riiiiiiiiiiiiiight. Gotcha. Let me make a note of THAT.

Ok, I get it. I'm not a cute young hottie anymore. Cute young hotties don't deal with this shit.

Sunday, February 4, 2007

Why Do I Smell Puppy Pee?

There I am, sitting on the living room rug, folding laundry and suddenly I get this mysterious whiff of.... puppy pee??? Huh?

Mind you, I don't have a dog. Or a cat. And I'm pretty certain that the gerbils had not hatched a recent escape plan - mad geniouses though they be - since it was frickin' freezing, Mr. Bigglesworth. They were undoubtedly still curled up warmly in their nests.

I decided it was a figment of my often-odd imagination and continued the thrilling task of pairing socks.


Now wait a minute. I DO smell puppy pee.

Anybody who's ever had a puppy knows that their pee smells quite a lot different than adult dog pee. In fact, our family dog's been dead for years, so you can imagine just how long its been since I've had to contend with puppy piddle, yet the smell evoked strong memory. DEFINITELY smells like puppy pee.

I am pretty damned certain that Downy has not changed their formula, but I start sniffing all the laundry like a suspicious cat. Nope. Nothing but April Fresh here.

Then, I catch a glimpse of the plastic grocery store bag that I'd brought back from dinner at mom's. My husband had taken the baby to visit his parents and I'd gone to have dinner with my folks. Mom had made pot roast - a family favorite - and sent leftovers home with me. I'd forgotten to put the bag in the fridge. (It had only been sitting there about 15 minutes). As I pick up the bag, it hits me.

It's the POT ROAST. The pot roast smells JUST like puppy pee.

I do not think I will share this information with my mother.

How did I get here??

One might think that natural paranoia would preclude blogging. Perhaps I've lost my mind... or maybe I just like the idea of talking to myself instead of yammering at friends and family until they start trying to knock themselves unconscious in a bid for peace.

I also have a bet with myself on how quickly I can screw something up, this being my first cautious venture into the world of blogging. I don't even have a MySpace page... I'm so old-school, my first computer efforts involved 17 hours of typing code into a Commodore 64 in order to play some primitive RPG. My friend dutifully poured coffee into me as I labored through the night and it was with dizzy relief that we rebooted and watched the DOS-based game start up. Sadly, the program that had been printed in the magazine had numerous typesetting errors and would not function.

You are in a forest. You see a tree. And a bucket.
pick up bucket.
There is no bucket.
you just said there was a bucket!
Syntax error
Don't syntax error ME you plastic paperweight! YOU said there was a bucket!
Syntax error
Whatever. Keep your damned bucket then.
Syntax error

Apparently, arguing with computers is my answer to tilting at windmills. Accomplishes just about the same thing but it does make me feel better.

You know... sometimes that seems like the story of my life. Syntax error. (I have been known to mutter "There is no *^%#!! bucket" when something has just fallen to pieces. No wonder people think I'm nuts.)

I'm also a veteran of Short Attention Span Theatre. We'll see if this experiment in self-documentation lasts a solid week or HEY! Wanna ride bikes???!?