Douches

I didn't think ANY commercial promoting ANY men's product could ever be this bad:


But today, I saw this on TV:



Love the way they high-five each other at the end.

Elvis is turning over in his grave.

The Freak Show that Follows Me

Call it a blessing, or call it a curse; no matter where in the world I am, chances are good that a stranger will come up to me and spill their guts. Ask Biggy. All I have to do is tell some woman at the next table at Wild Wings that her baby is cute, and suddenly she has turned her chair around and is telling us in great tearful detail the tale of the miracle conception of that infant--everything from the amount and consistency of the sperm her husband produced at the fertility clinic to her vision of the Virgin Mary in her pancakes the day her prayers were answered.

So I shouldn't have been surprised by what happened at the Publix pharmacy on Sunday. And yet.

Here's what happened:

I'm standing there with the pleasant little tech, discussing generic vs. brand name antibiotics, when an elderly woman wearing a loose leopard-print blouse and black pants, using her buggy as a walker, approaches. She doesn't seem to be actually headed to the pharmacy counter but, rather, toward the Old People's aisle of Milk of Magnesia, Epson salts, and Doan's Pills. Out of the corner of her eye, though, she spots me and is pulled off course.

Before I know it, she is practically screaming, "It sure is cold in here! I never wear a bra, but when I'm in here I feel like everyone can tell. The other day, I ran into Fred, who I used to work with at the power company, and he asked me, 'Hey, Barb, what happened to your breasts?! You used to have a nice rack.' So I told him, 'It's called breast cancer, you asshole. I had a double mastectomy,' and then he said, 'Well, why didn't you have them reconstructed? It looks weird.' Can you believe it!?"

By now, I've put my Mucinex and club soda on the counter because I can tell this ain't gonna be a short story. I'm noticing that in the crevices of her face are multiple piercings and black-inky tattoos. How I could have missed them before? She takes a breath and continues:

"I said, 'Now, Fred, I'm 75 years old, my two sons are 38 and 54, I'm retired, and I've been a widow for nine years. What the hell do I need boobs for?' and then he asked me if I still wear the necklace they gave me at my retirement party."

At this point, she reaches deep into her shirt and pulls out a wooden penis about the size of a Matchbox car, on a chain, and starts waving it around. By now, another customer has come to the pharmacy, and he, the tech, and the pharmacist are looking at me like 'Do something. Make it stop.' Honestly, like this is my fault! But Barb's not finished, and I'm powerless against her.

"'Not only do I still wear the necklace,' I said, 'I carry this, too. I can get a good ten inches with it.'" She pulls a bigger rubber penis keychain out of her pocket and squeezes it to make it grow.

That's it, I'm done. I know I must walk away in order for the other good citizens of Publix to be spared, so I wheel my own cart toward the toothpaste aisle as she yells after me, "See what you have to look forward to? When you get my age, you can say and do anything!"

So We're Not the Worst Parents in the World

Sunday afternoon, around 2:30, a couple came by to see the old Laser Biggy had posted for sale on Craig’s List. Evidently, a Laser is actually a sailboat; all this time I’d thought it was a contraption to catch dead leaves and pine straw.

Anyway, they brought their 7-year-old daughter along, and she must have been impressed by Lo’s nickname for Daisy, Fartbubble, because the two children seemed to hit it off famously. By the time the couple had negotiated the price with Biggy, who was looking for any excuse not to sell the relic from his childhood, Lo and her new friend had disappeared with a miserable-looking Fay into Lo’s room.

While the two menfolk hooked up the trailer to the couple’s minivan, the wife and I had a nice long talk about everything from Africa to Special Ed. Seriously, you’d have thought our spouses were dismantling nuclear warheads, such care and tedium went into the task.

By the time Biggy went upstairs and printed up a bill of sale (in green ink because the black had run out) and the money changed hands, he and Lo were about to give up on making the 5:15 showing of The Simpson’s.

Finally, though, the happy couple said goodbye and headed back outside to the driveway, and I went to throw in a load of laundry. Upstairs, I heard my puppy growling and two girls squealing, so I stuck my head in and told our guest her parents were ready to leave.

When she got outside, with Lo and me behind her, her parents were already halfway down the street and gaining speed. I started waving my arms wildly, and the child began running as fast as her flip-flopped feet would take her toward her parents and their super-exciting new boat that had rendered her so unmemorable.

It took a while, but the brake lights finally brightened, the car stopped, and a door opened to let the child in.

Biggy, walking up the driveway, asked, “Did they really just about leave her here?”

“Yeah,” I said, trying to catch my breath from laughing so hard.

“Totally,” added Lo, holding her stomach.

“That could have been us,” Biggy said. “I could see it happening.”


But it never has, Ladies and Gentlemen. And that makes us better than them.

Sunday Morning Lola

I was sitting with Lo while she ate her waffles this morning when a Burger King commercial came on announcing their giveaway of Simpsons dolls. What happened next was predictable:

Lo: I want one of those!

TR: Why don't we just put it on record that whatever it is, you want one.

Lo: What do you mean?

TR: You want one of everything.


(Silence as she considers that statement........)


Lo: I don't want a dress.

Works Like A Charm

Tastes like the devil's taint.


Because I remembered that MF swore by it, the last time Lo had a bad cough, I purchased some Zicam. There are lots of varieties to choose from, but for coughs they offer a spray or "melts." I bought the spray, believing the novelty of it would be enticing to my daughter. I also knew it's nearly impossible to get her to swallow anything she can't dip in honey mustard.

As a seven-year-old who's the size of a ten-year-old, she required 3 or 4 squirts, but halfway through the quick third, her expression changed dramatically. She looked as though every corrupt secret of the Bush administration had been revealed to her. "Please, no more!" she begged.

"It can't be that bad," I said.

She seemed to have aged several years right before my eyes. Instead of throwing herself on the floor or running away screaming, as she would normally do, she just stood there, composed and with the conviction of someone who's come face to face with great evil and must deal with it and banish it directly or suffer it indirectly forever. "It is that bad," she replied evenly.

So I tried it. "See, no big deal," I chided, until the full force of it settled on my tongue. Let me say that, on the scale of parental guilt and shame, the way I felt after subjecting my little baby to that ranked right up there with showing up drunk at PTA .

Still, she didn't cough again for about six hours.

And since I've had my recent bout of whatever it is I'm about to go to a doc-in-the-box for (as soon as I finish this post), I've faced the decision several times: Suck it up and take the Zicam--endure the fiendish taste that is unlike any other--or cough until I puke up my Wheat Thins.

When I'm feeling strong enough, I take the Zicam.

Saturday Things You Might Not Know

This is a two-fer.

While watching Law & Order Criminal Intent last night, I finally figured out where I'd seen the guy-star before. Vincent D'Onofrio played Edgar in Men In Black--or as I prefer to say (like his wife in the movie), 'Egger.' The bonus here is that when I started searching for clips of Vince in L&O, I found an episode Stephen Colbert was in back in 2004.

Peyton Place

While jogging yesterday, I was musing over the Wisteria Lane that is our neighborhood. Maybe other subdivisions are like this—I don’t know. I’ve lived in this one for about 15 years, the longest I’ve ever lived on one cul-de-sac. So if this is commonplace, do correct me.

Side note: Biggy says my map is off--that the EFG row is actually one road over. But big deal. I couldn’t get it all in the screen shot, so consider the visual an approximation for the purpose of dramatization. I’ve also changed most of the names.

Just for context, I’ll point out that House A is where I lived with my Imaginary Husband, and where I continued to live after my divorce and until Biggy and I were married and added Lo. Then we moved into House B, where we still reside.

House C is where Diane used to live. Diane had a daughter, Sherry, who was about 17 when we moved into B. Diane was a single mom and apparently met lots of men on online. At one point, a huge charter bus started parking in the street in front of her house. It was a real pain in the ass to get around and an eyesore, needless to say.

About three weeks after the bus appeared, driven by her latest cyber-paramour, white balloons tied to the mailbox announced their marriage, The marriage was over before the balloons lost their air, and the daughter, Sherry, had to take out a restraining order against the bus driver because he was stalking her at college.

After that, Diane put House C up for sale and moved into House I, where her mother lived. House C stayed vacant for over a year, because the house directly across from it was House J, Bob’s City Dump. Then Lyle and his wife Carolyn, in House F, divorced and Lyle bought House C so he could live near their son. (For which he got big T-Brownie bonus points.)

The Testas owned House E until about three years ago. Right before they moved, they had a Memorial Day cookout, and that’s where I met Alan, one of their guests. He was there with a woman named Wanda. I was introduced to Wanda’s ex-husband, Dave, when he stopped by the gathering to drop off his two sons with their mother. A few months later, Alan bought House D, and Wanda seemed to be living with him. Not long after that, the Testa’s put House E on the market and Dave purchased it.

A year or so later, Wanda was no longer hanging out at House D, which might or might not be because she found out Alan is skeevy.

Now Carolyn, in F, who used to be married to Lyle in C, which used to be owned by Diane, across the street in I, is dating Dave in E.

So what about House H? Its story is incidental, really, and maybe doesn’t count at all, since none of it actually occurred inside the house itself. Mary, who lives there, once had a brief affair with Hiram, who lived in House G. The coupling always took place at dusk, in her truck--which was parked behind the bus.

You learn a lot when you jog.

Friday Nostalgia

Classic Lily Tomlin.

Lunchtime Conversation

TR: Mom and Granny decided to adopt that dog they were babysitting—the Jack Russell/Chihuahua mix. Would that be a Jackuahua or a Chick---

Biggy: They did not!

TR: Uh huh.

Biggy: (Counting on his fingers) FIVE dogs. That’s crazy.

TR: Well, if you think about it, the two dachshunds, Jake and Lucy, weigh about 20 and 15 pounds. Then for the Chihuahuas—Madonna weighs 3 and Brody, 5; and the new dog, Honey, weighs 10 tops. All those dogs together don’t weigh as much as a Labradoodle, so pound for pound, it’s really the same.

Biggy: No, it's really not. You can’t calculate it that way.

TR: I just did.

Biggy: You’ve got five times the food and five times the piss on the carpets.

TR: Still, relatively speaking, there's no difference. The amount they eat is proportional to their size. The same with the piss and poop.

Biggy: But you’ve got five pee spots on the floor instead of one.

TR: Yeah, and those five little spots are equal to one big dog’s.

Biggy: That’s such bullshit. What about the vet bills? You have five vet bills.

TR: That’s the only good point you’ve made.

You Can Pick Your Friends, And You Can Pick Your Nose...

Maybe you should pick your friends' noses.

According to this Newsweek article, your fat friends could be making you fat. Do you think ugly is contageous too? How about smart and funny?

Next thing you know, they'll do a study of people in retirement homes and conclude that hanging out with old people makes you age.

Today at Work

With Great Respect for Debbie, I Have to Disagree.

I just read Dana Gioia’s Stanford Commencement address that Debbie Millman posted on her blog. In it, Gioia bemoans the lack of appreciation for anything that’s not entertainment. He says, “The loss of recognition for artists, thinkers, and scientists has impoverished our culture in innumerable ways, but let me mention one. When virtually all of a culture's celebrated figures are in sports or entertainment, how few possible role models we offer the young.”

I’m fortunate to be immersed in an atmosphere where his reality is not a part of my daily life. No, I’m sheltered at Portfolio Center, where discussion about schools of art, artists, philosophers, scientists, and writers happens continuously, from 8 a.m. until 10 p.m. during classes, and then into the night via email, blogs, and telephone.

I’m always surrounded by great Thinkers, the well known, who visit often, and the not-yet-known, who are still learning. I go from this environment back home, where, along with PlayStation, Xbox, and WebKinz, my kids play drums or guitar, read Ayn Rand (Well, Georgia does), listen to Otis Redding, and watch the History Channel. So what if they watch Cops too?

Whether you appreciate Cribs or not, behind such vehicles that glorify conspicuous consumption, there are artists at work. Someone thought up that program (I wish I had. I’d have bought that cabin in the mountains by now), and someone designed and crafted the gold-plated spiral staircases too. I don’t personally like Rap, but I’m all for a great variety of music and poetry and such, even if it results in lavish rewards.

I love that Youtube and Howard’s blog constantly turn me on to “artists” I’ve never heard. I mean Musicians. I believe stand-up comedy is art, and live theatre, and films, and magic. Oh, right—they’re entertainment. I believe the writers who write for Vanity Fair and Esquire are every bit the writers as those whose novels end up in the overstock bin at Border’s.

I participate in conferences where it seems everyone on Earth is writing great poetry and fiction and where those things are celebrated. I tag along to design conferences where it appears each attendee is changing the world one poster or one speech at a time. Most of the poets are teaching or working at insurance companies, and the designers run the gamut from sharing a cramped Brooklyn apartment with roomies to owning a Manhattan apartment and a house on Martha’s Vineyard. The fact that no one’s following them around with a camera doesn’t diminish them or their work.

I’m especially tired of poets crying about not getting the recognition they deserve. The truth is, when a poet does get national recognition--Billy Collins comes to mind--the rest of the almost-famous decry his work as “pop” poetry and denigrate him for being so “popular.” Though his craft is excellent, Collins writes for the masses, not to impress other poets. That sends The Academy a-twitter.

Reading the Gioia piece makes me more proud of our local Collin Kelley, who won’t settle for obscurity but doesn’t cry about Snoop having his own show. Collin gets out and hoofs it and drags all the other writers he knows along with him. He promotes himself and his work and promotes his friends and poetry in general, through reading series(es), his radio show, his position with Poetry Atlanta, his blogs, his on-and-on.

If I’ve learned nothing else in my 44 years, I’ve learned this (with people like Collin reminding me): If you want something, go and get it. If you want to be famous, no one’s stopping you but you. You have to want it badly, though, and be willing to put your ALL into it. You can’t sit back in your cozy breakfast nook, penning poems about the “clinging thistle” and expect the fame to come to you. (Gioia is pretty damned famous, incidentally, in the Portry Wurld.)

By the same token, if you want to be exposed to beauty, art, smart dialogue, and big ideas, there are more venues than ever for these. Even in Atlanta, Georgia. No doubt the trizash entertainment media are more prolific, relatively speaking, just as the fluffy, weedy Mimosa trees I adore outnumber the mighty oaks (I imagine). But the others have NOT gone away. They’re all around us. Listen to NPR, watch the Discovery Channel and PBS. I could go to a reading every night if I wanted. Or a concert. Or a museum or gallery. From where I stand, there’s still as much “art appreciation” as my little heart can hold.

So yes, I was put off by Gioia’s address. He took a defensive stance because some twenty-one-year-olds didn’t know who he was. Boo hoo. He should have wowed them and SHOWN them who he was. He should have excited them and made them rush back to their keyboards to order all his books off Amazon before they downloaded Sex and the City.

Instead, he sounded whiney and sour-grapey. Chastising. If I’d been in that audience I might have thrown my morterboard at him. On the day those kids should have been recognized for their own achievements and inspired about their joyful futures, he chose to push his own agenda. What a shame. He punished them. That’s what it sounded like to me. And the poem (rhetoric, didactic) he ended with? He sure didn't win any converts among the young'uns with that one. A missed opportunity all around.

Available at Cafepress.com

This cracks me up.

Where the F*** Is Bob?

I do believe the neighbors should thank me and my sign. It looks like Bob might have been "inspired" to try a little harder. He probably broke a sweat. If you'll notice, between last week and this, the trashpile of old siding and shingles on the left has been removed. So has the garbage heap of dead toys and trampy bikes on the right. Chairs are gone as well.

Now, that's progress.



Oh, and did I mention that the wooden fence you see in these pics was built specifically to block the view of Bob's house? The couple and their son built it themselves--in the time it took Bob to add another piece of siding.

Why Is My Husband Screaming Like A Girl?

Biggy went out to grill some pork chops and--when he opened the lid of his beloved gas Char-Broil--discovered Ratatouille had moved in.

Said pork chops are now baking in the oven.

Saturday Things You Might Not Know

Once again, my search for one thing led to something else. I was looking for stuff about weird spiders when I happened upon a buttload of info on the growing population of--ahem--people who believe they are real vampires.

You think you know your neighbors?

Yo, Gators!

While Biggie and Lo were at the big GatorNation shindig at Atlantic Station last night,







Miss Fay had her own little party at home.

Friday Nostalgia

Wayne's World, 1992. Party on.

Home Again

and all is right with the world.




(Or it will be--once Jack cleans up Fay's mess. How did she even do this?)

Today at Work

Do you see a puppy in my lap? NO! Just a few crumbs from the turkey/apple/brie wrap I had for lunch. (It was a miracle that I could eat at all.) I had to leave Fay at home today, in her c-r-a-t-e, so I could run the visuals for Hank's presentation this morning without fear of her toddler antics and tantrums during the speech. It's the first full day since I got her six weeks ago that we've been separated, and every time I think of her my milk lets down. Well, it's sort of like that.

I asked Biggy to take her to work with him--said I'd come to get her around noon, but noooooooooo. He mumbled something about corporate environment and no grass for miles and secretaries who wouldn't get their faxing done. What happened to "family-friendly?"

I will probably have to clock out early.

Movin' On Up

JackMan--on tenor drums this year.

Happy Birthday Biggy!

The countdown to 40 begins.

I Wonder...

...how I managed to chug all that beer for all those years without a label to tell me it was cold enough to drink.

Who Let This Happen?!

Body Snatchers

Who took my sweet son? Where he used tolerate me good-naturedly, now he is overtly mortified by my every move and constantly trying to head off any remote possibility of embarrassment. He's like his own Special Forces.

Yesterday, for instance, hours before we were to attend this year's first dreaded Mandatory Band Parent Meeting, he subjected me to ruthless interrogation:

JackMan: What do you plan to do with Fay during the band meeting today?

TR: I figured I'd just take her. She'll sleep.

JackMan: No, Mom. You can't take her. What if they say she can't come in? What if they ask you to leave? Somebody might be allergic or scared of dogs. Just put her in her crate.

TR: She's not even a dog. I hate leaving her in the crate. So what if we get busted? I'll put her in the car, stay long enough to sign the attendance roster...

JackMan: You're NOT taking her.

TR: You don't get to tell me what to do. I was planning to be discreet. Now, not only am I going to take her, I'm going to take her in the Snugli. And what better occasion for the little "There's No Such Thing as Too Much Bling" t-shirt I bought her? It's black, which really stands out against her white fur, and it has glitter-gold writing. I myself will probably wear fuschia hot pants.

JackMan: You're not taking her.


Then he went upstairs to take a shower, during which time I created the lovely sign award for Bob and installed it. It was hard not to brag about it, but I wanted it to be a surprise. I couldn't wait for Jack to see it when we drove by:

TR: (Nonchalantly) Oh, look what somebody did.

JackMan: (Chuckles.)

TR: (Begins laughing hysterically.)

JackMan: Oh my god!!! Did YOU do that?

TR: (Laughing uncontrollably.)

JackMan: (Imagining the public newsflash and the billboard they'll erect in front of his school...)Why would you DO that?! (Seriously upset, brooding.)

TR: You started laughing when you thought someone else did it. Why was it funny then?

JackMan: I thought a kid did it.

TR: Why would a kid do it?

JackMan: WHY WOULD AN ADULT?

TR: Well, you thought it was funny...I'm telling you, when you're about thirty, you'll think it's funny. You'll look back on the way you treated me these days and be sorry. You'll think, 'She was really hilarious, my mom, and I shouldn't have been so mean to her.' I just hope I'm still around then, or you're going to feel unrelenting guilt. That makes me sad for you.

Where the F*** Is Bob?

Marietta experienced a terrible storm Saturday night. The Neighbors Down the Street reported that Bob's tarp blew askew, exposing the living room to the elements. So Bob came over on Saturday, and I happened to catch him drying off a tv to put in the trailer he hauls about one item a week in (nothing much heavier than a twelve-pack).

If you look closely, you'll notice that between the first photo, taken Saturday (and showing things pretty much the same as last we spoke about it), and the second, shot Sunday, Bob made some remarkable progress while he was there: He straightened the tarp on the roof, moved the ladder to the porch, and removed the headboard.

As you will notice, he was awarded for his fine efforts.

Arrow in the Heart

Jesse Malin with The Boss

Saturday Things You Might Not Know

I was planning to tell you all about dermoid cysts this morning, those tumors that have hair and teeth, but while I was researching--looking for pictures I thought your delicate stomachs could handle, I came across something more interesting. You can google the cyst thing for your ownselves, but--first--be sure to read this 2005 Slate article. Then, check out the Vibrator Museum.

Nostalgia Two-fer

Because my students never get my "Be the ball" reference...

Friday Nostalgia

Did he actually compare the situation he got himself into with losing a child? What a dick.

A Shark's Got Nothing On Daisy

I think I saw a boot in there.

After a Hard Day at Work

The ride home.

It Ain't Fair

You know, it's bad enough that Georgia got a freakin' Sidekick, while I have to make do with a scratched up and outdated Razor, but can I just say how much it chaps my ass to see so many PC students walking around with new iPhones?

Bite me.

Unforgettable Lines

I'm listing ten all-time favorite choices of lines from songs, and challenge you to do the same on your blogs. I'm curious to hear your favorites. These are lines that have affected me either because of their message, the imagery, or the sheer sound of the words--lines that make me say, "Damn, I wish I'd written that!"

1. Counting Crows, A Long December:

All at once you look across a crowded room
to see the way that light attaches to a girl.

2. Bonnie Raitt/John Prine, Angel From Montgomery:

How the hell can a man go to work in the morning,
come home in the evening and have nothing to say?

3. Ryan Adams, These Girls:

However many lies I tell without my tongue
get twisted into memories ‘til I believe them some.

4. Ray Lamontagne, Jolene

A picture of you holding a picture of me
in the pocket of my blue jeans.

5. Neil Young, American Hero:

He wore a long coat to the ground.
He wore big boots that made a sound.

6.Roseanne Cash, The World Unseen:
I’m the list of everyone I have to lose.

7. U2, One:

Have you come here for forgiveness,
have you come to raise the dead?

8. U2, One:

Have you come here to play Jesus
to the lepers in your head?

9. Lyle Lovett, If I Had A Boat:

If I had a boat, I’d go out on the ocean,
if I had a pony, I’d ride ‘im on my boat.

10. Bob Dylan, Positively 4th Street:

Yes, I wish that for just one time
You could stand inside my shoes
You'd know what a drag it is
To see you

George in Boston

When I was 18, I wouldn't drive to the Majik Market by myself, much less get on a plane and travel across the country. I was 32 the first time I sat in a restaurant alone; it was breakfast at a convention, and I had a cheese omelet. This may seem unrelated, but I'm shocked every time I walk into a dealership and leave with a new car. I can just do that?! It seems so adult, so beyond me. And when riding down the highway in that car, I still have the same fear of merging I had at fifteen.

Not my kids, though. Georgia simply announced that she was going to visit her friend Liz in Boston for four days and that I was taking her to the airport, merge or not.

And Sadie leaves for Costa Rica next month?

These apples are falling far, far away.

Where the F*** Is Bob?

Please, let me remember you to this, from April '06, and this, from back in November.

Well, here it is, July '07, and the saga continues. Bob and Cindy (let's just call 'em by their names) pretty much up and moved out in the middle of the night a few weeks ago. They bought (rented?) a BIGGER house near the high school--we reckon so they'll have more room for their stockpile of rotten garden hoses, rusty bicycles, and defunct hot tubs. So here we've lived with their idea of "progress" for something like a hundred years, and this is where we've landed. You know, before Bob and Cindy moved in with their three kids, drug dealers rented the house. They kept the yard nice.

We have no idea if B & C own the house on our street. They claimed to have lease-purchased it year before last, after having begun its slow demolition the year before. But we're pretty sure that they couldn't afford two mortgages, seeing as how she works on and off at WalMart to supplement her substitute teaching. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Cindy is a sub at the elementary school, as well as a girl scout leader, and--no doubt--room mom x 3. Bob's job is a mystery. He "works" from home, something involving computers. Might it also involve 900 numbers?

We do know that he shows up every couple of days now to move the tarp around and scrap a few more shingles and boards of siding. He generally "labors" for five or ten minutes before sitting in one of the camping chairs, cracking open a cold one, and admiring his Herculean accomplishments. Sometimes he invites a friend or two over to drink beer and watch him do this.

Meanwhile, everyone else on the street is dreaming up magic spells that involve curling irons and kerosene.

But the real bonus this past weekend was when he brought the boat BACK and parked it in the driveway--the whole fascinating evolution inspiring my new weekly feature. Look for it every Monday, when we'll try to answer the question, "Where the fuck is Bob?"

These were taken Saturday morning...







and by Saturday afternoon...ta-daaaaaaa! The boat is back. Must not be allowed in the new 'hood.

Call Me Cinderella

While I slave away, doing the laundry, etc...

Saturday Things You Might Not Know

George Clooney, Then & Now

Friday Nostalgia

Fifteen years ago, this classic was born.


And as evidenced by this 2005 hit, the proud tradition continues.

Warning: Risk of Extreme Boredom

Yet I am so easily entertained. (Note: If you listen very carefully, you can hear Biggy--just arriving home from work and heading to check the thermostat--lecturing me for leaving the front door open and for overfeeding Timmy.)

Maybe tomorrow I'll post a clip of the parakeet pecking his mirror and the goldfish swimming in circles.

I Missed You Too

But I was busy with George, who came home for the doctor's appointment to remove ONE stitch in her ankle.




And then we took Lo and her buddies to the mountains and stayed here. We went whitewater rafting, which they loved, but I think they had more fun dumping buckets of water on other boaters from a suspended bridge above the Nantahala.

Mamoo and Granny came with us, so Biggy and I got in some mountain biking at Tsali. Both of us had spectacular crashes. I fell over the mountain about ten feet and hit a tree, which probably saved my life, and Biggy simply hit a tree head-on in the middle of the trail. (At least I didn't cry.) Since the camera died after we took the pic of the girls, we gots nothing else to show. How I wish we'd been able to photograph the sites of the accidents.


Happy 4th, Y'all!