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September 2003 Archives
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09-29-03 - Skyewalking Pictures taken while walking Skye
Peace, till next. |
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09-26-03 - Go Rupert, Go Rupert, Go Rupert! Could that Rupert be any cooler? We love him! On the other hand, that Osten is a whiner. He needs to stop that, because as we learned from the last Survivor, if you *want* to go home, you can guarantee that you WON'T go home. Feeling like a trip down High School lane? I am. When I was in high school and we had to do those silly "What job would work for you?" tests. Of course, being the quietly rebellious geek I was, I went through and filled in random circles on the testing form, not even reading the questions. (I protested tests like these - and I still do. Why not simply *ask* the student what he/she wants to do?) Anyhoo - the test results came back and I met with my guidance counselor, who informed me that the job I would be best suited for was: Tree Branch Trimmer. She spent the whole half hour telling me where to go to college for tree branch trimming and explained how I could get into forestry school if I would simply *apply* myself. It was a Breakfast Club moment. I was really shy in high school (Oh yes, I'm way beyond shyness now), and I was *not* terribly athletic. I was tall, skinny and very uncoordinated. My least favorite class was PE (Pure Evil) and until ninth grade, I would suffer through the humiliating 45 minutes of class. Last to be picked for teams. Last stuck on the Dodge Ball court because my aim was pathetic and I threw like a girl. The kind of stuff Carrie movies are made of. Only I couldn't move objects with my mind. And nobody in our school had pig's blood. In ninth grade, my best friend Jennifer and I realized that if you don't show up for gym class on the first day of school, they take your name off the roster, assuming there was some sort of technical scheduling glitch. Absent we were. First day of school, dressed in our Nikes and jordache jeans, Izod collars up: we hid in a bathroom stall, praying nobody would find us. And it worked. The gym teacher crossed our names off the attendance list, sent it to the main office and asked them to update the records. Life was roses and chocolate covered cherries and fruity Runt candies all rolled into one festive dodge ball moment. We were tasting freedom for the first time in our lives and it was sweet, indeed. Grading? Not a problem. We learned quickly that the gym teachers would give grades based on (what we assumed was) sex, or outside participation. So if you were male, you automatically scored a B. If you were female, you automatically scored a C. If you played a sport your grade would go up to either an A or a B. And if you did *well* in a sport, you would get the golden A, whether you were male or female. Fair? You be the judge. Young Heather and Young Jennifer scored solid "C"s all through high school and we were proud of their grades. For three and a half years, we coasted through gym class unscathed. We found peace and quiet and a noticeable lack of questioning teachers in the Audiovisual room, where we would pretend we were airline pilots and plug in wires, wear headphones, talk into microphones and pretend we were crashing through mountains in our high-tech-super-jets. (We should've been in a creativity class, not GYM!) Things were going well until the third quarter of our senior year. Report cards came out, and we both scored big fat "F"s in phys ed. WHA????? We phoned each other that night to discuss strategies. Jen: We have to bite the bullet and go. We can't FAIL HIGH SCHOOL because of stupid GYM!!!! Me: (panic mode) What if we can't graduate?? What if we fail senior year and can't graduate because of GYM????? Jen: Stop panicking! We won't fail! We just have to make an appearance for one silly semester and we'll be fine. Me: OK. So tomorrow we go to class? Jen: Yes. Cool? Me: Cool. <Exhale> So the next day we bring sneakers and shorts and tee-shirts and all the usual stinky-gym-crap. We don't have lockers, because we've never officially enrolled in class, so we have to leave our regular clothes wadded up under the benches. We cautiously peer into the gym, understanding the humiliating fate at hand . . . Note: I still hate that gymnasium smell. You know the one - I can smell it Brian's toy closet once in a while and it makes me think of jogging around that shiny gym floor, knees and palms of hands ripping apart as you trip over your own shoelaces, squeaky-skid-bare-skin-on-gym-floor-sliding. Bare knee skin ripping off, leaving a raw, fiery pink patch. You can't walk, because your knees no longer bend . . . Or that PANG-WHAP of that fat pink Dodge Ball smacking against your bare arm, legs or worse yet: your face. Or how about volleyball - you're serving and you are so uncoordinated that you CAN NOT hit the ball over the net. Ever. And the gym teacher decides to be generous and has you do it over and over and over and over . . . And lovely spring arrives - beautiful weather, trees blossoming. Teach decides it's time for softball. Can you hit the ball? Nope. Not everyone in this world is blessed with coordination and the ability to hit things with wooden sticks. We're gentle beings, and whipping fatballs at people isn't fun for us. Let the non-athletic bunch go out and plant a garden. Let us climb trees. Let us swing on the playground, just DON'T MAKE US PLAY DODGEBALL! But I'm not bitter . . . . <SNAP> back to reality! Jennifer and I line up with the rest of the class. As she reads your name, you are instructed to step forward. She finishes the attendance list, and Jen and I have not stepped forward. Teach: YOU TWO! WHAT ARE YOU DOING BACK THERE! WHY HAVEN'T YOU STEPPED FORWARD? Us: Ummm, well, ummmm, you didn't call our names. Teach: WHAT? <scanning list> HEY! YOU TWO AREN'T EVEN SCHEDULED TO BE IN THIS CLASS! WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT THAT! YOU CAN'T JUST SNEAK IN AND GET OUT OF YOUR STUPID ART CLASSES! YOU GOTTA COME TO ME FIRST IF YOU WANT EXTRA GYM TIME! NOW GET BACK TO YOUR OTHER CLASS AND NEXT TIME ASK ME!!!!!!! Us: <look of utter amazement - Positively dumbfounded> We backstep to the locker room slowly, afraid that sudden movements will cause Scary Gym Lady to figure out the truth. So we get back into our regular clothes, head down to the Jen-Heath Airport and cross our fingers, hoping that the gym teacher didn't call down to the office and ask about us. Final week of school. We have *no idea* what our gym grades will be. We're afraid. Very afraid. We're certain that we will be the only two students in the history of our school to fail senior year because of gym class. Report cards are mailed. We open with caution. Physical
Education :
C We graduated, partied, and quietly laughed at our narrow escape, and ultimate victory. Life can be pretty grand. Score one for the clutzes of the world. :-) Happy weekend, everyone! Peace, till next. |
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09-25-03 - SURVIVOR Night! Many, many thanks to everyone who wrote in with advice about my stinky-room! I guess this is a pretty common problem, and I'm feeling MUCH better about it all. I think there's hope for my Calgon dreams. :-) As you all know, Thursday night is Date Night during the summer, but once the television season starts anew, we slip into SURVIVOR mode and Thursday nights our living room becomes Brian's classroom. You see, Brian is planning to dive into the Survivor game - (if he ever finishes his entry video) and try out for the show. There's no doubt in my mind he would make it to the end. During Survivor season, we observe, take notes, learn, make rules and strategize ways for Brian to reach that final Tribal Council. We've figured out the basics already, and are now fine-tuning everything. Here's our list: Don't
talk about body orifices. (Or is it orifii? Either way, you have to
be a true fan of the show to understand that one. ;-) Watch
everything. And we figure we can send him off with tee-shirts that say "I'm not naked, thanks to the Very Merry Seamstress!" Think the producers would allow it? Brian's got a lot going for him to help him win the game: He
eats anything I cook, so bugs will seem like fine cuisine. We
have determined that after the first day, I would wind up begging
people to vote me off the island, so I'm a bad candidate. If I didn't
get grossed out by the food, the people would surely annoy the b'juggers
outta me. I'm kind of an independent gal, and having to team up (and
tolerate with a smile) some of the people who have typically "starred"
on the show would be beyond my capabilities. Brian, however, would
excel at it. I'm certain. This season we're cheering for Rupert, the big, furry guy. He looks like a lot of fun, but realistically, he just doesn't seem sneaky enough to win it. We wanted Christy to win the last one, and we wanted Jake to win before that, so if that's any indication at how good we are at predicting winners . . . You can send a future email to yourself here: Send a future email You can write down your Survivor predictions and have it mailed to yourself when the series is over. Ain't technology grand? Skye's behavior is improving dramatically - we work with him every day, and already he has learned "sit, come, go" and of course, "no." We've got a bit to go with "Come, down and off," but we'll get there. :-) PS/update: Skye was doing great until I pulled out the dustbuster for a bit of cleaning. Let's just say we've got a little more work to do. ;-) Peace, till next. |
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09-24-03
- GROSS
ALERT! GROSS ALERT! My apologies if anyone is offended by the
discussion of poo - but if poo grosses you out, don't read this entry! <singing> The house is aliiiiiiiiive with the smell of poooooooooooopyyyyyyyyy . . . . I have a good sniffer. I can name that aroma in two molecules. And lucky for me, we've moved to a place that's FILLED with lots of unusual fragrances. When we first moved in, our peach tree was at peak ripeness. Plump, fleshy fruits were literally dripping off the branches. Some were past prime and had begun their 'squish' process, inviting fruit flies and sunny-day wasps to a prime buffet. Now when we pull into the drive, we are treated to the smell of fresh, crisp apples, fallen from the tree and crushed under the truck's tires. In the backyard, sweet grasses and woodsy damp moss aromas fill the air. And over by the garden, the hosta is in full bloom with a cloud-white array of sweet blossoms. When you enter the house, you can either smell apple crisp or a crock-pot dinner - depending on how motivated I am. Living out here has been an aromatic wonder. I love the smells that surround us, with one exception: The upstairs bathroom. My haven. The one room I felt love-at-first-site when we first looked at the house. It has an enormous ceramic tub - makes me feel like a queen. I LOVE THIS TUB. When we moved in, I had daydreams about this bathroom: miles of colored glass bath beads to choose from. Books lined up on new bathroom shelves, waiting to be read during late-night bathing sessions. Candles, romantic music, peace, quiet - I would be that Calgon lady, with my hair all swept up perfectly, covered in bubbles, an eternal, glowing smile on my face. About a week after we moved in, I noticed a funny smell coming from the bathrooms: Oniony with a hint of garlic. I researched. Turns out our water is iron-laden and has funny little onion-stinkin' bacteria running around in it. Nothing can be done. Oh well, I can deal with it. But I can still smell something beyond the onion and garlic iron water. Some days it lingers in the upstairs bathroom. Other days it trickles downstairs into the downstairs bathroom. It's usually just a degree above "faint aroma" but a degree below "pungent." Until yesterday. I walked upstairs and this odor had grown into King-of-bite-your-face-off-skank-Kong and stood in the doorway of my precious bathroom, butt-cheeks parted, blasting me in the face with his putrid turd-funk. I thought perhaps in a fit of jealousy, Mehitabel had hosted a poo painting party and smeared crap all over the walls of my personal bathing haven. Bottom line: My bathroom smells of sh*t. :-( I smelled the toilet. Nothing. I smelled the tub drain. Nothing. I smelled the litter box. Nothing. I smelled the baseboards. Nothing. I spent a half hour sniffing around the room, trying to discover the source of this aroma, and came up with nothing. So here I am, once again seeking the advice of my loyal readers. If anyone would know why my bathroom has suddenly become possessed with the ghost of Casper the friendly Butthole, please let me know. The aroma is *everywhere* but emanates from *nowhere.* It's just a general stench and yesterday it was N A S T Y. Just before we moved in, the owners had the septic cleaned, so that can't be the problem. And oddly enough, today it smells like roses. Any idea why? . . . And no, it wasn't Skye or Brian or any of the boys. All are banned from *my* bathroom. I gave them the shed in exchange for this room. Just kidding . . . Sorta . . . Peace, till next. |
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09-23-03 - Oooo-eeeeee-oooO! Almost Halloween! (sorta . . .) Meet our new cat, Skye MacDougal Piper:
Yeah, ok. So Skye is not a cat. Skye is actually a border collie with a lot of displaced energy. We got to the animal shelter and discussed, at length, which would be better - dog or cat? We decided that Mehitabel really was the Queen, and another cat would just push her over the edge (she's not so good at that whole "sharing" thing), so since the goal was to get a dog eventually, we decided to skip the extra cat and get a dog. Enter ball-bouncing hyperboy Skye.
In the past three days, we have learned a few things about skye. Skye loves to herd things. He loves running with people, but if you move too far in one direction, he shoots for the ankles to make sure you're going where he wants you to go. First problem area noted. Skye is a trash collector. On walks, he picks up the first piece of trash he finds, throws it in the air, catches it, rattles it, stomps on it, until he bumps into the next piece of trash and decides it is BETTER, drops the first piece of trash to drag around the better trash. This isn't so much of a problem, and I've decided to simply bring a trash bag with me next time, and Skye can be Rochester's first canine trash collector. Skye is intelligent. A little too intelligent . . . I work upstairs, and Skye is barricaded downstairs. As soon as I head upstairs, Skye starts sniffing around for the most inappropriate object and destroys it. Once the object is destroyed, he stands at the bottom of the stairs and barks until I come see what all the fuss is about. So far he has destroyed: Brian's
Playstation memory card Skye
begins obedience training in October. All registered, paid for, can't
wait to go. How
does Skye feel about Mehitabel? Needless to say, Miss M is less than pleased. However, she still has run of the entire house. Skye, on the other hand, is only allowed in the kitchen, living room and dining room. For the first day, Miss M wouldn't even show her face. I would publish the letter she wrote to us about the dog, but this is a family-friendly website and that sort of language is a little too rough for even my well-seasoned ears. However, this morning she sat on the bed and stalked the dog for a full hour, so I think she's starting to warm up to him. Maybe. I'll keep you posted. ;-) Peace, till next. |
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09-19-03 - Hurricane Isabel Arrives Got wind? We sure do! We're getting the remnants of Isabel today, and it looks like a typical New York pre-autumn day out there. I love days like these. We're getting another cat. Mehitabel seems to have human-dependency issues, so we're hoping that if we get a little friend for her, she won't schitz out every time we walk out the door. ********************** Scene: Brian and Heather walk out the door to do yard work. Mehitabel jumps to the porch window and starts HOWLING at the top of her lungs in the most sick, guttural, pathetic, painful-deafening decibel level she can muster. Makes your ears bleed. Neighbors stare. It sounds like someone is ripping Mehitabel's face whiskers out one by one and are impaling them through her ears. Neighbor one: Whatta ya think they're doing in there?? Neighbor two: Not sure, man, but it sounds like some sort of sick twisted Halloween experiment. Neighbor One: I heard that they clone wombats in their basement and that the noise is the wombats clawing their way through the test tubes. Creepy, yeah? Neighbor two: Great. Just what we need in the neighborhood. More wombats. *sigh* ********************** I always try to pick the less adoptable animals, so my first choice would be an adult cat for Mehitabel's new companion. But I'm afraid an adult might take over and become the dominant critter, and Miss M would take to hiding in the rafters. We're theorizing that if we get a kitten, Miss M won't feel threatened and can boss it around a bit. She wants to be the queen, but is afraid of just about everything. We're hoping a youngster kitkat can deal with a really bossy big sister better than an older cat could. We're also hoping that a little sister/brother might help her build confidence and eventually we may be able to build up to adopting a dog. Right now Miss M couldn't handle a dog in the house, so we're trying to work our way up. Wish us luck. Back to work, ladies and gentlemen! I've got Halloween breathing down my neck, not to mention 14 hungry wombats! Have a GREAT weekend! Peace, till next. |
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09-17-03 - Home again, home again, jiggity-jog The Vegas travelers have returned. There were no injuries, Ken's wedding went off without a hitch, and we made it home, no thanks to Continental Airlines. Brian and I walked in the door and found a note to us from our cat though. It seems that Miss Mehitabel is not a happy camper: Dear no-hair big stupid fake cat parents, What are you thinking?? You shove me in a plastic and wire crate, toss me into the car with plans to send me out to East-Noodle-Siberia with the grand-cat-mother while you two freaks play in Vegas? You're kidding, right? And then you act all surprised when I freak out and use my nose as a jackhammer to try and bust my way out of said crate. It wasn't until I started bleeding all over your stupid, noisy POS truck that you finally got it through your thick skulls that I was *not* going to hang out at your old lady's pad. I've seen DOGS over there and I ain't none-too-fond of sharing my space with nasty droolers. By the way, it was RUDE to pick on my giant nose scab like that. WHATEVER. So, you finally take me back home. You fake me out by staying home another day. You actually made me think you CARED. And then what did you do the next day? YOU LEFT ME HOME ALONE WHILE YOU WENT TO VEGAS!!!!!!!!!!! Your friend showed up a few times to see if I was alive. But I showed him. I hid and made him think I was dead. He was wandering around muttering things like "Heather's gonna kill me." "Where is that stupid cat?" "Kitty, kitty, come out you stupid *&*#@!!ing animal . . . kitty, kitty . . . " Yeah, that's love. What are you two thinking, leaving me around with someone who can't even respect the cat? Ya'll are some seriously cold creeps, I tell ya. And to make things worse, all the companions you left me stopped playing with me after a few minutes of "tag." They were really fun at first, flying all around the room. Made me wish I had a pair of wings. But after a while they kinda stopped moving. So I ate them and left their legs and butts, along with my giant nose scab on your pillow as a gift. Bug legs get stuck in my teeth. You can have those, because you have dental floss and I don't. Another reason you people stink. Always hogging the good stuff for yourselves. Jerks. I hate you both. I'm gonna crap on your pillow. Sincerely, Mehitabel,
the Queen Peace, till next. |
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09-08-03 - We've got Mail! 'The Very Merry Seamstress' is officially closed until September 16th while we unpack and take care of some other important family things, but I wanted to share a fun little email I received! Enjoy! -----Original
Message-----
I am Becky (better known as the youngest grandmother with the most grandkids, 43yrs old and 10 grandkids). Melody (24yrs) is next (she is really the boss here, we just let the other guy think he is). Then there is Karla(23yrs), she keeps us up to date on the world outside of work. Then we have Luisa (21yrs), (you know what they say about the quiet ones, well we can prove that is true). Last but not least we have Mary (50) Any how just wanted to let you know that your website is a hoot and the dresses are wonderful, and thought maybe you needed someone else to talk about so we offered up Mary as a sacrifice, no really you can have her. Becky PS.
The girls think Geof is a hottie. ********************************** -----Original
Message-----
I really enjoyed your email! Thanks so much for dropping me a line! I've told Spiky-Haired Geof that he is adored by cheesecake-making women and he wants to know when you'll all be adopting him. . . . But the rest of the boys overheard and now they want to come too. Older men: We've got them in ALL ages, shapes and sizes, but they are definitely not men. They are all 12-year-old boys trapped in grown up bodies. They're a ton of fun, I adore them all, but if you take them, your lives will never be the same. Here's a few things you can expect: *They wear helmet cams everywhere. (Cameras mounted on their helmets) They look at life through the lens of a video camera. If it's got potential to be on "world's greatest human disasters," they will film it. *Their parachutes are strapped to their backs whenever they fly commercially. These boys are anything but invisible - expect EVERYONE to be looking at you whenever you travel with them. *They'll
say things like: *or* "Relax! It doesn't matter how fast we're going! It's impossible to tip it over!" *or* "But if we try it with paintball guns it will be BETTER!" *They
also make comments like: They've told me that if you've got cheesecake that's a start, but they want to make sure you won't mind if they set the two-by-fours aflame. Deal? Many thanks! Heather ******************************* Erin's baby is due in just a few days! We're all so anxious! I'll keep you posted. His name will be Ethan Atticus, which I *love!* (Thank you mom and Dad for urging us to read all those good books!) Brian and I have decided that since we will be cursed and wind up having little Brians and Heathers running around terrorizing people like we did, we will just do everyone a favor and name them "Evil." Hey, m aybe that's what Mrs. Kenievel was doing with her boy - and he turned out ok, right? We're off for a week - catch you soon! Peace, till next. |
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09-03-03 - Summer has left the building Hi, Credit Card People! I know you don't care why my payment is late, but I lost your bill while I was moving to my new house, and only just found it in with the oatmeal and raisin bran boxes this morning. To make up for it, here's a personal-sized package of cinnamon crispies for you to enjoy. I'm also sending you all the dried out soap slivers from my shower and the 14 bottle caps my cat has shoved under the dresser. Please excuse the fifteen pounds of tape I used. The envelope wasn't quite big enough for the cinnamon crispies, the other gifts from me AND the eighty-kabillion pages of extra crap you send with my bill each month, which I am now going to start returning to you. No,
I don't want the Super Ginsu III blades. So,
from now on, I will send you all the garbage from my house with my
payment each month. I hope ya don't mind. :-) I'm tired of having
to pay to dispose of your garbage, so maybe you can take care of it
for a while. Your
friend , Peace, till next. |
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09-02-03 - Moved, at last! I'm HOME! Sorry for the delay in updating, folks. We got a little busy with the move and I didn't have enough time to get my thoughts together. Exciting weekend, indeed! We finished moving our belongings to the new home, and each trip we made, our new house seemed to get smaller and smaller and smaller. Finally, our little apartment was huge and clean, and our new home was small and filthy. However, we've remedied that! We've put everything away, broken down the boxes and are awaiting one more piece of furniture before we start making changes to the home! Of course, I'll post pictures of every room as we finish it. As some of you may recall, last week I posted a bit of information about Young Geof, who lacks a girlfriend/significant other/companion/whatever-you-want-to-call-her. As luck would have it, he actually dropped by later that day and allowed me to snap a few shots of his new haircut. And don't forget, ladies, he has a kilt!
The boy oozes fun, so if you're looking for a lot of adventure, maybe Geof is the guy for you. (Think of him as your own personal Johnny Depp pirate - only with a mohawk instead of braids). He's part of the Demolition CReW (skydiving competition team) and will be competing in October in Florida. Here are all the details: 2003 US National
Skydiving Championships So if you don't want to DATE him, at least SPONSOR him. I've
got a lot of catching up to do, so this will be a quick one. I promise
to write more as soon as things have returned to normal (as if they
ever WERE normal!) ;-) Peace, till next. |
