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October 02, 2008

Healthy Truth

Eating brown sugar by the tablespoonful straight out of the bag, who the hell does that?

Yeah, I do.

I told you about my upcoming trip with Geoff. Well, a few weeks ago he told me he was eating healthier and had adopted a regular exercise routine. This sent me into a bit of a panic. You see, Geoff is younger and better looking than I am, and as the American Rulebook for Shallow Girls CLEARLY dictates, one must never be seen with anyone who is younger, prettier or in better shape than you are, or thou shalt be outcast or fed to hungry gophers. I knew if I kept it up with the whole brown sugar and couch-potatoed lifestyle, I would be looked upon as Geoff's flabby, old, brown-sugar gorging friend.

Oh, her.

So, this, coupled with the fact that my gynecologist told me I could probably get away with wearing a bikini if I went to the beaches in Brazil, where EVERYONE wears bikinis INCLUDING PEOPLE WHO GORGE ON BAGS OF BROWN SUGAR, I decided to step away from the Cheetos and B&J ice cream buckets, make a solid effort to lose those last few pounds and get myself into the habit of eating better and exercising more.

Note: I will never have the confidence to wear a bikini, but I'm using it as a goalpost. "If I wanted to wear one, I could." Besides, does it really matter how I get there, as long as I get there?

I can't afford to buy 'younger and better looking' on a seamstress' salary, which leaves my only option: get healthy.

So, now I jog. Actually, I began jogging about two months before the battlefields trip was even discussed, but now I'm SUPER motivated because I have to squeeze into a curvy little Victorian corset, and trust me, if you put one of those babies on in front of the mirror and a sausage link looks back at you, YOU FIND THE MOTIVATION.

I jog every other day and sometimes every day. I'm terrible at it. My feet sound like a herd of hog-tied flailing alpacas and I stumble, MY GOURDNESS, do I stumble. And once, I actually fell after attempting to bend down (while still jogging) and oOoOhh, look at the pretty snail in the roa-BLAMM-O.

I had palmscabs for a week. Palmscabs infinitely suck.

So, well, there you have it folks, the truth behind my desire to be healthy: Competitive vanity. I think it should be added to the Olympic roster as an official sport. I might actually have a shot of winning, because I sure as hell ain't gonna win at jogging, unless you get bonus points for palmscabs and ability to be distracted by shiny objects in the road.

Oh, and because of the whole jogging/falling thing, I've lost 12 pounds. Brown sugar, I am so over you. Although, all bets are off once I earn my first million. If that happens, I'll eat all the brown sugar I want because I'll be able to pay someone to liposuck the fat off my thighs.

August 21, 2008

One-time lesson

Alright, folks. I'm shoving the 'Merry' under the bed for a few minutes and borrowing my sister's ass-kicking boots. If me standing on my soapbox is going to tarnish your image me, please hit the 'back' button and step away from your monitor. This could get ugly, but I'll try to keep it a little humorous. Hey, if you can't laugh at yourself, your sister will shove you down the stairs and laugh at you instead. Right?

It seems that a few misguided souls seem to think that it's okay to shed manners while playing on the 'net and that unkind behavior in online forums is not only acceptable, but encouraged.

I know what you're thinking. "Oh, kids these days."

Sorry, folks. These are grown-up, adult-type people with jobs and educations and the ability to KNOW BETTER.

Remember the bully who used to throw spitballs at the girl with one pigtails shorter than the other? Well, apparently he grew up and discovered the internet. And he has friends who are just like him.

"So, why do you care, Oh Merry One?" you ask. Well, because over the last three months, I've found this problem becoming more and more common and it bothers me that this is becoming an acceptable online behavior. In the last month, thanks to Google Alerts, I've found two online communities flaming yours truly in such a caustic fashion that I wouldn't dare fart in their direction for fear of incinerating myself. It would be one thing if they had legitimate complaints against me, but these are people who have never even worked with me. These are groups of people who enjoy reenacting and place historical accuracy at a high priority.

I don't have a problem with people who enjoy historical accuracy. In fact, I have many friends who strive for the highest level of historical accuracy possible. Even *I* love making historically accurate attire (when I have free time). But I would never, in a million years, try to force my preferences on the rest of the world. If I did, the rest of the world would be wearing pink bunny slippers and eating a gallon of Flavocol every year. I don't need (or want) the rest of the world to be exactly like me, and I can't figure out why these rudely-behaving people feel the need to pee on everyone else's petunias just because the rest of the world won't think like they do.

So, you ask:

Did you do something to offend them? Nope. I simply exist, and in their eyes, that's enough.

Did you screw up an order they placed with VMS? Never once. These are not my customers.

Do they know anything about you? Nothing more than the few seconds they took to look at one or two pages of my website.

Have they ever taken the time to get to know you as a fellow human being? Not even for one second.

Why do you care what they think? If they were picking on me for my ridiculously large feet or my bad haircuts, that would be one thing. I'm pretty thick-skinned when is comes to playful ridicule. But when someone attacks my business, my source of income, my reputation (that I work damn hard to keep positive) just for their own personal amusement, I'm going to get angry, and rightfully so. What these people seem to forget is once they type in my company's name, it is indexed in search engines. When a potential new customer performs a quick Google search for my business and pulls up that horribly negative discussion in their list of links, those comments are going to unfairly tarnish my name and I will lose business as a result.

THAT is why I care.

"So ,why do they behave this way?"

Well, friend. They are doing it for personal fun and entertainment.

Yes, that's right. There's this online trend where people are encouraged to throw kindness out the window and pick the hell out of people in online public forums, unconcerned if they destroy lives, businesses, reputations of fine, upstanding people and companies - all for their own personal pleasure. They are unconcerned about the consequences of their behavior, because what's important to them is that they have an opportunity to laugh at others at someone else's expense. Enjoyable, right?

I mean, isn't is rollicking fun to spend an afternoon on the computer making fun of and causing pain to others?

The reason these folks have targeted me is because the majority of my website contains garments that are not historically accurate.

You ask, "Par-dough-nay-mwahhhhh, but didn't they have manners back in the Renaissance?"

Yes, dear readers, manners DID exist during the Renaissance, which makes these turkeys not only historically INaccurate, it makes them hypocrites.

Let's see if we can cover the basics about what I do, just so there's no more confusion and we can avoid situations like this forever:

1) I am a professional seamstress and clothing designer. To boil it down: I sew in exchange for money. I make whatever my customers pay me to make. I am not a purist. I will not try to talk my clients into buying a fancy, hand-sewn, historically accurate garment unless that is what they want me to make for them. MY CLIENTS are the boss. I am their humble servant. I am pleased to make any garment they desire and I refuse to make anyone feel apologetic for being unconcerned with historical accuracy. If it makes my customer happy, then *I* am happy.

2) The majority of my clients are brides and their wedding parties. I love all of my clients equally, however, I do play favorites sometimes. As long as you know that you, yes, YOU are my favorite, that's all that matters.

3) Despite the fact that most of my clients are brides and their wedding parties, I do not discriminate against anyone. I will sew any garment for any customer. I have a loyal list of the most amazingly joyful and friendly clients including, but not limited to drag queens, cross-dressers, prom girls, sweet 16 birthday girls, actors and actresses of all shapes and sizes, children, senior citizens and people of every age in between, reenactors, movie stars, strippers, porn stars, furries, mascots, Halloween customers, movie companies, television producers, musicians, Vegas showgirls, psychics, Trekkies, Wookiees, and a guy named Ferb.

4) In the ten years I have been in business, I have had one, ONE customer who has ordered a truly historically accurate garment. I LOVED making it for her, and LOVED the research involved. However, if I limited my business to working exclusively with people who desire historical accuracy, my babies would starve and we'd be living in a cardboard box. One order in ten years ain't gonna put white cotton undies on my fat ass forever, folks, so I gotta do whatever I need to do to keep it covered. Trust me, life would be scary if I walked around naked, so really, I do this for you.

This means I must sew what my paying customers ask me to sew. AND I LOVE WHAT I DO. Do not expect me to apologize for making clothing that is not historically accurate. This is MY JOB, and since I don't question your ability to do YOUR job, don't questions mine.

Understand this: Unless you have ordered a historically accurate garment from me and I was incapable of fulfilling your order, You don't have the right to discuss my ability or inability to create historically accurate clothing.

5) That said, my training is theatrical, which means I love to incorporate artistic expression into my designs. I am diverse. I am educated. I understand how to research and am completely capable of doing it, but because my work often is theatrical and artistic, or because my clients do not desire it, it does not mean that I am incapable of doing research or making historically accurate clothing. I can offer clothing of ANY kind to my clients and not be a complete bastard about historical accuracy. So, why are YOU being a complete bastard about it? Is it so impossible to understand that a person who runs a custom clothing business is likely going to be capable of sewing anything their customers want?

Research is available to EVERYONE. It's not exclusive to purists. One does not have to be an intellectual, elitist snob to learn how to hand sew a garment or buy historically accurate patterns. I make what people pay me to make, and since the majority of my website is filled with garments that are not historically accurate, guess what that means: It means that the majority of my customers are unconcerned with historical accuracy.

Because my clients are unconcerned with historical accuracy does not mean that I am unworthy of kindness. It does not entitle you to behave this way, nor does it justify your behavior.

If you have a personal complaint with me, email me. I want happy customers, always. Don't cower behind an anonymous online identity and attempt to ruin my reputation as a businesswoman just because YOU desire historical accuracy. I care about the happiness of my clients, and just because your number one priority is to clothe yourself only in historically accurate attire, does not mean that my clients must do the same.

Shame on you for expecting it of them. And shame on you for your online behavior. I hope this is not how you behave offline. If it is, shame on you again.

To you, the few who think that this type of behavior is acceptable: If you took the amount of time you spend online spewing hatred and unkindness and instead spent it helping an at-risk teen, or reading a book to someone confined to a nursing home, or even spent those minutes with your own child or another family member, think of the positivity you'd be spreading in this world. Just think of the wonderful, exciting things you could accomplish.

Behaving like an asshole makes people pay attention to you for a couple of minutes, and when they look back at their time spent with you they'll think, "Oh yeah, he was an asshole." Being kind to others makes people pay attention to you forever, they'll remember you fondly, and sometimes, if you're really good at it, you'll get your picture in the paper with a caption that says, "This person is super-duper nice."

Be excellent to others, people. Not just for them, but for you, too. You'll feel so much better about yourself if you simply make that shift from hostility to kindness. For real and for true.

Oh, and "K," Mark, Joe, yes, I'm addressing you: Don't be surprised if sometime, somewhere, when you least expect it, karma comes up to you and says, "SMILE, FOLKS. THIS WON'T HURT A BIT."

Out.

*Takes off ass-kicking boots, locks them away forever. Pulls the 'Merry' out from under the bed and skips away*
skip.jpg

Now, go play with Google Alerts. It's awesome fun.

July 23, 2007

New Haircut

Once again I got to the point where my hair was so long and unmanagable that I simply wanted it gone. It was far too damaged from the thyroid problems to donate to Locks of Love, so I didn't. Here it is, folks, complete with a Dooce endorsement.

hair.JPG

March 12, 2007

New Meaning

When I was a kid, we weren't allowed to say the word "fart." We had to say "fluffy" instead. Yes, our friends laughed at us and called us dorks, but we eventually recovered from the trauma.

Today I saw this and I decided that I may need therapy after all.

Meanwhile, if you're really bored and have a metric butt-ton of gummy bears, you too can make one of these

February 11, 2007

High Praise

We're all settling into our new-family-member routine, and I'm still battling post-surgery pain, otherwise I'd be posting more updates. This C-section has definitely been a lot more painful than the last one and all I can say is that I'm really glad that Mister Vicodin took time to invent such a miraculous painkilling drug. Every day is a little better than the one before, and apart from some bizarre visual disturbances, some finger numbness and a couple of dizzy spells, I'm doing ok.

Adam is wonderful. He wakes, cries once to let us know he's serious about wanting food NOW, eats between 4-6 ounces, then falls back asleep for 4 hours. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Elizabeth ADORES her new brother and calls him "Atom." She showers him with kisses and talks to him with the tiniest high-pitched baby-talk voice. "Hallo, Atom!" So cute it's painful, and quite possibly the best reaction I ever could have hoped for. What did I do to deserve such an easy transition??

Maybe it just seems easy because of the Vicodin . . .

On a side note, my sister Erin sent us the most fabulous "Glad you had a baby" gift, and purchased a few week's worth of packaged homemade meals from this place for us.

She had us pick out the dinners we wanted, called in the order, and they gave us a time to come pick them up. I called them to let them know Brian was running late on the day of the appointment, and the gentleman on the phone couldn't have been any nicer. I asked how late they were open and he kindly responded, "We will be open until your husband arrives, please tell him to take his time."

Wow. A place that kicks SERIOUS customer service ass. I didn't think they existed anymore. When Brian arrived, he said the place was absolutely immaculate and extremely professional looking. The gentleman who was running the kitchen greeted him at the door with a big smile, and helped Brian load all the meals - everything was packaged and ready to go. Brian was also thrilled with the extremely high level of customer service provided.

I never knew such a place existed and from now on, this is where I will be doing ALL of my future baby shower gift shopping. What an absolutely brilliant idea!

Erin has a few of these places in Virginia too - and she has actually signed up to have ALL of her meals prepared by one of these companies. She's actually SAVING money, because the meals are custom made to fit her family's size, she has completely eliminated the time it takes to do the cooking herself (and can spend more time with the kids), plus, she's not throwing out leftovers, or food she wasn't able to eat before it went bad.

The meals are nutritious, healthy and HOME MADE! So far, the ones we've tried have been extremely tasty and we're really been enjoying them. I highly, highly recommend this company if you're looking for a unique gift for a special someone who may need a bit of help with cooking - or for yourself!

December 01, 2006

December the First, Heather Style.

Last night I told Brian that because I could sleep in this morning, it meant that I would wake at 5 am and I would not be able get back to sleep. I also asked him to remind me that Elizabeth had an appointment at 9 am to receive her flu vaccination. My memory is SHOT lately. I attribute my forgetfulness to pregnancy, although it could be age settling into my fried brain.

At 4 am, the cat started thumping at the foot of my bed. She had found a fabric softener sheet. These sheets have the same effect on her as catnip, and cause her to become violently spastic. She behaves the same way just before she has to take a dump. This is one seriously disturbed cat.

I couldn't get back to sleep, so I worked on a few projects. Brian woke at 7. He overslept. I envied.

At 8 am, Elizabeth woke up. I brought her downstairs, dressed her, made a waffle and cut orange slices for her breakfast.

At 9 am I remembered I was supposed to be doing something.

At 9:01 I remembered that Elizabeth was supposed to be getting her flu shot at that very moment. I called the office and apologized profusely. They told me to come on in anyway.

At 9:30 we arrived at the office. E-Beth was vaccinated, and we rushed off to the PO to overnight a package to an actress in IA.

At 10 we we managed to get in some shopping - I needed to buy a few frames for some gifts, and Elizabeth was less-than-pleased about the whole experience.

So we drove over to McDonald's so E-Beth could enjoy a nutritious meal of "Dippy Sauce," the only "food" item she will eat anymore. She had a chicken nugget happy meal, and the prize was a weird purple creature who sang songs when you pressed his belly.

Elizabeth chose meal time to put on a delightful little show for everyone around us. She poked the purple creature's butt and announced, rather loudly, "POOPY!" The woman at the next table shot a snotty glare in my direction, so I tried to disguise the conversation,

"Yes, he is PURPLE!" I responded.
"POOPY!" cried Elizabeth and she poked at the purple creatures butt again.
"PURPLE! VERY GOOD!" I cried.

It was at this very moment that the Poopy Gods shot their DON'T-MESS-WITH-THE-POOPY thunderbolt through my heart, and Elizabeth glared at me, determined to make me FINALLY understand the point she was trying to make.

She let out a string of farts that resonated off those molded plastic McDonald's benches like thunder on the mountain and screamed at the top of her lungs, "POOOOOOOOOOOOOOOPYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!"

The woman who had been previously glaring at me burst into laughter. I was grateful for it. I don't think I could have handled another snotty glare.

I gathered up Elizabeth's coat and her purple poopy monster and shuffled ourselves out the door.

Next we went to the MOST OBNOXIOUS FABRIC STORE ON EARTH. I avoid this store if at all possible, but a 40% off coupon and a shortage of muslin forced me to darken their doorstep. Elizabeth was getting pretty tired and cranky at this point, and I needed to grab a bolt, pay then leave. Simple enough?

Not at THIS store.

Cutter Lady number one stood at the table fondling a bolt of fleece, staring blankly into Neverland. Cutter Lady number two argued with another customer about whether or not she had the correct shade of mauve. Cutter Lady number three stood at the phone, repeatedly picking it up, listening, hanging up, picking up, listening, hanging up . . . .

I held ticket number 66 in my hand. Their display read "Now serving customer number 64."

15 minutes later, while Elizabeth was screaming "DOWNDOWNDOWNDOWNDOWNDOWNDOWN!" and "WALKWALKWALKWALKWALKWALK!" in my face because I had her belted securely in the seat to keep her from doing swan dives off the cart, my number was finally called. Elizabeth threw her shoes at me as I handed Cutter Lady number Four my fabric bolt and told her clearly, "I WANT ALL OF IT."

Cutter Lady Four: Wow. That's a lot of muslin. What are you making?

Me: ELIZABETH, STOP THROWING YOUR SHOES AT ME! I make LOTS of things with it. I'd like all of it, please.

Cutter Lady Four: (not scanning my fabric, not adding up yardage, just standing there watching me lose a game of Dodge-Shoe with a terrible two-er) You can't tell me what you're making?

Me: (GLARE) We're in a bit of a hurry here and Elizabeth isn't having much of a good time - could we just get the fabric and go, please? (THWACK! as a shoe hits me in the chest)

Cutter Lady Four: Heyyyyyyyyy! Elizabeth is MY name too! Did you steal my name?

Elizabeth: DOWNDOWNDOWNDOWNDOWNDOWNDOWN!!!!!!!!!!!!

Cutter Lady Four: Awwww, you're cute!

Elizabeth: POOPYPOOPYPOOPYPOOPYPOOPYPOOPY!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Cutter Lady Four: Did she say "poopy?"

Me: Yes, and that's a REALLY BAD sign. You don't want to see what happens next - can we get that fabric. NOW, please?

We eventually made it out of the MOST OBNOXIOUS FABRIC STORE ON EARTH and headed home.

I put Elizabeth down for her nap and she was asleep almost immediately. Shopping is exhausting business. I came back downstairs and noticed that my glasses had broken - the tiny screw that holds the lens in place had come undone. I fussed with a bit and realized that the thread had worn down and the screw would not longer hold. I decided to Super Glue it in place, and then I'd buy a new pair of glasses over the weekend.

I squeezed the little tube of Super Glue to dot a small drop on the frame. Nine drops came out and landed on my finger. I hurriedly wiped it off on a piece of paper. It dried quickly. I hate the feeling of dried, hardened Super Glue on my finger, but you have to work quickly when using it, so I pressed the frame together for a few seconds. Once it appeared to stick, I examined at my now-hardened, Super Glue-covered finger and did what most normal people would consider "the unthinkable."

I put my finger in my mouth to see if I could easily peel off the dried glue with my teeth. To my suprise, the glue was not yet completely hard. In fact, it was still very wet. In the process of trying to "peel" it off, I coated my tongue with it, and in a moment of panic, I tried scraping the ready-to-stick glue off my tongue with my teeth. My tongue immediately adhered to my front bottom teeth.

Meanwhile my other hand was glued to my glasses, because you NEVER have just one drop of Super Glue to contend with, and all the excess glue had seeped onto the fingers that were pinching the glasses frame closed. I gave my hand a flail and sent my glasses smashing into the wall, taking a few layers of finger skin with them.

I rushed to the bathroom to see if there was some way I could unstick my tongue from my teeth and scrape the nastiness out of my mouth. A quick yank peeled my tongue off my teeth, and a brisk rubbing of the toothbrush forced most of the glue off my tongue.

I'm still not sure how to get the damn glue off my teeth. This will probably require the assistance of a trained dental professional, and I'm not sure if I can repeat this story to anyone other than The Internet.

And there you have it. This was my December the First. Aren't you jealous that it wasn't YOUR December the First?

October 18, 2006

Flying Napoleon Dynamite

Geeeeeeeeeeeeeeez, hurry up, already!" Napoleon shouted at me, as I taped the white plastic Fisher Price radio to my chest.

"Be quiet. I'm going as fast as I can!" I responded, losing patience.

A minute later I was ready to fly. I pressed the giant orange PLAY button on my radio and soared straight up into the clouds. As I approched him hovering just above my head, Napoleon and I shot forward, just above the treeline, flying over lakes and rivers, looking for evil-doers. . .

Yeah. Pregnancy dreams are fun.

September 20, 2006

But I'm back again, cried Nora, with a monumental crash!

We're back online, able to process orders and answer emails.

We're officially booked well past Halloween, and not accepting any more orders with delivery dates that fall on or before October 31. Our sincere apologies - usually by August we're booked well past Halloween, so it's always best to order extra, extra early. If you want to order for next year's Halloween, we'd be delighted to work with you and will pat you on the back for being a very responsible 2007 Halloweener!

September 02, 2006

Debt Busting

This morning I paid off my car loan a full year ahead of schedule. I have one last credit card payment to make next month, and I will FINALLY be free of all debt, except our mortgage. This feels pretty darn good.

New words to add to E-Beth's word list:

strawberry
deer (she says this all the time)
olive
double-u (W)
X (sounds like ECK)
hole
chocolate

August 18, 2006

Busy season rare update AGAIN

I'm swamped with orders, as usual, so I'll just give you a list of all Piper-type news:

* We went to French and Indian War reenactment last weekend at Fort Ontario and it was FABULOUS! I'll post pictures soon.

* Brian went to the doctor yesterday and he is officially healed. No more back brace, and he can mow the lawn again!

* This weekend is my high school class reunion and a family reunion for my Dad's side of the family. However, I've heard that it's supposed to thunderstorm all weekend.

* Yesterday I went upstairs to check on Elizabeth while she was supposed to be napping. She was looking at Good Ole Snoopy, pointing at her rear, yelling (explaining?), "BUTT, BUTT, BUTT!"

* Just one more week and I'll be able to start treating my rosacea. My OBGYN explained that the prescription given to me to treat my face is listed as safe for use during the entire pregnancy, but she said if I wanted to be extra, extra careful, I could wait until the second trimester to take it. So I've waited, just to be safe, and next week I can begin treatment. I've had to stay inside so much this summer because of it, that I feel like a bit of a hermit. Tthe sun causes major problems with the outbreaks. I always wear my hair in a ponytail (because even when I don't have outbreaks, loose hair makes my sensitive face itch), but with this outbreak, it's gotten to the point where one little hair tickling my face causes hours of itching and redness. (even thinking about it is making me itch! ICK!) JUST ONE MORE WEEK! YAY!!!!!!

* Baby names: I like Emily, Sabrina, Adam, Julian. Brian likes none of them.

* Order status: I am completely on schedule. Orders are all arriving by the requested delivery dates. We are currently booked through to the end of October. If you have a simple peasant order, we will be able to meet early October deadlines, but only for a limited time. Our schedule is filling up VERY quickly because of Halloween, so if you have an event before Halloween, you need to order now, before it's too late.

* If you like creepy books, read "The Ruins." I loved it!

* It's the weekend. YAY! IT'S THE WEEKEND!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

August 06, 2006

Preserving the Summer

This afternoon will be one of many pickle-making afternoons at the Piper homestead over the upcoming weeks. Today I'll be making this kind, and Brian will make his traditional bread-and-butters (which are extremely popular because they're so delicious). I've made the Martha green tomato bread-and-butters before and they're divine too. This year we have far too many tomoatoes, and unless we do something now, while they're green, we're going to be overrun with ripe ones in a few weeks. Don't get me wrong, there's nothing better than home-canned tomotoes, or homemade tomato pie (I tried to find a recipe online, but can't find the right now - so I will post it later), but there really can be too much of a good thing.

The corn is on - we picked a few ears last night, but they were too young. We have WAY too much yellow squash and zucchinii? We're planning to sneak around town late one night, visit all the roadside farm stands, and make zucchini and yellow squash deposits. We only planted four plants each - and now we know: ONE plant is more than enough.

We've started harvesting all of the zucchini and squash flowers, coating them with bread crumbs, stuffing them with jalepeno cheddar, and deep-frying them. Not terribly healthy, but bleeping DELICIOUS, and it cuts down on the number of squash we have to deal with! (I don't even LIKE squash!)

So, if anyone wants some squash, beans, corn, zucchini, okra or tomatoes, please feel free to come raid our garden. PLEASE!

May 28, 2006

Nothing update

More apologies as I let those who aren't in "the know" that from May to November is my busy season, and this year is proving to be no exception. In fact, it's busier than it has ever been (a big, heartfult "thank you" to my customers). Needless to say, blogging ranks pretty low on the priority list during these months. I'll post as I have time, I promise.

In the meantime, I hope you're all having a fabulous holiday weekend! Enjoy!

May 18, 2006

Sick Update

I've been under the weather, traveling and keeping up with orders the last few days. I know a big update is due, and as soon as I have some free time, I will give you all the details of the last week.

Soon, I promise.

April 13, 2006

Recently Reminisced Randomness

Growing up I lived in a very rural area outside of Pulaski (known for excellent kayaking and fishing on the Salmon River, so maybe you've heard of it). There's a lot of farming out that way. Stevie wore the most incredibly cool boots. Ever. They were simple cowboy boots, but I'd never seen anything so wonderful. As a kid, I didn't have a very keen sense of fashion - I was a total tomboy, so if the garb didn't work well in the swamp while catching frogs, odds are I wouldn't wear it.

I came home and told my mom about Stevie's boots and, not being on the cutting edge of cowboy fashion, she apparently didn't know what the Hell I was talking about. She suggested they were "shoe boots." I asked what "shoe boots" were and she told me they were rubber boots that you slip on over your shoes. Then she told me she had a pair that I could have.

I went rummaging through mom's closet and found them - a pair of black rubber boots that my Granddad wore over his shoes to keep them clean in the mud. I slipped them on my feet and posed in front of the mirror for hours. I had boots just like Stevie's and I felt like a Goddess. Of course they were about 5 sizes too big for my feet, and since Stevie didn't wear shoes under HIS boots, I wasn't going to wear shoes under MINE.

For one entire summer I wore those foolish things, clomp-clomping around the back forty with my sisters in tow. I wore them with shorts, dresses, my bathing suit. I wore them with EVERYTHING.

One day my cousin Heidi and I, along with my sisters and two other childhood friends were on our way to swimming lessons and I had on my shoe boots. The drive to swimming lessons took us right past Stevie's house, which was somewhat dilapidated and located right in the midst of a dairy farm.

Now, from birth to about 5th grade, Heidi was kind of a bully. She was about 3 months older than me, bigger and a lot tougher (she had older brothers and sisters). She was not afraid of me, that's for sure. She also knew that my boots were an attempt to pay tribute to Stevie, and "outed" me for my crush earlier that day.

Upstate New York dairy farms have a unique odor in the summertime - and Stevie's farm was no different. As we approached the farm, I strained my neck hoping to see him playing in the yard. Heidi picked up on it, and shouted in front of everyone, "Stevie's house smells like cows! You better plug your nose or everyone will know that you loooooooooooooove him!"

I was utterly humiliated and heartbroken that she would betray me like this, but I held my ground while the other girls laughed at me and held their fingers over their noses. I didn't plug my nose, and I glared at Heidi as we passed Stevie's house. I don't think Stevie ever knew how much I liked him and his cowboy boots. But I certainly was devoted.

So, point of the story? I guess there is none, other than it sucks being smaller than your bullying cousin. I sure would have liked to kick her ass that day.

A few years later Doug Britton tried to lift up my skirt and show my underwear to the class. Heidi beat him down. From that day forward, Heidi was ok in my book.

April 06, 2006

Life Taxes

Tonight is Tax Check Night. We're getting Mark's Pizza and eliminating the unbearable burden of having a full savings account by depleting it and sending it to our government. Yay, us.

Highlights of this past week:

* Spaghetti-os turn everything orange, but most especially white highchair trays, Tupperware, babies and everything babies touch. Time to repaint the kitchen.

* Babies hate having their faces washed, especially if their face is dyed orange and impossible to clean. Babies with orange faces are still cute.

* Our babysitter's (Colleen) son David awoke yesterday and much to his dismay, there was a fine layer of snow on the ground. He was very upset and voiced his disappointment, "But summer just wasn't long enough!"

* The "Come Pick Up My Damn Mail" button on the USPS site is the Greatest. Thing. Ever. With that and online fabric shopping, it's gotten so that I don't have to leave the house anymore. If I didn't crave sunshine and fresh air so much, I'd probably be a recluse.

* Instant Messenger is a serious time suck and highly addictive, especially when you've got a new friend who like stalking antique clothes on eBay as much as you do! It has been deleted from my machine.

* The thought of Mark's pizza makes Tax Check Night almost bearable.

March 31, 2006

Dream a Little Dream Job

Pass it on:

Specialized Costume Maker for Cirque du Soleil Montreal

Temporary position: 12 months

Reporting to the Costume-Making Supervisor, the costume maker will carry out the steps for costume production and follow-up in accordance with technical and artistic specifications, as well as production needs.

Duties and responsibilities:
* Perform the steps for producing costumes on specialized machines following the established steps and within the allotted timeframes;
* Apply Cirque's quality and production procedures and standards;
* Apply the procedures and use the tools suggested further to the reengineering of costume-making procedures;
* Perform a self-evaluation of the quality of your work and have it validated by the Quality Assurance Technician;
* Draft, use and update technical documents;
* Work in close collaboration with the different people involved in costume making;
* Develop your analytic skills so as to suggest technical improvements;
* Do preventive maintenance on costume-making equipment;
* Take part in team meetings;
* Carry out all other related tasks.

Qualifications

The ideal candidate possesses the following:
* A professional college diploma in men's and women's garment techniques, a college diploma in fashion design or theatre

production, or the equivalent;
* At least 2 years' experience in making stage costumes;
* In-depth knowledge of the various fabrics;
* Knowledge of the various machines: buttonhole, tacking, coverstitch, blindstitch, etc.;
* Ability to adapt to unforeseen situations and be part of a team;
* Ability to deal with stress and work with tight deadlines;
* Ability to work quickly;
* Attention to detail;
* Positive attitude;
* Respect for others;
* Self-sufficiency;
* Available and ready to travel abroad;
* Fluency in French (spoken and written);
* Basic knowledge of English (spoken and written).

Click here to apply online

March 19, 2006

Top Ten Relative things I think are fantastic on this particular Sunday:

1) The way British people are always saying "fantastic."

2)
EastEnders, because it has British actors in it who are always saying "fantastic." The BBC, at one time, used to show this British soap on cable, but now it's by subscription only and I'm too thrifty to pay for it. The British people on EastEnders say things other than "fantastic," like "Dodgy motors" or "I don't believe it!" or "cuppa." British people are fantastic.

3) The BBC (British Broadcasting Corporation) made an original version of "The Forsyte Saga," and PBS followed up with the most recent version of it. Damian Lewis stars in this series. He is British and probably says "fantastic" a lot. He also starred in Band of Brothers.

4) The HBO series "Band of Brothers" Tom Hanks had something to do with this series, which I bought it because I love it so much. (The movie, not Tom Hanks)

5) If you're feeling blue, rent "That Thing You Do." It's an adorable little pick-me-up movie. Tom Hanks is in it, and I think he directed it too. I own a copy of it, and whenever I need happiness, I watch it.

6) Tom Everett Scott, who stars in "That Thing You Do," paired with Liv Tyler. Their last-scene kiss is one of the most swoon-a-riffic I've ever seen.

7) Liv Tyler, who wears all the pretty dresses in Lord of the Rings. Although, Eowyn could kick her a$$ any day of the week and not have to worry about damaging all that silk velvet. Silk velvet is delicious.

8) Avocados are also delicious.

9) Tostitos' 'hint of lime" chips. If you haven't tried them, they're great with guacamole, which is made from avocados.

10) It's Sunday. I can sit around and watch movies and eat chips with guacmole all day. Well, maybe not ALL day, but at least while E-Beth takes her nap.

March 14, 2006

Chocolate Bribery and Criminals on the Loose

Wow, if I had known that offering chocolate in exchange for comments was going to be so successful, I would have done it LONG ago!

Because I'm a woman true to my word, if you want a chocolate as a comment bribe, here is what you have to do:
1) Make a comment on this blog entry
2) send me an email with CHOCOLATE typed in the subject line
3) type your mailing address in the body of the email
4) email all your friends and tell them about this clever bribe
4) wait for chocolate.

My own disclaimer: Comments only count once. And, realistically, I'm probably not going to mail more than 50 pieces of chocolate, especially when I'm on a SLIMCRAP diet, so if you're number 51, you may want to decide whether or not it's even worth the effort.

So. On we go.

Today I had to go visit my not-so-favorite fabric store. I was driving along Route 390, heading toward Henrietta and I noticed two police cars on my side of the highway. At the next U-Turn, two more police cars were parked, and not 500 yards beyond that, two more were parked on the opposite side of the highway.

As I rounded the bend, another two policemen were again, parked on my side of the highway, another two at the next U-Turn, and another two on the opposite lane. My exit was approaching, so I veered off 390, exited and stopped at the light at the end of the off-ramp. Two more policmen were parked at the end of the off-ramp.

I turned left to head toward the fabric store, and another police car was parked in the "wasted nothingness" lane on the bridge over 390. Another policeman was parked at the onramp to 390.

I came home and excitedly told Brian about all the policemen out on 390 today, and said, "I was sure that there must have been some sort of horribly scary criminal on the loose!"

Brian laughed and said, "There was!"

Rochester's headline for this morning: click here

February 23, 2006

Technoidiot

Because I've got class, it's pronounced: tek-noy-dee-oh

Just like the movie LA Story when Sara Jessica Parker wants to eat at the restaurant, "L'idiot."

Pronounced: lid-ee-oh

I'm staring blankly at my television screen. It's telling me this:

Your satellite connection is shot to Hell and you are SCREWED, my friend. It's Thursday night and Survivor is scheduled to start in 2 minutes. You completely blew it last week when you somehow fried the VCR and DID NOT record Survivor for Brian. This is the ONLY THING IN THE WORLD HE HAS EVER ASKED OF YOU. Your fingers should be stitched together for being such a technologically-challenged moron. Shame. Shame.

January 19, 2006

Clothe the A$$

I used to be cool. I think. For about 10 minutes, after I hit 30, I was slightly cool, and dressed with a very modest fashion sense.

Back then I used to shop at H & M, my absolute most favorite store in the world. But then I moved to Rochester, got married, had a baby, and found the conveniences of Wal-Mart and Target to be, well, convenient.

Plus, I've been aggressively dieting to lose those last few baby pounds, and I'm too stingy to invest much $$ in GOOD clothing, since everything I buy is too big within a few weeks anyway.

Somewhere between H & M and Wal-Mart, I fell into that big old generation gap and the result is horrifying.

While on Christmas holiday, I demonstrated to my 14-year-old niece, Bryanna, why "old" people should never be allowed to wear hip hugger jeans. I lifted the back of my shirt to expose my perfectly hip-level jeans waistband, which, on a normal body, would expose either my faux leopard skin thong, or a cute little butt crack.

But, because I prefer to live in The Comfort Zone and I don't like the feeling of my ass trying to eat my underwear, I wear granny undies.

So when I raised my shirt to expose my perfectly hip-level jeans waistband, my niece was instantly blinded by about four acres of glaringly white Fruit-of-the-Loom granny undies (Or, "grundies" as we like to call them) - which, incidentally, comfortably rise to roughly the middle of my back.

When Bryanna saw this, she threw up a little bit and said, "You should never, ever show that to anyone, ever, ever again."

As soon as I get the battery on my camera replaced, I'll be sure to post a picture.

Peace, till next

November 11, 2005

Oh, Pa. It's a miracle.

We have signed up for our phone company's version of a "three-for-one" deal being offered by our local cable company - who refuses to extend their services to our dead end road. Basically the local cable company is offering high speed internet, cable tv and phone service for a low price - but ONLY if you live within the village limits. They won't stretch the cable to our house, because we're one curve out of their "convenience zone.".

So, our phone company is totally jumping all over the cable company's laziness and picking up people like ME as their new customers.

Oh, how I love it when competition reaches out and touches someone.

On Saturday morning, the pearly white phone truck will roll into our dirveway and hook up two of our television sets to a heavenly satellite dish, and we will receive SIXTY channels of programming to replace our measly THREE fuzzy, blurry current channels.

No more watching the Poop Guy's hour-long infomercial about healthy turds on Sunday afternoons.

And BEST OF ALL, this means that I will get to watch ALL-DAY marathons of Little House on the Prairie.

Peace, till next

November 02, 2005

Dear Idiot

Is anyone else out there REALLY sick of SPAMMERS and rip-off artists? Yeah, me too.

Dear Paypal Scam Artist,

Nice try.

Well, not really. Your email is truly the most pathetic attempt at fraud I've *ever* seen.

The WORLD really needs to pass some sort of law that will make "dumbassedness" a painful affliction that makes people REGRET their actions.

If that day ever comes, you will probably find yourself on the floor, twitching in a puddle of drool, curses streaming freely from your mouth.

If you're going to try to scam people out of their credit card information, do not - I REPEAT - do NOT send emails that contain the following sentence:

"One of our Costumer Service Employees has alredy tryed to telephonically reach you."

Dude. WOW.

Take my advice: you need to find a new career, because SCAM ARTIST doesn't seem to be your gig.

And if you're going to threaten to terminate my account, make sure you spell "indefinitly" correctly.

Peace, till next

October 05, 2005

Blast from the past

I just received another glorious box of antique letters - it's filled to the brim with hundreds of yellow, crunchy-aged letters, bank books and corset ads. This is the second batch of letters to the Siegert family (the first batch contained letters to Elsa from Roscoe.)

I've come to the realization, that as much as I love these letters from the past, they will never "belong" to me. I'll enjoy them briefly, but it's become my goal to find the rightful owners and return them all. I've been doing a bit of research to see if I can find heirs, but so far, no luck. I will keep searching until I find them - what a story they tell.

One of the letters I found in this treasure box stood out as special, and I *had* to share it with you. It was written in 1928, bundled with a bunch of extremely "well-mannered" letters - and it stands out like a purple mohawk haircut on Santa Claus.

The letter was written to Elsa's Mom, from Elsa's cousin Millie. She writes about her health and how she misses Grand Mother, (who apparently used to live with Millie, but now lives with Elsa's family). Near the end of the letter, Millie writes:

"This house shook awful the other day. Grand Mother must have farted, for it knocked me out of bed."

Peace, till next

August 24, 2005

That's right. I fiddle.

That's right, folks. It's official: I'm a fiddler.

Today was lesson number two and I played my first tune. I broke my first string. I fiddle. Yeah, you can call me Fiddle Piper.

On my way to the lesson, I pass an enormous field of sunflowers. It's absolutely the most joyful scene to oncounter in the morning and it makes you forget about all the numpties in this world.

My fiddle teacher is a peach. He's jolly and perky and chipper. his excitement for fiddle playing can only be compared to a bucket of puppies. It's hopelessly contagious.

I sang "Boil Cabbage Down" all the way home (The song I learned). I will take my fiddle in tomorrow (hopefully) to have it restrung, buy new strings, rent a new one (while they replace the bridge) and then I'm gonna hike out back, sit on a stump and practice Boilin' Cabbage Down.

No more makin' babies cry. Nosirree. I'm a fiddle player now. Babies will smile when I screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeech my bow. . . .

I hope. Or I'm gonna have the shortest-lived fiddle-playin' career ever.

Peace, till next

April 25, 2005

Customer Service 101, as taught by eBay's very own ROGER

----- Original Message -----
From: info@verymerryseamstress.com
To: Roger, the eBayer

Dear Roger:

Do any of the antique magazines you're selling have pattern supplements?

Heather

---------------------------------

Roger's response:

----- Original Message -----
From: Roger
To: info@verymerryseamstress.com

I dont know dont have the time to look

Roger

-------------------------------

Surely, since Roger's auction has absolutely no bids, and since he's listing it on eBay, I assume he must actually WANT a bid, I pen a simple response, hoping he'll humor me and just take a peek:

----- Original Message -----
From: info@verymerryseamstress.com
To: Roger

Could you just take five minutes to look in the table of contents to see?

Thanks!
Heather

----------------------------

Roger's response:

----- Original Message -----
From: Roger
To: info@verymerryseamstress.com

5 minutes it would take a hour to go through every page listing every issue every flaw then dont bid I dont care I cant waste $50 worth of time when 90 percent of the time the bidder doesnt bid anyways go fly a kite, what do you want blood for 9.99 Im sick and tired of jerk offs that want me to kiss there rear to be a item.
_________________

A bit put off that he's calling me a "jerk off," I respond:

----- Original Message -----
From: info@verymerryseamstress.com
To: Roger

I didn't want to know about flaws. And I didn't need you to go through every page. I just wanted to know if any pattern supplements were in them - which could be found in a table of contents. Five minutes, tops.

I have over 600 feedbacks with no negatives. I pay within seconds of winning every auction.

Your customer service is appalling.

I don't want the item anymore.

--------------------------------

And from Roger:

----- Original Message -----
From: Roger
To: info@verymerryseamstress.com

LOOK YOU MORON I HAVE 15000 ITEMS ON EBAY AND SOME TIMES DONT HAVE THE TIME TO GET TO SOME QUESTIONS I WORK MINIMUM 18 HOURS A DAY ON HERE, AT LEAST I DIDNT DELETE YOUR EMAIL AND TRIED TO ANSWER IT HONESTLY BUT OBIVOUSLY HONESTY ISNT THE BEST POLICY WITH SOME IDIOTS. YOURS IS ONLY THE 50TH QUESTION THAT IVE HAD ON THERE WHERE DO I DRAW THE LINE AT A LOUSY $2 BUCKS A PIECE AND I PAID MORE AND YOUR A JERK AND I WOULDNT SELL THEM TO YOU IF YOU OFFERED ME $500 PER LISTING THANKS ROGER
--------------------------------

Finally from me:

----- Original Message -----
From: info@verymerryseamstress.com
To: Roger


DUDE! You spent more time being a JERK to me than it would have taken you to LOOK in the magazines!

You've spent at LEAST five minutes ARGUING with me - it would have taken LESS TIME to simply LOOK IN THE MAGAZINES!!!!!!
--------------------------------

Whatever you do, do NOT ask Roger questions. It makes him angry. Wouldn't you think that if a person hated answering eBay email THIS MUCH, he would rethink his career choice?

*sigh*

To quote Forrest Gump: "Sometimes there just aren't enough rocks."

Peace, till next

February 24, 2005

Freak is ON

PACIFIER!

WHERE THE BLOODY HELL ARE ALL OF THE PACIFIERS?!?!?!?!?!

PACIFIER!!!!! ARRRR!!!!!!!

Peace, till next

December 14, 2004

Cwrapping it up

Last night I was allowed off "house arrest" to make a very careful and quick drive to the local grocery store to buy wrapping paper, tape, labels and bows so I could wrap my holiday gifties.

Note: Grocery stores have the crappiest wrapping papers on Earth. (Cwrapping Paper) They do not have labels, so I had to improvise. I bought a package of white mailing labels and a few packages of smiley face stickers. The bows were bagged basics - thirty-gazillion for a buck fifty. Martha Stewart would have frowned at my mismatched cwrapping paper kit.

I like to wrap presents on the floor. I can spread all the papers and presents out and make a big mess. The whole process of peeling stickers, cutting, taping and labeling the packages puts me right into the holiday spirit and my mood soars like a Christmas star. Sick? Maybe.

This year I've got a bit of a mobility problem, so I carefully arranged the paper, tape, labels, stickers, bows and pens all within 8-month-pregnancy-belly reach, and prepared myself to plop. Once I landed, I wasn't going to be able to get up again for a good, long while, so I had to make sure I had EVERYTHING I needed.

I landed on the floor with a hearty BOOM and scared the whiskers off the cat. She jetted off to hide in the litter box.

Once I realized that bending at the waist wasn't an option, I figured out how to manipulate the cwrapping paper rolls and cut them without bending at all. I was pretty proud. I cut. I folded. I taped. I stickered and labeled. I bowed. I admired.

With one package cwrapped and looking not too horrific, I patted myself on the back and gave the package a good shove off to the side of the room, well out of my way, and unfortunately, also well out of my reach.

Skittish kitty returned to investigate my progress and hopped right up on top of my first cwrapped Christmas package of the year. She looked at me intently, as if gauging the swatting distance between us.

And then she promptly barfed all over the top of the package.

I couldn't swat. I couldn't get up to chase her away. All I could do is stare in disgust and disbelief with my jaw on the floor - trying not to blast into a fit of dry-heaves.

I suppose it was payback for scaring the hairballs out of her when I plopped on the floor.

Note to friends and relatives: It was Brian's gift, not yours, so don't get all grossed out.

I cursed loudly as I hoisted my big Elizabody off the floor and unwrapped the gift carefully, making sure the vomit stayed in one place - and did not get on ME.

I managed to clean everything up and 5 hours, 3 glasses of water, 14 potty breaks, 2 phone calls, 3 snacks, and 6 TUMS later, I was finished. Despite the ugly cwrapping paper and bows, mailing label gift tags and smiley face stickers, the pile looks pretty festive.

So for all those third-trimester cat-battling pregnant gift-cwrapping women out there, just remember:

"There are three reasons for breast-feeding: the milk is always at the right temperature; it comes in attractive containers; and the cat can't get it." ~Irena Chalmers

Peace, till next

October 20, 2004

Exeter

For our wedding, we dealt with an interesting dilemma: Do rented porta-potties come with toilet paper?

We did not know, so figuring it's better to be safe than sh*tty, we bought a mother load of TP from BJs for our special day.

When you buy toilet paper in bulk, you're buying the most basic, barely functional stuff on earth. Concerned about biodegradation? Don't be. This stuff disintegrates as soon as it touches your skin.

The name of the brand we bought, appropriately enough, was EXETER. We laughed a good ten minutes about that one. And our thrifty shopping bought us approximately 48 rolls of long-lasting, sand-paper chafing, thickness-of-an-amoeba plastic bag O' butt-wipin' fun.

On Saturday, June 12, we discovered that rented porta-potties DO come with toilet paper - and we were stuck with a lifetime supply of EXETER toilet paper for ourselves.

We tried to pawn it off on friends and relatives.

"ohhhh, no thanks. I have sensitive skin." they all said with a pleasant grin.

We couldn't let 48 rolls of TP go to compete waste, so being the frugal chickadee that I am, I planted some in the downstairs bathroom. I planted some in the upstairs bathroom. I planted some in the living room to use as tissues. I planted some on the nightstand for the same purpose.

I swear to the heavens that this horrific stuff actually multiplied behind our backs. A package of normal toilet paper doesn't last more than a week in our house. Brian and I started to mourn the absence of our beloved Charmin with a touch of aloe after the first week of EXETER use.

First, in order for the stuff to work, you have to unroll a length of about 40 feet. And even then, if you crumple it, you've still only got a golf ball-sized wad. And it crinkles when you handle it. Toilet paper should not make noise.

For nose-blowing, you can't get away with a single layer. A double layer isn't going to do it either. Half the time, a quad-rollover is going to break - depending on the force of the blow. So, to ensure a mess-free nostril explosion, you must use at least eight layers of EXETER. And no matter what, don't do the pos-blow inner-nostril wipe down with EXETER. You'll be scarred for life (or at least for the next week).

So, for nearly five months, Brian and I have been trying to use up the EXETER toilet paper - and for the last two months, we have been trying to find more creative ways to put it to good use.

If you can tolerate tiny balls of quickly disintegrating toilet paper, EXETER can be used as a sponge to scour the bathtub.

It can be used to clean up cat vomit - but only if you used a LOT of it.

Yesterday was the final day of EXETER use and Brian and I threw a little party for ourselves. We bought a package of our beloved Charmin with a touch of aloe and squeezed it tightly. (Sorry, Mr. Whipple!) We ceremoniously took the spent EXETER tube off the toilet paper dispensing cylinder and replaced with with a puffy, fluffy roll of pillowed, cottony tush-goodness.

Ahhhhh, heaven.

As I welcomed touch-of-aloe Charmin back into my life, I started unrolling the puffy thickness and realized, out of EXETER habit, I had pulled free half of the entire roll of Charmin. It was enough to pad a mattress - and most certainly would have clogged our entire plumbing system for the next five years.

(if nothing else, I can say something good about our pal EXETER, is that no matter how hard you try, it would be impossible to clog a toilet with that stuff.)

Welcome back cushiony-cottony softness (with a touch of aloe). We missed you!

Peace, till next

July 02, 2004

The Cure

I have discovered a cure for constipation.

First, make a big batch of homemade French onion soup - go heavy on the butter, worcestershire sauce and onions** and eat two big bowls of it with melty mozzarella on top. Wait two hours. Constipation will be cured.

NOTE OF CAUTION: Do not go to the Big M for groceries in the meantime. You will find yourself standing in the checkout line praying for speedy approval of your debit card, knowing that if you can't either

A) sit down and staple your butt cheeks together

B) get to a toilet (preferably one with sound-proofed walls)

within the next 15 seconds, you will be in serious trouble. People will point at you and make the "ewww" face.

**works exceptionally well if your intestines are known to sometimes violently reject onions.

Peace, till next

December 13, 2003

It's a Wrap

While I was out running errands, I decide to finish up the Christmas shopping, 'cuz the rest of the things we need to get are all on Brian's list of stuff to buy, and he'll wait till December 23, which will make me insane.

So, trying my best to make some beautiful gifts, and following the Martha's Rules of Careful Wrapping, I carefully selected my "theme" wrapping paper: metallic pastels.

I'm already feeling a little dorky about it, but I push onward. I buy the two-sided sticky tape, because Martha says, "If you care about your gift recipients, your tape will not be visible."

Whatever. I throw the tape into the basket and move to aisle three.

Bows and Gift Tags.

Instead of the usual sticky bows that Erin's dogs will eat before the gifts are open, ('cuz the sticky backing NEVER actually STICKS), I select a few dozen rolls of metallic curling ribbon. Already I can
envision my metallic gifts, sparking under the lights of the Christmas tree. My Holiday spirit soars and I completely forget my daily woes. I jam to Band-Aid's Christmas carol blaring over the intercom.

Up and down the aisles, looking for the little stocking stuffer gifties, random candles and "extras" to fill in the spaces and fragrant aromas of spiced pumpkin, orange clove and mulberry fill the air around me.

I get home, clean my living room to a spotless shine, shove Brian's skydiving, kayaking, snowboarding gear into the corner and I've got plenty of room to spread out, dive in and wrap The Most Beautiful Gifts Ever.

Martha has assured me that once these babies are wrapped in my perfectly-hued and adorned papers, it won't even matter what's inside!

So I arrange the gifts into piles. There's Brian's pile, my family, his family, friends and a few extras that I can't remember who they go to.

Scissors.

One would think that a seamstress would be able to find just ONE PAIR of scissors. Nope. Not this week. Brian is sewing this week and he's hidden them.

OK, so I get the KITCHEN scissors (those ones that come with the knife sets - the ones that are dull as toilet paper)

I start to shred my metallic paper. Yes, shred. Martha didn't mention how metallic paper tends to shred and once you go off center, you wind up with strange ziz-zagged messy edges. Martha would scowl, for certain.

No problem though. I remember that Martha advises that I fold the edges before taping with my two sided sticky tape so there are no ragged edges.

Did you know that metallic wrapping paper does not crease? Did you know that with two hands, it's impossible to fold the edge, get a piece of ANY tape, not to mention TWO SIDED STICKY TAPE and secure said edge in place?

OK, so after the first gift is wrapped, I have to alter my plan. It looks like it's been wrapped by a hungry cur.

My folded edges have shreds sticking out and my two-sided sticky tape IS VISIBLE. Now all those black invisible-before,-but-get-them-near- anything-WHITE-or-STICKY cat hairs are poking up off the package like ten-day shaggy beard growth.

I set the package aside for a re-wrap once I've mastered the Martha system.

I try again. This time I don't shred the metallic paper but I'm sick of trying to crease this damn stuff, and I say to hell with the whole folded edge step. Nobody's gonna DIE from having an unfolded edge. I get the sticky tape unstuck from my finger and tape down the edge. No cat hairs - YET, but this tape is *still* visible.

OK, it's not perfect, but it's tolerable. It can be salvaged. I pull out the metallic curling ribbon, choose an appropriate hue to match the metallic paper. Note: This next section is a visual and it may not work, but here goes:

I am on the floor with my "attempt" at Martha wrapping. Curling ribbon is cut and ready to go. I pull it underside, criss- cross it, flip it and try to tie it. It's off center and is not aligning with the "cross" part of the "criss."

Try again with new ribbon, because I've creased the ribbon and it won't curl now. (ummm, why is the ribbon creasing, but not the paper?!?!?!)

Try again. I get to the tie-the-knot part and realize the problem is that I just don't have enough hands!!! So I carefuly bring my big toe out, hold the "criss" at the "cross" do a quick knot and firmly tie my toe to the gift.

Try again. New ribbon, because once again, I've ruined the curling ribbon and it's not curling, but is instead, CREASING.

I swear. Loudly. The cat hisses.

At the last minute, just before I am to tie off a beautiful bow, I yank my toe out of the way and send the gift sailing across the room. The cat loves it. She chews on the curling ribbon. Ever see a cat's tail that's been licked too much? All bony and hairs sticking out and kinda limp? That's what my curling ribbon looked like.

So now the gifts are in a pile. They *are* wrapped. I gave up on the stupid two-sided sticky tape when the cat walked by with a gift stuck to her elbow.

I took a drive to buy a 4-pack of cheap Scotch brand, ditched the two-sided JUNK, and if my family complains about visible tape, I'm going to wrap their gifts in Walmart bags and chunks of silver duct tape forever.

The curling ribbon had to go. The cat tried to eat it off every one of the gifts and I remembered back to the "chicken string incident" and decided I didn't want to be pulling metallic curling ribbon from the
cat's butt on Christmas morning.

The folded edge - yeah, right. I just don't have enough hands. Why does Martha have enough hands? Am I really that hand-challenged????

The labels. There weren't enough. Those super fancy ones only have about 5 per package. I guess I should've checked that out a little closer. I came to a great solution though, once I ran out of them.
Five gifts have beautiful gold-leaf reindeer and wreath gift tags. The rest of the gifts have huge black sharpie permanent marker names scratched
on them . . . because regular pens DON'T WRITE ON METALLIC PAPER.

If Martha saw them, she'd crap on spot.

Me? I'm glad they're done . . . and truth be told, I had a lot of fun, even though they don't look even a little bit like Martha gifts . . . they look TOTALLY like "Heather" gifts.

Merry Christmas! :-) Chop trees safely!

Peace, till next

October 10, 2003

Crappy Stuff Sucks

As a kid, I remember stuff not being so crappy. "STUFF" being ANYTHING, and "CRAPPY" meaning POORLY MADE.

Back then an iron and ironing board would last long enough to become hand-me-downs because they were made of Superman Steel and would never, ever die. So my mom used her mom's iron, who used her mom's iron, who used the iron that was smuggled over on the boat, forsaking all food, just so she could have the heirloom iron from her mother's mother's mother that wasn't a giant plastic piece of crap.

Unfortunately, I took one look at irons and said, "That's what permanent press is for" as I walked out of the house ironless and naive.

I didn't realize that someday I would be a sewin' and ironin' fool, and that permanent press meant I would be permanently pressing my nose to the ironing board (instead of the grindstone).

Young Brian was running late today. I offered to do the morning Skyewalk and would make coffee.

I Skyewalk.

I make coffee.

Brian have been living together for three years and have gone through four coffee makers already. The last one was discarded because I accidentally melted the cord (don't ask) and everytime I moved it, I endured electro-shock therapy. We figured it was time to get a new one.

We bought the Turbo-Deluxe-Electra 2005 (two years ahead of its time) because it has that snazzy "Sneak-a-sip" feature. (You can grab a cuppa before it's done brewing and sip ultra-leaded fuel to super-charge your body into action.)

It's a sleek, jet black model. Ohsofine. It beeps when it's done brewing. It has timers and bells and whistles and makes us look not only rich, but cool.

After the Skyewalk I grab my I heart eBay coffee mug, and I am sure-as-shingles gonna sneak-a-sip.

I do. It is mud. It's pouring out in clumps, The handy dandy shut off thingy has not shut off, so sludge is oozing out all over the hotplate, bubbling and gurgling, and spilling onto my shiny black digital button pad.

Digital numbers start blinking. The machine starts screaming like those damned wombats in my basement.

BleeEEEEbapbapbapbapGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAK. BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEErwwwwwwipipipipip.
Broinkyoudumbnitwityoudiditthistimeandyouwillpay.

Skye rolls himself into stimulation overload mode, the way that all Australian Shepherds do. He's growling, barking, jumping, his hair is standing up and he is ready to KILL the Turbo-Deluxe-Electra 2005 with the "Sneak-a-sip" feature.

I push the off button. It stays on. I unplug it, and it's still brewing and bubbling and even though it is no longer SCREAMING at me, Skye is still trying to rip its innards out.

So, here I sit. Coffeeless. My sleek, shiny BRAND SPAKING NEW Turbo-Deluxe-Electra 2005 with the "Sneak-a-sip" feature is in a big angry heap on my front lawn, because Friday is crap (trash) day, and that's what my Turbo-Deluxe-Electra 2005 with the "Sneak-a-sip" feature IS.

I wish my mom's mom's mom's mom had brought over HER coffee maker. It may not have been pretty, but I bet it delivered.

Skye is in his crate, fuming at me because I won't let him kill the shiny black plastic attack-wombat he had cornered in our kitchen. He could have been the hero, but I ruined it for him. I already forecast that my eventual children will despise me for exactly this sort of spoilsport activity.

September 26, 2003

Gym Jam

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. I protested a lot of things, not for ethical reasons, but because I was lazy)

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 an entire half hour telling me the benefits of tree branch trimming and explained how I could be a great success if I would simply *apply* myself. It was a Breakfast Club moment.

I was really shy in high school, and I was extremely athletically challenged. 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, except 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) gender, 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 our 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 PHYS ED!

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: Yes. Cool.

The next day we brought sneakers, shorts, tee-shirts and all the usual stinky-gym-crap. We didn't have lockers, because we were never officially enrolled in class, so we had to leave our regular clothes rolled up under the benches.

We cautiously peered into the gym, understanding the humiliating fate at hand . . .

Note: I still hate that gymnasium smell. You know the one - I can smell it in 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, in an attempt to help you learn a very useful skill, and has you do it over and over and over and over . . .

And lovely spring arrives - beautiful weather, trees blossoming. Teacher decides it's time for softball. Can you hit the ball? No. Never once.

Not everyone in this world is blessed with coordination and the ability to hit things with wooden sticks. Some of us are 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!

Jennifer and I lined up with the rest of the class. The rules were, that as the teacher read your name, you were instructed to step forward. She finished the attendance list, and Jen and I had not stepped forward.

Teach: YOU TWO! WHAT ARE YOU DOING BACK THERE! WHY HAVEN'T YOU STEPPED FORWARD?

(Have you ever noticed that phys ed teachers never speak. They scream. All the time.)

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!!!!!!!


We quietly backstepped to the locker room, afraid that sudden movements will cause someone to figure out the truth.

We changed into our regular clothes, tiptoed back to the AV room and crossed our fingers, hoping that the gym teacher wouldn't call down to the office and ask about our whereabouts.

The final week of school arrived and we were panicked, to say the least. We blew off the rest of the semester assuming that whatever happened would be our destiny. We had *no idea* what our gym grades would be. We were certain that we will be the only two students in the history of our school to fail senior year because of gym class.

Our report cards are mailed and arrive in our homes. We called each other on the phone to complete the ceremonial reading of the grades.

Physical Education : C
Comment: Student does not wear proper attire to gym class.

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. :-) Since those dreaded days I have NEVER touched a volleyball, never swung a bat, never run around a smelly gym, and I have never - nor will I ever again, suffer through the painful humiliation of that cursed sport, DODGEBALL.

Peace, till next.

September 17, 2003

Letter from the cat

Dear no-hair big stupid fake cat YES I KNOW YOU'RE NOT REAL CATS, YOU'RE NOT FOOLING ANYONE parents,

What are you thinking? ARE you thinkin?? 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 your stupid cat prison. 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 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
AND DON'T YOU FORGET IT

September 03, 2003

Credit Card Crap

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 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.
No, I don't want kitty cat mailing labels.
No, I don't want the vinyl-deluxe luggage set
No, I don't want you to add them all to my credit card bill.

So, from now on, I will send you all the garbage from my house with my payment each month. I hope you don't mind. I'm tired of having to pay to dispose of your garbage, so maybe you can take care of mine for a while.

Yes? Deal?

Your friend ,
Heather

Peace, till next.