Banned Books Week
6 days ago
Saturday, July 31, 2004
We Had A Visitor
Minnie and Rusty stood by the sliding door, ears twitching, tails swinging, fur in a ruffle. I knew something was up. It seems SH left peanuts in Little J's stroller. There was a squirrel feasting, taunting the cats with his swishing tail. By the time I got my camera, the squirrel had left. Then the mice showed up. The cats didn't seem to mind the entertainment. Don't tell my landlord .
Thursday, July 22, 2004
Palmpilotitis
I have PalmPilotitis. It began several months ago when I got my new Tungsten C.
I bought the Tungsten C because it had wireless capabilities, figuring that someday it would be cool to sit in Starbucks and check my email, download ebooks, upload my blog entries, etc. etc. Then I found out I'd have to fork over money to use the wireless service at Starbucks. So I did the next best thing...
I started to download programs, ending up spending more money on all the programs than I paid for the Tungsten C (never mind how much I paid for that but it's a lot less than my first $2000 desk sized monster 2 floppy 5 1/4" drive computer). And, now I can carry all my important stuff with me everyday, everywhere. Important stuff like...
I bought the Tungsten C because it had wireless capabilities, figuring that someday it would be cool to sit in Starbucks and check my email, download ebooks, upload my blog entries, etc. etc. Then I found out I'd have to fork over money to use the wireless service at Starbucks. So I did the next best thing...
I started to download programs, ending up spending more money on all the programs than I paid for the Tungsten C (never mind how much I paid for that but it's a lot less than my first $2000 desk sized monster 2 floppy 5 1/4" drive computer). And, now I can carry all my important stuff with me everyday, everywhere. Important stuff like...
- BART schedules...for the once or twice a month I ride BART
- Solitaire, Bubble Trouble and Word Pop...for when I'm stuck on BART, in doctors office, etc
- DateBk5...with all my important appointments, reminders and birthdays
- DietLog...so I won't eat too much cause it's such a p.i.t.a. to enter everything
- SlovoEd...dictionary/thesaurus that I can't live without
- SmartList...so I can keep all sorts of useless databases...conversions, passwords (if only I could remember password to get into them), grocery lists, medical records, packing lists, list of state flowers-flags-capitols-etc, red hatter info, etc etc
- Photos of grandkid
- Address book so I can send postcards and call people not listed on cellphone
- Email addresses so I can send email when I get wireless
- DocsToGo so I have files handy and can get work done and write stories
- EReader so I can finish reading DaVinci Code and I Am No One You Know
- Alarms so I can remember to do everything I need to do on Palm Pilot
Okay, now it's confession time. I couldn't stand it. I had to have wireless internet. So I got comcast (must put reminder on to do list to cancel aol). I unwired my apartment. Got access to internet in desktop, laptop AND palm pilot. Wooooooweeeeeee. But...
This morning I woke up at 5am, like I have been doing every morning this week. I didn't want to turn on the light and wake up snorting hog (SH). So I snuck off into the living room to retrieve my palm pilot from my purse (must put alarm on PP to remind myself to take it to bed from now on), snuck back into bed, turned on palm pilot, surfed until the batteries ran out. Meanwhile SH wanted attention. My response... "Sorry, I've got Palmpilotitis."
Sunday, July 18, 2004
DeLovely
Oh no, I saw another sad movie. That's two sad ones in a row. Even hubby cried.
The best thing about it all though is....
I was the youngest one in the audience.
The best thing about it all though is....
I was the youngest one in the audience.
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
I Got a Gift In Vegas
Someone reads this blog. That someone knows that back in April while riding in my car on the way to the airport I got a new name. Well, truth is, that wasn't the first time I got the name. I think it happened once or twice earlier this year. Anyway, that someone gave me my own monogrammed dishtowel.
In case you can't read the fine print it says "Babe In Total Control of Herself"
In case you can't read the fine print it says "Babe In Total Control of Herself"
Friday, July 09, 2004
The morning after…
All night I have had dreams. Dreams where I am stuck in spray-on quick sand. That is, I have dreams when I get a chance to sleep… somehow we didn’t bother to order a crib for the squirming, kicking baby and I have no earplugs to drown out Snorting Hog (it’s ok…he knows I call him that and he thinks it’s funny).
Subliminally aware that I must try to tackle the bathroom before the maid knocks, I sneak out of bed. I’m relieved as I toss back the covers; the spray on nylons are still on my legs, not the sheets.
My eyes adjust to the brightness of the lights in the entirely white bathroom. As I look around I wonder if I can sneak some cleaner off the maids cart when she’s not looking. Not a chance… they have learned how to position carts to cut down the pilfering of those coveted little toiletry bottles.
So I step into the shower stall armed with the already dirt marbled washcloth and a bottle of shampoo. First I shower in case the spray-on nylons come off and stain some more. Surprise… the color remains on my legs. Meanwhile yesterday’s stains have now dried into smudges so tough they are fingernail resistant. I have no choice. I’m so embarrassed.
As soon as everyone is dressed, we head out for breakfast. I’m hidden behind dark glasses and look the other direction when the maid notes our departure. Wanting to avoid the risk of seeing her after the fact, I note that I should not return until the maid has performed all duties on our floor. Fortunately she has done so by the time we get back.
I open the door fearful of the maid’s retribution. The bright bathroom lights are on. I look inside. Yes, the bathroom is clean. It’s remarkably clean.
And on the vanity counter…
Prominently displayed…
I see…
A bottle of…
Industrial strength cleaner.
The next morning, I leave a $10 tip under the bottle.
Subliminally aware that I must try to tackle the bathroom before the maid knocks, I sneak out of bed. I’m relieved as I toss back the covers; the spray on nylons are still on my legs, not the sheets.
My eyes adjust to the brightness of the lights in the entirely white bathroom. As I look around I wonder if I can sneak some cleaner off the maids cart when she’s not looking. Not a chance… they have learned how to position carts to cut down the pilfering of those coveted little toiletry bottles.
So I step into the shower stall armed with the already dirt marbled washcloth and a bottle of shampoo. First I shower in case the spray-on nylons come off and stain some more. Surprise… the color remains on my legs. Meanwhile yesterday’s stains have now dried into smudges so tough they are fingernail resistant. I have no choice. I’m so embarrassed.
As soon as everyone is dressed, we head out for breakfast. I’m hidden behind dark glasses and look the other direction when the maid notes our departure. Wanting to avoid the risk of seeing her after the fact, I note that I should not return until the maid has performed all duties on our floor. Fortunately she has done so by the time we get back.
I open the door fearful of the maid’s retribution. The bright bathroom lights are on. I look inside. Yes, the bathroom is clean. It’s remarkably clean.
And on the vanity counter…
Prominently displayed…
I see…
A bottle of…
Industrial strength cleaner.
The next morning, I leave a $10 tip under the bottle.
Wedding continued
Since I have been asked about that “to be continued”….
The wedding goes without a hitch except… Bride and Groom get “hitched” by Rev. Bull #2, aka Auntie Marilyn, daughter of Rev. Bull #1. (I sense that Rev. Bull # 1 is probably twisting his spirits over the use of his preachers robe). The ceremony is successfully crammed into the allotted eight minutes chapel time.
Before the final chords of the processional are struck, the hotel photographer whisks everyone back into the chapel for his allotted 20 minute session. He’s well versed in stepping between anyone else’s cameras and the bride and groom just in the nick of time to prevent anyone from intruding in his business. I manage to catch a few shots, all of which include his shiny, baldhead.
All is well until the Mr. Photo Opt lines up bride and groom and both sets of parents and then insists all three couples kiss. After an uncomfortable resistance as the bride’s parents try to explain that they are divorced, and not on a friendly basis, the mandatory kisses are reluctantly performed. Mr. Photo Opt is oblivious.
So the wedding is a done and all is well. Time has come to move the party up to our room. People cram into our two bed, one sofa room just as I slam the bathroom door shut to hide my spray on nylon fiasco. Fifty hot, sweating, suffocating bodies raid the drink table, exhausting the short supply of ice. The AC is cranked to the top of the dial but it’s still hot enough to melt the whipped cream off the wedding cake. I take a couple of snapshots of bride and groom doing the cake thing and escape with JJ to the party sized bathroom. JJ tugs at his hot rayon shirt. I remove it. He dances around in his velvet shorts and bowtie like little Mr. Chippendale. I let him out into the crowd. He performs til the attention fades whereupon he throws via a full fledged, pre-two year old tantrum. It works. People start to leave.
The wedding goes without a hitch except… Bride and Groom get “hitched” by Rev. Bull #2, aka Auntie Marilyn, daughter of Rev. Bull #1. (I sense that Rev. Bull # 1 is probably twisting his spirits over the use of his preachers robe). The ceremony is successfully crammed into the allotted eight minutes chapel time.
Before the final chords of the processional are struck, the hotel photographer whisks everyone back into the chapel for his allotted 20 minute session. He’s well versed in stepping between anyone else’s cameras and the bride and groom just in the nick of time to prevent anyone from intruding in his business. I manage to catch a few shots, all of which include his shiny, baldhead.
All is well until the Mr. Photo Opt lines up bride and groom and both sets of parents and then insists all three couples kiss. After an uncomfortable resistance as the bride’s parents try to explain that they are divorced, and not on a friendly basis, the mandatory kisses are reluctantly performed. Mr. Photo Opt is oblivious.
So the wedding is a done and all is well. Time has come to move the party up to our room. People cram into our two bed, one sofa room just as I slam the bathroom door shut to hide my spray on nylon fiasco. Fifty hot, sweating, suffocating bodies raid the drink table, exhausting the short supply of ice. The AC is cranked to the top of the dial but it’s still hot enough to melt the whipped cream off the wedding cake. I take a couple of snapshots of bride and groom doing the cake thing and escape with JJ to the party sized bathroom. JJ tugs at his hot rayon shirt. I remove it. He dances around in his velvet shorts and bowtie like little Mr. Chippendale. I let him out into the crowd. He performs til the attention fades whereupon he throws via a full fledged, pre-two year old tantrum. It works. People start to leave.
Wednesday, June 30, 2004
45 Minutes Before the Wedding
I’ve been wandering around Las Vegas with my sister for six hours in over 100 degree heat. I have 45 minutes to get ready for the wedding and I have 16 month old JJ who has not had a nap. Fortunately JJ has discovered the white tiled bathroom, bigger than any bedroom I’ve ever had, is a great place to hang out and screech. Thus figuring he would be entertained, I step into the shower, keeping an eye on him through the clear glass door. While I wash my hair, his screams echo off the walls. Then silence. He has disappeared from my sight. So I do a rush rinse job and slip across the cold white tile. JJ is amusing himself in the little room where the toilet resides. He’s tearing toilet paper into tiny bits and dropping bits piece by piece into the toilet. He has also managed to wash his hands in there plus he’s tugging at his diapers, his signal that they are full of poop.
I decide the best option would be to put JJ in the bathtub. No sooner is he in there, when the phone rings. No problem. This bathroom happens to have a phone in it. The call is the anxious bridesmaid asking for help zipping up the brides dress. I politely explain my situation and suggest she call the bride’s mother.
While I’m drying my hair, JJ learns how to turn on the faucet. I toss in a couple of paper coffee cups to distract him. This works long enough to finish drying my hair and apply one half of my face. Now I toss in the plastic soap dish figuring that would be good for a few extra minutes.
Not wanting to wear nylons in the Las Vegas heat and seeing that JJ is still entertained, I figure this would be a good opportunity to try out a new product I recently discovered - spray on nylons. So I step back in the shower stall. While keeping an eye on JJ, I evenly spray both legs, up and down, all around. Hmmm, looks good but perhaps a bit more would look better. So I spray again.
JJ has had enough of the bathtub now and is dumping soggy coffee cups of water all over the floor. His shriveled fingers indicate that he’s had plenty of time in the bathtub. As I wrap him in his towel, I notice my nude-beige footprints across the white tile. I utter a bemused “oh oh” which happens to be JJ’s favorite expression these days which triggers him to dance around the bathroom screeching “oh oh” at the top of his lungs. Now we have little footprints marching all over the big ones.
I get down on my shiny, polished knees with a fluffy white washcloth and try to clean up the mess. JJ, being the imitator that he is, does the same. I end up with two skin brown marbled rags and a floor that looks like a mudroom recently visited by rubber booted children returning from a mud pie party. So I dump a bit of shampoo on the floor and scrub until the prints fade into pale pinkish blobs. The shower door is still open. I look in there. The 4x4 white tiled cubicle now resembles the cage of an elephant with diarrhea. Meanwhile, hubby comes back (he’s been out playing slot machines) and announces that we have five minutes to get down to the wedding chapel. Before we get out the door the phone rings again. It’s our son, the groom, letting me know that the wedding cake will be arriving any minute and our room has been selected for the reception.
To be continued…
I decide the best option would be to put JJ in the bathtub. No sooner is he in there, when the phone rings. No problem. This bathroom happens to have a phone in it. The call is the anxious bridesmaid asking for help zipping up the brides dress. I politely explain my situation and suggest she call the bride’s mother.
While I’m drying my hair, JJ learns how to turn on the faucet. I toss in a couple of paper coffee cups to distract him. This works long enough to finish drying my hair and apply one half of my face. Now I toss in the plastic soap dish figuring that would be good for a few extra minutes.
Not wanting to wear nylons in the Las Vegas heat and seeing that JJ is still entertained, I figure this would be a good opportunity to try out a new product I recently discovered - spray on nylons. So I step back in the shower stall. While keeping an eye on JJ, I evenly spray both legs, up and down, all around. Hmmm, looks good but perhaps a bit more would look better. So I spray again.
JJ has had enough of the bathtub now and is dumping soggy coffee cups of water all over the floor. His shriveled fingers indicate that he’s had plenty of time in the bathtub. As I wrap him in his towel, I notice my nude-beige footprints across the white tile. I utter a bemused “oh oh” which happens to be JJ’s favorite expression these days which triggers him to dance around the bathroom screeching “oh oh” at the top of his lungs. Now we have little footprints marching all over the big ones.
I get down on my shiny, polished knees with a fluffy white washcloth and try to clean up the mess. JJ, being the imitator that he is, does the same. I end up with two skin brown marbled rags and a floor that looks like a mudroom recently visited by rubber booted children returning from a mud pie party. So I dump a bit of shampoo on the floor and scrub until the prints fade into pale pinkish blobs. The shower door is still open. I look in there. The 4x4 white tiled cubicle now resembles the cage of an elephant with diarrhea. Meanwhile, hubby comes back (he’s been out playing slot machines) and announces that we have five minutes to get down to the wedding chapel. Before we get out the door the phone rings again. It’s our son, the groom, letting me know that the wedding cake will be arriving any minute and our room has been selected for the reception.
To be continued…
Monday, June 28, 2004
Las Vegas Here We Come
Following the instructions on our Internet processed e-tickets, we arrive at the airport two hours prior to flight time; “we” being me, hubby and 16 month old grandson, JJ. Somehow we manage to juggle two suitcases (one with broken wheels), two shoulder sagging carry-ons, one baby who suffers from lack of sleep and breakfast, and one easy-to-collapse-umbrella stroller unto the shuttle bus, off the shuttle bus, and through the three rope check-in line. So far, so good.
Approaching the security check-point with hastened steps, we screech to an abrupt stop at the end of a 10 rope line. JJ starts to kick the nice young couple in front of us. As we start to offer apologies, a special needs security guard motions for us to come over to his line. We are relieved to discover we are eligible for the express line due to our accompanying infant. Just ahead of us we see our son and his bride are also getting this special express service. We wonder if it’s because they are carrying a wedding gown or because the bride is obviously pregnant. I try to explain to the guard how JJ would be much more at ease through this transition if he could be left in the stroller. No way. So we hold up the line while we unbuckle the baby, remove him from stroller, and juggle our two carry-ons, all while attempting fit the not-so easy-to-collapse-umbrella stroller through the monitoring tunnel. We are thankful that we are not asked to remove our shoes.
By now JJ decides breakfast is long overdue. He kicks and screams while I try to strap him back into the stroller just as the overloaded diaper bag drops off my shoulder and whacks the stroller across the room. Of course hubby is too busy gathering together his carry-on and reclaiming his jacket to notice the stroller working it’s way down the sloped ramp. I scoop up JJ, who has now squirmed his way down to the floor, and catch the runaway stroller just before it slams into a young couple grappling with their own screaming toddler.
Next stop – breakfast. It looks like the easiest and safest bet is the most overpriced item on the menu board, a Frequent Flyer Croissant. I order two croissants, two coffees and orange juice while hubby wrestles baby from stroller to a high chair that he has dragged out from behind a computer geek who is so absorbed in his laptop that he can’t scoot his chair in even an inch to make things easier. Hubby and I exchange places. I try to amuse JJ with cheerios while hubby waits for our order. JJ is throwing cheerios at the computer geek (who still has not budged) by the time we get our food. I pick apart my soggy croissant offering the scrambled egg to JJ. He eats as if he hadn’t been fed in days and grabs the bottle of orange juice, pouring half of it down his new shirt before I get my first bite. Next thing I know, he’s dancing on top of the high chair making raspberry sounds at the computer geek, who still has not moved. I give up, wrap up what’s left of my breakfast, put screaming baby in stroller, and head to the waiting area. Hubby lags behind with both carry-ons.
We have an hour left before flight time. I eat the soggy and cold croissant as I chase JJ around, up and over the seats and tables, apologizing as we stumble over baggage and feet. The announcement for people with small children to board comes 20 minutes before flight time and to me it seems completely inept to load children on early, so I take JJ to the ladies room for a quick diaper change. I return him to hubby and go back to the ladies room wishing I hadn't gulped down all that coffee. Then I realize that I have not washed the sour milk out of JJ’s morning bottle so I head back to the ladies room once again with moments to spare as the final boarding call is announced.
And so we are on the plane. The plane does not move. There is some mumbling going on near the cockpit. A flight attendant picks up the phone, “sorry there will be a slight delay due to a mechanical problem.” JJ is bouncing back and forth across our laps, hubby scrunched in middle seat and me on the aisle, in coach seating. Son and his bride sit in their upgraded first class seats sipping free drinks (next time I’m going to carry on a bridal dress). After a 20 minute struggle, a flight attendant suggests that I run JJ up and down the ramp a few times. We get to run up and down for 40 minutes before it is decided that we can safely take off. JJ is now wound up and it takes half the flight to get him to sleep. He is not happy when we land, place him back in the stroller, and haul him around to collect baggage, get our hotel room keys, and arrange the rental car. He is not happy when we lift him, stroller and all, into the shuttle bus. He is not happy when we release him from the stroller and confine him to a car seat.
We arrive at Caesar’s. We miss the valet sign and end up in the self-parking section. It’s over 100 degrees and we have no luggage cart and must walk a quarter mile around construction zone. Once inside the cool casino, JJ perks up. His eyes widen, his arms swing, and his screams of delight are muted by din of slots, screeching winners and resounding music. He laughs at his image in the elevator mirror. At last we approach our room. We dump our luggage at the door and put the card key in the slot. There seems to be some commotion in the room. “Yikes” a young lady wails. It seems the room is already occupied.
To be continued.
Approaching the security check-point with hastened steps, we screech to an abrupt stop at the end of a 10 rope line. JJ starts to kick the nice young couple in front of us. As we start to offer apologies, a special needs security guard motions for us to come over to his line. We are relieved to discover we are eligible for the express line due to our accompanying infant. Just ahead of us we see our son and his bride are also getting this special express service. We wonder if it’s because they are carrying a wedding gown or because the bride is obviously pregnant. I try to explain to the guard how JJ would be much more at ease through this transition if he could be left in the stroller. No way. So we hold up the line while we unbuckle the baby, remove him from stroller, and juggle our two carry-ons, all while attempting fit the not-so easy-to-collapse-umbrella stroller through the monitoring tunnel. We are thankful that we are not asked to remove our shoes.
By now JJ decides breakfast is long overdue. He kicks and screams while I try to strap him back into the stroller just as the overloaded diaper bag drops off my shoulder and whacks the stroller across the room. Of course hubby is too busy gathering together his carry-on and reclaiming his jacket to notice the stroller working it’s way down the sloped ramp. I scoop up JJ, who has now squirmed his way down to the floor, and catch the runaway stroller just before it slams into a young couple grappling with their own screaming toddler.
Next stop – breakfast. It looks like the easiest and safest bet is the most overpriced item on the menu board, a Frequent Flyer Croissant. I order two croissants, two coffees and orange juice while hubby wrestles baby from stroller to a high chair that he has dragged out from behind a computer geek who is so absorbed in his laptop that he can’t scoot his chair in even an inch to make things easier. Hubby and I exchange places. I try to amuse JJ with cheerios while hubby waits for our order. JJ is throwing cheerios at the computer geek (who still has not budged) by the time we get our food. I pick apart my soggy croissant offering the scrambled egg to JJ. He eats as if he hadn’t been fed in days and grabs the bottle of orange juice, pouring half of it down his new shirt before I get my first bite. Next thing I know, he’s dancing on top of the high chair making raspberry sounds at the computer geek, who still has not moved. I give up, wrap up what’s left of my breakfast, put screaming baby in stroller, and head to the waiting area. Hubby lags behind with both carry-ons.
We have an hour left before flight time. I eat the soggy and cold croissant as I chase JJ around, up and over the seats and tables, apologizing as we stumble over baggage and feet. The announcement for people with small children to board comes 20 minutes before flight time and to me it seems completely inept to load children on early, so I take JJ to the ladies room for a quick diaper change. I return him to hubby and go back to the ladies room wishing I hadn't gulped down all that coffee. Then I realize that I have not washed the sour milk out of JJ’s morning bottle so I head back to the ladies room once again with moments to spare as the final boarding call is announced.
And so we are on the plane. The plane does not move. There is some mumbling going on near the cockpit. A flight attendant picks up the phone, “sorry there will be a slight delay due to a mechanical problem.” JJ is bouncing back and forth across our laps, hubby scrunched in middle seat and me on the aisle, in coach seating. Son and his bride sit in their upgraded first class seats sipping free drinks (next time I’m going to carry on a bridal dress). After a 20 minute struggle, a flight attendant suggests that I run JJ up and down the ramp a few times. We get to run up and down for 40 minutes before it is decided that we can safely take off. JJ is now wound up and it takes half the flight to get him to sleep. He is not happy when we land, place him back in the stroller, and haul him around to collect baggage, get our hotel room keys, and arrange the rental car. He is not happy when we lift him, stroller and all, into the shuttle bus. He is not happy when we release him from the stroller and confine him to a car seat.
We arrive at Caesar’s. We miss the valet sign and end up in the self-parking section. It’s over 100 degrees and we have no luggage cart and must walk a quarter mile around construction zone. Once inside the cool casino, JJ perks up. His eyes widen, his arms swing, and his screams of delight are muted by din of slots, screeching winners and resounding music. He laughs at his image in the elevator mirror. At last we approach our room. We dump our luggage at the door and put the card key in the slot. There seems to be some commotion in the room. “Yikes” a young lady wails. It seems the room is already occupied.
To be continued.
Sunday, June 27, 2004
Las Vegas
We went to Las Vegas. JJ went with us. Chris and Michelle got married.
The rest of the pictures are on PictureTrail
There are lots of stories to tell but I am way too tired, plus JJ is still clinging to my side.
The rest of the pictures are on PictureTrail
There are lots of stories to tell but I am way too tired, plus JJ is still clinging to my side.
Sunday, June 20, 2004
Mutterings
Read an article in the newspaper this morning. About bloggers. It seems there are over 2.5 million blogs. Some of them are long ago abandoned. We lose interest in blogging. I haven't lost interest. I still enjoy putting some words out there once in a while. Even if I have only a few readers. So what. I do it for me.
Haven't done mutterings.bmp for a while. So here it is.
Haven't done mutterings.bmp for a while. So here it is.
- Abundance:: simple
- Casino:: where i'll be in wednesday
- Shell:: oil
- Overpriced:: neiman marcus
- Cancellation:: waiver
- Eternal:: hope
- Lyrics:: songs
- Faith:: hope
- Because:: i said so
- Wimp:: hmmmmmm, rather not say
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