My dog almost died today.
Now many of you might be thinking, “Aw, did she have a close call with a car? Was she sick? Did aliens transport her to their mother ship for a week to conduct experiments on her and forget to feed her?” No, no, and no.
I almost killed her today.
I was lead to believe that I might have five minutes to myself this afternoon, so I chose to spend my time in the bath tub. No five minute scrub, rinse, ta da I’m clean kind of bath, more of a hot tub of bubbles I felt like relaxing in and ultimately taking a nap in for the better part of the day. About half way into my steaming, I was covered in soap, conditioner in my hair, when my brother decided to come home early, let the dogs out, and my dog Abigail decided to make a beeline for the main street.
For some reason my brother couldn’t capture her on his own so he comes running up the stairs and pounds on the door informing me that I need to get my ass out of the bath tub and help him.
With what I consider to be a minimal amount of swearing, I hauled myself from my sweet, cozy tub, soap suds and all, threw on whatever clothes I could reach, which just so happened to be my pajamas, and ran out the door. Minutes later I found myself uptown, still wet, and wearing nothing but a tank top, shorts, and tennis shoes, dragging that BITCH home as she pulled to get away and keep running, happily panting, ignorant or indifferent to my rage-- still not sure which.
I could of killed her.
I should of killed her.
Oh, and happy New Year.
Wednesday, December 31, 2003
Monday, December 29, 2003
Hun. I guess I can settle for this.
You are the exotic pin-up. Nothing about you is
ordinary. You are mysterious and lean toward
foreign places and exciting men.
What Type Of Retro Gal Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
Snatched from sffan.
"Shall I compare thee to a Sony Walkman."
You know those e-mails from West Africa everyone gets? They all say something like, “So and so died and they had a ton of money but they have no family. Boo hoo. So if you just give us your bank info we’ll forward a trillion bucks into your account.”
Then they misspell a bunch of words, forget their punctuation and capitalization and we‘re supposed to think that some layers or big businesses doesn‘t use spell check. Well, apparently, there are some people who actually believe those letters. This guy
spent about $320,000 and still thinks that “"There was never any attempt by them to defraud me…"”
Whoa. Poor guy, but whoa. I don’t think he deserved to lose that much, but… whoa, you IDIOT.
About a year ago a good friend of mine was trying to sell her lap top. I don’t remember what site she used but she posted a few ads about it online. One of the first responses she got was from a Nigerian man. He was willing to pay more than twice what she wanted for the lap top.
And yes, this is the time where we started joking about counterfeit money and scams.
The catch was that he couldn’t just send her the money in American cash because in Africa it would take a few weeks to get his money changed into American currency, and he wanted the lap top now. He was even willing to pay the crazy price to get it sent to him in just a day or two. So, he was going to send my friend a large sum of money in Nigerian currency and have her change it into American, keep what she needed, and send the lap top, and the rest of the American cash, quite a sizable amount, back to him.
Now my friend, in all her intelligent glory, said, “this guy is either crazy to trust me with all this money, or it’s fake… I don’t care”. Of course it didn’t work out. Convinced that she was going to get caught, sent to some high security prison and made into some scary woman’s bitch and we’d have to bake her a cake with a file in it, her friends talked her out of her life of counterfeit crime. She contacted the local police and told them about the man so they were the ones who received the fake money, and my poor friend had to sell her lap top to some lady in West Virginia for a reasonable price.
The Bad Sex in Fiction Awards.
The best you ask? I vote Sean Thomas and his win in 2000 for Kissing England.
"It is time, time ... Now. Yes. She is so small and compact and yet she has all the necessary features ... Shall I compare thee to a Sony Walkman. She is his own Toshiba, his dinky little JVC, his sweet Aiwa ... Aiwa"
Then they misspell a bunch of words, forget their punctuation and capitalization and we‘re supposed to think that some layers or big businesses doesn‘t use spell check. Well, apparently, there are some people who actually believe those letters. This guy
spent about $320,000 and still thinks that “"There was never any attempt by them to defraud me…"”
Whoa. Poor guy, but whoa. I don’t think he deserved to lose that much, but… whoa, you IDIOT.
About a year ago a good friend of mine was trying to sell her lap top. I don’t remember what site she used but she posted a few ads about it online. One of the first responses she got was from a Nigerian man. He was willing to pay more than twice what she wanted for the lap top.
And yes, this is the time where we started joking about counterfeit money and scams.
The catch was that he couldn’t just send her the money in American cash because in Africa it would take a few weeks to get his money changed into American currency, and he wanted the lap top now. He was even willing to pay the crazy price to get it sent to him in just a day or two. So, he was going to send my friend a large sum of money in Nigerian currency and have her change it into American, keep what she needed, and send the lap top, and the rest of the American cash, quite a sizable amount, back to him.
Now my friend, in all her intelligent glory, said, “this guy is either crazy to trust me with all this money, or it’s fake… I don’t care”. Of course it didn’t work out. Convinced that she was going to get caught, sent to some high security prison and made into some scary woman’s bitch and we’d have to bake her a cake with a file in it, her friends talked her out of her life of counterfeit crime. She contacted the local police and told them about the man so they were the ones who received the fake money, and my poor friend had to sell her lap top to some lady in West Virginia for a reasonable price.
The Bad Sex in Fiction Awards.
The best you ask? I vote Sean Thomas and his win in 2000 for Kissing England.
"It is time, time ... Now. Yes. She is so small and compact and yet she has all the necessary features ... Shall I compare thee to a Sony Walkman. She is his own Toshiba, his dinky little JVC, his sweet Aiwa ... Aiwa"
Friday, December 26, 2003
"There's More Than One Way To Eat A Kaythryn."
Hum… maybe you shouldn’t enter your name as a word on this site.
"You Can Really Taste The Kaythryn!"
"The Best Part of Waking Up is Kaythryn in Your Cup"
"More Kaythryn Please."
On second though, yes, enter your name.
My grandfather died when I was five. I didn’t know what was going on. I sat by his hospital bed and held his hand, asked him to tell me stories but he couldn’t speak.
He was dying of lung cancer.
I wasn’t even really sad. Nothing seemed quite real at that age. I remember at his funeral everyone was fighting and crying and all I remember of my emotions was that I felt guilty for not crying like everyone else.
My mother talks about him a lot and it’s hard to say if he was a good man or not.
I loved him.
He made me toys, cooked steak and corn on the cob every time I came over, gave me the orange Popsicles from the top of the freezer, and would hold me in one hand whenever we went anywhere. The mean old man that he was wore a little bright colored pointed birthday hat and blew on a kazoo for me at my birthday.
I brought him a plastic dove one day and he spun me a story about how the dove used to be a real flesh and blood dove. There was a beautiful tree in the story, and as the dove was flying, which he demonstrated with the toy, it turned to plastic and came to me.
He wasn’t always so sweet, though. He left his wife and his six kids from that marriage repeatedly for months or years at a time with no money while he spent it all on women, fancy hats and his life long addiction to alcohol.
But he also did little things that seem so good. When he was home he’d bring in injured animals he’d find and nurse them back to health. Owls, mountain lions, and raccoons, oh my.
On the other side, while he was a drunk, he was an abusive drunk. He beat my grandmother, the three boys, my uncles and occasionally his daughters, my aunts. And my grandfather wasn’t a little man. He was almost seven feet tall, clown feet, big ears and hands so large and rough that he used to take the turkey out of the oven on thanksgiving with one bare hand. He was an oil field man. Rough, crazy strong, and scary as all get out to people that didn’t know him, and some that did. He kept a shotgun in his truck, and one by his favorite chair in the livening room.
There was a coming of age thing for the men in the family. When you got old enough dad took you out in the backyard and beat the crap out of you to keep you in line. Then he’d kick you out. Most of the kids were out of the house by fourteen.
But he never hit my mother, since she was the baby, when I knew him my grandmother and aunts and uncles were all out of the house. He was just a giant old man who told me stories and let me climb all over him. He was so dark and weather beaten he even looked like an old tree.
He used to buy bikes and fix them up, then give them away to kids in the neighborhood who couldn’t afford them. He always said that every child deserved to have a bicycle. Streamers on the handles, red flag on the back and all.
My mother was always a lot like him. Not the abusive drunk part, but she’s always helping out other kids. It used to bother me a little when I was young. I’d wake up and come downstairs and some neighbor kid that I didn’t even know would be eating my cereal. She’d buy me a toy, and if she saw that a child broke his that day, she’d give him mine. She’d always go buy me that toy again, later that day, and I never went hungry, but as a kid it’s hard to understand. Hard not to be jealous.
The first time it hit me was when I was in pre-kindergarten. I remember the day perfectly. My mother had picked me up from the regular half day of school and had brought me McDonalds for lunch. A Kermit the Frog stuffed animal was the toy. As I was getting in our white van we saw a young boy drop his lunch by accident. Other children stepped on it, squished his sandwich into the ground and you could tell he was about to cry. This time I offered to give my lunch to the kid instead of my mum giving it away. Now it still sucked every time I found some little neighbor kid eating my cereal, playing with my toys, sleeping in my bed, or taking my mom’s attention, but it helped me to understand.
It doesn’t bother me now. I understand why she does it, and a lot of it has to do with how she was treated as a child. She remembers her father giving away bicycles to kids, and remembers when he abandoned her, how she’d have to spend the night at neighbors and eat breakfast with their kids. It took a few years for me to grow up and understand, but now I love it.
Today my father and younger brother went out skiing. My brother invited a bunch of his friends to go along, but many of their families couldn’t afford to pay almost the hundred bucks needed for an entrance fee, or pay to rent skis and snowboards. It didn’t matter. I can just imagine my grandfather saying “every kid should get a chance to ski”.
I took the girls up to my room and gave them sweaters, extra pairs of socks, a warmer coat, and snow pants. My brother and father helped the boys get dressed in some of their other winter clothes. I gave my snowboard to one boy, and my father gave another his old skis. Hats and gloves got passed around before they all ran out the door, and my mother treated them to a day at the ski lodge. Kind of a belated Christmas gift.
There are just some songs I absolutely love-- mostly from the seventies and eighties. I don’t pay that much attention to the lyrics, and I don’t appreciate music on the bases of complexity or difficulty, and I don’t usually pick up on subtle…stuff, but I do know what I like. The tambourine. I’ve been saying it for years and will keep on saying it, they need to bring the tambourine back into popular music! You cannot have a song with a tambourine in it that isn’t wonderful. There’s some sort of law you learn in physics that says so. And, yay, I got one for Christmas.
"You Can Really Taste The Kaythryn!"
"The Best Part of Waking Up is Kaythryn in Your Cup"
"More Kaythryn Please."
On second though, yes, enter your name.
He was dying of lung cancer.
I wasn’t even really sad. Nothing seemed quite real at that age. I remember at his funeral everyone was fighting and crying and all I remember of my emotions was that I felt guilty for not crying like everyone else.
My mother talks about him a lot and it’s hard to say if he was a good man or not.
I loved him.
He made me toys, cooked steak and corn on the cob every time I came over, gave me the orange Popsicles from the top of the freezer, and would hold me in one hand whenever we went anywhere. The mean old man that he was wore a little bright colored pointed birthday hat and blew on a kazoo for me at my birthday.
I brought him a plastic dove one day and he spun me a story about how the dove used to be a real flesh and blood dove. There was a beautiful tree in the story, and as the dove was flying, which he demonstrated with the toy, it turned to plastic and came to me.
He wasn’t always so sweet, though. He left his wife and his six kids from that marriage repeatedly for months or years at a time with no money while he spent it all on women, fancy hats and his life long addiction to alcohol.
But he also did little things that seem so good. When he was home he’d bring in injured animals he’d find and nurse them back to health. Owls, mountain lions, and raccoons, oh my.
On the other side, while he was a drunk, he was an abusive drunk. He beat my grandmother, the three boys, my uncles and occasionally his daughters, my aunts. And my grandfather wasn’t a little man. He was almost seven feet tall, clown feet, big ears and hands so large and rough that he used to take the turkey out of the oven on thanksgiving with one bare hand. He was an oil field man. Rough, crazy strong, and scary as all get out to people that didn’t know him, and some that did. He kept a shotgun in his truck, and one by his favorite chair in the livening room.
There was a coming of age thing for the men in the family. When you got old enough dad took you out in the backyard and beat the crap out of you to keep you in line. Then he’d kick you out. Most of the kids were out of the house by fourteen.
But he never hit my mother, since she was the baby, when I knew him my grandmother and aunts and uncles were all out of the house. He was just a giant old man who told me stories and let me climb all over him. He was so dark and weather beaten he even looked like an old tree.
He used to buy bikes and fix them up, then give them away to kids in the neighborhood who couldn’t afford them. He always said that every child deserved to have a bicycle. Streamers on the handles, red flag on the back and all.
My mother was always a lot like him. Not the abusive drunk part, but she’s always helping out other kids. It used to bother me a little when I was young. I’d wake up and come downstairs and some neighbor kid that I didn’t even know would be eating my cereal. She’d buy me a toy, and if she saw that a child broke his that day, she’d give him mine. She’d always go buy me that toy again, later that day, and I never went hungry, but as a kid it’s hard to understand. Hard not to be jealous.
The first time it hit me was when I was in pre-kindergarten. I remember the day perfectly. My mother had picked me up from the regular half day of school and had brought me McDonalds for lunch. A Kermit the Frog stuffed animal was the toy. As I was getting in our white van we saw a young boy drop his lunch by accident. Other children stepped on it, squished his sandwich into the ground and you could tell he was about to cry. This time I offered to give my lunch to the kid instead of my mum giving it away. Now it still sucked every time I found some little neighbor kid eating my cereal, playing with my toys, sleeping in my bed, or taking my mom’s attention, but it helped me to understand.
It doesn’t bother me now. I understand why she does it, and a lot of it has to do with how she was treated as a child. She remembers her father giving away bicycles to kids, and remembers when he abandoned her, how she’d have to spend the night at neighbors and eat breakfast with their kids. It took a few years for me to grow up and understand, but now I love it.
Today my father and younger brother went out skiing. My brother invited a bunch of his friends to go along, but many of their families couldn’t afford to pay almost the hundred bucks needed for an entrance fee, or pay to rent skis and snowboards. It didn’t matter. I can just imagine my grandfather saying “every kid should get a chance to ski”.
I took the girls up to my room and gave them sweaters, extra pairs of socks, a warmer coat, and snow pants. My brother and father helped the boys get dressed in some of their other winter clothes. I gave my snowboard to one boy, and my father gave another his old skis. Hats and gloves got passed around before they all ran out the door, and my mother treated them to a day at the ski lodge. Kind of a belated Christmas gift.
There are just some songs I absolutely love-- mostly from the seventies and eighties. I don’t pay that much attention to the lyrics, and I don’t appreciate music on the bases of complexity or difficulty, and I don’t usually pick up on subtle…stuff, but I do know what I like. The tambourine. I’ve been saying it for years and will keep on saying it, they need to bring the tambourine back into popular music! You cannot have a song with a tambourine in it that isn’t wonderful. There’s some sort of law you learn in physics that says so. And, yay, I got one for Christmas.
Monday, December 22, 2003
"Oh, c'est fou! oh, oh"
My powers of persuasion win again.
Gifts from my grandmother came the other day and after a short stream of off the wall logic, my brother and I were allowed to open them early. I’ve got to say, gifts from the grandparents have gotten much, much better over the years. It could be that I’ve just grown into my artist grandmother’s tastes, but I do distinctly remember lime green and purple polka doted sweaters, and large floral blue china rabbits. This year, I got sexy black boots. Perfect fit, square toe, calf height, high heels, black leather, yummy, wonderful boots.
Saw Lord of the Rings a few days ago-- yeah, yeah, live journal is somewhat more like a slightly delayed journal. It was nice but quite exhausting. Up’s and downs and tears and laughs and back and fourth and running and crawling. By the end of the movie I just wanted to hug everyone and take a nap.
We went to see the movie at a little theater in a nearby town. When Gandalf smacked the steward guy, people laughed, when Frodo was stuck in the spider web people gasped, and when the ring was destroyed people cheered. It was a nice atmosphere, with two exceptions.
The young man and the young woman sitting behind me.
Now I don’t care if people talk a little during the flick, I don‘t care if they’re coming and going, and I don’t care if they’re making out, but this couple behind me was slowly causing my blood pressure to rise.
The man thought out loud though the entire movie while his girl chided him in a loud, high pitched voice.
“Shut up!”
“Is that guy Gollum? I guess he is.”
“Be quiet!”
“He sounds like him. He has stupid hair. How did he find the ring?”
“Who cares?”
“When does he find it? Why are they in that boat? Do they eat fish? They don’t really look like hobbits. Who is that guy playing him, it doesn’t look like him. Look, that guy, I think he’s gonna kill him. Yes, it’s Gollum. Yeah! That’s stupid. Why are they even showing them in a boat?”
Okay, take a deep breath. Then they started with the criticism, the insults, and the sarcastic mimicking.
I should’a gone all BC Kayt on their asses.
Got my Firefly: A Special Feature DVD today. It’s interesting. I have my own little opinions, views and thoughts on every little thing, and while I get to hear other people’s opinions on FFF.net and at #firefly, I’ve not had a chance to hear someone talk for three hours without getting interrupted. Like I said, interesting.
And todays fun link is...
The victorian sex cry generator!
Gifts from my grandmother came the other day and after a short stream of off the wall logic, my brother and I were allowed to open them early. I’ve got to say, gifts from the grandparents have gotten much, much better over the years. It could be that I’ve just grown into my artist grandmother’s tastes, but I do distinctly remember lime green and purple polka doted sweaters, and large floral blue china rabbits. This year, I got sexy black boots. Perfect fit, square toe, calf height, high heels, black leather, yummy, wonderful boots.
Saw Lord of the Rings a few days ago-- yeah, yeah, live journal is somewhat more like a slightly delayed journal. It was nice but quite exhausting. Up’s and downs and tears and laughs and back and fourth and running and crawling. By the end of the movie I just wanted to hug everyone and take a nap.
We went to see the movie at a little theater in a nearby town. When Gandalf smacked the steward guy, people laughed, when Frodo was stuck in the spider web people gasped, and when the ring was destroyed people cheered. It was a nice atmosphere, with two exceptions.
The young man and the young woman sitting behind me.
Now I don’t care if people talk a little during the flick, I don‘t care if they’re coming and going, and I don’t care if they’re making out, but this couple behind me was slowly causing my blood pressure to rise.
The man thought out loud though the entire movie while his girl chided him in a loud, high pitched voice.
“Shut up!”
“Is that guy Gollum? I guess he is.”
“Be quiet!”
“He sounds like him. He has stupid hair. How did he find the ring?”
“Who cares?”
“When does he find it? Why are they in that boat? Do they eat fish? They don’t really look like hobbits. Who is that guy playing him, it doesn’t look like him. Look, that guy, I think he’s gonna kill him. Yes, it’s Gollum. Yeah! That’s stupid. Why are they even showing them in a boat?”
Okay, take a deep breath. Then they started with the criticism, the insults, and the sarcastic mimicking.
I should’a gone all BC Kayt on their asses.
Got my Firefly: A Special Feature DVD today. It’s interesting. I have my own little opinions, views and thoughts on every little thing, and while I get to hear other people’s opinions on FFF.net and at #firefly, I’ve not had a chance to hear someone talk for three hours without getting interrupted. Like I said, interesting.
And todays fun link is...
The victorian sex cry generator!
Saturday, December 20, 2003
Wednesday, December 17, 2003
Go Chad, go Chad, it’s your country!
Ah, my FF DVD’s are it. *Swoon* I'd ask "how could they kick this show???" but I think that's been brought up before.
I think the depressing bit of the season is starting to hit everyone. I’ve been noticing more and more that nerves are frayed, tempers and running on high, and there have been more than a few weepy tears.
I need some new friends. New friends as in ones I can go to the movies with and eat chocolaty food with and tell stupid stories to and hug. Maybe not new friends, but just some. My bestest and closest friend, Sam, who was like a sister to me for more than ten years, well, we split up for some reason. Neither of us are quite sure why. We just stopped talking one day. Its somewhat funny looking back at it now. We used to talk at least a dozen times a day on the phone. Her father nicknamed me “breather” because we didn’t always talk when we were on the phone, just sit there and watch TV at our respective homes with the phone to our ears. We spent our weekends at each others home, caught tad poles together, she ran me over a few times with her four wheeler, I broke her finger during a football game. My family and I threw her birthday parties every year, her family took me to Cedar Point every few months. She wasn’t the best friend in the world, yeah, I know you’re reading this, but I’m right, but we were always with each other. Then, in tenth grade, we split, just went our separate ways.
That year I met my next best friend, God, the girl I hated, loathed, the year before. She had similar feelings for me. But we just clicked. The first time I went to her house her family was having a funeral in their back yard for one of her many cats. I hugged her as she cried. Then we jumped from the roof of her house, onto her trampoline, and into her pool that night during a lighting storm. The first time she came to my home we scooped up fluffs of hair my golden retriever dogs had shed, and chased each other around the neighborhood with the handfuls of disgusting stuff then sat in the middle of the street with our roller blades on and drank our melted ice cream. Later that day she fell while we were roller bading and broke her wrist. The rest of our evening was spent in the emergency room. I have no idea why she ever came back. After two years of friendship, she joined the Navy, we talk about once a month, but since neither of us are clingy, it just works.
When I started college I figured it would be a new chance to meet people. I tried, not all that hard I admit, but I did try. First year I met a little red head girl and a dark hair boy. The girl was always busy, we had to plan weeks ahead just to go do anything, and though she was sweet, she was pretty shy and really religious. The freaky kind of religious where you couldn’t debate it, insult it, joke about it, or really all in all talk about anything immoral. So, not so fun.
The guy-- cute, sweet, talkative, a bit shy but the opposite of the girl. He wanted to go out every night, wanted to talk for hours, and would be offended if I didn’t. Euh, to clingy.
I suppose it’s my fault. I should prance about and be all sociable, but I wish I could just skip all that and simply snap my fingers have a man to hold me while I sleep.
Damn my woman-ness and these horrid hormones!
Wow, I really don't know how to play this game, but it looks so purdy.
I think the depressing bit of the season is starting to hit everyone. I’ve been noticing more and more that nerves are frayed, tempers and running on high, and there have been more than a few weepy tears.
I need some new friends. New friends as in ones I can go to the movies with and eat chocolaty food with and tell stupid stories to and hug. Maybe not new friends, but just some. My bestest and closest friend, Sam, who was like a sister to me for more than ten years, well, we split up for some reason. Neither of us are quite sure why. We just stopped talking one day. Its somewhat funny looking back at it now. We used to talk at least a dozen times a day on the phone. Her father nicknamed me “breather” because we didn’t always talk when we were on the phone, just sit there and watch TV at our respective homes with the phone to our ears. We spent our weekends at each others home, caught tad poles together, she ran me over a few times with her four wheeler, I broke her finger during a football game. My family and I threw her birthday parties every year, her family took me to Cedar Point every few months. She wasn’t the best friend in the world, yeah, I know you’re reading this, but I’m right, but we were always with each other. Then, in tenth grade, we split, just went our separate ways.
That year I met my next best friend, God, the girl I hated, loathed, the year before. She had similar feelings for me. But we just clicked. The first time I went to her house her family was having a funeral in their back yard for one of her many cats. I hugged her as she cried. Then we jumped from the roof of her house, onto her trampoline, and into her pool that night during a lighting storm. The first time she came to my home we scooped up fluffs of hair my golden retriever dogs had shed, and chased each other around the neighborhood with the handfuls of disgusting stuff then sat in the middle of the street with our roller blades on and drank our melted ice cream. Later that day she fell while we were roller bading and broke her wrist. The rest of our evening was spent in the emergency room. I have no idea why she ever came back. After two years of friendship, she joined the Navy, we talk about once a month, but since neither of us are clingy, it just works.
When I started college I figured it would be a new chance to meet people. I tried, not all that hard I admit, but I did try. First year I met a little red head girl and a dark hair boy. The girl was always busy, we had to plan weeks ahead just to go do anything, and though she was sweet, she was pretty shy and really religious. The freaky kind of religious where you couldn’t debate it, insult it, joke about it, or really all in all talk about anything immoral. So, not so fun.
The guy-- cute, sweet, talkative, a bit shy but the opposite of the girl. He wanted to go out every night, wanted to talk for hours, and would be offended if I didn’t. Euh, to clingy.
I suppose it’s my fault. I should prance about and be all sociable, but I wish I could just skip all that and simply snap my fingers have a man to hold me while I sleep.
Damn my woman-ness and these horrid hormones!
Wow, I really don't know how to play this game, but it looks so purdy.
Sunday, December 14, 2003
Friday, December 12, 2003
Let me introduce you to, Fishy Thingy On Hook!
I didn't make this one, but it made me think of Sarah.
And if you want to make your own.
I didn't make this one, but it made me think of Sarah.
And if you want to make your own.
Thursday, December 11, 2003
Got no title and I don't care.
Beware of the Hazards of the Season.
Sometimes I wonder if other families are as quirky as mine is.
Just a few minutes ago my whole family was congregating in my parents room talking about politics, Linkin Park, and when to open Christmas gifts. As usual, we all gathered on my parents bed, because it’s just so freaking huge, as we talked. Soon I started to frezze because for some reason my parents leave their windows open in the middle of winter, so I curled myself around my mother so she can scratch my back as my brother tried to crack my toes and I repeatedly kicked him. Then two of our dogs, Lou and Abby decide they should be able to lounge with us. They jump up, Abby, a golden retriever, seated herself quite comfortably (for herself) on my hip, and Lou, a beagle-mix-thing, landed squarely on my cat Cleo, who was sleeping under the blankets and between my fathers legs. Needless to say, she didn’t like the pouncing all that much, and neither did my father. With a minimal amount of clawing, scratching, and screeching, she removed herself and began making a nest in one of my father’s hats. And then began the Devil talk.
The Devil talk is the tone in our voice we use when the dogs do something bad. They tear up the trash and our voice gets really loud and starts to sound a bit like Darth Vader‘s-- “BAD DOG! LOOK AT THIS! GET OUTSIDE RIGHT THIS MINUITE! GRRRR!” The whole house will shake and small children and animals will cower. Tonight, my brother was using it as a mind control technique.
He grabbed Lou, our beagle, made him look straight into his eyes, and started talking his Devil talk real quietly. “I am your God. You must obey me and in return I will grant your one wish.” He leaned close listening to the dog. “…Oh! You want me to shoot this rubber band at Kayt? Okay!”
From the devil talk we went into let’s beat up Jake, to dad has weird toes, to wrestle with all the dogs while mum tries to sleep, to let’s drive the cats crazy with the flash light, to tickle Kayt while she screams until she runs away then slinks back, to my dad dancing around with a Snoop dog-rapper looking hat on, to which one of our pets would we eat first if we were stuck out in the wilderness?, to how should we cook the cats and dogs?, and on and on.
They’re freaks.
Sometimes I wonder if other families are as quirky as mine is.
Just a few minutes ago my whole family was congregating in my parents room talking about politics, Linkin Park, and when to open Christmas gifts. As usual, we all gathered on my parents bed, because it’s just so freaking huge, as we talked. Soon I started to frezze because for some reason my parents leave their windows open in the middle of winter, so I curled myself around my mother so she can scratch my back as my brother tried to crack my toes and I repeatedly kicked him. Then two of our dogs, Lou and Abby decide they should be able to lounge with us. They jump up, Abby, a golden retriever, seated herself quite comfortably (for herself) on my hip, and Lou, a beagle-mix-thing, landed squarely on my cat Cleo, who was sleeping under the blankets and between my fathers legs. Needless to say, she didn’t like the pouncing all that much, and neither did my father. With a minimal amount of clawing, scratching, and screeching, she removed herself and began making a nest in one of my father’s hats. And then began the Devil talk.
The Devil talk is the tone in our voice we use when the dogs do something bad. They tear up the trash and our voice gets really loud and starts to sound a bit like Darth Vader‘s-- “BAD DOG! LOOK AT THIS! GET OUTSIDE RIGHT THIS MINUITE! GRRRR!” The whole house will shake and small children and animals will cower. Tonight, my brother was using it as a mind control technique.
He grabbed Lou, our beagle, made him look straight into his eyes, and started talking his Devil talk real quietly. “I am your God. You must obey me and in return I will grant your one wish.” He leaned close listening to the dog. “…Oh! You want me to shoot this rubber band at Kayt? Okay!”
From the devil talk we went into let’s beat up Jake, to dad has weird toes, to wrestle with all the dogs while mum tries to sleep, to let’s drive the cats crazy with the flash light, to tickle Kayt while she screams until she runs away then slinks back, to my dad dancing around with a Snoop dog-rapper looking hat on, to which one of our pets would we eat first if we were stuck out in the wilderness?, to how should we cook the cats and dogs?, and on and on.
They’re freaks.
Wednesday, December 10, 2003
Tuesday, December 9, 2003
Just call me “Queen of Giant Eagle’s parking lot mutated pigeons.”
No, really.
I took my little brother into Columbus the other day to do some Christmas shopping-- quite a successful outing by the way. Around lunch time we swung though the McDonalds drive though for a quick drink that ended up to be a lunch, and also ended up being not so quick. So we stopped in the middle of Giant Eagle’s parking lot to finish our lunch before heading back into the crazed Christmas shopping crowd and as soon as I put the car in park about five big birds started waddling over to us. Now this is quite strange for me… the birds I’m used to are little brown, nervous things that peck and fly away as soon as you make eye contact with them. These Giant Eagle birds looked kinda like pigeons, but were about three times that size, white, and had either flat blue wings, or brown spotted ones.
My brother and I passed the time munching on French fries, talking about what stores to stop at next, and how strange these few birds were. Anytime a car drove by a stray bird would waddle slowly and carelessly away, and my brother and I would shout at the car, and pray for the life of our bird. It didn’t take long before we just had to feed them.
I rolled my window down, really I pushed a button and it rolled down, and threw a French fry out the window. Good lord the birds went crazy! Some were flying in the air to get above the ones searching the asphalt to get at the fried food, others just cried because they couldn’t get close, and still others nipped at their neighbors. This turned out to be wonderful entertainment for my brother and I. We would roll down our windows and throw out French fries and quickly roll the window back up again because the birds seemed quite willing to come inside for more food.
This entertainment quickly turned into a competition when I referred to one bird as my favorite, a plump thing with no neck, blue wings, and seemingly only one leg, I called him Gimpy. He was loyal to me, and would only eat French fries thrown from my window, not my brothers.
Well, my brother wouldn’t stand for that. He soon named one of his birds Lucky because it was almost run over by a car while we were sitting there. Then he started throwing more French fries to his birds. After just a few throws more birds had flown over from other parts of the parking lot to his side, he had about thirty “subjects” in his kingdom. His mutated pigeons loved him more, even a few of my birds waddled over to his side… you could say they abandoned me, but I say I cast them out.
This went on and on, French fires thrown from windows, or the sun roof, and birds crazily chasing after them. At one point I threw a handful of fries, but with my stellar aim they hit the part of the window and fell in my lap. The birds started going crazy and flying up, so I quickly tried to roll my window up, but instead hit the button for it to go down-- yeah my brother and I freaked and just started pushing crazed birds out of the car as fast as we could. Every once in awhile we counted the birds on our side of the car to see who was winning. He had thirty some, I had less than twenty.
But I had a strategy to winning in the long run. My brother’s a big guy, a wrestler, football player, track runner, all around I-can-kick-your-ass kinda guy, he also eats lots of fries. When he was out I threw the rest of my French fries out the window and attracted a crowd of birds that could probably be seen from orbit.
They loved me, the mutated pigeons really loved me!
Wow, it’s times like this when I really feel like I should just grow up a bit.
On more important news, I touched the official Firefly DVD’s today! I can’t buy them because I’m sure that I’m getting them for Christmas, but I walked past Samgoody today and there they were, right up front. I had to go inside and just hold them for a minute.
And I knew it.
I took my little brother into Columbus the other day to do some Christmas shopping-- quite a successful outing by the way. Around lunch time we swung though the McDonalds drive though for a quick drink that ended up to be a lunch, and also ended up being not so quick. So we stopped in the middle of Giant Eagle’s parking lot to finish our lunch before heading back into the crazed Christmas shopping crowd and as soon as I put the car in park about five big birds started waddling over to us. Now this is quite strange for me… the birds I’m used to are little brown, nervous things that peck and fly away as soon as you make eye contact with them. These Giant Eagle birds looked kinda like pigeons, but were about three times that size, white, and had either flat blue wings, or brown spotted ones.
My brother and I passed the time munching on French fries, talking about what stores to stop at next, and how strange these few birds were. Anytime a car drove by a stray bird would waddle slowly and carelessly away, and my brother and I would shout at the car, and pray for the life of our bird. It didn’t take long before we just had to feed them.
I rolled my window down, really I pushed a button and it rolled down, and threw a French fry out the window. Good lord the birds went crazy! Some were flying in the air to get above the ones searching the asphalt to get at the fried food, others just cried because they couldn’t get close, and still others nipped at their neighbors. This turned out to be wonderful entertainment for my brother and I. We would roll down our windows and throw out French fries and quickly roll the window back up again because the birds seemed quite willing to come inside for more food.
This entertainment quickly turned into a competition when I referred to one bird as my favorite, a plump thing with no neck, blue wings, and seemingly only one leg, I called him Gimpy. He was loyal to me, and would only eat French fries thrown from my window, not my brothers.
Well, my brother wouldn’t stand for that. He soon named one of his birds Lucky because it was almost run over by a car while we were sitting there. Then he started throwing more French fries to his birds. After just a few throws more birds had flown over from other parts of the parking lot to his side, he had about thirty “subjects” in his kingdom. His mutated pigeons loved him more, even a few of my birds waddled over to his side… you could say they abandoned me, but I say I cast them out.
This went on and on, French fires thrown from windows, or the sun roof, and birds crazily chasing after them. At one point I threw a handful of fries, but with my stellar aim they hit the part of the window and fell in my lap. The birds started going crazy and flying up, so I quickly tried to roll my window up, but instead hit the button for it to go down-- yeah my brother and I freaked and just started pushing crazed birds out of the car as fast as we could. Every once in awhile we counted the birds on our side of the car to see who was winning. He had thirty some, I had less than twenty.
But I had a strategy to winning in the long run. My brother’s a big guy, a wrestler, football player, track runner, all around I-can-kick-your-ass kinda guy, he also eats lots of fries. When he was out I threw the rest of my French fries out the window and attracted a crowd of birds that could probably be seen from orbit.
They loved me, the mutated pigeons really loved me!
Wow, it’s times like this when I really feel like I should just grow up a bit.
On more important news, I touched the official Firefly DVD’s today! I can’t buy them because I’m sure that I’m getting them for Christmas, but I walked past Samgoody today and there they were, right up front. I had to go inside and just hold them for a minute.
And I knew it.
Friday, December 5, 2003
Okay, so my LJ is kinda turning into an Ohio weather report but… it’s snowing again! Actually it’s raining slush, but it’s white, so I lump it into the snow category.
I’m now officially a crocheter and it’s the coolest thing since ever. Much faster than knitting, prettier stitches, and you can actually make things! I'm loving it. I made myself a little hat today that's cutting off the blood supply to the top of my head, but it's just so cute that I don’t cares about trifle things like an oxygen supply or hat hair.
Also, today is the Day of the Ninja. Wear black and kick some ass today-- spread the word and the love.
I’m now officially a crocheter and it’s the coolest thing since ever. Much faster than knitting, prettier stitches, and you can actually make things! I'm loving it. I made myself a little hat today that's cutting off the blood supply to the top of my head, but it's just so cute that I don’t cares about trifle things like an oxygen supply or hat hair.
Also, today is the Day of the Ninja. Wear black and kick some ass today-- spread the word and the love.
Wednesday, December 3, 2003
Mustang... zap!
What in the hell?
"Using the pseudonym "Franky", he posted Internet ads saying: "If you are 18-25 you are my boy" or "Come to me I'll eat your delicious flesh".
Some 430 people responded to his e-mails within a year."
Whoa, there are way too many stupid people in the world.
"Using the pseudonym "Franky", he posted Internet ads saying: "If you are 18-25 you are my boy" or "Come to me I'll eat your delicious flesh".
Some 430 people responded to his e-mails within a year."
Whoa, there are way too many stupid people in the world.
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