A girlfriend told me she'd been out on the family ranch in Abilene and let her 5 year old nephew choose her traveling ensemble for the flight home. He opted for the brown and lime green cowgirl boots with the white eyelet dress. She shrugged and said "looks great to me, buddy!" and wore them as instructed. She said walking through the airport in Abilene, passersby said "I like your dress" or "great boots!" She got off the plane and walked through the terminal at DFW and eyebrows raised and she felt all and sundry were ready to cock a snot at her sartorial selections.
I got all gussied up for an interview Friday with a company in a place Elsewhere from Dallas. I did well in the interview. The interviewer made mention that casual was also allowed at this company. As in shorts-and-flip-flops casual.
I had to come back Monday for a follow-up thingie, so I made free to wear a flouncy skirt with my black Lucchese boots and a linen top with some fabulous Zuni turquoise jewelry. That may not have flown in Dallas for a job interview, and that sets me to wondering why you'd stay here if you have the choice to be Elsewhere. I stepped through the doorway for the interview Monday morning and some random woman started raving about all my gear. I knew I was in the right place.
I'm gonna like that town, and it's gonna love me.
Yays! Good new music for a roadtrip weekend.
Grab your bonnet and run out and buy this cd.
Judging by recent events meteorological, Mother Nature hasn't gotten Al Gore's memos.
This has never happened here, to my knowledge.
The fire set tufts of smoke billowing from an apartment window. OMFG. They had grease heating in a skillet when the phone rang and they walked away. Silly goose!
Their kitchen is pretty much a total re-do, and the almost-as-bad smoke damage in the rest of the building is frustrating enough.
I put the resident who caused the fire up in a hotel for the night. I called them from the hotel desk and said if they bring their dog it's $160 extra non-refundable, but if that's what they have to do, then fine, just let me know. They said they would leave the dog at home.
The hotel called me about 10:30 to tell me my resident snuck their dog into the hotel, and that the fee would be $250. They didn't clarify if that $250 fee is a fine in addition to the $160 non-refundable pet deposit.
Color me officially steamed. I think the possibly tens of thousands of dollars damage done to the building was already bad enough. They couldn't butch up enough to just melon-farming say they were going to bring their dog? Instead this costs me even more.
I have an extremely long fuse, but woe betide the animated piece of offal who pushes me to the end of same.
This will not be pretty.
This is basic stuff and makes a lot of sense to me. Why is it so difficult for some people to understand that spending other people's money on other people is ultimately to the detriment of everyone? I heard someone say Barack Obama doesn't want to be the president-- he just wants to play one on TV. Well, easy for Barry to be jocular and flippant when it's not his money on the line. Now he's got the presidential pen, he'll get under the hood and fiddle with shit until what ain't broke is, and irretrievably so at that.
My favorite champagne is Veuve Clicquot Grande Dame or one of the White Star champers. Money is an object these days, and more often I'll opt for a modestly priced New Mexico domestic from Gruet Vineyards for well under $20/bottle. Gruet is actually a decent sparkling wine made in the traditional méthode champenoise.
In truth, when it comes to champagne/sparkling wines I prefer blanc de noir, but it's so great to have a raft of single-serving mini cans of Sofia blanc de blancs in the fridge. The last time I bought one of these four-packs, it was $18.99 at a store in Dallas. Whole Foods has them right now for $11.99 a four-pack but you'd better hurry - I'm going back Monday to load up. The great thing is you can open up one can, drink it with the little straw (may we suggest in the bathtub?!) and not have to over-indulge or feel guilty about wasting the entire rest of a standard bottle. At $3 a serving, it's a nice little treat to have around...
Yeah, saw that in the comments section of one of the articles on The Light-Bringer™'s grandiloquent community outreach to Special Olympics. Perhaps one day he'll be able to speak off the cuff at the level of his pay-grade? I'm not holding my breath, though.
The dinner hour found me in Richardson Wednesday, so I made free to visit one of the area's best middle-eastern eateries, Afrah at the southeast quadrant of Beltline and Greenville.
I usually get kebbeh, but today I chose beef shwarma with tahini with Baba Ghannouj and fattoush. The radioactive looking pink stuff is pickled radish, or turnip, I believe. They are piquant and a lovely foil to the savouries and oils of the rest of the dishes. They also serve little pickle slivers. Though I love all kinds of foods, I rarely eat pickles, but here I'll tuck into them with relish. ;)
I'm really itching to get out of Dallas, but while I'm still here, I need to make the most of the tastes and sights so readily available here. For now I'll try to make the best of it.
XXXXXX will be coming by your office to clarify that it was our XXXX that helped him. We have a chain of emails to provide support of the evidence of XXXX working on this.
Checked with my accountant, and found we'd paid on September 12, and the check had funded to their account on September 14.
Even if there had been an oversight on my part, I don't believe I care for that tone. We are not amused.
One should always check one's records before accusing others of louche business practices.
What's odd to me is that when I took the 10 hour a week job in an apartment management office, I had no remote thought of this eventually turning into a career. Now other management companies have tried to poach me from my property and other managers call and vent to me. Wednesday a manager at a neighboring community-- one of the places I would look first for an apartment in Dallas-- called me up on the verge of tears about her predicament with the corporate arrangement.
There's a lot I love about the work I do. I really like making things function they way they should do. I like taking care of all my little baby chicks. Other aspects: not so much.
Gun Nuts Programming Change!
FYI, if you're planning on listening to tonight's show, the topic has changed slightly to focus more on the issue with DoD destroying once-fired brass. Tonight, 9pm Eastern time, we're going to give you the inside scoop on how you can fight this at www.blogtalkradio.com/gunnuts
Labels: om nom nom
Sunday found me close to home. I called a friend, frequent commenter rabbit, who'd graciously offered to troubleshoot my computer (while I longed simply to shoot it, rabbit had said "we can rebuild it") and he and his wife agreed to come over for a mid-afternoon meal. Then - heigh ho! - a brainwave: Holly and JPG agreed to come over as well.
I navigated yet another blasted marathon to make my way to the market. To my delight, a $21.99 little crock of stinky french cheese (glory!) had been dramatically marked-down, so I took the opportunity to try the stuff at a fraction of the usual price. You can see it's in the dark, low ramekin in the photo under the crystal dome right next to Our Lady of the Parsley. I think it's a good sign when a cheese is so roguelike as to require crockery containments. ooze... I also picked up a buttery bleu cheese to compliment the two havartis and manchego I had in the fridge to serve. Yum. I roasted a hen for a pasta dish with toasted pine nuts and sultanas and made a simple salad. This was not the most elaborate meal, but I think it hit the hungry spots. Vast quantities of iced tea were consumed.
rabbit & his lovely wife L brought their fresh pup Panda, a Siberian Husky. She was a little vexed by my little dogs, but she held her own. Panda mostly napped and sat around looking pretty.
Chuy was well-behaved and refrained from begging until we trotted out the Tiramisu Hols and JPG so graciously brought to the gathering. Then Chuy planted himself on rabbit's lap in a most determined fashion, to no avail. Poor pup.
Praline never tired of begging at table and was limitless in her creativity when it came to finding ways to pop up level with the dining surface. She was largely unsuccessful in her quest, though I suspect a few wayward foody bits found their way into her gullet.
Thanks so much for coming over, Holly, JPG and rabbit & L! I enjoyed your company immensely!
And endless thanks to rabbit for making my computer work better/faster/stronger than before.
Now I'm for a bath with a Lush bomb and a book. Clean house and a functioning computer. Yays!
Hackles raised... the sharpening of claws... blood on milk teeth... upturned saucers...
|What American accent do you have? |
Your Result: The Midland
"You have a Midland accent" is just another way of saying "you don't have an accent." You probably are from the Midland (Pennsylvania, southern Ohio, southern Indiana, southern Illinois, and Missouri) but then for all we know you could be from Florida or Charleston or one of those big southern cities like Atlanta or Dallas. You have a good voice for TV and radio.
|The Inland North|
|What American accent do you have?|
Quiz Created on GoToQuiz
You see that? I have a great voice for TV and Radio. Someone should tell TV and Radio. I know they must be longing to hire me.
i'm blaming harry dresden for recent tech failures.
will post more later.
Save your money.
Yes, there have been moments I really really liked this phone. Like, the first, oh, couple months I had it. The first time.
I'd put a Palm Treo through a rough 2.5 years before it crapped out utterly, one day last spring. I wasn't delighted the phone gave up the ghost, but it was a complicated machine and I had put it through its paces. I supposed it deserved a rest.
I grabbed my bonnet and sashayed out to an AT&T store and selected for my fab new phone the Palm Centro. Smart choice, right? It's a lot like the Treo, but smaller, cuter and with nice grippy QWERTY keyboard. Sweet. The first week I had that phone, I dropped it and put a rather smart little *ding* on the corner of the phone, but it kept working. Seemed fine.
To make a boring story short, the first Centro crapped out shy of the 3 month mark. That ding on the corner never seemed to affect the efficacy of said phone. AT&T warranty folk felt otherwise. They'd already replaced the phone but they said the warranty was void because of the mark on the case, so they charged me a brand new $349 for the new centro on my phone bill. NOW, I'm shy of the year mark for when I got the first Centro, and the second one-- the $349 one, TYVM, crapped out Wednesday night.
Yes, I'm back on a $20 go-phone from Target. ARGH! Seriously aggravating.
I will miss my internet access and my 12 flavors of solitaire, but I won't miss dreading the day my über-expensive phone will utterly crap out. I'm calling AT&T first thing in the morning to cancel my internet service on the phone, and that'll save me about $40 a month right there. I won't miss shelling out the extra $40, either.
My experiences at Princeton have made me far more aware of my "Blackness" than ever before. I have found that at Princeton no matter how liberal and open-minded some of my White professors and classmates try to be toward me, I sometimes feel like a visitor on campus; as if I really don’t belong. Regardless of the circumstances under which I interact with Whites at Princeton, it often seems as if, to them, I will always be Black first and a student second.
from Michelle LaVaughn Robinson Obama's Princeton Thesis
Just think: in this passage the very august institution of Princeton is impugned for Michelle's perception of how she was perceived by others. How can anyone combat such idiocy? There's a saying that if you realized how little time others spend thinking about you, then you'd care a lot less what they think. Honestly, I think more often about Michelle Obama than I'd prefer, but I seriously doubt the whole of the university was a cabal orchestrated for the purpose of keeping her down. (what? they gave her a degree? Surely not! They mis-perceived her! She was not welcome!) Sooner or later, pretty much everyone will find themselves feeling out of place somewhere they have to be on a daily basis. It's handy to have something to blame it on, though, other than just the general angst of the transition to adulthood, or whatever.
You know, it's funny that some of her classmates and professors tried to embrace Michelle and make her feel welcome. Golly, I wish that happened to me at college, but at the time I sort of got the idea that I needed to suck it up and deal with life and make my way through the whole process on my own. I really don't think my "Whiteness" opened any doors. I also got the idea that college was meant to be a transition from the micro-managey handholding of the elementary and secondary schools, that I had to take responsibility for the course of my studies and ultimately, for whatever career to which my efforts might lead. Perhaps there were very groups of people who cringed at the sight of me, but I rather doubt it, and even if they did, it matters not at all. In any case, when I turned in my work to glazed-over professors who probably wouldn't have distinguished me from any other pupil even if I'd had skin a lovely green color, my grades were issued based on the accuracy of my responses, the quality of my writing and in some cases, whether or not I happened to fill in the right bubble on the sheet.
Then again, I attended a lowly state university, so what do I know of how they do things at Princeton, a degree from which probably guarantees an extra zero at the end of one's annual earnings total? Oh, no. My lot is that of the mere human person, left little excuse for my failings or success, save my own efforts or lack thereof.
Or maybe it's because I'm female?
Michelle needs to watch Revenge of the Nerds. I know she's busy, though, so I'll just put up the last bit.
Labels: nerd alert
The guilt! The guilt! It hurtses us, precious.
Holy shit. Throw your disused garments in landfills, people! How can you be so selfish as to give them away for other people to use?
Can't you do anything right?
I understand that much of what we women do is a mystery to you fellows, so I'm going to betray the sisterhood and let you in on what goes on when we take a bath.
We arrive in the bath chamber already very pretty and smelling of rainbows and sunshine. In truth, we are never dirty. Well, never very dirty. We look very cute and, of course, we are just totally hawt. We probably will take a moment to stand and pose demurely atop the tanned hide of some unfortunate former beast, probably a bear or a leopard you killed for us- you sweet, sweet man! Taking a moment to pose and consider our own hotness is an important part of the process. We need time to think. Plus we like the idea that if you could see us (and you can't), it would drive you bug-nuts. Tra-La!
We are attended by one or two other women of lower social station than ourselves, always dressed as harem maids. They are cute, but not as cute as we are. They draw a bath of the desired temperature and resplendent with oodles of bubbles and more wonderful-smelling essences of flowers, herbs and various processed bits of dead critter. Hmmmm. Nothing says bathtime like herb-infused musky flowers. ROWR!
We pose again at the edge of our bathing pool, deciding which comely shoulder to slip from the dressing gown first, playing peek-a-boo while the maids feign enthusiasm as they wait to take our fine garments away. [When we bathe, our servants probably play with our wardrobe and other fineries. We must think of appropriate punishments for such presumptuousness. Bitches.] Were you fortunate enough to get a gander into our private little bath chamber, you still would miss the creamy flash of our beautiful naked body as we slip into the water behind diaphanous layers of gossamer silks. Silly stag. Think of it as a reverse performance of Venus rising from the foam. We're just like that. Every time.
We recline into the warm, caressing waters only to suddenly feel very lively, rather frisky, even. Yes, we sit and play with bubbles for hours, giggling at their wondrous symmetry and fragility. Plus, they tickle, and if we could really think it through, we'd realize what's in the bubbles so delights and appeals to us because it's so very like that great raft of pretty nothing knocking about between our ears, but why worry about such things?
In the end, all that really matters is how glorious the bath feels and smells and Damn! We're cute! Did I mention how cute we are?
We are Bettie Page.
Friday morning, I opened my door to find a box of goodies from Lush on my garden gnome doormat, a luscious little barge of bath bombs. THRILLS! Friday evening found me luxuriating in jasmine-and-mimosa infused waters courtesy of a Sakura bath bomb. Deftly hoisting my novel above the fragrant churning waters, Harry Dresden is, it would appear, in another pickle and made for fast reading as I took lazy draughts of my champagne. After an hour or so, I had to add fresh hot water and gave in to my not-so-inner libertine by cracking into the Bon Bomb, which swathed my glorious naked body in luscious shea butter and more floral essences. Decadent in the most tasteful sort of way. Finally: the proper bath I've been craving.
I smell all nice and flowery. ...and damn! I'm cute. Srsly. I smell like a garden of earthly delights.
And am, in fact, a garden of earthly delights.
One summer in high school, I went to camp with the other kids from the church my family attended. The week was resplendent with the sort of dullery/drama one might expect on that variety of excursion. There was bickering, snot-slinging, petty disputes and the forest echoed with the pulsating ostinato of bible thumpery. Camp. Ugh. Led by one cheeseball youth director who still owes someone in my clan money, no less. *aherm*
One day Susan left her contact lenses on the edge of a sink in the girls' bunkhouse. Now, I had no idea they were there, didn't see them, etc. Somehow those contact lenses got washed down the sink. Fingers were pointed, mostly at me, as I sat there blinking, wide-eyed and innocent. Believe it or not-- I didn't know what contact lenses were, let alone know to watch out not to wash the colorless blending-in-with-the-blasted-water-in-the-sink teeny weeny plastic things down the drain.
Yes, I felt a little hostile at the readiness of everyone to believe a) _I_ was the one who flushed the contact lenses down the sink and that b) I had done so intentionally. A church camp retreat is supposed to be all sweetness and light, right? I felt very judged. Why wasn't anyone asking her why she'd be so careless with something she was going to stick on her blasted eyeballs? Where was her responsibility in all of this? Am I my sisters' lenskeeper? Au contraire, bitches.
Anyway-- my reputation was sealed: I was a Bad Girl. Again-- no bloody tossing idea, but I was to blame. Fine. Whatever.
Fun activity of the day? A blind trust walk. For those of you fortunate enough to not know what this is, a BTW is where one person is blindfolded and the other person has to give them verbal guidance to navigate the great outdoors or whatever. Apparently some brain trust thought it would be a healing thing for me and Susan to partner up for this activity. *sigh* Blindfolds went on half the kids, and the guide buddies fanned their charges out from the central huddle area, threading through the dense pines with their scratchy needles in the oppressive August heat.
Everyone was sort of walking around trees and mostly trying to avoid head-on collisions of blind-folded people. Susan was first to don the old bandana, and I thought I would give a different experience.
The pier stretched catlike over the lake, its broad planks beckoning out over the water... Interesting... very interesting... Hmmm...
Susan needed to walk out onto the pier, to feel the cool breeze skimming off the lake. Our blind trust walk would be special. Oh, yes. Yes.
I swear I had NO intention of anything bad happening. I know you don't believe me. No one ever does. I'm just a little lamb and I mean no harm, and it wasn't my fault what happened.
Susan was halfway out onto the pier and I was following instructions, guiding only with my voice and no touching. She was well-centered on the boards when she stepped from the edge of the lake, but after several yards, she had veered uncomfortably close to the edge of the planks at the right. It was at this instant I realized the error of my choice of playing field, and I acted to get Susan off the pier forthwith. I ordered her to stop and she complied. I instructed her to turn toward my voice which she did. Facing me, I knew she needed to go to her right to the center of the pier, and I said "take a step to your right." To my horror, she lifted her left foot and stepped to the left. SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT! Now realizing she didn't know which foot was which, I quickly recovered and said "no! BIG step to the left!" thinking she'd go to her right this time. Alas, this was the moment she figured out which foot was which and followed my instructions, her left foot in slow motion as her long leg gangled out over the water, her Keds™-shod foot seeking a wooden surface where it would find no purchase, and she fell treelike right into the brackish blue.
No one believed this was an accident as my explanation fell on deaf ears. *sigh* Oh well.
Susan seemed disinclined to continue the exercise, which was convenient, as I now had absolutely no intention of putting on a blindfold myself. Specially not a wet one. Ew.
Somewhere, Susan probably has a blog and heaps scorn upon your humble narrator. Now you, my darlings, know the truth of the tale.
If people are determined to think the very worst of you, you may as well do something to earn it, right? One of these days, I'm going to be really naughty, and then the world won't know what hit it.
Somehow, I doubt it.
Whyzzit the least fit folk are incredibly fertile?
ZOMG! Praline had nestled in and was being very still as I scratched her ornery little head. This has NEVER happened before. I thought it would take years for her to reach this point. Of course, this was an isolated incident and may not occur again for months or years, but for just today and just for a few minutes, she was ready to sit still for a proper pet and scratch session. In future, I will politely not remind her of this event which must necessarily cause her some embarrassment [omg! someone might mistake me for one of those useless lap-dogs! I'm much too busy for such petty niceties!], but I'm calling this progress.
I just came across this, which was not a final copy, but the work in progress which would become an issue of my property newsletter. (I was just learning Publisher, and it's all a bit wonky here, still)
Of all the newsletters I've composed and edited, this dog-centric issue I did a few years ago is officially my favorite. I had residents from all my properties send me their favorite photos of their dogs, and I managed to squeeze every one of them into the issue at one spot or another, often with pithy captions, where appropriate. This was a great way to showcase beloved property pets and acquaint new arrivals to the city with local dog amenities and services. I loved that I had the chance to do the Mwahahahaha caption to one of those (obviously) criminal mastermind chihuahuas, and even managed to endow a cat with honorary junkyard dog status, since that sort of fit his personality.
I hate to admit I've had favorite resident pets, but I have. I can name all my residents, and most of their dogs, as well. It doesn't hurt that up until a couple weeks ago, we had three white dogs named Lola on the property. Anyway, I loved the wiener dogs named Uno and Dos, gifts from their owner's respective first and current husbands. Those dogs would hear my car drive on property and would get all antsy and excited, demanding to be let out. They'd run up the hill to my office and look balefully through the door, hoping the treat lady was feeling benevolent, or sucker-ish, as they probably thought of me. Score! I'd always have treats for the dogs.
I loved the 180 pound Great Dane/Irish Wolfhound mix. The top of his head was almost to my shoulder, but he was such a mild soul. His name was Chaps, and his owner had adopted his GD mother while living in Brussels on business. She then had these two pups, and their beards and brows gave away the provenance of their dear old Dad. By the time he moved back to the states, Chaps was the only one still alive, and he had to be shipped home in a horse crate. Chaps' ears were like big heathered gray blankets. Lovely boy, he.
Once when I was new at the job, a showing was scheduled for the apartment of a woman who was about to move into a larger space on property. I entered the darkened apartment with the prospective renter and I about dropped my transmission when I saw a strange form rising from the sofa. I quickly recovered as the greyhound flopped its head back onto the cushion. The other greyhound conserving his energy over on the loveseat never even opened his eyes. Not good guard dogs, I'm guessing, but someone might at least have warned me!
Then there was Amei, dog on the bottom right, who was just one of the sweetest dog souls ever, I'm convinced. LOVED. HER. She loved me, too. She was one of those little dogs that always looks old, you know? Probably a lot of chihuahua in the mix, but she was a cool, jaunty little thing. She had no idea she was homely, and was ever the social butterfly: there's a lesson in that. Her owners were lovely people, but they were vegetarian, so I tried to make sure to have meaty things on hand in the office. About a year ago, her family moved to Los Angeles and I was very sad to see her go, but very happy to have known her. Her caption was the one I liked best: Amei likes piña coladas and getting caught in the rain. Somehow, that really fit her. I think she would have loved the cheese factor of her caption!
Labels: pro bono
I went out of town Friday and got home Sunday evening. Taking the pups along was not an option, so I boarded them. Now I'm home and it's quiet and I miss them. It feels wrong to be here without my little confetti-makers. I can pick them up at 8am Monday. YAYS!
This picture of Chuy is from the drive to the boarding place on Friday. The other picture is of the pups trying to act nonchalant when I walked in on their dollar bill confetti-making party. Last time it was a $10, though, so I got off easy this time.
A Keyboard and a .45
Adventures of Mauser Girl
Attila the Mom
Baby Troll Blog
Bad Tempered Zombie
Bayou Renaissance Man
Better and Better
Brown Valley Kingdom
Chris Ex Machina
Every Blade of Grass
Exile in Portales
Fat Hairy Bastard
Fat in Indiana
Flying Flo's Forum
I Aim To Misbehave
If the Creek Don't Rise
In Jennifer's Head
John Shirley's Wandering Thoughts
Katie Puckrick Smells
Lawyer With A Gun
Mausers and Muffins
Mulligan Do Over
Myron's Mind Meanderings
Papa Delta Bravo
Ready, Fire, Aim, Apologize
Searching for Oz
Silver The Evil Chao
Something to Say
View From the Porch
Happy birthday, Dad!
Sunday, Puppy Monday: slow on the draw
First attempt cleaning old textile: Venice Tapestr...
Sunday, Puppy Sunday: Chuy in crisis
Sweet thoughts of my Dad on Father's Day
On the terrorist attack in Orlando:
Sunday, Puppy Sunday: mini pup-tent on the recline...
Sunday, Puppy Sunday: knackered puppies
Should auld acquaintance be forgot...
TheCornered Cat * A MUST read
Gallery of the Absurd - wickedly delicious
Independent Woman - Elbow
Robin Guthrie: Weblog
Arkansas Travel Site