tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-98314012024-03-27T06:37:29.305-04:00Blogdamnit! What in de heyall is dis?Formerly the place I would vent about southern belles, bad dates and loneliness.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger174125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9831401.post-16923451415985219542008-09-17T00:39:00.002-04:002008-09-17T00:51:31.775-04:00Been awhile....I dont know why I stopped writing in my blog. I stopped reading it, telling everyone about it, just, plain, stopped. <br /><br />It's late, and I am thinking about my son, who has become this little man now. He chats with me on the phone, asks me how my day was and loves to practice writing letters and spelling. This all brings back memories, this blog of mine, of when I was new to juggling mommyhood alone. Now its easy. Now I know what I am doing! Now he gets up on his own, gets dressed on his own, feeds himself, turns on the tv....<br /><br />He always wears his shoes on the wrong feet. He puts his "clotheses" on backwards, and it just cracks me up. The vocab gets better and better growing from "hers tired mommy" to "she is tired mommy". His spiderman addiction is still going strong, he wants to be a police man AND an astronaut. He loves to draw, paint, read and create. Sports....not so much. I enrolled him in t-ball and soccer only to spend the majority of the game prying him off my leg while he screamed. So we will stick to art!<br /><br />He calls fruit punch, "juice pump". Not sure why but maybe its a variation of "juice box" and fruit "punch"? The best one was when I had raced my matchbox car so fast I won, whereby he declared I won a "pissing cup" with so much enthusiasm I had to sit down! What on earth is a pissing cup?! Well, a YEAR LATER I watched Cars, and learned of the PISTON CUP. Very similar. <br /><br />He believes there is a turbo button in my car that gets us home faster, just like I believed when I was little girl. My dad would puff out his cheeks and blow air through his lips making a raspberry sound as he flipped open the cigarette lighter. It was a very impressive display for a turbo button on a Dodge Caravan.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Oh no I di'nt. I don gone and writ me suttin.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9831401.post-51709327035070028842008-02-23T15:50:00.000-05:002008-02-23T15:51:15.468-05:00Ode to Jack Hammers<object width="425" height="355"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/MyymXlaPpDU&rel=0&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b&border=0"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/MyymXlaPpDU&rel=0&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b&border=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="355"></embed></object><div class="blogger-post-footer">Oh no I di'nt. I don gone and writ me suttin.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9831401.post-51184486681963379642008-02-23T15:47:00.000-05:002008-02-23T15:48:02.026-05:00My son the dancing artist (sorry it's not vertical)<object width="425" height="355"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/q_9SolfkZlA&rel=0&color1=0x2b405b&color2=0x6b8ab6&border=0"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/q_9SolfkZlA&rel=0&color1=0x2b405b&color2=0x6b8ab6&border=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="355"></embed></object><div class="blogger-post-footer">Oh no I di'nt. I don gone and writ me suttin.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9831401.post-22657014816481981062007-12-29T14:25:00.000-05:002007-12-29T14:43:24.516-05:00In pursuit of 2008<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuX4MkyQ3OBmsdlxC-etym1sa1reoTUKWgQ28lQb0XvsVaTxwJi2QLjrzykTMPNi2SmzunNQkdHcWYEDaXRj96E-FxTxMM6pSyn_H6XKX_F7LIpzfVln39L1I6r7vWf8GJH55rOw/s1600-h/IMG_1108.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuX4MkyQ3OBmsdlxC-etym1sa1reoTUKWgQ28lQb0XvsVaTxwJi2QLjrzykTMPNi2SmzunNQkdHcWYEDaXRj96E-FxTxMM6pSyn_H6XKX_F7LIpzfVln39L1I6r7vWf8GJH55rOw/s400/IMG_1108.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149482684690124370" border="0" /></a><br />If only 2008 would hurry up I might maintain the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">optimism</span> one needs to endure another round of the holidays. It simply doesn't matter how many plans I make, they rip open a scab and exasperate the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">loneliness</span> joint custody creates. Regardless, they always pass and then the new year begins. I am going to make a nice dinner full of red things and tangerines for my friends on February 7<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">th</span>, to celebrate the 2008 Chinese New Year. This holiday is less about what you buy someone and more about the luck you give to them. I prefer that.http://www.blogger.com/img/gl.photo.gif<br /><br />Today I noticed that I post daily affirmations all over my life, on my desk at work, on my fridge, on my blackberry. I added "what are you waiting for?" this month. Good question. People <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">dont</span> often see that they are the reason they are unhappy. Stop waiting for others to swoop down and call in the Red Cross for you. Others I enjoy are "Diamonds are only lumps of coals that really stuck to their jobs" and "life is what happens while everyone else complains about it" or something like that! This spurred some new years resolutions that rhyme:<br /><br />"Make it GREAT in 08"<br />"No more real estate in 08"<br />"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Dont</span> hesitate in 2008"<br />"why wait in 08"<br />and my favorite "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Feelin</span>' great in 08"<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">ok</span> I know overkill, but funny. Resolutions should be simple, so you can remember them. I have others but sharing them with the world wide web seems wrong and I believe I need all the help I can get. 2007's was to "simplify" which was a bust. I've managed to step on that one as I drive or fly hither and dither to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">accommodate</span> a new school, new job and new clients. Where did resolutions come from anyway?? Who's idea was this? And what on earth is with the weight loss craze?<br /><br />I will incorporate margaritas, meditation (serenity now!) and patience into my resolution. That's all i got right now.<br /><br />Happy Holidays!<br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Flydi</span><div class="blogger-post-footer">Oh no I di'nt. I don gone and writ me suttin.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9831401.post-8805855832254059392007-11-19T23:07:00.000-05:002007-11-19T23:19:08.306-05:00Sudden loss of life<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipGHvArVYrauI8yuE21PYKVeeFiTJ8Io9lo2gEvrMgvhLgtWXUcduCW69eqZvDyffX6rndAPUo-kPgAaCMJFCy4a1etKWD3BsRKD49WIujpGzvZHJCrqNgVnv-9BzCcWY4Dg7mpw/s1600-h/Sarah+Snow.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipGHvArVYrauI8yuE21PYKVeeFiTJ8Io9lo2gEvrMgvhLgtWXUcduCW69eqZvDyffX6rndAPUo-kPgAaCMJFCy4a1etKWD3BsRKD49WIujpGzvZHJCrqNgVnv-9BzCcWY4Dg7mpw/s400/Sarah+Snow.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5134770974041544018" /></a><br />This friend of mine died suddenly on November 10th. I simply love this picture of her, and am still having a hard time believing she has passed away. I havent felt grief in this way before, I cant seem to purge it. Time heals all wounds, but this situation - a healthy vivacious 35 year old woman losing her life is a bit terrifying. I only hope I live my life full, that I dont cheat myself out of experiences and opportunity. Thank god she exemplified "live each day like it is your last". She was fearless, and confidently pursued her dreams and had opened her own salon recently. I was so proud of her!She possessed a magnetic personalty who embraced others without changing a drop of her fun, upbeat self.<br /><br />Ironically, she cut my hair a week before she died. My hair cuts take 3-4 hours, and were a respite I looked forward to. I sit here asking myself, had I known that was the last time I would have with her would I have done anything different?<br /><br />Not sure yet...<br />Flydi<div class="blogger-post-footer">Oh no I di'nt. I don gone and writ me suttin.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9831401.post-30456450176692357292007-11-12T23:13:00.000-05:002007-11-12T23:37:37.825-05:00Big Bad Birthday in BostonSome of us, whom shall remain nameless, had a birthday last week. This particular individual had never been to Beantown and fearlessly hired Delta to bring her there with me. So. We walk, everywhere, as required by these cities affectionately referred to as "a walking city". Us or THEM-there Atlantans dont know what this means really. They wear dressy boots and things and complain about the cold, etc.<br /><br />I love this woman so dearly, and often times she says "If I were a man we'd be a couple". I get this a lot from my girlfriends. But this one in particular feels like she saved my life. My inner-life, that fire, the one that creates witty posts for everyone to read. Her phone will ring at all hours of the night with either a half-crazed friend calling about a great date she just went on or a weepy puddle who has just dropped off her child on the infamous "wednesday". Whereby her heart is rendered useless in an instant as she (me) walks away from the warmth of that little whirling dervish. This friend always has the perfect thing to say, the perfect response to my blubbering and self pity. "Yes, yes you ARE indeed dysfunctional. But, I LOVE ya!" She single-handedly changed my opinion of single motherhood. That lonely place I was too numb to acknowledge has become a pillar of my identity. <br /><br />Her happiness has become somewhat of a mission of mine. I might have overdone it in Boston too as she doesnt recognize the pictures I took of her at The Canal in Boston (too many shots I suppose). I mean, they were taken just before last call, who remembers what they were doing then most of the time? The next day she suffered through a history lesson by my father on the Revolutionary War and a detailed narrative of random gravesites of British soldiers. He drove all over, stomping on the breaks to make sure she saw all of the amazing history Paul Revere is known for, including where he was arrested. You get the picture. "Look, more British soldiers!" my stepmother would say - and she would dutifully look and say "wow, that's great."<br /><br />I wish I could give her that Snow White-like mirror that tells her she is the farest of them all. She is stunning and laughs at herself, with everyone and for no reason at all. Her sense of humor could put anyone to shame, but her humbleness touches everyone who knows her.<br /><br />May you always eat pizza with a cape on JH!<br />Happy Birthday,<br />love<br />Flydi<div class="blogger-post-footer">Oh no I di'nt. I don gone and writ me suttin.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9831401.post-17681300656974141802007-11-10T23:11:00.000-05:002007-11-10T23:30:28.784-05:00Sage AdviceMi Padre screwed my head on with a stellar statement this evening. We were waiting for our reservation at the Wayside Inn, which, by the way can single-handedly render you unconscious due to ingesting too much good food. After a tour of their grist mill I strapped on the feed bag and had at it as though I, myself, had marched like the British Redcoats from Boston to Lexington overnight. <br />He sat next to me in a historically creaky old chair and said "How can you drive straight down the road to your future if you are constantly looking in the rear view mirror?"<div class="blogger-post-footer">Oh no I di'nt. I don gone and writ me suttin.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9831401.post-87753473412404410142007-10-30T00:59:00.000-04:002007-10-30T01:00:26.032-04:00SlideShow<table style="border-collapse:collapse;"><tr><td colspan="2"><embed src="http://apps.rockyou.com/rockyou.swf?instanceid=89136369&ver=102906" quality="high" salign="lt" width="426" height="319" wmode="transparent" name="rockyou" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer"/></embed></td></tr><tr><td style="font-size:0px;background-color:#fff; padding:1px;font-size:0px; filter:alpha(opacity=60);-moz-opacity:.60;opacity:.60;" align="left"><img src="http://apps.rockyou.com/dot.gif?w=SS&d=191FB&c=1&id=89136369&=.gif"><a target="_BLANK" href="http://www.rockyou.com/?type=slideshow&refid=89136369"><img style="border:0px;" src="http://apps.rockyou.com/images/tail_logo.gif"></a></td><td style="background-color:#fff; padding:1px;font-size:0px; filter:alpha(opacity=60);-moz-opacity:.60;opacity:.60;" align="right"><a style="padding-right:0px;" target="_BLANK" href="http://www.rockyou.com/slideshow_create.php?refid=89136369&source=cyo"><img style="border:0px;" src="http://apps.rockyou.com/images/tail_create.gif"></a><a style="padding-right:0px;" target="_BLANK" href="http://www.rockyou.com/show_my_gallery.php?instanceid=89136369"><img style="border:0px;" src="http://apps.rockyou.com/images/tail_view.gif"></a></td></tr></table><div class="blogger-post-footer">Oh no I di'nt. I don gone and writ me suttin.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9831401.post-6350454882816046102007-10-30T00:25:00.000-04:002007-10-30T00:31:12.603-04:00Fettucini anyone?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAGW9D1AQIUbwKG54d9Pf3ifcgboPwOIskayIKwh1HlVTsWHrF9DVtfGIupFnfxw0BnKFputenygu5P1Wi3Zq3F5a36PJOvyV3kCT-662tClOCmPSNiozV3KTlKjQ_SGRgXbYwLg/s1600-h/madonna+and+noodles.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5126982450955980466" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAGW9D1AQIUbwKG54d9Pf3ifcgboPwOIskayIKwh1HlVTsWHrF9DVtfGIupFnfxw0BnKFputenygu5P1Wi3Zq3F5a36PJOvyV3kCT-662tClOCmPSNiozV3KTlKjQ_SGRgXbYwLg/s320/madonna+and+noodles.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>I brought home my side of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">fettuccine</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">alfredo</span> from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Maggiano's</span> one day, as I knew my son would love it. He <em>could</em> eat it - and back then he would sit in his high chair in the kitchen while I would try to find something that he <em>would </em>eat. I was so proud of him when I noticed all the noodles were gone from his tray! He was EATING! Eureka! </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Nope.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>My dog strolled by sniffing the floor for the bits he <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">inevitably</span> through on the floor, covered in <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">fettuccine</span>. He had been throwing the noodles on HER as she walked by! Hilarious.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Oh no I di'nt. I don gone and writ me suttin.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9831401.post-82478587707662665802007-10-30T00:19:00.000-04:002007-10-30T00:24:06.799-04:00October, three years later<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_57v7aotF7IhFriYmJojBc70RBIxXEtMe0AMsoaZ5k2_PEhO8tE7hHeonwDR0R_EVQCAdfrUPmuG7nmRs0rP1uMpCtYwCqOATnHBZB-ISXLAJoOaBHVleaWl1iPN-tKhZg1bWtg/s1600-h/wallace+with+carrot.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5126980067249131170" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_57v7aotF7IhFriYmJojBc70RBIxXEtMe0AMsoaZ5k2_PEhO8tE7hHeonwDR0R_EVQCAdfrUPmuG7nmRs0rP1uMpCtYwCqOATnHBZB-ISXLAJoOaBHVleaWl1iPN-tKhZg1bWtg/s320/wallace+with+carrot.jpg" border="0" /></a> This picture was taken three years ago! Let me just say that he dug that carrot out of the fridge himself, to naw on it with his three teeth. He just couldnt resist showing me his "find" and by the look on his face he knows how proud of him I am.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Oh no I di'nt. I don gone and writ me suttin.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9831401.post-33906013639449738132007-10-23T21:02:00.000-04:002007-10-23T21:45:06.166-04:00Breaking up and Opening UpHow do you let a man "in" when all that you have known has been painful? Do you continue to hope it wont hurt this time? How does that quote go again, "fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice shame on me"....<br /><br />I feel that way as I type this. John Hiatt seems to have a way to get in there to my heart and the words are pouring from my fingers. His "Have a Little Faith In Me" has always been a top five favorite for me. His lyrics are so beautiful. So hopefully *someone* will step up and love me like this.<br /><br />When the road gets dark, And you can no longer see<br />Just let my love throw a spark, And have a little faith in me<br />And when the tears you cry, Are all you can believe<br />Just give these loving arms a try<br />And have a little faith in me<br />And Have a little faith in me<br />Have a little faith in me<br />Have a little faith in me<br />Have a little faith in me<br />When your secret heart, Cannot speak so easily, Come here darlin<br />From a whisper start, To have a little faith in me<br />And when your backs against the wall, Just turn around and you will see<br />I will catch, I will catch your fall baby<br />Just have a little faith in me<br />Chorus (Sung over fade)<br />Well, Ive been loving you for such a long time girl<br />Expecting nothing in return<br />Just for you to have a little faith in me<br />You see time, time is our friend<br />cause for us there is no end<br />And all you gotta do is have a little faith in me<br />I said I will hold you up, I will hold you up<br />Your love gives me strength enough<br />So have a little faith in me<br /><br />I have spent enough time sitting on sofas talking about my feelings and playing with a mini-zen garden - all of which seems to have a numbing effect on my overactive brain, to take up 6 months non-stop. How can I stop this train and end up with something deep and meaningful that doesnt suck the life out of me? I want to be loved for who I am, not what I can do for someone. Yeah yeah, I can hear it now - "oh poor baby, the tall blonde doesnt feel loved". I KNOW! How pathetic right?<br /><br />From a romance standpoint - why does it seem to be so hit or miss? It's REALLY not that hard to do. Women love it, always. We always want to be the one who gets the flowers. Our gaze following the receptionist as she delivers the bouqet to the lucky "winner". Trust me, this happens. Flowers arrive at work and have yet to be delivered, all of the women wonder "could they be for me?". Trust me on this one guys - send flowers and dont put who it's from and see what happens.<br /><br />Flydi<div class="blogger-post-footer">Oh no I di'nt. I don gone and writ me suttin.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9831401.post-6442277142224177812007-10-21T23:59:00.000-04:002007-10-22T00:35:05.480-04:00Go Scott Rigsby!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFHthjuLtnuYjDRMS4b6-GBuFQCk5jgI16asx5peopQcu_tLyp5F2ymIXcKSpD_stp-qyAmEwrGkNu346oIoOjYGOh2GYFq8tCiG1XlUBuu9Sq7fOKAQGUAvuP4G1HzF2PzEmRSA/s1600-h/Rigsby+Triathlon.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5124014301117674962" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFHthjuLtnuYjDRMS4b6-GBuFQCk5jgI16asx5peopQcu_tLyp5F2ymIXcKSpD_stp-qyAmEwrGkNu346oIoOjYGOh2GYFq8tCiG1XlUBuu9Sq7fOKAQGUAvuP4G1HzF2PzEmRSA/s200/Rigsby+Triathlon.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzSdl40dkjdLiMjodoopUky0QEhmhxyaMb1FtL-Hxl5g4bHtz4LNdJo8jpK2WVV6MR_GOcow3vtO115RU23d05ygr8k6M5um3MUYNPT0PmXQ0jbcy51V8uiO3wL64NXChh4f4oQw/s1600-h/Rigsby+Triathlon+start.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5124014301117674978" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzSdl40dkjdLiMjodoopUky0QEhmhxyaMb1FtL-Hxl5g4bHtz4LNdJo8jpK2WVV6MR_GOcow3vtO115RU23d05ygr8k6M5um3MUYNPT0PmXQ0jbcy51V8uiO3wL64NXChh4f4oQw/s200/Rigsby+Triathlon+start.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>So, I just scurried around my house looking for my heart rate monitor in an attempt to pack my bag for the gym tomorrow. I plan to go at lunch, for many many reasons. The first being I simply have no time to go in the morning - nor do I have someone other than my dog to watch my son. After work seems to be full of networking events, long hours and overall social stuff - so lunch it is. I can do this, I have done it before - kicking my own ass at lunch also gets me out of the office. Lately I cant seem to find time to even leave for lunch. Anyway, I found 1/2 of my heart rate monitor - the chest strap part, but the watch part that actually tells me how my heart feels about the nonsense I am putting myself through appears to be MIA. This coincides with how far off the fitness wagon I have fallen - log rolling my way into happy hours and french fries, I dont KNOW where my heart rate monitor IS? There was a time when that was always on my mantel, right next to my reflective safety vest I wore to run at night with. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Next, I reunited with my Nike+ device and running shorts. This bag sits ready to go by the door as a result of <a href="http://scottrigsby.com/">this man</a>, Scott Rigsby. His story is all over the web today as he has just finished his first Ironman. He finished just under 17 hours, which makes me look up at my ceiling and say out loud to the cobwebs "I cant think of anything I have done for 17 hours". I met Scott at a couple of races, and just today realized I had taken this picture of his legs. There they are, red flames and all waiting for him to come out of his swim, just next to the START sign. This composition holds so much meaning. So many of us never start anything, we just think about it, talk about it, worry about it and stuff it away. Starting has power, and can single handedly unleash a monster built on determination and pride. I speak from experience having never run a 5K to finishing 5 triathlons in two years. I run 5K's several times a year now, I look forward to them! It's truly amazing what you can accomplish by simply starting and committing to it. I bet Scott never planned to be known as the first double amputee to complete an Ironman Triathlon. A sponsored, accomplished athlete and motivation to all. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Reading <a href="http://www.ajc.com/sports/content/sports/stories/2007/10/21/rigsby_1022.html?cxntlid=homepage_tab_newstab">this article</a> that the AJC published today motivated me to share this all with you, in case you needed a reason to stop feeling bad for yourself - something I call "perspective". It works for me every time. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Oh no I di'nt. I don gone and writ me suttin.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9831401.post-11733896125751713712007-10-13T23:46:00.000-04:002007-10-14T00:05:04.400-04:00I wanted a boob job, instead I got a furnace....What part of "boob job" rhymes with "furnace"? None of it, it simply <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">doesnt</span>. One poor soul had to give up her dream of big bouncy new breasts because her furnace died. I DIED when these words fell from her lips into her Pabst Blue Ribbon. See what happens to us independent broads? We own houses, have fancy jobs, make our own money - plan to PAY FOR OWN BOOB JOBS, but along comes the "Mrs. Fix It Fairy" and says "No boobs for you!" a new furnace will do. I personally miss my perky 34C's - they were sexy, I <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">didn't</span> always fit in button down shirts. Now thanks to a child and hundreds of laps in a pool I can fit in button down shirts just fine - along with my push-up bra. It's depressing. Those luscious fake, full breasts tantalize us women as much as they fool men. Curses you society! How dare ye put thine superficial paws on me! Swimming has mainly detracted from my former <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">bustline</span>, while adding to my endurance, confidence and sanity - but who cares? Firm shoulders aren't the same as firm breasts. Giving birth took me out of the "firm, perky" league and dropped me off 'round <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">da</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">cahna</span> next to the training bras. What the hell is that about? See we all agreed that "going up one cup size" would be fine. "Oh I <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">don't</span> want big Pam Anderson titties" one declares... I just want to be a little bigger. I just want to rid myself of this recent delusion that bigger breasts are the way to go.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Independence</span> be damned!<div class="blogger-post-footer">Oh no I di'nt. I don gone and writ me suttin.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9831401.post-30150620362233919922007-10-06T21:47:00.002-04:002007-10-06T21:57:59.722-04:00Flamingos by the Yard<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI2KWnD5msw9Z-JcW_h5GNp7Ep2jEXpngqlfbTstnT4sfFD4LnlGjOQBAW0aJ9ksMjpZhwo6QS7eJkD0wiVRhKFYfa1OFDYDxo6bwA1Fxk3UTBAhi8jMkvSvHzRM89CmjWZ3TZbg/s1600-h/product-dinos.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118407942867252674" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI2KWnD5msw9Z-JcW_h5GNp7Ep2jEXpngqlfbTstnT4sfFD4LnlGjOQBAW0aJ9ksMjpZhwo6QS7eJkD0wiVRhKFYfa1OFDYDxo6bwA1Fxk3UTBAhi8jMkvSvHzRM89CmjWZ3TZbg/s200/product-dinos.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Please someone do this to me, or someone we know and take pictures. Actually - I am going to do this to my DAD. He would take one look at that and know it was me. This is his warning.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>"If you're looking for something a little out of the ordinary, try Flamingos By The Yard®. In the middle of the night our sneaky staff will fill the victim's yard with up to forty plastic pink flamingos and a six foot banner stating the occasion. Imagine their surprise as they pull their car out to go to work at 6:00 AM and see their yard swarming with these exotic birds! The flock will disappear the following evening leaving a fond memory of their visit (and no bird droppings!!!).<br />We also can deliver Penguins, Cows, Pigs, Tombstones, and Hearts! CALL TODAY!"</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Tombstones? Pigs? This is truly fantastic. So I searched for an image to post here to aid in the visuals and came across T-Rex's in the front yard. Aliens would be good. Midgets too. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Enjoy.</div><br /><div>Flydi</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Oh no I di'nt. I don gone and writ me suttin.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9831401.post-73250145575365872602007-10-06T21:21:00.000-04:002007-10-06T21:47:15.247-04:00Paradigm Shift...so cliche!Thank god I am divorced. I truly feel that way. I have officially been divorced longer than I was married now - and my son, well 75% of his life he has now spent shuffling between two houses. I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">dont</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">regret</span> my decision in any way shape or form. Yes it affects my son, but this is his life and he will have things to sort out, understand, hate - and I will help him through it all, to see how important it is to take care of yourself.<br /><br />He's protective of me now, and thrives on helping me carry something. I am afraid that this will magnify for him as he gets older and I continue to date. Part of me wishes I could have just settled down with someone and given him that stable world, but that word "settle" freaks me out. I just <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">dont</span> see how I can be ME and be married? How does that work when you are bored? What do you do? Some <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">dont</span> hate their spouse, they just <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">arent</span> excited anymore, but their world grows emptier and emptier - the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">ol</span>' "Lonely in a crowd of people" <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">feeeling</span>.<br /><br />For the first time in my life I am experiencing a major major roll reversal. I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">dont</span> want to get married and my boyfriend does. He wants to be a young dad, he is in love with me and is clearly daydreaming about a candlelit wedding full of family and friends. He is shocked that I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">dont</span> discuss my "ideal wedding" randomly like "most women". I have ripped his heart out over this topic, THEN I froze it with my bare hands - all because he was curious about my reaction to proposing. Perhaps time is all we need, I see major differences - ones I cant change, nor can he, and I have comfortably settled into a view of "this <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">isnt</span> going to work". 7 months <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">isnt</span> enough time to know for sure about the rest of your life. But here I am, I am the one saying "why do you want to get married so bad?!". <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Isnt</span> that a guy thing to do?? Memories of the giant engagement ring an x gave me come back. I felt branded, controlled, trapped. These are not the right feelings. I would forget to put it on, and he would flip out and turn the car around and <em>make me wear it</em>. Shouldn't I want to wear it?<br /><br />I want to feel like my heart will die if that person <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">isn't</span> in my life. I want to feel honored to wear the ring, not <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">embarrassed</span>. I want to feel secure in my decision to "forsake all others". I want a bond like the one people think my twin brother and I have, you know what I mean. "If he gets hurt do you feel it?". I have said this before, I want him to challenge me - intellectual intercourse that leaves me aching for more. So here I am, staring at the cursor, fully content with my life - the nightmare my man is enduring. My insecurities no longer drive me to make needy decisions (quick let's get married!), and my life will be fun and lively with or without a man.<br /><br /><br />I make no apologies for this stance, I only wish I figured it out sooner.<br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Flydi</span><div class="blogger-post-footer">Oh no I di'nt. I don gone and writ me suttin.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9831401.post-46194793275403889472007-09-17T22:37:00.000-04:002007-09-17T22:39:22.100-04:00MiniEgo.com<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6sNQJQfMM1vWuza6vAJ0LK6ej7tKAhIceqGXJbLPySDhLHzQlRV6FZKvqeA616jXGgf2lUVae-7HLXhU23StUFpnkhMIeRpVDQCXmLyx9VkqAuX-K4BwTN-xbsZ8gtXuXi60Mpg/s1600-h/halloween_Zagadranga.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5111368138434588706" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6sNQJQfMM1vWuza6vAJ0LK6ej7tKAhIceqGXJbLPySDhLHzQlRV6FZKvqeA616jXGgf2lUVae-7HLXhU23StUFpnkhMIeRpVDQCXmLyx9VkqAuX-K4BwTN-xbsZ8gtXuXi60Mpg/s200/halloween_Zagadranga.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Oh no I di'nt. I don gone and writ me suttin.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9831401.post-48058987951517930172007-09-17T21:47:00.000-04:002007-09-17T22:36:06.268-04:00"Cause we love Caulk!"I was in a sales presentation five years ago. The room was full of golf-shirt wearing men, about 200 of them, and I was teaching them how to sell leasing as a way of financing their customers expensive commercial painting equipment. Sexy job I know, but I sold my butt off in this job and traveled to sexy places called Albany. Albany is not pronounced ALL-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">bahny</span> here in Georgia. It's <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">AlllBainieeeeee</span>? And there are more tractors there then people.<br /><br />So...back to the meeting. 200 men, 2 women - both of whom are presenting. I sat down, in the back of the room as this lovely woman stepped and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">cheerleaded</span> her way into history. She is apparently married to the man who supplies Sherwin Williams with all of their non-paint items.<br /><br /> "The quickest way to increase your sales is to?........"<br /><br />The whole room responds with "sell non-paint items". And she continues, and man she is fired up! She is waving her hand in the air, she is projecting her voice perfectly and her perfect pumps are marching her ferociously up and down the center aisle of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Radisson</span> Hotel ballroom. Then she says:<br /><br /> "That's right! Rollers, Paint Brushes and ?......"<br /><br />And the room <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">quietly</span> mutters Caulk, chuckling to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">themselves</span>. She trumps them, not even knowing it she SHOUTS out:<br /><br /> "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Thats</span> right! I LOVE CAULK!"<br /><br />I sat there bewildered for a moment, unable to throw her a life line in any way. I felt so embarrassed for her. The whole room followed my same process, "pregnant" pause then fits of laughter. Now, let me explain her side of this. She said that cause the more Caulk the managers sell the more money her husband makes. So she really does love Caulk, just a different kind, bless her heart.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Flydi</span><div class="blogger-post-footer">Oh no I di'nt. I don gone and writ me suttin.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9831401.post-7544831462583314442007-08-23T17:01:00.001-04:002007-08-23T17:11:28.738-04:00Medieval Menthol DiapersDating a single mom requires a sense of humor. Seriously. It makes me feel vulnerable as I truly cant control what my 4 year old chooses to say (calling you his dad or some other male name) or for that matter DO. These moments should be embraced, remembered and reiterated at the perfect moment during Thanksgiving with his new girlfriend on a short visit to his "crazy moms" house. My boyfriend lives a caring, loving life with an infectious enthusiasm, THANK GOD cause I just cant imagine what I would have done if I found a used diaper in my messenger bag.<br /><br />Yes. A used diaper. I left at oh-dark-thirty in the morning to bring my son to his new school, leaving my man sound asleep. Later, at a more reasonable time like 8 am, this lovely man gathered his things to head off to work he noticed that my son had disposed of his used "Feel-n-Learn" Pull-Up in his WORK BAG. Every night my son wears a diaper and now that he dresses himself he ALWAYS throws it in the trash. I almost didnt believe him when he told me about the "surprise" he found in his bag that morning.<br /><br />Now, these diapers have some medieval menthol experience which helps him "learn" when he is wet and to get up and go to the bathroom. Not get up, take it off and toss it into the nearest bag!<br /><br />Yay motherhood!<div class="blogger-post-footer">Oh no I di'nt. I don gone and writ me suttin.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9831401.post-76429736041067684102007-08-23T15:36:00.000-04:002007-08-23T17:01:17.842-04:00Guitar Hero<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyzkZw7SW2TS1u-MNzvJ3kWitUGmtL7vMgwaYBcSshdsFJJauAjfTQjsLT8iPzdypSk7Y60etTM7MCZEzU-NuGybrxDCCBKZ4AqDLm0LQJioVfx1AuiZkwhOWankap7glfI-FQiA/s1600-h/Cali+2007+307.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102003863027873730" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyzkZw7SW2TS1u-MNzvJ3kWitUGmtL7vMgwaYBcSshdsFJJauAjfTQjsLT8iPzdypSk7Y60etTM7MCZEzU-NuGybrxDCCBKZ4AqDLm0LQJioVfx1AuiZkwhOWankap7glfI-FQiA/s200/Cali+2007+307.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Have you played this game? Run, dont walk to the nearest Target and buy this game. This is me, at our LA office where we run and manage the Activision account. We have to work very hard at making their products appear very well online so in order to do so you must be familiar with their products. Hence why I was playing video games at work.<br /><br />You'll see. you'll become just as addicted as all of the maniacs on YouTube.<br /><br />enjoy! </div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Oh no I di'nt. I don gone and writ me suttin.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9831401.post-84821594395259693452007-06-13T16:25:00.000-04:002007-06-13T16:35:46.491-04:00Comcast debacleOur next available time slot to connect your cable is on 6/27 or 7/10.<br /><br />I am moving you see and a girl's gotta have her internet! Forget the TV, I must have the internet - waiting till July simply wont do! SO I sorta-calmly asked Comcast to "try again". Their response:<br /><br />"Ms Myer I am trying to make this as smooth as possible for you. The available slots to establish your new service are 6/27 between 11 and 2 or 7/10 between 2 and 5. You need to be accomodating"<br /><br />ME? I need to be accomodating? From what customer service sewer are they operating from? Now this poor rep is reading a script and working with some ancient call center application and really has no ability to help me above and beyond what the system allows her to do. I mention this and then ask her to put me in touch with her supervisor before I cancel my entire service with them. Now, this either gets you a supervisor (except in Georgia Power's case - they simply dont give a shit cause they have no competition) or gets you into the "save gate". The save gate exhists in ALL call centers. These gates are full of the best sales reps hand picked by senior managers to SAVE and RETAIN customers. These folks have the ability to credit your account, call you back, etc. If you aren't getting service, seriously threaten to cancel and you will end up talking to a bubbly Jody from Iowa who gets PAID a commission to KEEP you happy.<br /><br />Comcast is now going to call me back tomorrow to confirm my connection appointment for next week. July?? c'mon!<div class="blogger-post-footer">Oh no I di'nt. I don gone and writ me suttin.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9831401.post-27687229473734875672007-06-12T23:30:00.000-04:002007-06-12T23:45:29.216-04:00Thirty Wonderful<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_v_adhrJfGXs/Rm9nIkvgjyI/AAAAAAAAABk/j-ZxKKsf5h4/s1600-h/IMG_0316.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_v_adhrJfGXs/Rm9nIkvgjyI/AAAAAAAAABk/j-ZxKKsf5h4/s200/IMG_0316.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5075388702069395234" border="0" /></a><br />My birthday came along recently. Nothing too crazy, just a Pimps N Ho's party. Well the party was for my best friend who turned 30 the day before me. Looking back, I am amazed at how easy it was for me to parade around in zebra-print-garter-dress-ensemble. More shocking than that was how my other friends embraced the "Ho" appearance. They donned fishnets, pig tails, whips, gold lame, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">pleather</span>. Oh baby! Divorce seems to be the best thing that ever happened to one of them! I am enjoying watching her discover herself and coaching her through dating. She maintains an acute adorableness about her as she tromps off with some pimp she just met. Good for her!<br /><br />Earlier that day I was over at "the f-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">ing</span> house" paying the painter as he had completed the interior work I had hired him to do. He says:<br /><br />"Ah, miss Diane? I ask question? u no get mad?"<br /><br />uh oh, I think to myself but ask him to go ahead.<br /><br />"are you lesbian?"<br /><br />Now. He was an hour early. We agreed on 10am, he called at 9:05 to ask where I was. So, I rolled out of bed and hopped in the car. I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">dont</span> get dressed up to pay contractors. Sorry.<br />He continues:<br /><br />"you tall, beautiful woman with job. where is your husband? your man?"<br /><br />my response: "he's sleeping." Oh <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">dont</span> even get me started. I KNOW I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">dont</span> need to write how insulting it is that a man thinks I am a lesbian simply because there is no man PRESENT at the very moment. I realize he was complementing me in some way, but <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">c'mon</span>!<div class="blogger-post-footer">Oh no I di'nt. I don gone and writ me suttin.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9831401.post-63913457763068875602007-05-11T13:24:00.000-04:002007-05-11T13:42:39.405-04:00Mother of the Year Job DescriptionThis is a fantastic job description for Moms. I think it really speaks to the struggles all moms face with trying to have some semblance of an identity outside of their kids. Being a mom is wonderful and challenging, making you doubt yourself, your sanity and your meaning in life. This weekend should be a time to stop worrying if you are a good mom, if you're skinny enough, if your kids like you, if your kids are developing correctly. Just enjoy the fact that this little person adores you and wants to see you smile cause he painted a picture of you "all by himself".<br /><br />POSITION : Mother, Mom, Mama, Mommy, Momma, Ma<br /> <br />JOB DESCRIPTION: Long term, team players needed, for challenging permanent work in an, often chaotic environment. Candidates must possess excellent communication and organizational skills and be willing to work variable hours, which will include evenings and weekends and frequent 24 hour shifts on call. Some overnight travel required, including trips to primitive camping sites on rainy weekends and endless sports tournaments in far away cities. Travel expenses not reimbursed. Extensive courier duties also required.<br /><br />RESPONSIBILITIES: The rest of your life. <strong><em>Must be willing to be hated, at least temporarily, until someone needs $5</em></strong>. Must be willing to bite tonguere peatedly. Also, must possess the physical stamina of a pack mule and be able to go from zero to 60 mph in three seconds flat in case, this time, the screams from the backyard are not someone just crying wolf. Must be willing to face stimulating technical challenges, such as small gadget repair, mysteriously sluggish toilets and stuck zippers. Must screen phone calls, maintain calendars and coordinate production of multiple homework projects.Must have ability to plan and organize social gatherings for clients of all ages and mental outlooks. Must be willing to be indispensable one minute, an embarrassment the next. Must handle assembly and product safety testing of a half million cheap, plastic toys, and battery operated devices. Must always hope for the best but be prepared for the worst. Must assume final, complete accountability for the quality of the end product. Responsibilities also include floor maintenance and janitorial work throughout the facility. <br /><br />POSSIBILITY FOR ADVANCEMENT & PROMOTION: Virtually none. Your job is to remain in the same position for years, without complaining, constantly retraining and updating your skills, so that those in your charge can ultimately surpass you <br /><br />PREVIOUS EXPERIENCE: None required unfortunately. On-the-job training offered on a continually exhausting basis. <br /><br />WAGES AND COMPENSATION: Get this! You pay them! Offering frequent raises and bonuses. Aballoon payment is due when they turn 18 because of the assumption thatcollege will help them become financially independent. When you die, you give them whatever is left. The oddest thing about this reverse-salary scheme is that you actually enjoy it and wish you could only do more. <br /><br />BENEFITS: While no health or dental insurance, no pension, no tuition reimbursement, no paid holidays and no stock options are offered; this job suppliesl imitless opportunities for personal growth and free hugs for life if you play your cards right.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Oh no I di'nt. I don gone and writ me suttin.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9831401.post-22382176703105458912007-05-07T09:26:00.000-04:002007-05-07T09:48:57.368-04:00Spiders in the EarsThere are somethings in motherhood you can never be prepared for. Like this story for example: <a href="http://www.cnn.com/2007/US/05/07/spiderboy.ap/index.html">Pain was two spiders living in boys ear</a> . Yes, it does in fact read "pain was two spiders living in boys ear". I just cant fathom having to calmly take my son to the doctor and discover that he has SPIDERS LIVING IN HIS EAR and then feel like I was doing a great job as a mom. Now hear me out for second here. All mother's feel responsible if their child is hurt. No matter what, even if my son is far away with his dad and something happens to him I will always think "I should have been there to help him, If I had switched weekends he'd be <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">ok</span>" etc. etc. So to have a doctor flush out to spiders out of my sons ear would send me into the b<span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">owell's</span> of depression over my pure utter neglect as a mom. I know it. <br /><br />Women who do not have children do not fully understand how important Mother's Day is. I love the little footprints of my sons feet his daycare teachers make that they turn into cards for me each mother's day year. My son is almost 4. I am moving back into the house I lived in when he was born so I can hopefully sell it and be out of the landlord business. This house is <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">soooo</span> full of memories for me and I am still trying to get my bearings on being there. Some rooms remind me of the awful fights and craziness I endured while married, other rooms remind me of my son as a baby and the bathroom reminds me of puking for 6 months while pregnant. I plan to paint the rooms different colors, hang different shaded on the windows and install lighting - all in the hopes that it will change my thinking on the house and lessen these burdensome memories. Maybe the real estate fairy will come along and send someone to buy my house before I have to move into it.<br /><br />I am selling this house because I need to pay off debt. Debt I have amassed trying to KEEP my two houses. The biggest mistake I made, other than marry my x, was to keep the houses when we got divorced and buy him out of the equity. He made out like a bandit - a BIG giant check was written to him over two years ago. Since then I have slowly realized that these houses were sucking the life out of me. In two years I have had 3 tenants in one, ALL of them turned out to be assholes. These houses are like Spider's in my ear actually. I just cant rinse them out and rid myself of the annoying "snap, crackle, pop" sound infamously described by the kid in the article. My <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">optimism</span> shows up from time to time bringing me visions of a debt free life, without these houses keeping me tied to my past and setting me free to start over.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Oh no I di'nt. I don gone and writ me suttin.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9831401.post-88508603170702200132007-04-27T15:42:00.001-04:002007-04-27T15:42:02.563-04:00pingu gets drunk<div xmlns='http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml'><p><object height='350' width='425'><param value='http://youtube.com/v/ZDwp47LwrAE' name='movie'></param><embed height='350' width='425' type='application/x-shockwave-flash' src='http://youtube.com/v/ZDwp47LwrAE'></embed></object></p></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Oh no I di'nt. I don gone and writ me suttin.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9831401.post-5773319184501759442007-04-13T13:50:00.000-04:002007-04-13T13:54:34.034-04:00See direction #23Click <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?f=d&hl=en&saddr=New+York&daddr=london&sll=43.771094,-48.164062&sspn=37.273249,110.390625&layer=&ie=UTF8&z=4&ll=46.13417,-36.123047&spn=35.866648,81.5625&om=1">here</a> and go to Google Maps. Type in New York to London. <br />Read the directions.<br /><br />Look at #23.....<br /><br />I wanna know what programmer thought of that? How funny is that? Now they could have suggested to take a boat or a plane even but they opted for the word swim. It's truly fantastic!! Clearly a joke put on by google.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Oh no I di'nt. I don gone and writ me suttin.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0