The hurricane decided to take a southern route and, really, we missed the worst of it. So everything is OK here in the Dilly house.
We only lost power for 6 hours... just long enough to slightly cross over into the Not Fun Anymore territory. The power came back on about 30 minutes after I fell asleep in our pitch black bedroom (hot as a pizza oven) from a sort of heat and humidity induced coma. Hubby woke up when the power surged back on. While I was sleeping beside him (mouth open, probably drooling, on top of the covers and probably having bad dreams about my hair) he turned off our battery powered fan, turned on his lamp and started setting his alarm for work the next day. His clicking the buttons on the alarm woke me up and I groggily squawked "blech! mmmmbwhy'd you turn the fan offffft? bluggg?!" Not even noticing! There was a lamp on! Mmm-duh!
This morning I woke up at 10:15 a.m. in a complete funk. It's almost like the hurricane pummeled me last night and took all of my energy. I can barely function.
Must have more rice krispy treats. Crap! There's none left.
But (there's always a but), that's the worst that happened. Bad hair, heat, humidity, boredom, moments of scary wind noises, and no electricty. Some didn't fair as well as we did. The Miami area got pummeled pretty bad! Lots of people STILL don't have electricity. Seven people lost their lives. Hurricanes are serious things. Even category one hurricanes.
===================================================
On another note... did you know that there are people out there who completely and utterly hate children? And hate people who have children? I'm astonished! I guess I'm not 100% astonished, because I've always known about the "crotchety old lady" (or man) who hates children and screams at them when they play in their lawn or draws chalk on their sidewalk. There's one in every neighborhood. Or two, if you're lucky.
But no, these aren't the typical crotchety variety. These are hateful, scary people. They call mothers who have children (or even people who want to have kids someday) "breeders" or "cows" or "Moo". I somewhat understand their personal choice to not have children and be "childfree" (not to be confused with childless... since they say this makes it seem as if they are missing something). However, I would ask them to please not be hateful and cruel to people, who, like them, have made a personal choice as well. I don't mind that they don't want kids. Great! I just don't think it's right to sit around and create communities for the sole purpose of ganging up on and scoffing at people who have children.
That's all I'm saying about that. I don't want to welcome any of their negative attention to myself. I'm just doin' the free speach thing. I don't think it's right to hate anyone of ANY religion, race, or lifestyle. Hate is never OK.
Friday, August 26, 2005
Thursday, August 25, 2005
Roughing It
The office closed today at noon so that we could all come home and prepare for this (hurricane) little fun aspect of living in South Florida. Hubby is still at work, but he came home for lunch and put hurricane shutters on our bedroom windows (his way of protecting me like a manly-man). Yep. It's windy and rainy outside right now, but honestly? I'm not freaked out at all. Not even concerned. After last year's three hurricanes hitting in the same month, this little Katrina is no big deal. Sure we'll probably lose power for a bit. Sure we'll have to eat off the grill and put all of the contents of our fridge in our cooler. Sure I'll be sweating my tush off and will get really bitchy. Sure it'll suck. No big deal.
What have I been doing since I got home? You might think I should be filling the bathtub with water and a pinch of bleach. Stocking the freezer with water for ice. Replacing the batteries in all of our flashlights. Nope. I've been watching TV. Charging the battery on my laptop. Scrapbooking. Eating rice krispy treats. Watching the trees blowing. What does my husband want me to be doing? Clean up all the stinkin' dishes in the kitchen. Run some laundry while we still have power. Pick up all the scrapbooking junk I've strewn everywhere. Nope. I'll probably rush to get these things at least started by the time he gets home. Hello? It's a pending storm! I'm enjoying myself while I can! Can you blame me?
So say a little prayer for our safety here in Palm Beach County. The storm is about 30 miles off our coast and the winds caould get up to 80 mph or so. But mostly it's the rain... because the storm is moving so slowly, it'll dump a ton of rain. They think about 20 inches in our area. Also pray for my hair. It does not do well in the humidity. I hate hurricane season.
What have I been doing since I got home? You might think I should be filling the bathtub with water and a pinch of bleach. Stocking the freezer with water for ice. Replacing the batteries in all of our flashlights. Nope. I've been watching TV. Charging the battery on my laptop. Scrapbooking. Eating rice krispy treats. Watching the trees blowing. What does my husband want me to be doing? Clean up all the stinkin' dishes in the kitchen. Run some laundry while we still have power. Pick up all the scrapbooking junk I've strewn everywhere. Nope. I'll probably rush to get these things at least started by the time he gets home. Hello? It's a pending storm! I'm enjoying myself while I can! Can you blame me?
So say a little prayer for our safety here in Palm Beach County. The storm is about 30 miles off our coast and the winds caould get up to 80 mph or so. But mostly it's the rain... because the storm is moving so slowly, it'll dump a ton of rain. They think about 20 inches in our area. Also pray for my hair. It does not do well in the humidity. I hate hurricane season.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Sweet Home
Sweet summer sun gilds the soft grass in dapples. It's a beautiful day, just the right temperature. The hum of bees can be heard through the sound of leaves dancing from a gentle breeze. I sigh happily as I step onto the shaded front porch of my grandparent's house. Across the street is a giant weeping willow tree, partially blocking the facade of an old church. The church bells ring. It's ten o' clock.
In my bare feet, I step out onto the uneven cracked sidewalk and feel it's coolness. Tall maple, pine and oak trees tower above me. It's a great time for a walk on a warm summer day. In this small town where I was born it's a quick trip to the neighborhood grocery store, a produce stand, a bubbling creek with soft grey pebbles, a pizza & subs joint, maple farms, gravity-defying rock formations, a park, the local paper supply store, my grandpa's warehouse (where he keeps tons of old vending machines and games like pac-man), a country fair with hand-pulled taffy, anywhere. It's a simple town compared to the city where I currently live, but it awakens my senses like nowhere else.
Sometimes I'll catch a smell in my nose and the memories all come rushing back. The air is crisp and alive with nature's peak climax of summer. The fresh odor of weeds, flowers and grass remind me of days down at our camp where we'd eat fresh watermelon and roll down the hill in a blanket. Where the clay bottom of the pond would squish between my toes and uncle Tracey played harmonica and sang "Bullfrog sittin' on a railroad track." The old house has it's familiar scents, too. It's just the same as it's always been. The faint hint of grandma's perfume, carpet and fabric detergent mixed with eucalyptus wreaths and chicken baking in the oven. The attic is deep and dank, smelling of old wood, dust and aged paper and it makes me think fondly of the paper dolls they kept there for me when I visited. Grandpa's office (where, as a child, I was never allowed) smells like freshly sharpened pencils, wallpaper paste and the faint odor of tobacco. Freshly brewed coffee wafts from the kitchen. All of these smells take me back to something old and raw inside of me, as if they were etched into my soul the day my parents brought me home from the hospital and into that house on June, 1980.
There's something about this place. And to be honest? I'm so scared that someday, when my grandparents are no longer here, I'll start to forget it. I don't want to ever forget! I wish I could capture it in a bottle... all of it. Grandma's wonderful back rubs and soft warm hugs, singing the hymns at the baptist church with grandpa's tenor voice in my ear, the sound of laughter and familiar voices, my view of the oak tree from my bedroom window, the back steps where we shuck corn, all the smells and sounds that make this home. I choose to remember it. I won't forget.
In my bare feet, I step out onto the uneven cracked sidewalk and feel it's coolness. Tall maple, pine and oak trees tower above me. It's a great time for a walk on a warm summer day. In this small town where I was born it's a quick trip to the neighborhood grocery store, a produce stand, a bubbling creek with soft grey pebbles, a pizza & subs joint, maple farms, gravity-defying rock formations, a park, the local paper supply store, my grandpa's warehouse (where he keeps tons of old vending machines and games like pac-man), a country fair with hand-pulled taffy, anywhere. It's a simple town compared to the city where I currently live, but it awakens my senses like nowhere else.
Sometimes I'll catch a smell in my nose and the memories all come rushing back. The air is crisp and alive with nature's peak climax of summer. The fresh odor of weeds, flowers and grass remind me of days down at our camp where we'd eat fresh watermelon and roll down the hill in a blanket. Where the clay bottom of the pond would squish between my toes and uncle Tracey played harmonica and sang "Bullfrog sittin' on a railroad track." The old house has it's familiar scents, too. It's just the same as it's always been. The faint hint of grandma's perfume, carpet and fabric detergent mixed with eucalyptus wreaths and chicken baking in the oven. The attic is deep and dank, smelling of old wood, dust and aged paper and it makes me think fondly of the paper dolls they kept there for me when I visited. Grandpa's office (where, as a child, I was never allowed) smells like freshly sharpened pencils, wallpaper paste and the faint odor of tobacco. Freshly brewed coffee wafts from the kitchen. All of these smells take me back to something old and raw inside of me, as if they were etched into my soul the day my parents brought me home from the hospital and into that house on June, 1980.
There's something about this place. And to be honest? I'm so scared that someday, when my grandparents are no longer here, I'll start to forget it. I don't want to ever forget! I wish I could capture it in a bottle... all of it. Grandma's wonderful back rubs and soft warm hugs, singing the hymns at the baptist church with grandpa's tenor voice in my ear, the sound of laughter and familiar voices, my view of the oak tree from my bedroom window, the back steps where we shuck corn, all the smells and sounds that make this home. I choose to remember it. I won't forget.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
8 Reasons Why I Will Not, For The Life Of Me, Wear A Thong To Work
(or anywhere else, for that matter)
(Warning: Dad, if you're reading... please stop)
1. I have witnessed a thong sticking out the back of someone's pants while they were crouching at the filing cabinet. It was enough to make me dry heave. I've been somewhat traumatized by this.
2. I'm not a big fan of feeling my bare butt cheeks rub against my clothes. It makes me feel very exposed. I think it must be a deep-rooted survival instinct.
3. As the day progresses, thongs tend to creep wickedly up into my tender nether-regions. By 5:00 p.m., it must be surgically removed.
4. I do not enjoy the sensation of fabric in my crack. My crack does not want it.
5. No support, people. There is too much freedom of the cheeks and noticeable additional butt jiggle. And when you've got a butt like mine (think J-Lo) you don't want any extra jiggle. Nor do you want your boss noticing your jiggle.
6. No pantyline= the appearance of going commando. Noticeably going commando= the appearance that you ran out of clean underwear.
7. Chafing can occur when wearing rough fabric. Chafing is not fun!
8. Thongs are not the best choice for hot, sweaty, summertime days. 'Nuff said.
(Warning: Dad, if you're reading... please stop)
1. I have witnessed a thong sticking out the back of someone's pants while they were crouching at the filing cabinet. It was enough to make me dry heave. I've been somewhat traumatized by this.
2. I'm not a big fan of feeling my bare butt cheeks rub against my clothes. It makes me feel very exposed. I think it must be a deep-rooted survival instinct.
3. As the day progresses, thongs tend to creep wickedly up into my tender nether-regions. By 5:00 p.m., it must be surgically removed.
4. I do not enjoy the sensation of fabric in my crack. My crack does not want it.
5. No support, people. There is too much freedom of the cheeks and noticeable additional butt jiggle. And when you've got a butt like mine (think J-Lo) you don't want any extra jiggle. Nor do you want your boss noticing your jiggle.
6. No pantyline= the appearance of going commando. Noticeably going commando= the appearance that you ran out of clean underwear.
7. Chafing can occur when wearing rough fabric. Chafing is not fun!
8. Thongs are not the best choice for hot, sweaty, summertime days. 'Nuff said.
Tuesday, August 9, 2005
The Girl Next Door
This is a story I saved from my first blog (which I deleted). I thought I'd share it again since it was just too funny:
When I was 8 or 9 years old I was into playing with a dirty little girl from across the street. I'm saying she was dirty because she always smelled salty, her hair was a bunch of wild tangles and she always had food spilled on her clothes. She lived in our neighborhood with her grandmother (whom she called her mother) half the year and her mother (whom she called her sister) the other half of the year. So, when she was in town I hung with her because she was different. I even tolerated her smell. My mom absolutely disallowed me to enter their house and strongly preferred that she not come in ours, so we played outside.
One day we were playing at the playground across the street and she decided to use the bathroom right under the Merry-Go-Round. When she told me about her plans, I suggested she walk home (which was literally two minutes away). She said "no, this is fine" and even invited me to relieve my bowels, too—as if this was a usual routine for her or something. I politely said no and wandered over to the swing set, slightly disturbed and fighting the urge to look over where she was squatting.
Moments later we got back to playing and I somehow forgot the whole poop thing. As we made our rounds in that tiny playground, I got bored with the other amusements and absentmindedly began running furiously around the Merry-Go-Round to get it spinning really fast. It was right about the time I planned to leap onto the spinning disk when I realized the mulch was curiously sticking to my brand new white Keds.
Yes, you guessed it. I had stepped right into her poop.
It was squishy and had wrapped itself up around the heel of my shoe—mulch and twigs jutted from it in every direction. As soon as I came to the horrid realization I screamed at her: "Your poop!." I then proceeded to limp straight home as fast as I could, fighting back dry heave after dry heave from the smell. The dirty girl followed me, spewing off sad apologies and trying to make me feel guilty for stepping in her poop. The craziest thing was when she tried to convince me to "lose" my shoes so that my mom wouldn't think that I had pooped on them. Sha-right. I poop in toilets. Not on my new Keds, sister. You're the dirty girl, not me.
Let's just say that was the last time I played with her.
When I was 8 or 9 years old I was into playing with a dirty little girl from across the street. I'm saying she was dirty because she always smelled salty, her hair was a bunch of wild tangles and she always had food spilled on her clothes. She lived in our neighborhood with her grandmother (whom she called her mother) half the year and her mother (whom she called her sister) the other half of the year. So, when she was in town I hung with her because she was different. I even tolerated her smell. My mom absolutely disallowed me to enter their house and strongly preferred that she not come in ours, so we played outside.
One day we were playing at the playground across the street and she decided to use the bathroom right under the Merry-Go-Round. When she told me about her plans, I suggested she walk home (which was literally two minutes away). She said "no, this is fine" and even invited me to relieve my bowels, too—as if this was a usual routine for her or something. I politely said no and wandered over to the swing set, slightly disturbed and fighting the urge to look over where she was squatting.
Moments later we got back to playing and I somehow forgot the whole poop thing. As we made our rounds in that tiny playground, I got bored with the other amusements and absentmindedly began running furiously around the Merry-Go-Round to get it spinning really fast. It was right about the time I planned to leap onto the spinning disk when I realized the mulch was curiously sticking to my brand new white Keds.
Yes, you guessed it. I had stepped right into her poop.
It was squishy and had wrapped itself up around the heel of my shoe—mulch and twigs jutted from it in every direction. As soon as I came to the horrid realization I screamed at her: "Your poop!." I then proceeded to limp straight home as fast as I could, fighting back dry heave after dry heave from the smell. The dirty girl followed me, spewing off sad apologies and trying to make me feel guilty for stepping in her poop. The craziest thing was when she tried to convince me to "lose" my shoes so that my mom wouldn't think that I had pooped on them. Sha-right. I poop in toilets. Not on my new Keds, sister. You're the dirty girl, not me.
Let's just say that was the last time I played with her.
Monday, August 8, 2005
Hot or Not?
Driving to work the other day, I was stopped at a light and noticed from my peripheral vision that the guy in the car next to me was checking me out. Since I'm married and not at all interested in flirting with complete strangers, I can usually deal with this by ignoring it. However, since I had only half of my makeup on, I scooted my car up a bit to be out of his line of sight. But then he scooted forward and I glanced over quickly. He was smiling. Shyly, I scooted forward again. Then he scooted forward! Geez!Feeling awkward and not 100% comfortable with his attention, I was about to scoot forward again when I was saved by the green light.
Knowing I probably looked pretty average without most of my makeup on, I glanced in my mirror to check myself out... wondering what the stares were for. Maybe I looked exceptionally hot? Alas, I was stunned at my reflection. Not hot! Light tan dabs of glaringly un-blended cover-up were under my nose, on my forehead and under my eyes. I then knew what he was looking at and why he was smiling! I almost died of embarrassment. You see, I must have forgotten to blend it at the last stoplight. I have this really bad habit of applying half of my makeup (lotion, foundation, eyeliner) at home and then finishing the job (cover-up, powder, blush, mascara, eye-shadow, lipstick) in my car while stopped at stoplights and in the parking lot at work. My husband hates that I do this and he thinks it's dangerous (it's not like I do it WHILE I'm driving... I'm not that dumb). In my opinion, the only danger is looking like a complete idiot as I drive across town. Now, if I could just be disciplined and wake up 15 minutes earlier in the morning to finish my makeup!
Knowing I probably looked pretty average without most of my makeup on, I glanced in my mirror to check myself out... wondering what the stares were for. Maybe I looked exceptionally hot? Alas, I was stunned at my reflection. Not hot! Light tan dabs of glaringly un-blended cover-up were under my nose, on my forehead and under my eyes. I then knew what he was looking at and why he was smiling! I almost died of embarrassment. You see, I must have forgotten to blend it at the last stoplight. I have this really bad habit of applying half of my makeup (lotion, foundation, eyeliner) at home and then finishing the job (cover-up, powder, blush, mascara, eye-shadow, lipstick) in my car while stopped at stoplights and in the parking lot at work. My husband hates that I do this and he thinks it's dangerous (it's not like I do it WHILE I'm driving... I'm not that dumb). In my opinion, the only danger is looking like a complete idiot as I drive across town. Now, if I could just be disciplined and wake up 15 minutes earlier in the morning to finish my makeup!
Thursday, August 4, 2005
Cozy Movies
It's a thunderous, stormy, night with wind softly whistling and rain droplets clicking against the windows. The sound is soothing and the foggy, moonlit darkness outside is magical. You feel all safe and comfortable in your house. You dim the lights and stike a match to burn a few candles... pumpkin spice, pine, and cinnamon. The whole place feels like a peaceful sanctuary. You have a warm plate of fresh chocolate chip cookies and a glass of cool milk waiting. Shuffling in your cozy slippers on the way over to the couch, you pop a movie into the DVD player. Then you curl into a soft chenille blanket and sigh happily as you hear the movie begin.
What movie would you choose to watch?
Here is a list of my Ultimate Cozy Night Movies (in no particular order):
1. Neverending Story
2. Anne Of Green Gables
3. Labyrinth
4. The Goonies
5. Dirty Dancing
6. The Beach
7. Willow
8. Swiss Family Robinson
9. Home Alone
10. Big Fish
11. Gremlins
12. Dumbo
13. Little Women
14. The Parent Trap
15. Back To The Future
In the deep heat of summer, rainy (somewhat cooler) nights like this are nice. I can't wait for autumn weather to come. :)
What movie would you choose to watch?
Here is a list of my Ultimate Cozy Night Movies (in no particular order):
1. Neverending Story
2. Anne Of Green Gables
3. Labyrinth
4. The Goonies
5. Dirty Dancing
6. The Beach
7. Willow
8. Swiss Family Robinson
9. Home Alone
10. Big Fish
11. Gremlins
12. Dumbo
13. Little Women
14. The Parent Trap
15. Back To The Future
In the deep heat of summer, rainy (somewhat cooler) nights like this are nice. I can't wait for autumn weather to come. :)
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