Just call me Flemmily…

Writing has taught me a lot of things about myself.

Unfortunately, some of them are just flat-out ridiculous.

I’m one of those closeted weekend writers (a.k.a. a person with a day job), and as such, I’ve gotten used to squeezing creative thoughts into every free moment I have.

I compose and reanalyze sentences in the shower, and fume over plot problems while brushing my teeth. I hash out dialogue while watering the plants or grilling dinner on the porch. I list out character traits while I walk from the parking lot to my office, and I work out themes and motifs while driving around town. Then when I have time to plop myself in front of my computer, I know where I’m going, because I’ve thought everything out ahead of time. It’s terribly effective.

But I’ve recently realized that there’s a downside.

Recently, while cooking dinner on the porch, my roommate and I were chatting through the screen door. My next door neighbor (also out grilling), looked up in surprise when he heard my roommate respond to a question I posed.

I cocked my head at him, confused at his reaction.

“Oh!” He exclaimed, peering at me over his grill cover. “Sorry…It’s just nice to hear you talking to another person for once.” He smiled, kindly, and turned his attention back to his hot dogs.

I was left to stew. What could he mean?

I took a few minutes to ponder, and then took a close look at myself as an outsider might see me. It was then that I realized two separate things, that, when combined, make average, little-ol’ me look like a big, giant nut-job.

1. I tend to think verbally, and,
2. I talk with my hands.

While I thought I was rewriting lines, an outside person would just see me blurting out random statements, punctuating them with wide, sweeping arm movements. While I worked on dialogue, someone else might think I was having an argument with myself–complete with wild gesticulations and inappropriate hand gestures.

I began to realize the kinds of things that my neighbors and co-workers might have witnessed. Me jabbing a hose accusingly at my herb garden, crying out “How dare you!”, as I imagined my main character confronting her foe.

I blushed as I recalled counting on my fingers as I decided that a character was “popular, cocky, and afraid of standing too close to the tuba section in band class.”

I was floored by mental images of myself muttering at half-cooked hamburgers, freshly scrubbed dishes, and my steering wheel.

So, on the positive side, I’m making lots of progress on my YA novel, and I’ve finally figured out why I get toothpaste all over my mirror.

Now I’m trying not to mind that others think I’m schizophrenic.

A few weeks ago, I decided that I needed some extra storage space in my bathroom.

After an hour or two at Target, I finally chose an over-the-toilet shelving system.

After another hour….or six….I had it put together.

Not bad, eh?

I was quite proud.

Except, it didn’t quite fit over the toilet.

Actually, that’s not true. It fit over the toilet, it just didn’t fit over the toilet tank lid. Other than that it was perfect!

So, I felt that i had a few options.

1. Take it apart and return it to Target.
2. Remove the toilet lid all together, or
3. Put the toilet lid on a little crooked, so it all fit.

Guess which one I chose?

But then I had a new problem. With the lid on crooked, the water kept running, which is environmentally not such a terrific thing, and aesthetically, it’s also kind of annoying.

But, I McGyver-ed it, and came up with a solution.

Can you see it?

No?

Well, maybe a little closer…

How about now?

Who needs duct tape? I have a tampon, and I’m not afraid to mis-use it!

I promised you a few updates nearly a month ago, with a catchy little “tune in tomorrow” lead in.

I lied.

And I’m sorry. Lies make baby Jesus cry.

But, if we pretend that by “tomorrow” I meant “within a month or two” then we’re good.

In my town, people are big dog lovers, and their dogs go everywhere.

And I do mean EVERYWHERE.

Even the bars.

Personally, I like it.

Hello, hello!

I’ve been away for far too long. You’ve missed me, admit it.

I’ve been fairly booked lately, as I’ve been running back to my Mom’s house weekly to help her move. She’s decided to downsize out of my childhood home.

After 22 years of living there.

Now, all sentimentality aside, I’m happy that she’s taking this step and getting away, there’s just one problem.

In 22 years, you can stockpile a lot of junk.

And I mean A. LOT.

After a huge garage sale and a pickup from Goodwill, things are starting to look up. However, there is still work to be done. My sister and I have been spending some time packing up all the things that she’s taking with her, now that we’ve cleared the excesses out of the way.

Oh, and my mom? She’s in Ireland, seemingly having the time of her life. She and a friend won a free trip, and honestly, I’m happy for her.

But she may wind up regretting allowing big sis and I to do all the packing…

You see, my big sis and I have a rather odd sense of humor when we’re together. Add in stress, exhaustion, and an overwhelming amount of pack-rat-i-ness, and we get downright slap-happy.

For example, in the guest room closet, we found some interesting things.

Like hundreds of dollars of Mary Kay makeup… Three dozen hand-painted Easter Egg shells…

And every childhood pet we ever had.

Well, every pet minus ‘Missy’, who is buried in the garden.

But Ginger, Sheba, Cuddles, Lady, and Scotta? All carefully preserved in decorative tins (only their ashes–not to worry.)

While some might find this sad (or disgusting, I suppose), big sis and I found it very VERY funny.

Read as, ‘laughing so hard we couldn’t stand up ‘ kind of funny.

You may also need to know a little history to understand the rest of the discussion we had. My dad died tragically about three years ago, by falling off a ladder.

And HIS ashes are in the living room.

But right off the bat, big sis said to me, “Maybe we should pack Dad in here too!”

We laughed and cried simultaneously, but decided against packing Dad in with all the critters.

However, when I labeled the box, I took a little artistic license.

...& our faithful departed (except Dad)

As it is, I think we have some ’splainin’ to do.

I’m not sure why I’m so behind on blogging.

Trust me, I haven’t been getting much else done either. My middle grade MS is on the backburner, and the YA one I’ve been focusing on is, well…lacking focus.

So, for memorial day, I promise to catch up on my blogging.

The thing is, I’ve actually been stockpiling things to write about! So, check back tomorrow for ‘Dogs in Bars,’ ‘Who needs duct tape?’ and ‘The real pushbutton.’

Look…there are things that I understand…

Like the fact that I live in Montana.

I get it.

But, I don’t get this—

My first glimpse of the weather...oh joy.

Let’s double check the date, shall we?

April 15.

APRIL 15. It’s officially been spring for a while now. In my mind, spring means NO SNOW.

I need to take up snowboarding again. If I were still boarding, I might have felt differently about today.

Instead, I just felt irritation at the prospect of shoveling.

And, worst of all, I had to hear a good friend brag about his sunny, beautiful, warm day.

A friend who lives in SEATTLE.

Life can be SO unfair.

But ladies, I’m sure you’ll all understand.

You pick out an outfit for an event. Maybe you don’t put it on, but you have it in your mind. You KNOW what you’ll be wearing that day.

Then, suddenly, at the last possible moment, the outfit dies. No pulse, not breathing, might kill you with its hideousness—dies.

Maybe you didn’t realize that the skirt had faded just enough to look like it doesn’t match. Maybe the sleeves of the shirt are too tight. Maybe the proportions are wrong…maybe the shirt would look better with pants…but all your dress slacks are dirty, wrinkled, and/or covered with pet hair. Ladies–I’m sure you’ve been there. It’s fashion victim hell.

So, then you go into a closet-panic. You pull out dresses that you haven’t worn in years, skirts that may have gone out of style. You throw a back-up outfit in the wash, knowing that it won’t be dry by the time you leave. But still, you try.

If you’re lucky, you have enough sense to go to your nearest shopping center and just bail yourself out with a credit card.

If you’re unlucky, you wear the wrinkled/cat hair outfit and spend most of evening brushing yourself off. Very attractive.

On Saturday, I was the queen of fashion victim hell. My original outfit died, but it died hardcore—-complete with an ill-sewn seam over the bust. “Did I get something pink on this shirt? Oh….no, it’s my bra showing through the hole I didn’t know existed.”

In my closet panic, I found nothing useful, except the dress I’d worn to the event two years earlier. Not gonna happen, trust me. I’m all for re-using outfits, but not to the same event. (Ladies—you’re with me, yes?)

The worst thing about this particular event is that it’s a fundraiser I used to organize in my first position out of college…a job that I loved for eight months despite the $12.50/hour pay. Then it went sour and I quit. In the end, I left on good terms, but it felt like a bad breakup. It’s been two years now, but when I first left I felt used and hurt and disrespected, I sat home and ate a lot of ice cream for a week, and I really didn’t want to run into my former co-workers.

But mostly, if I did run into them, I wanted to look HOT.

Not wrinkled and covered in cat hair.

Now, I might have to mention that when all this happened, it was about 3:30 in the afternoon. The event began at 6. Doesn’t sound so bad, does it?

Except that the event was in a different city, 90 miles away. Yuck.

So, I did what any self-respecting 25-year-old would do.

I called my mommy.

She lives in the 90-mile-away city, and she did what only a mother can do…she pre-shopped for me. As I drove from one city to another, she called with status updates.

“Nothing good at Macy’s…I’m heading to the mall.”

“Dillards has velvet skirts, how do we feel about velvet skirts?”

“Call me when you get to the mall…I’ve got some things set aside.”

So, I flew into town wearing a long pink sweater, leggings and flats. I found my mom and her stack of skirts, and I hit the dressing room.

I tried on one skirt (not the velvet one, but a black belted number with white embroidery), sent mom to find a black tank top and a shrug, and within 10 minutes, the ladies at the store front were cutting my tags off me and shoving my pink sweater in a plastic bag.

It was incredible. It was expensive (we weren’t looking at prices), but incredible. It’s my new favorite outfit.

I went to the event feeling like the girlfriend who’s gotten WAY more attractive since the breakup, and she’s just praying she’ll run into her old boyfriend.

Sure enough, I ran into one of my main former coworkers instantly—-a guy with whom I used to share an office.

“Hey Flemmily, how’s it going?”

“Great…great! How are you?”

“Doing good. You look good.”

(Of course I do.) “Thanks! You look good too. Nice shirt.”

“Oh, thanks. I’ve worn this one to [the event] for the last three years!”

**head slap** Boys.

Two disasters, one day apart, and strikingly similar.

It started in Bozeman, MT at 8:15 on March 5th, 2009.

“It” was a gas explosion.

Main Street, Bozeman

To count, six businesses were lost, with one likely casualty.

Really, Really sad.

Then, Whitehall happened.

In leiu of pictures, check this out.

Yeah. Gas Fire. Several businesses destroyed.

Now the strangest thing is that the two places aren’t that far apart…
View Larger Map

The heat headed 60 miles west, this time with possible earthquake involvement.

So, Butte, if I were you, I’d be really careful. This tragic trend seems to be heading your way.

For the Mardi Gras party at my house, it all started with Queen Bee’s salad. The dressing she brought along is fantastic!

Turns out truth in advertising does exist!

But it sounds like the label must be confusing to some in the world. You probably can’t read it, but on the sticker towards the top it says “Delicious on Fresh Peaches: Does not contain Peaches”.

I waver back and forth on whether or not this is funny. It’s poppy seed dressing. I wouldn’t really expect it to contain peaches, but the label is a peach, which throws me.

In the end, I think it’s funny.  Regardless, many peach jokes were made throughout the evening.

But the joy of full disclosure didn’t end there.

The rest of it started out pretty innocently, with a King Cake.

Pretty, eh?

The king cake is a pretty traditional thing to have at Mardi Gras. It’s quite tasty, covered with green, yellow, and purple sugar, and has a filling throughout. Ours was half raspberry, half cream cheese.

But that’s not the only thing in the cake:

"Does that say what I think it says?"

Yep. That’s what it says. Here’s a closer look.

So, this in itself is also pretty traditional. King cakes have plastic babies stuck into them. So I shouldn’t be suprised that the cake has a baby in it. But there’s just something about the frankness of the statement, the somewhat creepy, serial-killer-handwriting, and the legally-binding-disclosure phrasing that absolutely Cracks. Me. Up.

I almost died, I laughed so hard. I photographed it from every angle. I texted photos to my family members.

And I did a little research…

Apparently if you get the baby in your piece of cake, then you’re king for the evening, you’ll have good luck all year, AND (most importanly)…

YOU get to host the next party!

So, I cut the cake VERY carefully, not wanting to dismember the Christ child….

We examined our pieces VERY carefully…..

We took small bites and chewed VERY carefully…..

Care to guess who got the baby?

Awww....it's baby Jesus! In a cake...

Yeah. Me. That’s my fork.

It’s a good thing that I’m such an awesome hostess. I think the next party should have a full disclosure theme, full of obvious statements. Maybe we can do it for Queen Bee’s birthday.

On the door: “You are entering a party. Proceed with caution.”

On the punch bowl: “This bowl contains liquids. Said liquids might be alcoholic.”

On the birthday girl: “This is Queen Bee. She is 25 years old.”

On the salad bowl: “The dressing does not contain peaches. However, the dressing IS delicious on fresh peaches. There are no peaches at this party, unless you have peaches on your person.”

And, on the cake, perfectly scripted in pink icing: “This cake contains a plastic baby.”

I think from this point on, all cakes should contain a plastic baby.

Just to keep it consistent.

I’ve been a subscriber to the local paper for over a year.

I’ve been reading for…well…considerably less time.

The first nail in the coffin presented itself when I moved to my new condo. Actually, more like three nails.

1. I began commuting to work (instead of living crazy close), and had to schedule an extra half hour drive time into the morning.

2. I stopped going to the gym before work (which made me wake up uber early), and,

3. I began entering and exiting the new condo from the garage, so the papers could pile up outside my door without me even noticing.

It’s not as though the local newspaper is my only source of information. I read the New York Times online, I watch the news occasionally, etc. So, the local paper was dropped as an early morning habit, and it’s yet to be picked up anew.

And, speaking of “picked up,” the paper also stopped getting picked up and brought inside.

It drives my friend Queen Bee NUTS. Everytime she comes over, she collects all the papers, brings them inside, and shames me for subscribing to something I don’t read AND littering outside my own door.

At first, I felt badly, and I sincerely tried to, if not read the paper, then to at least bring it inside and recycle it promptly.

Finally, I accepted the fact that I was not going to be a coffee-and-newspaper-in-the-morning type of person anymore. I mourned the fact, got used to it, and switched to a weekend only subscription (Friday, Saturday, and Sunday).

And I still didn’t read them.

Queen Bee still picks up my stacks of newspapers when she comes over. She doesn’t know that I leave them alone on purpose now. I’ve even told other friends, “Oh, leave the papers. Bee is coming over later.”

Don’t tell her, but I’ve even moved a few from the recyle bin back outside just to ruffle her feathers when she stops by.

That in itself made it worth the monthly subscription fee, for a time. While it’s been fun, I think I’m over it. Monday morning I’m canceling my subscription.

We’ve had a good run, Comical, but I’m just not that into you.