This is probably the least formal blog I've written to date. My contacts are also dry, and I can barely see the screen. Should blind people type? I can't see anything dangerous about it. I can't see anything at all. HA!
Coming home to the POC when everyone is home is a lot of wonderful things. It's uplifting, energizing, and loving. But the one thing it is NOT is relaxing. That has to wait until at least one of us has gone to bed. That seems to kind of break the cycle of crazy that tends to permeate our gatherings.
Now I present to you:
Five weird things that happened to me when I came home tonight.
1. Corrie was standing at the back door. The only reason that was weird is that there was thunder and lightening going on outside on par with a Thor temper-tantrum. I'll never understand the whole "standing outside watching the storm" obsession. I can enjoy a storm just fine from inside where lightening is less likely to strike, thank you. A good summer cloudburst is one thing, but when electricity and piano-moving noises start coming from THE SKY, I gotta draw the line.
2. I stopped by Kroger on my way home, and picked up two of the Miso noodle bowls I've been into lately. On my way through the kitchen I threw them down on the counter. Michael thanked me. Way to have some manners, but seriously, dude, BACK UP OFF MY NOODLES!
3. The pile of trash bags in the garage is LITERALLY as tall as me. Awesome. And there's a bar stool in there for some reason. Double awesome. What else is in there that I didn't see? Pterodactyl fossils? The missing link? Paris Hilton's sense of taste? A dead sturgeon? A dead surgeon? I hate it when we miss trash days. The way we generate refuse, it's almost like five women live here.
4. There's foliage in the garage. I don't mean some lawn clippings or an old Christmas tree. I mean SIX FOOT TALL PALMS. Freaky....it was like Birnam Wood was advancing on the Kia, getting ready to storm the POC (don't get the reference? Shame on you! Read your Shakespeare). There were a couple of Ivy plants, I think. Also, that venus flytrap thing from the Little Shop of Horror was yelling at me to feed it. I just threw some organic marshmallows at it. If I can't eat meat, the creepy little shrub in the garage sure isn't allowed to.
5. Did you know that when Laura has her face pressed against a glass surface, it amplifies her already impressive voice like, sixty times? Corrie still can't hear out of her left ear. I shudder to think what would happen if I did that...Armageddon? Bone fractures? Another Resident Evil movie? Or maybe it would have the opposite effect, and cancer would be cured. Cool!
I spend half my time at home trying to figure out what the heck is going on with these people, and the other half trying to decide if I should try and extinguish that thing that's on fire.
Which brings me to Molly. We have previously discussed Molly's somewhat questionable IQ. But really, this dog has GOT to get some kind of smart-infusion or she's gonna die. Over the weekend she ate so many objects that were never meant to be eaten, I'm shocked she still has teeth. One of these objects was a AA battery that bent in half and yet, somehow, did not break. Another object was an electric trimmer with actual razors inside that somehow missed cutting her mouth. I guess God really does protect children and idiots. Technically, Molly is both!
The crazy part about all this is that when you find said destroyed object, and yell Molly's name out of a visceral instinct that says if you say her name loud enough, it will re-cohere the object, she runs up to the scene of the crime and grins (I promise you) up at your face like she's just done you the world's biggest favor.
It's kind of heartbreaking that you have to discipline her for it.
Anyway, I can't talk. My cats are no better. My eleventy-billion year old cat somehow finds it much more convenient to take her business behind the sofa than the litter box.
....what was I saying?
Monday, March 30, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Walkin' on, Walkin' on broken glass!
Just an FYI to everyone, coming to the POC is dangerous.
Shattered glass happens regularly, usually on someone's person. Corrie learned that via a gash in her foot. The rest of the roomies have been a little more lucky to be exempt from the slashy, bleedy kind of education. Michael almost had the worst kind of education via a broken glass measuring cup in his lap, which Tonya had to hoover up while I helped him pick slivers out of his palms. Yeah, THAT was about twenty different kinds of awkward.
But shattered glass and band-aid cuts fail to hold a candle to the epic legend of Laura and the Juiced Fingers.
That's right. Laura juiced her fingers.
It all started one night while Lisa and I were winding down after a long day of work, and Laura was winding up for a long night of child-healing. She was about to leave for her shift, when she uttered the fateful words, "You know, I think I want some grapefruit juice."
Now, two items in her defense: Number one is that the juicer we have has always looked kind of evil to me. Sometimes it laughs in that strange Mephistophilic voice, and every now and again I'll swear two glowing red eyes wink at me from the counterspace it has occupied since the dawn of time. Also, I think it reads Cosmopolitan Magazine. You can't tell me any wholesome creature makes a habit of reading that rag.
The second item is that she was actually trying to hold the blade guard on when it happened.
I'll also say this for Laura, she may be a sonorous firecracker at all other times, but when she is in pain and bleeding profusely on the kitchen floor, two of her friends, the dog, and most of the food, she is silent as the grave. Truly, it was eerie how quietly it all happened. All I heard was the juicer sticking slightly. Laura clutched her hand to her chest and ran for the sink. Lisa and I looked at each other, and I think at that point we both realized that this was NOT going to be a "stay in and eat bonbons" kind of night.
In reply to our urgent inquiries to her wellbeing (that, considering the squirting blood were really kind of frivolous) Laura produced the last two digits of her left hand. They were still attached, but both fingers from the end joint up were more or less ground chuck. And they were kind of....droopy.
At that point I think I said something along the lines of, "Hokey dokey, time to give 9-11 a little ring..." I was halfway joking, but really all I could think was, "Holy crap that's a lot of blood..."
Lisa found paper towels, we loaded Laura into the car, and I took off for the ER.
About ten seconds later, I pulled back into the driveway to run in and ask Lisa where the nearest ER was.
I would rather not describe my driving on the way there. Some things are best left to the imagination. A fiery car-chase would probably not be too far away from reality.
Luckily, they had a good staff there along with a VERY attractive doctor. He was totally into me. Anyway, poor Lisa could only stand it for about twenty minutes before she came to join us at the hospital. The X-Rays showed that the end digits on her ring and pinky finger had basically been finely ground into pesto sauce. Fortunately, there was a plastic surgeon on hand (hurr hurr, that was a funny punny). While he stitched up her fingers, I argued with him that Star Trek: The Next Generation was CLEARLY superior to the Original Series with Kirk and Spock. All three of us debated relative merits of the new Star Trek Movie. Laura kept asking for more lidocaine, Lisa tried to get me to let the surgeon focus, and Tonya kept desperately trying to reach someone via phone to find out HOW IN THE WORLD her juicer had killed Laura.
With a ridiculously large bandage and splint on each damaged finger, Laura allowed Lisa to tow her home. After a long and somewhat uncomfortable errand to CVS to obtain Laura's pain medication, I likewise headed in that direction. There I found all the POCers, minus Corrie who didn't exist yet, waiting with obscene amounts of food. Thanks, Mama Claire, for invoking the age-old female law: When in doubt, apply food to the wound.
To wrap up the story, Laura's fingers are now awesome. Although I believe the ring finger is still minus a fingernail, it's hard to really tell.
And we have this AWESOME blog! Let it serve as fair warning to all...don't trust sharp or breakable edges in this house. Especially not those that move of their own free will and read Cosmo.
Shattered glass happens regularly, usually on someone's person. Corrie learned that via a gash in her foot. The rest of the roomies have been a little more lucky to be exempt from the slashy, bleedy kind of education. Michael almost had the worst kind of education via a broken glass measuring cup in his lap, which Tonya had to hoover up while I helped him pick slivers out of his palms. Yeah, THAT was about twenty different kinds of awkward.
But shattered glass and band-aid cuts fail to hold a candle to the epic legend of Laura and the Juiced Fingers.
That's right. Laura juiced her fingers.
It all started one night while Lisa and I were winding down after a long day of work, and Laura was winding up for a long night of child-healing. She was about to leave for her shift, when she uttered the fateful words, "You know, I think I want some grapefruit juice."
Now, two items in her defense: Number one is that the juicer we have has always looked kind of evil to me. Sometimes it laughs in that strange Mephistophilic voice, and every now and again I'll swear two glowing red eyes wink at me from the counterspace it has occupied since the dawn of time. Also, I think it reads Cosmopolitan Magazine. You can't tell me any wholesome creature makes a habit of reading that rag.
The second item is that she was actually trying to hold the blade guard on when it happened.
I'll also say this for Laura, she may be a sonorous firecracker at all other times, but when she is in pain and bleeding profusely on the kitchen floor, two of her friends, the dog, and most of the food, she is silent as the grave. Truly, it was eerie how quietly it all happened. All I heard was the juicer sticking slightly. Laura clutched her hand to her chest and ran for the sink. Lisa and I looked at each other, and I think at that point we both realized that this was NOT going to be a "stay in and eat bonbons" kind of night.
In reply to our urgent inquiries to her wellbeing (that, considering the squirting blood were really kind of frivolous) Laura produced the last two digits of her left hand. They were still attached, but both fingers from the end joint up were more or less ground chuck. And they were kind of....droopy.
At that point I think I said something along the lines of, "Hokey dokey, time to give 9-11 a little ring..." I was halfway joking, but really all I could think was, "Holy crap that's a lot of blood..."
Lisa found paper towels, we loaded Laura into the car, and I took off for the ER.
About ten seconds later, I pulled back into the driveway to run in and ask Lisa where the nearest ER was.
I would rather not describe my driving on the way there. Some things are best left to the imagination. A fiery car-chase would probably not be too far away from reality.
Luckily, they had a good staff there along with a VERY attractive doctor. He was totally into me. Anyway, poor Lisa could only stand it for about twenty minutes before she came to join us at the hospital. The X-Rays showed that the end digits on her ring and pinky finger had basically been finely ground into pesto sauce. Fortunately, there was a plastic surgeon on hand (hurr hurr, that was a funny punny). While he stitched up her fingers, I argued with him that Star Trek: The Next Generation was CLEARLY superior to the Original Series with Kirk and Spock. All three of us debated relative merits of the new Star Trek Movie. Laura kept asking for more lidocaine, Lisa tried to get me to let the surgeon focus, and Tonya kept desperately trying to reach someone via phone to find out HOW IN THE WORLD her juicer had killed Laura.
With a ridiculously large bandage and splint on each damaged finger, Laura allowed Lisa to tow her home. After a long and somewhat uncomfortable errand to CVS to obtain Laura's pain medication, I likewise headed in that direction. There I found all the POCers, minus Corrie who didn't exist yet, waiting with obscene amounts of food. Thanks, Mama Claire, for invoking the age-old female law: When in doubt, apply food to the wound.
To wrap up the story, Laura's fingers are now awesome. Although I believe the ring finger is still minus a fingernail, it's hard to really tell.
And we have this AWESOME blog! Let it serve as fair warning to all...don't trust sharp or breakable edges in this house. Especially not those that move of their own free will and read Cosmo.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Because I Got High (Supposedly)
I would like it to be known that I am writing this blog under extreme duress, including, but not limited to:
Teasing
Daring
Heckling
Guilt ("if it were one of US, you'd write about it!")
Wheedling
....and other forms of manipulation. Can you tell my roomies are back from San Diego?
I do not want to write about myself in this blog. That's why I have a MySpace account. You can follow a minute-by-minute account of my daily travails by finding me there and reading...This is supposed to be about the coolness pocket.
Nevertheless, here I am, for the abovementioned reasons.
My recent quest to find a job better than the Pit Of Sarlaac I was working in before led me to a nursing agency called Maxim (That's right. I'm a Maxim girl. It just makes what you're about to hear all that much more delicious). They offered me a contract with County Corrections in Mansfield as a Jail Nurse, pending the results of a polygraph (lie detector test).
You see where this is going, right?
A pretty nice guy administered the test. The kind of dude that wears perfectly starched and ironed cowboy apparel and has a baby handlebar moustache, but tries to pretend he's not a redneck. He was actually an okay guy. The worst part was the blood pressure cuff, which, by the way, has left a bruise on my upper arm chub. There were control questions (is your name Erin Ferguson, is your date of birth 8/31/84, does two plus three minus one equal four?) and then questions about previous employment and illegal activities.
Now, let me interject for a moment. I may be a little wild for my current group of friends, but back in College Station, I was the straight-laced one. I have friends that used recreational drugs, and they knew enough not to use them where I could see it. I always knew if I got caught with so much as a joint, my career as a nurse was over. I've never shoplifted, never falsified records, etc.
So SOMEONE PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS LOW-CALORIE, EXPLAIN TO ME HOW I FAILED THIS STUPID POLYGRAPH TEST??
I was super-confident when the test was over! Really! I was actually yawning while the test results were printing out! Then he gets all serious and says, "Is there something you'd like to tell me?"
"Uh...your fly is down? (okay, not really, but after what happened next, that would have been great)"
"Okay, you have a problem area here."
".....huh?"
"Can you think of anything on the test you might have failed?"
"Um....not really."
"Okay, well, you had a physical reaction to the questions regarding illegal drug use."
SERIOUSLY? REALLY???? All those years of being so careful to not so much as watch a joint being lit, and I FAIL that question? Why couldn't it have been something like the one about office supply theft? I'd admit to stealing paperclips! No problem! I can go to rehab for pen-jacking!
There was no point to getting upset, though. Homeboy was just telling me what his equipment said. Still, this was completely beyond belief. But I thought carefully, and replied to him in the most intelligent way I knew how.
"Look, I have no reason to lie about that question. I know that telling you I had used recreational drugs wouldn't bar me from employment provided my drug tests came back clean. I also understand that something like eighty percent of Americans have used illegal drugs at one point or another, and that it's nothing unusual. But I haven't, and I'm not going to lie and say I have."
"Well, some people are ashamed...."
At the word "ashamed" I started laughing. I couldn't help it. It was funny! The thought of me being ashamed of something like that was a little much.
Anyhow, it was clear he didn't believe me, so eventually, I gave up arguing and trying to find out if there was something that could have caused a misread. I didn't think of it, but as my dad pointed out later, I could have informed him that it was basically physiologically impossible for me to use illegal drugs, since my body can just barely handle over-the-counter medication. But I didn't. I was too busy thinking things like, "If I was going to get accused of using drugs anyway, I should have at LEAST tried pot when I had the chance!" I allowed him to broom me out of the public safety building (apparently potheads are not allowed on the premises).
I was stymied. I actually called my dad, and didn't get much out of him besides spittle-covered epithets about the inaccuracy of polygraph machines and stories about some of the stupid polygraph results he's gotten. He was upset for me, but there wasn't a lot he could say that would help.
As I pulled up to the driveway, I saw the Kia Van parked in the garage. "Oh, good!" I thought to myself. "Tonya is home. She always provides such a nice, clear picture of things. She'll have some suggestions."
To that end I ran inside, eager and full of expectation. When she asked, I very simply told her, "I failed the polygraph."
What followed can only be described as buffeting waves of non-sequitor laughter.
When she was finally able to draw breath again and had cleaned up the water she had spewed all over the kitchen, her first words were "I'm SO proud of you!"
I never got an explanation. I'm not sure there is one.
But my biggest comfort on coming home tonight was a soothing knowledge that my roomies loved me too much to make me feel badly about this. If they pressed the issue at all, it would only be out of concern, and they would definitely be supportive. So, after a little coaxing, I let the entire stupid, humiliating story come spilling out.
After the gales of utterly socially inappropriate cackling had tapered off, the cleverness began. Questions were raised about my honesty, my chemical dependancy, and even something about my doubt-ridden heritage that I don't think anyone heard. I'm not even sure who said what any more, but rest assured of one thing...
That was NOT the response that I was looking forward to.
Once they got done with the ridicule, they began ribbing me about putting this in a blog. I didn't want to, of course, but I wasn't given much of a choice. Really, guys, I'm so glad that you enjoy my writing, but being the Blogmistress has GOT to have certain privileges, one of which, I feel, should be that you don't have to write anything embarassing about yourself.
Just sayin'.
So now, this is your bogmistress.
Single, slightly dyspeptic, and apparently hopped up on every illegal drug known to man. And I'm a Maxim girl.
Anyone know a midget I can beat up? You know, complete the trifecta of shame and ridicule?
Rest assured, roomies, that because of my love for you and my gratitude for your supportive behavior, I will begin a plan of action for the next time you are in an awkward situation with the potential to have an unreasonably ill effect on your self esteem. In the words of Laura:
"Oh boy. Retaliation will NOT be pretty."
Got it in one, m'dear. It will be ugly, swift, and final.
And it'll make one KICKIN' blog entry!
Love you guys!!
Teasing
Daring
Heckling
Guilt ("if it were one of US, you'd write about it!")
Wheedling
....and other forms of manipulation. Can you tell my roomies are back from San Diego?
I do not want to write about myself in this blog. That's why I have a MySpace account. You can follow a minute-by-minute account of my daily travails by finding me there and reading...This is supposed to be about the coolness pocket.
Nevertheless, here I am, for the abovementioned reasons.
My recent quest to find a job better than the Pit Of Sarlaac I was working in before led me to a nursing agency called Maxim (That's right. I'm a Maxim girl. It just makes what you're about to hear all that much more delicious). They offered me a contract with County Corrections in Mansfield as a Jail Nurse, pending the results of a polygraph (lie detector test).
You see where this is going, right?
A pretty nice guy administered the test. The kind of dude that wears perfectly starched and ironed cowboy apparel and has a baby handlebar moustache, but tries to pretend he's not a redneck. He was actually an okay guy. The worst part was the blood pressure cuff, which, by the way, has left a bruise on my upper arm chub. There were control questions (is your name Erin Ferguson, is your date of birth 8/31/84, does two plus three minus one equal four?) and then questions about previous employment and illegal activities.
Now, let me interject for a moment. I may be a little wild for my current group of friends, but back in College Station, I was the straight-laced one. I have friends that used recreational drugs, and they knew enough not to use them where I could see it. I always knew if I got caught with so much as a joint, my career as a nurse was over. I've never shoplifted, never falsified records, etc.
So SOMEONE PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS LOW-CALORIE, EXPLAIN TO ME HOW I FAILED THIS STUPID POLYGRAPH TEST??
I was super-confident when the test was over! Really! I was actually yawning while the test results were printing out! Then he gets all serious and says, "Is there something you'd like to tell me?"
"Uh...your fly is down? (okay, not really, but after what happened next, that would have been great)"
"Okay, you have a problem area here."
".....huh?"
"Can you think of anything on the test you might have failed?"
"Um....not really."
"Okay, well, you had a physical reaction to the questions regarding illegal drug use."
SERIOUSLY? REALLY???? All those years of being so careful to not so much as watch a joint being lit, and I FAIL that question? Why couldn't it have been something like the one about office supply theft? I'd admit to stealing paperclips! No problem! I can go to rehab for pen-jacking!
There was no point to getting upset, though. Homeboy was just telling me what his equipment said. Still, this was completely beyond belief. But I thought carefully, and replied to him in the most intelligent way I knew how.
"Look, I have no reason to lie about that question. I know that telling you I had used recreational drugs wouldn't bar me from employment provided my drug tests came back clean. I also understand that something like eighty percent of Americans have used illegal drugs at one point or another, and that it's nothing unusual. But I haven't, and I'm not going to lie and say I have."
"Well, some people are ashamed...."
At the word "ashamed" I started laughing. I couldn't help it. It was funny! The thought of me being ashamed of something like that was a little much.
Anyhow, it was clear he didn't believe me, so eventually, I gave up arguing and trying to find out if there was something that could have caused a misread. I didn't think of it, but as my dad pointed out later, I could have informed him that it was basically physiologically impossible for me to use illegal drugs, since my body can just barely handle over-the-counter medication. But I didn't. I was too busy thinking things like, "If I was going to get accused of using drugs anyway, I should have at LEAST tried pot when I had the chance!" I allowed him to broom me out of the public safety building (apparently potheads are not allowed on the premises).
I was stymied. I actually called my dad, and didn't get much out of him besides spittle-covered epithets about the inaccuracy of polygraph machines and stories about some of the stupid polygraph results he's gotten. He was upset for me, but there wasn't a lot he could say that would help.
As I pulled up to the driveway, I saw the Kia Van parked in the garage. "Oh, good!" I thought to myself. "Tonya is home. She always provides such a nice, clear picture of things. She'll have some suggestions."
To that end I ran inside, eager and full of expectation. When she asked, I very simply told her, "I failed the polygraph."
What followed can only be described as buffeting waves of non-sequitor laughter.
When she was finally able to draw breath again and had cleaned up the water she had spewed all over the kitchen, her first words were "I'm SO proud of you!"
I never got an explanation. I'm not sure there is one.
But my biggest comfort on coming home tonight was a soothing knowledge that my roomies loved me too much to make me feel badly about this. If they pressed the issue at all, it would only be out of concern, and they would definitely be supportive. So, after a little coaxing, I let the entire stupid, humiliating story come spilling out.
After the gales of utterly socially inappropriate cackling had tapered off, the cleverness began. Questions were raised about my honesty, my chemical dependancy, and even something about my doubt-ridden heritage that I don't think anyone heard. I'm not even sure who said what any more, but rest assured of one thing...
That was NOT the response that I was looking forward to.
Once they got done with the ridicule, they began ribbing me about putting this in a blog. I didn't want to, of course, but I wasn't given much of a choice. Really, guys, I'm so glad that you enjoy my writing, but being the Blogmistress has GOT to have certain privileges, one of which, I feel, should be that you don't have to write anything embarassing about yourself.
Just sayin'.
So now, this is your bogmistress.
Single, slightly dyspeptic, and apparently hopped up on every illegal drug known to man. And I'm a Maxim girl.
Anyone know a midget I can beat up? You know, complete the trifecta of shame and ridicule?
Rest assured, roomies, that because of my love for you and my gratitude for your supportive behavior, I will begin a plan of action for the next time you are in an awkward situation with the potential to have an unreasonably ill effect on your self esteem. In the words of Laura:
"Oh boy. Retaliation will NOT be pretty."
Got it in one, m'dear. It will be ugly, swift, and final.
And it'll make one KICKIN' blog entry!
Love you guys!!
Sunday, March 22, 2009
The secret lives of gnomes....but enough about Corrie.
Okay, so Laura and I are counting down the last hours until the other roomies return. A short prayer session and a run to Rosa's in pajamas and unwashed hair didn't do a whole lot to fill the time, so we turned on Vantage Point with Dennis Quaid, Sigourney Weaver, and William Hurt. A brief synopses, the president is assassinated at a world summit in Spain, and through the viewpoints of several different witnesses, the conspiracy behind it is unfolded. One of the plot twists is that it wasn't actually the president that was shot from the podium, but a body double, which apparently they have been using since the Reagan administration for various reasons.
And that's when it hit me.
Mark is a body double for president Obama!
Don't believe me?
TELL ME that's not Obama sans the makeover. Still skeptical? Watch, in Obama's next public appearance, he'll be sporting dreds.
But it got me thinking...what if all the people we know from this blog have double lives? What would their alter egos be? I mean, in every superhero comic ever written, the mild-mannered side does something nonthreatening like feeding puppies at the local animal shelter or selling marshmallows to old ladies, and then during the switch to the superhero side, they shoot flaming razorblade bombs or poison bioterrorist livers from their noses. It could be that I'm living with a bunch of radioactive superwomen and don't even know it!!!
I'm pretty sure Lisa is a lounge singer when we're not looking. I could totally see her wearing a velvet evening gown, lying on a piano playing with a rose while belting out "Don't Know Why" by Norah Jones. Between shows, she sits at the bar drinking club soda and lime, making all the men feel good about themselves by judiciously bestowed smiles and well-timed laughter.
Tonya is, quite obviously, a vigilante superheroine. The reason she's gone on so many "international trips?" Either she's doing shakedown sessions in her secret underground lair (which is probably located under the very house we live in) or she's flying around in her leopard skin hero suit, cape, knee boots, and goggle mask, fighting crime as "The Organic Avenger!" That's right, declaring war on over-processed food and unexamined lifestyles, Tonya's superhero catchphrase is, "It's a not religion, it's RELATIONSHIP!" (as she throws copies of The Shack and jars of organic Kalamata olives at her enemies).
Laura is a stripper. Sorry, Laura, but you're a stripper. You just are. Now that we know it, we can start to examine the reasons why you feel the need to live this life behind our backs. In reality, I bet you're moving out because you can't stand living the lie or hiding your rhinestone ichthus bikinis any more. Just promise me you'll tithe ten percent of your thong-dollaz.
I'll bet Corrie is a female wrestler. That would be so great! Her stage name is Iris the Virus, and she throws folding chairs at women three times her size. I can totally see her bouncing on those ropes and screaming, "NEXT SUNDAY, IN THIS ARENA, ONLY ONE OF US WILL WALK AWAY!" She's hired a special flock of gnomes to carry around her prize belts, as they would make her tip over if she actually wore them.
Michael? Michael is the guy that tests the shark suits. His blood is like battery acid, therefore he is ultimately safe from being mangled by Great White shark teeth. One bite and they whimper and run.
Jen Berger is a hard-hitting NPR reporter, who ferrets out injustice in cookie packing plants and Canadian subways. They've actually casted her for the new TV series, "NPR: Kalamazoo." It's like "CSI" but with plotlines instead of dead bodies. Jen will play several main characters, including a nymphomaniac russian bomb technician and a black oil mogul.
And as for me? I'm actually a highly-paid female escort. In my time off my private jet flies me to New York, where I sit in bars with rich, handsome men in glitzy gowns where they pay me to make wisecracks and make them look like they have interesting thoughts. I'm actually more like a prosthetic personality for the very wealthy. And of course, they all send me roses.
Why do I get the best alter existance?
Because I'M THE BLOGMISTRESS!!! That's why.
I also think Mama Claire and Papa Lynn are secretly former President and Mrs. George W Bush, they just have Normal Masks on to enhance their retirement.
Okay, so I'm gonna go look for that secret underground lair now. I hope the secret service doesn't break down my door in a few hours and indict me for compromising the president's security. Mark, you won't let them do that, right? *sniffle* Right?
Please?
And that's when it hit me.
Mark is a body double for president Obama!
Don't believe me?
TELL ME that's not Obama sans the makeover. Still skeptical? Watch, in Obama's next public appearance, he'll be sporting dreds.
But it got me thinking...what if all the people we know from this blog have double lives? What would their alter egos be? I mean, in every superhero comic ever written, the mild-mannered side does something nonthreatening like feeding puppies at the local animal shelter or selling marshmallows to old ladies, and then during the switch to the superhero side, they shoot flaming razorblade bombs or poison bioterrorist livers from their noses. It could be that I'm living with a bunch of radioactive superwomen and don't even know it!!!
I'm pretty sure Lisa is a lounge singer when we're not looking. I could totally see her wearing a velvet evening gown, lying on a piano playing with a rose while belting out "Don't Know Why" by Norah Jones. Between shows, she sits at the bar drinking club soda and lime, making all the men feel good about themselves by judiciously bestowed smiles and well-timed laughter.
Tonya is, quite obviously, a vigilante superheroine. The reason she's gone on so many "international trips?" Either she's doing shakedown sessions in her secret underground lair (which is probably located under the very house we live in) or she's flying around in her leopard skin hero suit, cape, knee boots, and goggle mask, fighting crime as "The Organic Avenger!" That's right, declaring war on over-processed food and unexamined lifestyles, Tonya's superhero catchphrase is, "It's a not religion, it's RELATIONSHIP!" (as she throws copies of The Shack and jars of organic Kalamata olives at her enemies).
Laura is a stripper. Sorry, Laura, but you're a stripper. You just are. Now that we know it, we can start to examine the reasons why you feel the need to live this life behind our backs. In reality, I bet you're moving out because you can't stand living the lie or hiding your rhinestone ichthus bikinis any more. Just promise me you'll tithe ten percent of your thong-dollaz.
I'll bet Corrie is a female wrestler. That would be so great! Her stage name is Iris the Virus, and she throws folding chairs at women three times her size. I can totally see her bouncing on those ropes and screaming, "NEXT SUNDAY, IN THIS ARENA, ONLY ONE OF US WILL WALK AWAY!" She's hired a special flock of gnomes to carry around her prize belts, as they would make her tip over if she actually wore them.
Michael? Michael is the guy that tests the shark suits. His blood is like battery acid, therefore he is ultimately safe from being mangled by Great White shark teeth. One bite and they whimper and run.
Jen Berger is a hard-hitting NPR reporter, who ferrets out injustice in cookie packing plants and Canadian subways. They've actually casted her for the new TV series, "NPR: Kalamazoo." It's like "CSI" but with plotlines instead of dead bodies. Jen will play several main characters, including a nymphomaniac russian bomb technician and a black oil mogul.
And as for me? I'm actually a highly-paid female escort. In my time off my private jet flies me to New York, where I sit in bars with rich, handsome men in glitzy gowns where they pay me to make wisecracks and make them look like they have interesting thoughts. I'm actually more like a prosthetic personality for the very wealthy. And of course, they all send me roses.
Why do I get the best alter existance?
Because I'M THE BLOGMISTRESS!!! That's why.
I also think Mama Claire and Papa Lynn are secretly former President and Mrs. George W Bush, they just have Normal Masks on to enhance their retirement.
Okay, so I'm gonna go look for that secret underground lair now. I hope the secret service doesn't break down my door in a few hours and indict me for compromising the president's security. Mark, you won't let them do that, right? *sniffle* Right?
Please?
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Dance, Dance Revolution, POC style!!
Well, I didn't think I would have blog materiel this week, as most of the house is in San Diego with...*sniffle* without...*sniff*...without me. *quiet weeping* Bring me a present from the SD zoo! I didn't expect to have any fodder with which to make a post. However, a good night's sleep and a grande mocha later, here I am.
People say "dance like nobody's watching." One of the great things about living in a house full of girls is that you can do just that, whether it's salsa, waltz, or the hokey-pokey. There is no fear of anyone watching, and the girls here are too loving and down-to-earth to make fun of you. Every now and again, one of us will push the furniture back against the wall and initiate a round of living-room dancing. Injury while this is happening is surprisingly rare.
With the atmosphere lending itself to uninhibited behavior, it's given me a chance to take a look at the personal dance tastes of all the girls. I've drawn my conclusions from what I've seen as well as what I know of the personalities of each girl.
Let's start with Lisa.
Lisa is the only one among us with any dance lessons under her belt. Even so, she only dances when it is the most dire of emergencies. She plays it off as though she's shy. I suspect the real reason is that she's to considerate to make the rest of us look bad. Not only does she have the unfair genetic advantages of a latin heritage and tiny little feet that don't get in the way of move-busting, she's got the hip mojo to make the simplest dance move look cool.
To dance like Lisa: Wait until everyone else is dancing, then bust a move in the corner out of view, breaking out in freakishly complex footwork. Occasionally take a break to try (emphasis-TRY) to teach someone else to get down with their bad selves. Repeat as often as necessary until fatigued. Rest while telling everyone else how cool they are and that "we didn't really NEED that coffee table you just fell through." Resume dance cycle.
Corrie is a little different. Let me preface this one by re-emphasizing just how white Corrie is. I do not mean that her skin is the color of sour cream. I mean that she is a CRACKER (keep in mind, Corrie, that this is coming from the Saltine Queen herself). That being said, she still manages to hold her own in our POC dance-offs. The reason for this is that as with everything else, any slight deficiency in badonkadonk is trumped by tiny-ness. She does have rhythm, but even if she didn't she would manage just fine by virtue of the cute little hops she executes at random intervals.
To dance like Corrie: Arms at right angles to the body, one palm up, one palm down, fingers slightly curled. Screw in the lightbulb, pet the dog. Every now and again, hop for no apparent reason. Follow this immediately with a giggle. Be sure to have airsick bags handy as overexposure to this concentration of cuteness may cause projectile vomiting and ocular meltdown in others. Please, dance responsibly.
Laura comes the closest to club dancing of any of us. She has pretty good rhythmic skill, and the sheer manic energy she has is translated to that. If you ever watch her shake her groove thing, I'm gonna need to ask one favor of you.....
Please don't tell her she's white.
Laura's universe subsists on maintaining the very fragile illusion that she is, in fact, black. If this illusion were to be ruptured, not only would she loose all ability to get down with her bad self, but her head just might explode. It's not something we like to talk about, so I feel it necessary to issue that warning to the general public. If you watch Laura dance beside a video of African tribal dancers, the effect is very similar. And so, we let her dream.
To dance like Laura: Never stand on two feet at the same time, unless you are wiggling your butt (in a very chaste and Godly manner, of course). At all other times balance must be maintained on one foot or the other with the other leg cocked in the air. Hands must always be in motion, either making circular patterns or beating on invisible drums. While dancing, pay no attention to the beat of the music, as it is immaterial to the movements you will be making. WARNING: Do not attempt a Laura dance if you are pregnant, nursing, or have a pacemaker, arthritis, clotting difficulties, or heart disease.
Tonya! Now, TonTon may be tall and long-limbed, but I don't think anyone has ever noticed even trace amounts of gawkiness during our random dance episodes. Our Tonya has an excellent sense of rhythm, and to her, dancing is just keeping rhythm with your whole body and throwing in a few flourishes for flavor. Not only that, but she has so much confidence that I think if she were having a seizure on the floor people would think she meant to do it and try to copy the "crazy new move." This carries with it the danger of being unhelped during a seizure and is probably why she surrounds herself with medical personnel while she is getting jiggy with it.
To dance like Tonya: Own it. OWN THAT FLOOR! The music don't run you, YOU RUN THE MUSIC! Jam like you mean it, and the tune and meter will CHANGE accordingly. Moves are unimportant, and an entirely unnecessary and troubling little detail. This dance is best performed to "When I Ruled the World" by Coldplay, which can be converted into fast-paced pop song with if you do it right. The only disadvantage to this style is that there must be other boogy-downers in close proximity. Dancing alone is like kryptonite to the Tonya waltz.
Now we come....*sigh*....to me.
I really don't want to talk about this.
But I will.
You ever seen a turtle try to turn itself over from being on its back? Ever seen a really, really fuzzy golden retriever puppy trying to run across a linoleum floor? Okay, combine those two images, and you've pretty much got my dancing. Not that it matters when you're in a group of awesome girls wearing pajamas in the living room of your own home, it's just awkward when I get into public.
To dance like Erin: Fake a back injury to try to explain why you are samba-ing like a sick camel. Break into the funky chicken at LEAST every fifteen seconds, or whenever it gets awkward. Whichever comes first. Because when you're doing the funky chicken, people are too busy laughing and thinking you're clever to realize that you really have no skills. Allow Tonya to do that spinny thing with you. Stub your toe on something and try not to say bad words. Repeat.
So there it is. Now you all know what we're doing when no one is here. Rest assured, though, that if you should try to sneak up and catch a glimpse of us doing all this, we will immediately push the furniture back in place and pretend to go about our business. Until you leave. The only person that has been allowed to watch our tribal ceremonies is Jen Eggers, and she was forced to participate. HER style, if you're wondering, is a montage of the other dancers'. She's so eager to please!
People say "dance like nobody's watching." One of the great things about living in a house full of girls is that you can do just that, whether it's salsa, waltz, or the hokey-pokey. There is no fear of anyone watching, and the girls here are too loving and down-to-earth to make fun of you. Every now and again, one of us will push the furniture back against the wall and initiate a round of living-room dancing. Injury while this is happening is surprisingly rare.
With the atmosphere lending itself to uninhibited behavior, it's given me a chance to take a look at the personal dance tastes of all the girls. I've drawn my conclusions from what I've seen as well as what I know of the personalities of each girl.
Let's start with Lisa.
Lisa is the only one among us with any dance lessons under her belt. Even so, she only dances when it is the most dire of emergencies. She plays it off as though she's shy. I suspect the real reason is that she's to considerate to make the rest of us look bad. Not only does she have the unfair genetic advantages of a latin heritage and tiny little feet that don't get in the way of move-busting, she's got the hip mojo to make the simplest dance move look cool.
To dance like Lisa: Wait until everyone else is dancing, then bust a move in the corner out of view, breaking out in freakishly complex footwork. Occasionally take a break to try (emphasis-TRY) to teach someone else to get down with their bad selves. Repeat as often as necessary until fatigued. Rest while telling everyone else how cool they are and that "we didn't really NEED that coffee table you just fell through." Resume dance cycle.
Corrie is a little different. Let me preface this one by re-emphasizing just how white Corrie is. I do not mean that her skin is the color of sour cream. I mean that she is a CRACKER (keep in mind, Corrie, that this is coming from the Saltine Queen herself). That being said, she still manages to hold her own in our POC dance-offs. The reason for this is that as with everything else, any slight deficiency in badonkadonk is trumped by tiny-ness. She does have rhythm, but even if she didn't she would manage just fine by virtue of the cute little hops she executes at random intervals.
To dance like Corrie: Arms at right angles to the body, one palm up, one palm down, fingers slightly curled. Screw in the lightbulb, pet the dog. Every now and again, hop for no apparent reason. Follow this immediately with a giggle. Be sure to have airsick bags handy as overexposure to this concentration of cuteness may cause projectile vomiting and ocular meltdown in others. Please, dance responsibly.
Laura comes the closest to club dancing of any of us. She has pretty good rhythmic skill, and the sheer manic energy she has is translated to that. If you ever watch her shake her groove thing, I'm gonna need to ask one favor of you.....
Please don't tell her she's white.
Laura's universe subsists on maintaining the very fragile illusion that she is, in fact, black. If this illusion were to be ruptured, not only would she loose all ability to get down with her bad self, but her head just might explode. It's not something we like to talk about, so I feel it necessary to issue that warning to the general public. If you watch Laura dance beside a video of African tribal dancers, the effect is very similar. And so, we let her dream.
To dance like Laura: Never stand on two feet at the same time, unless you are wiggling your butt (in a very chaste and Godly manner, of course). At all other times balance must be maintained on one foot or the other with the other leg cocked in the air. Hands must always be in motion, either making circular patterns or beating on invisible drums. While dancing, pay no attention to the beat of the music, as it is immaterial to the movements you will be making. WARNING: Do not attempt a Laura dance if you are pregnant, nursing, or have a pacemaker, arthritis, clotting difficulties, or heart disease.
Tonya! Now, TonTon may be tall and long-limbed, but I don't think anyone has ever noticed even trace amounts of gawkiness during our random dance episodes. Our Tonya has an excellent sense of rhythm, and to her, dancing is just keeping rhythm with your whole body and throwing in a few flourishes for flavor. Not only that, but she has so much confidence that I think if she were having a seizure on the floor people would think she meant to do it and try to copy the "crazy new move." This carries with it the danger of being unhelped during a seizure and is probably why she surrounds herself with medical personnel while she is getting jiggy with it.
To dance like Tonya: Own it. OWN THAT FLOOR! The music don't run you, YOU RUN THE MUSIC! Jam like you mean it, and the tune and meter will CHANGE accordingly. Moves are unimportant, and an entirely unnecessary and troubling little detail. This dance is best performed to "When I Ruled the World" by Coldplay, which can be converted into fast-paced pop song with if you do it right. The only disadvantage to this style is that there must be other boogy-downers in close proximity. Dancing alone is like kryptonite to the Tonya waltz.
Now we come....*sigh*....to me.
I really don't want to talk about this.
But I will.
You ever seen a turtle try to turn itself over from being on its back? Ever seen a really, really fuzzy golden retriever puppy trying to run across a linoleum floor? Okay, combine those two images, and you've pretty much got my dancing. Not that it matters when you're in a group of awesome girls wearing pajamas in the living room of your own home, it's just awkward when I get into public.
To dance like Erin: Fake a back injury to try to explain why you are samba-ing like a sick camel. Break into the funky chicken at LEAST every fifteen seconds, or whenever it gets awkward. Whichever comes first. Because when you're doing the funky chicken, people are too busy laughing and thinking you're clever to realize that you really have no skills. Allow Tonya to do that spinny thing with you. Stub your toe on something and try not to say bad words. Repeat.
So there it is. Now you all know what we're doing when no one is here. Rest assured, though, that if you should try to sneak up and catch a glimpse of us doing all this, we will immediately push the furniture back in place and pretend to go about our business. Until you leave. The only person that has been allowed to watch our tribal ceremonies is Jen Eggers, and she was forced to participate. HER style, if you're wondering, is a montage of the other dancers'. She's so eager to please!
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Coming soon, POC action figures!
Deep in the heart of Crowley, there is an unassuming little house in an unassuming little suburb, with an unassuming little lawn in front of it. There is nothing remarkable about the outside of the house. The only thing you may notice about it is that there are sometimes an insane number of cars in the driveway, around the driveway, on the curb, on the neighbor's curb, and basically anywhere but on the roof. Other than that, there is no indication as to the joyfully insane kaliedescope that is the POC Household. Together a varying number of roomies worship, work, pray, and grow together, usually dragging scores of others into their gravitational field.
What is the POC, you may ask?
Read on.
Okay, so I shouldn't really even be the one doing this...I'm a relative newcomer to the POC (Pocket of Coolness). But seeing as how the other girls here are about as busy as it gets, besides the fact that I enjoy expressing my opinion on EVERYTHING, I decided to get the POC blog started. Here's where we're going to record news updates, POC random quotes, and the continual development of our plot to overthrow the world and institute our own key policies.
But maybe you don't know all the POCettes, or perhaps know one of us but not all. Fear not, dear reader! The following is a catalogue of the female wildlife that inhabits this household, some honorable mentions, and the menagerie of critters that we own or tolerate.
Tonya: The official owner of the POC, Hurricane Tonya is pretty much the same thing as a superhero. The driving force behind most of the activity in the house with a gianormous heart for African missions, she draws on a Divinely bestowed bank of energy and a LOT of coffee to perform her physics-defying feats. Thrusting aside childhood ambitions to be a black singer, she has managed to be involved in just about everything under the sun. And what she hasn't done, she has definite plans for. Seriously, she's purchased the plane tickets and everything. Always ask what book she's reading, because that's the book you need to be reading too.
Lisa: We would call Lisa Tonya's sidekick if she weren't basically a superhero in her own right. This salsa-dancing, guitar-playing, Jane Austen Movie Watching short stack is deceptively quiet when you first meet her. Don't be fooled. You'll never see the sass coming. Double-timing as a teacher and a music minister, Lisa somehow still finds the energy to be all cute, all the time. There may be quiet moments, but they're thoroughly interspersed with explosive faux-arabic, TV jingles, snippets from musicals, and the occasional "HOT!" She's our favorite fun-sized friend!
Laura: LIMITED TIME ONLY! THIS OFFER ENDS SOON! Laura is one of the three POC nurses of the Pediatric bent. If you think Lisa is explosive, wait till you hang around this one for a while. With cockatoo hair and a penchant for chaste interludes of booty-dancing, we're pretty sure God invented coffee just so He could keep up with her. Her battle cry of "Who would NOT want this?" (usually screamed while gesturing to her own robe/pajamas, slippered feet, and faux-hawk) has been repeated broken-record fashion by all the POCettes at one time or another. Unfortunately, this little firecracker is slated to leave our little abode in a matter of days in favor of a greatly shortened drive to church, family, and friends. It's okay, Laura. We forgive you. Kind of.
Corrie: Nurse # 2 (we have a sneaking suspicion that Tonya collects us, snowglobe-style). Her specialty is Tropical Diseases, so if you happen to get Ebola, you're covered in this house! She's been designated by the blog mistress as the FTP (favorite tiny person). If she gets cranky, feed her. If she gets giggly, film her. If she gets sleepy, put her to bed. Careful, though! She's tiny, but she's fast, and she can lift a freakishly large amount of weight. This basically means that if you anger her, she'll run around behind you and drop a grand piano on your head before you realize what's going on. Just don't interrupt her quality time with Jesus and Starbucks and you should be okay, though.
Erin: We'll keep this short, as you readers are probably going to get to know me all too well. I'm the blog mistress. I like cartoons and fuzzy things. I'm obnoxious. I'm the third in the nurse triad here, and I deal with the old people. Between the three of us, we have the entire lifespan covered.
Honorable Mentions:
Michael: The Bosley to our Charlie's Angels, Lisa's brother SAYS he likes hanging out here because we're fun. Actually, we're almost certain that he just likes surrounding himself with attractive women.
Mama Claire and Papa Lynn: Tonya's parents, and darn near parents for the rest of the girls here. If you need food for someone that's allergic to everything but air, Mama Claire is your woman. If you need to move and have no truck or manpower, Papa Lynn is your go-to man.
Mark Chin: Okay, Mark, you got an honorable mention. Mark has been hanging around here a lot lately, probably for similar reasons to Michael, but he seems to like Tonya an awful lot...hmm.....Anyway, he fixes stuff and laughs at our jokes, so...yay!
Jen Berger: Formerly Eggie, Jen is actually an honorary POCette, and usually comes over here on Saturday nights to watch movies, make powerpoint slides, and generally be saucy with us! Plus, she cleans the rec room when she stays over. Jen is made of awesome. End of story.
Menagerie:
Buddy: We're not really sure what Buddy is. The vet is adamant that he's a dog. The Animal Rescue place swears he's a Shih-Tzu mix. Tonya insists that he's a sweet widdle boy. I think he's a mobile teddy bear with a wagging tail. Whether he's none or all of these things, Buddy is quite possibly the cutest, most laid-back house pet ever. We love our Buddy.
Old Lady: This cat probably used the Garden of Eden as a litterbox. She is only a couple of years younger than Methusela, and so she spends most of her day curled up on my bed where it's warm and there is relatively little nonsense going on. If she were human, she would sit on her front porch in her rocker. If she had a yard, she would yell at kids to get out of it.
Trippy: There have been attempted murders on this cat more times than I can count, by people an animals alike. With that in mind, it's no wonder she's a little twitchy. She and the other dog have a continuous drama going on that Corrie and I desperately try to moderate. Which brings me to....
Molly: Molly is an idiot. I'm sorry Molly, I love you, and you're an awesome dog, but you're an idiot. So determined is this monstrous dog that she's going to be friends with my petrified cats that she has braved vocal threats, swipes, and one incident with a claw-mangled cornea. She likes the food that is not in her bowl and the little gaps under beds that are far too small for her to be in.
So that's it! My hands are tired, so I'm bringing this blog to an end, but at least now we're all on the same page. Things around here might get bonkers, and it might be a mess, but it's OUR mess, and we love it.
Check back for further updates. I'll try to send out notifications on Facebook when it's updated. I make no apologies for the potential erroneous or grossly exaggerated content. If you doubt all this stuff is actually happening, come over and see for yourself. The reality-defying occurances here are all part of the ride, so get in, sit down, hush up, and hold on!
But let me know if you're about to get motion-sick, cause I've got some dramamine.
Wait, was I still talking? Okay, check back with us! See ya soon! Buh BYE!
~Grace with you
Erin
What is the POC, you may ask?
Read on.
Okay, so I shouldn't really even be the one doing this...I'm a relative newcomer to the POC (Pocket of Coolness). But seeing as how the other girls here are about as busy as it gets, besides the fact that I enjoy expressing my opinion on EVERYTHING, I decided to get the POC blog started. Here's where we're going to record news updates, POC random quotes, and the continual development of our plot to overthrow the world and institute our own key policies.
But maybe you don't know all the POCettes, or perhaps know one of us but not all. Fear not, dear reader! The following is a catalogue of the female wildlife that inhabits this household, some honorable mentions, and the menagerie of critters that we own or tolerate.
Tonya: The official owner of the POC, Hurricane Tonya is pretty much the same thing as a superhero. The driving force behind most of the activity in the house with a gianormous heart for African missions, she draws on a Divinely bestowed bank of energy and a LOT of coffee to perform her physics-defying feats. Thrusting aside childhood ambitions to be a black singer, she has managed to be involved in just about everything under the sun. And what she hasn't done, she has definite plans for. Seriously, she's purchased the plane tickets and everything. Always ask what book she's reading, because that's the book you need to be reading too.
Lisa: We would call Lisa Tonya's sidekick if she weren't basically a superhero in her own right. This salsa-dancing, guitar-playing, Jane Austen Movie Watching short stack is deceptively quiet when you first meet her. Don't be fooled. You'll never see the sass coming. Double-timing as a teacher and a music minister, Lisa somehow still finds the energy to be all cute, all the time. There may be quiet moments, but they're thoroughly interspersed with explosive faux-arabic, TV jingles, snippets from musicals, and the occasional "HOT!" She's our favorite fun-sized friend!
Laura: LIMITED TIME ONLY! THIS OFFER ENDS SOON! Laura is one of the three POC nurses of the Pediatric bent. If you think Lisa is explosive, wait till you hang around this one for a while. With cockatoo hair and a penchant for chaste interludes of booty-dancing, we're pretty sure God invented coffee just so He could keep up with her. Her battle cry of "Who would NOT want this?" (usually screamed while gesturing to her own robe/pajamas, slippered feet, and faux-hawk) has been repeated broken-record fashion by all the POCettes at one time or another. Unfortunately, this little firecracker is slated to leave our little abode in a matter of days in favor of a greatly shortened drive to church, family, and friends. It's okay, Laura. We forgive you. Kind of.
Corrie: Nurse # 2 (we have a sneaking suspicion that Tonya collects us, snowglobe-style). Her specialty is Tropical Diseases, so if you happen to get Ebola, you're covered in this house! She's been designated by the blog mistress as the FTP (favorite tiny person). If she gets cranky, feed her. If she gets giggly, film her. If she gets sleepy, put her to bed. Careful, though! She's tiny, but she's fast, and she can lift a freakishly large amount of weight. This basically means that if you anger her, she'll run around behind you and drop a grand piano on your head before you realize what's going on. Just don't interrupt her quality time with Jesus and Starbucks and you should be okay, though.
Erin: We'll keep this short, as you readers are probably going to get to know me all too well. I'm the blog mistress. I like cartoons and fuzzy things. I'm obnoxious. I'm the third in the nurse triad here, and I deal with the old people. Between the three of us, we have the entire lifespan covered.
Honorable Mentions:
Michael: The Bosley to our Charlie's Angels, Lisa's brother SAYS he likes hanging out here because we're fun. Actually, we're almost certain that he just likes surrounding himself with attractive women.
Mama Claire and Papa Lynn: Tonya's parents, and darn near parents for the rest of the girls here. If you need food for someone that's allergic to everything but air, Mama Claire is your woman. If you need to move and have no truck or manpower, Papa Lynn is your go-to man.
Mark Chin: Okay, Mark, you got an honorable mention. Mark has been hanging around here a lot lately, probably for similar reasons to Michael, but he seems to like Tonya an awful lot...hmm.....Anyway, he fixes stuff and laughs at our jokes, so...yay!
Jen Berger: Formerly Eggie, Jen is actually an honorary POCette, and usually comes over here on Saturday nights to watch movies, make powerpoint slides, and generally be saucy with us! Plus, she cleans the rec room when she stays over. Jen is made of awesome. End of story.
Menagerie:
Buddy: We're not really sure what Buddy is. The vet is adamant that he's a dog. The Animal Rescue place swears he's a Shih-Tzu mix. Tonya insists that he's a sweet widdle boy. I think he's a mobile teddy bear with a wagging tail. Whether he's none or all of these things, Buddy is quite possibly the cutest, most laid-back house pet ever. We love our Buddy.
Old Lady: This cat probably used the Garden of Eden as a litterbox. She is only a couple of years younger than Methusela, and so she spends most of her day curled up on my bed where it's warm and there is relatively little nonsense going on. If she were human, she would sit on her front porch in her rocker. If she had a yard, she would yell at kids to get out of it.
Trippy: There have been attempted murders on this cat more times than I can count, by people an animals alike. With that in mind, it's no wonder she's a little twitchy. She and the other dog have a continuous drama going on that Corrie and I desperately try to moderate. Which brings me to....
Molly: Molly is an idiot. I'm sorry Molly, I love you, and you're an awesome dog, but you're an idiot. So determined is this monstrous dog that she's going to be friends with my petrified cats that she has braved vocal threats, swipes, and one incident with a claw-mangled cornea. She likes the food that is not in her bowl and the little gaps under beds that are far too small for her to be in.
So that's it! My hands are tired, so I'm bringing this blog to an end, but at least now we're all on the same page. Things around here might get bonkers, and it might be a mess, but it's OUR mess, and we love it.
Check back for further updates. I'll try to send out notifications on Facebook when it's updated. I make no apologies for the potential erroneous or grossly exaggerated content. If you doubt all this stuff is actually happening, come over and see for yourself. The reality-defying occurances here are all part of the ride, so get in, sit down, hush up, and hold on!
But let me know if you're about to get motion-sick, cause I've got some dramamine.
Wait, was I still talking? Okay, check back with us! See ya soon! Buh BYE!
~Grace with you
Erin
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