Damn you, Paris Hilton, damn you!

Paris Hilton and her hair were on Good Morning America this morning. It was the only time she didn't look like a two dollar wo-hora. I thought to myself, hmf, she doesn't look like a hooker. Whatdya know? And her hair is so cute! She had these cute bangs and a cute ponytail. As luck would have it, I had a hair appointment today. Normally when I see cute hair, I think, meh. Take it or leave it.

But this morning, tsk, tsk, tsk... this morning we had a minor emergency at Casa de Luny, which threw me off guard. Because it's April 2-frickin-9th, temps dipped below freezing and a snow storm rolled in. Our newly turned on sprinkler system did not like this much. Our just replaced $40 backflow plastic thingy froze. Again. This time the water was on. This time gallons of water came gushing out, ran down the street, puddled in the yard by the house, seeped into the ground, and poured into my crawl space.

Being the handy woman that I am, a ran around the house screaming and fretting. Oh, crap! Oh, crap! Oh, crap! Shoes. Must get shoes. I grabbed a pair of shoes, rushed outside in the blowing snow, got drenched in the Fountain o' Stress, and turned off the water. At this point I ran around again, soaking wet, in the 26-degree weather, screaming again. Oh, crap! Oh, crap! Oh, crap! I ran back inside, tracking dirt and snow and drops of water into the house to call hubby... voice mail!? WTF.

Hubby called back... several oh, craps! later. What do I do? We have a small lake in the crawl space. Oh, crap! Turn of the water in the crawl space. No, no, no, no, no, no. Crawl space is your domain. Yours. I go on the roof (he is afraid of heights) and you go in the crawl space (I am afraid of things that bite.)

Seeing as desperate times call for desperate measures and all that junk... I flew down the stairs, opened the door to the crawl space, cleared away the crap in the way of the crawl space, barricaded the dogs from being able to follow me into the crawl space, and entered.

Ewww. There are dead things in there. And a lot of water. And dead things. Alive things as well, but they stayed out of sight until I left. Being a crawl space, I crawled along the floor to get to the water shut-off thingy.

Once that was shut off, I crawled back out, shut the door, took off my wet, and now muddy, shoes and clothes. I had a hair appointment to get to at 11:30. It was now 11:08. Oh, crap! I ran upstairs, got some somewhat decent clothes on, and the phone rings. Hubby. Dear, sweet, darling hubby. Do I need him to come home? At this point, no. Gotta go. Hair calls. I threw on some makeup (the ladies will understand this), locked the devil dogs in the house and hightailed it to my hair appointment.

Usually I have the same haircut. Evvvvvery time. Cut a half inch off. No layers. Nuthin' fancy. This morning, after my near death experience in the crawl space, I thought, hmf, I'll try some bangs. Like Paris Hilton. Paris never has to crawl in a bug and spider infested crawl space. Paris never gets drenched with freezing water wearing a mismatched outfit of sweatpants and a pajama top. Paris never has to turn the water off on a backflow. She doesn't even know what that is. I want bangs.

Dear six readers, it has been 7.6 years since I had bangs. This is not a decision I should have made without the council of my best friend, a therapist and three strange women in a beauty parlor. Nonetheless, I did. It's done. I'm banged. All fringed out. Wispy.

Having bangs for a little over three hours now, they are driving me crazy! Why are they in my eyes? And why do they insist on touching my forehead? Arrrrgh. Tomorrow will be worse. Tomorrow, I won't have Charmane to blow out my hair. Tomorrow I will be faced with a cowlick. But for Paris, tomorrow someone will do her hair. Why? Because she has "People," people. There is a reason why she has care-free bangs. And backflows. And never has to go into a yucky crawl space. People. Her people. I have no people. None.

All I'm left with are bangs. Damn you, Paris, damn you.

The saga continues...

It turns out that Bernice does indeed have a cell phone. Of course she does. She's 15. A 15 year old without a cell phone is like a child without shoes.

Mrs. Helen P. McGookin called Bernice today. She was just hanging out with her boyfriend. At 11 am.

The conversation went a little something like this:

(ring, ring, ring)

B: hello?
Mrs. McG: hey Bernice, it's your Aunt Helen.
B: oh, hi..?
Mrs. McG: I hope you don't think I'm stalking you, but I got your number from your grandma...
B: oh, that's ok (giggle)
Mrs. McG: remember when we last saw each other, we talked about getting together and hanging out?
B: yeah...
Mrs. McG: well I feel bad because I haven't contacted you and we talked about it forever ago.
B: oh, that's ok.
Mrs. McG: no it's not. I said I was going to do it and I didn't, so I'm sorry. I wanted to apologize for not contacting you.
B: oh, that's no big deal (giggle)
Mrs. McG: I was wondering if you were still interested, you know, in hanging out sometime?
B: sure, that would be fun...
Mrs. McG: when is good for you?
B: um, pretty much any day...
Mrs. McG: any day? Don't you have to go to school?
B: (giggle) well, I got kicked out... (giggle)
Mrs. McG: You got kicked out? In-ter-es-ting... you'll have to tell me all about it when we see each other...
B: oh, I will... (giggle)
Mrs. McG: are you going to go back?
B: yeah, I'm probably going to go to summer school, then go back next year (giggle)
Mrs. McG: Oooo-kay, great. What do you like to do?
B: oh, I don't know...
Mrs. McG: lemme see, when I was 15, I liked to sleep in late, hang out at the mall and talk on the phone, how's that sound?
B: (giggle) that sounds about right.
Mrs. McG: do you want to go to the mall and do some shopping?
B: sure
Mrs. McG: where do you want to go? How about Flatirons?
B: I haven't been there in a long time...
Mrs. McG: is it not, you know, not, "cool" to go there?
B: I don't know...
Mrs. McG: well, if it's not cool to go there, you wouldn't risk running into any of your friends, you know, with me. I know how horrible that can be...
B: (giggle) that's ok.
Mrs. McG: why don't we have lunch on Saturday? How's that work for you?
B: OK
Mrs. McG: I'll come pick you up at home at noon. OK?
B: OK
Mrs. McG: great, I'll see you on Saturday.

Bernice is going to tell Mrs. McGookin all about the kicking out of school when then have lunch on Saturday. Then, Mrs. McG will remind Bernice how she is effing up her life. In a sweet, yet uniquely sarcastic manner. I think that Bernice is a little "afraid" of Mrs. Helen P. McGookin. She was the only person in her whole life that didn't let her get away with anything. Mr. McGookin thinks that Bernice appreciates it, even if she doesn't know it.

And, then...!? Mrs. McGookin had the gall to ask me if I would offer Bernice a job. A fricken job?! To that irresponsible freak? Um, alright. I'm desperate. And cheap.

See, I need someone to do data entry for me. Just once a month or so. I have stacks and stacks of business cards that need to be entered in my CMS, and then put in my roladex. Stacks! They are taking over my "to be entered" pile and spreading across the desk.

It would be silly for me to do it, because when you think about how much I'm worth an hour, I could pay Bernice for dozens! of hours before it would cost an hour of my time. I could use that time to focus on prospecting, or billable hours, or napping, etc.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Mrs. Helen P. McGookin needs to first have lunch with Bernice, feel her out, then take it from there. Ready..? exhale... ahhhh.

Mrs. Helen P. McGookin is worried.

Those of you who know Mrs. Helen P. McGookin know that she is not a warm, kind-hearted, maternal woman. Her interests include sports, spackling drywall, and mixed drinks. Preferably together. She is a rather voracious reader of all things historical. She kicks ass with a cordless drill. But she is not a "mom" type woman. She is crass, loud and of all things, notoriously late to any function.

But she is worried. Worried about her favorite niece. Alright, it's her only niece, but she's her favorite nonetheless. Her niece is 15 years old. Several years ago, her niece, whom we shall call, Bernice, was in Mrs. McGookin's wedding to Mr. McGookin. This was when she was 9, still cute and rather innocent. She wore a blue ribbon in her hair and posed like a princess in the wedding pictures. She would giggle at silly things. She played with Barbies and liked to do Mrs. McGookin's hair.

Her parents were married at the time, but experiencing problems. Typical problems most marriages face when the wife suffers from low self-esteem resulting in a drinking problem and the husband is emotionally abusive and generally lazy. You know, typical stuff. (Mrs. McGookin married into this family, by the by. Her own family has completely different issues.) A year later the parents divorced. Bernice was 10. Since then her alcoholic mother has gained custody. Why on earth would a court do that? Because her emotionally abusive father was homeless. He really did live in a van down by the river.

It would be worth mentioning that Bernice's parents subscribed to the "let-the-children-do-whatever-makes-them-happy" parenting style when she was growing up. (Mrs. McGookin was not raised in this fashion, and as such, took umbrage with the practice.) In other words, Bernice never received any restrictions on her behavior. One time, Mrs. McGookin tried to discipline Bernice when she was 8, but was told in no uncertain terms by the father that children should be allowed to do what makes them happy. Mrs. McGookin never tried again. It wasn't her problem.

Fast forward five years.

Bernice runs away. She has a 19 year old boyfriend. She is missing so often that her parents don't even bother to look for her anymore. She uses drugs. She presumably has unprotected sex in efforts to get preggers and find someone to love her. She is messed up. The worst part, as if it could be any worse, is that the dutiful Deputy Fife in the sheriff's office won't do anything to help either. The lawman told her parents that since she is 15, they can't help them anymore. When she was 14 and ran away, the law would track her down and bring her home. At 15, they do nothing.

Mrs. McGookin remembers when she, herself, was 15. She was slightly overweight, horribly shy and looking to fit in. It was a awkward period in her life. She could not have imagined living on the street, dating older creeps, or doing drugs. But Mrs. McGookin was raised by what would be considered in today's terms, strict parents. She had everything to lose by messing up. Bernice thinks she has nothing to lose.

Here's the rub. Mrs. McGookin, with no maternal instincts other than yelling at opposing players to stop cross-checking her boys, is genuinely worried about Bernice. Yet she has no way to contact her, since she is living on the street. Mrs. McGookin sent Bernice an email, but has received no response. Bernice doesn't have a cell phone. She doesn't listen or talk to her parents. She doesn't go to school.

She is lost.

Mrs. McGookin doesn't even know what she would do if she could get in touch with Bernice. Beat some sense into her? How? The sweet, but horribly misbehaved, 9 year old is long gone. Would a reckless 15 year old even listen to Mrs. McGookin? What would she say? Would it make a difference?

As I said, Mrs. Helen P. McGookin is worried.

Who comes up with this, ahem, stuff?

You Are 50% Normal (Somewhat Normal)

While some of your behavior is quite normal... Other things you do are downright strange You've got a little of your freak going on But you mostly keep your weirdness to yourself

How Normal Are You?

Like that's anything new. Anyone who knows me knows that I'm a little on the abnormal side. This site also told me that I'm going to die at 79, but I only act like I'm 29. I'm really 31, so does that mean I have until 81?

Yes, it's Friday. Yes, I'm procrastinating. Yes, this is dumb. Next.

back to "normal"

The simple act of woeing and whining cleared some angst from my brain. Amazing. Maybe I should try it more often? Or maybe I should seek professional help? Naaa.

I feel more awake, excited and ready to get back in it. While I was busy venting my misery to you, dear reader, another client walked in the door. See? When one walks out, someone else takes their place. And, I want to work with these people. They are so much fun and well funded. I visited their swanky office downtown and got weak in the knees... they have Diet Coke on hand... in a can... just the way I like it... for free! Weeeee!

Does anyone else get that giddy feeling when someone tells you they like your work, they really, really like your work? It's enough to help lift you out of the mud, wipe off your face, have a cocktail and re-join the rest of society... 'cus everything is a-okay when you get a glowing compliment.

wallowing

Yes, the ever perky Ms. Happy-Sunshine-Baskets-o'- Fresh-Baked- French-Bread is wallowing in her misery. Woe is me. Woe. Woe. Woe. Just the other day I was riding high. Laughing. Laughing, I say, at the world. Then came the drop. Like quicksand it sucked me in. Down, down, down I went. Now I wallow.

What caused this wallowness? A mixture of rejection and painkillers. I had a root canal on Monday, then came the drugs. Then the rejection from a what is clearly non-client. I had put hours in to the bid. I drove all over town to get things for them. I was pretty much told it was mine. (Like, you know, they said, we want to work with YOU. I have no idea how I got that wrong.) Then they "went with another firm." The business part of it I don't mind at all. It's just business. I don't take it personally. But it's the less than truthful way they went about it that bugs me. When I asked who else they were talking with, they said just me and a huge ad agency that they couldn't afford. (i.e., we are picking you) So out of no where comes another firm with "a competitive bid." Huh? Why not just tell me that. I'm a big girl. Sometimes.

It hit me when I was already down. I'm drained from dentists and taxes. We have no money now. We made our annual donation to the IRS. Perhaps they'll dedicate a toilet plunger in our name in honor of our gift. And quarterly taxes are due at the same time. And soon the bill will come for the dentist. And my windshield is cracked, again, for the third time in a year. And the dogs need a vet visit. And did I mention that we have no money right now?

Sure, sure, the business has money. But the business has to pay for things, too. Like printers, dues to networking groups, lunches with important people, and fax lines and office supplies, and AMEX bills for software that costs way too much money, but was completely necessary for business purposes Mr. IRS Agent.

Annnnnd, I'm so tired. When I was sitting in the dentist chair getting numbed up from the novocain, I fell asleep. I fell asleep in a dentist chair! To add poop to my potatoes, I haven't had a proper drink in a week. A week! You really shouldn't take Vicadin and Vodka together, or so the bottle tells me so. And I do try to follow instructions. I am OCD like that.

So now I wallow. And whine. Woe. Woe. Woe. Whine. Whine. Whine.

BFF

This was the conversation that hubby and I had while driving up to Copper Mountain to meet Mr. and Mrs. H...

Him: what if these people are freaks?
Me: well, it's a big mountain, I'm sure we can lose them if we need to
Him: hmmm...



Turns out while we where having this conversation, Mr and Mrs H were doing the same. But not to worry! After ski lifts, ski lift lines, laughing at people falling down (just a little), and plenty o' evening cocktails, we discovered our new BFF.


(note the table full of near empty glasses)

See, it's not just that we all love beagles, but more than that, we all love to drink. And say silly things. And quote weird movies. And drink. Mostly it's the hooch.

Mr. H and my hubby bonded like nobody's biz. They had so much in common it was scary. Of course Kate and I had to make fun of them for this.


Here they are, walking into the sunset together...


...while being heckled by two hott ladies...

Sadly, we had to return to the ghetto while they skied like bunnies the rest of the weekend. We almost went up again on Sunday to see them again, but instead we woke to this...




BLIZZARD of 2005! The tv people had a graphic ready by noon.

The hounds had mixed feelings about the snow. It's hard to love it when you can't get through it without an escort.



emotions were running high...


... as was the snow. *sigh* I miss you already BFF.

how time flies...

I was cleaning out my pile 'o crap and found some photos (yes, the real kind) taken a few years ago whilst skiing with friends. This was on the top of Copper Mountain, with the teeny Continental Divide as a backdrop. I think we just got off the lift and had one of those, "let's get a tourist who only speaks Samoan to take our pic! Yeah!" moments.


copper2003
Originally uploaded by daphnepoo.

I'm second from the left. Hubby is in the less than blinding yellow parka. It's hard to tell people apart in the asexual ski wear.

And, yes, it is that effin bright up there.

We normally ski Winter Park; it's closer and we don't have to sit through the Eisenhower Tunnel traffic. (Those switchbacks are a bitch on HWY 40, though.) But on Friday, hubby and I will make a special sacrifice to go visit a very special beagle friend. Yes! We're meeting a blogger IRL. (I feel so cool using 'net acronyms. It makes me feel like I'm not really over 30-yrs old at all.)

So in honor of meeting a blogger beagle babe IRL, I wrote this special poem:

(a-hem)
Please don't think us freaks,
Remember to drink lots of water,
The altitude gets some peeps sick,
And trees may kill you.
The end.

Happy weekend everyone! Cheers!

please excuse the sunshine

The thing we do not speak of happened today, this morning actually, at 2 am. I do not speak of this event because I was raised in a somewhat bizarre, but very time-sensitive state: Arizona. Hubby and I have a deal. I pretend that it doesn't happen twice a year, and he changes all the things affected by it.

But the one and only by-product of this thing we do not speak of, the sunshine, oh the glorious sunshine, stayed in the sky until well past 6:00 pm. We spent the day soaking it in. The horrible hounds were walked to near exhaustion. They slumped into deep, rabbit chasing dreams when we returned home. We tended to the yard, getting it dolled up for it's prime time debut. The grass is greening beyond belief; we've already mowed it once this season and it looks like it needs another pass. In another month I'll be cursing my fast growing Bluegrass.

At the end of the day, while the heat of the sun slipped behind the purple mountains, we sat on the deck and ate sloppy tacos with our fingers and drank summer time cocktails with glee. My body is tired from the work: raking, pulling weeds and readying the pots for new arrivals. But I cherish this feeling. Working with your hands in the earth is the only authentic kind of work for me.

Tomorrow I'm back to work behind the desk. I've got three projects to bust out this week. And I'm taking a short week. My boys are playing in the Frozen Four at noon on Thursday. Then it's to the mountain on Friday for some much needed skiing and drinking at high altitude. Woo hoo! Who knows, perhaps we'll run into a fellow beagle owner up there?