Snarkling Clean

New Place, Come on Over

rob.writer@cox.net (Robyn) — Fri, 11 Jan 2008 22:01:00 +0000

I will now be sharing my inane ramblings at Picnic at Stonehenge. Don't worry- I still have Random Cute Guy days. Stop by!

New Location...

noreply@blogger.com (Missie) — Tue, 04 Sep 2007 16:17:00 +0000

Hey, gang. Thanks for all the kind comments you left regarding our shutting down this here blog. You are the best. (sniff, sniff, drip, wipe.)

All of you are cordially invited to come visit me over at my new blog, More of A Woman, centrally located and convenient to the interstate at http://moreofawoman.blogspot.com.

Stop by if you get a chance. I promise to always have cookies.

All Good Things...

rob.writer@cox.net (Robyn) — Fri, 31 Aug 2007 02:54:00 +0000

…and you know the rest. Two years ago Missie and I decided to start this little snarkfest, but neither of us really realized what we were getting into. We have so enjoyed our experience; getting to know you, each other, and ourselves. But kids and work and generally, life, have intruded to a large degree, and it is becoming tougher to keep up. It is quite possibly because of the narrow focus of this particular blog. Kind of like the friend who tells her new acquaintances how funny you are, and when you meet them she says, “Go on! Be funny!”

Don’t get me wrong. We’ll always love romance, we’ll always dish on good books and bad covers. We’ll always be snarky.

And we won’t leave the blogging world completely. We’ll still visit all your blogs and leave witty, pithy comments that will annoy you greatly because we’ve shown you up, and we may have other blogs in the future.

From Missie: Once again, words fail me. I cannot possibly tell you how much you have all meant to me, so I won't really try. Thank you for stopping by here, reading our sometimes funny, sometimes nonsensical posts, and for allowing me to flood the Net with pictures of my children. You are the sweetest, prettiest, funniest, bestest group of blogfriends that any blogstress has ever had. (That is our totally unbiased opinion, so you can take that to the bank.)

We love keeping up with your lives, so we will be stopping by your blogs as time permits. Robyn has such talent and wit that I am sure we are not hearing the last from her in the Blog world. I will be starting another blog soon (and by soon, I mean sometime before my children put me in the nursing home) that deals with life, motherhood, and weight loss, not neccessarily in that order. We will post the addresses for our new digs here whenever we finally find a place to land.

We love you and will miss you. And the next time you see a really bad cover, think of us...for we will be thinking of you. And mutant babies in leopard suits.

From me: I have been continually amazed at how vibrant, intelligent, interesting, touching, and funny the online world really is. I honestly feel I have friends all over the globe, and wonder if my non-U.S. buddies know what wonderful ambassadors you are. World peace would so much easier if we could all have a laugh over John DeSalvo’s radioactive pants, yo?

You have given me laughter, support, salved my ego and challenged my thinking. You gave me your rapt attention while I was randomly musing, and your love while I was grieving. Thank you. Thank you so much.

We’ll leave this up so you can come by and view the covers in the archives if you need a laugh. For now, though, especially if you’ve never commented, (and we know you’ve lurked, even I don’t visit enough to warrant so many hits) come on in, have a caramel macchiato and a brownie and say goodbye!

Later, dudes!

The Worst of the Worst

rob.writer@cox.net (Robyn) — Tue, 28 Aug 2007 13:33:00 +0000

Good Lord above, make sure you can dial 911 if necessary.

Emily's Daughter

Robyn: Now, wait...is she holding a picture of her daughter, or is she pregnant with her daughter? Is she so upset with the hideous dress she got stuck with she tried to rip the veil out of her hair?

Missie: Emily's daughter took one look at this dress and ran away from home. Along with Emily's fiancé, Emily's parents, and all Emily's friends.

Get Lucky

Robyn: Don’t we have enough movies about ordinary, plump guys getting hot women? We don’t need books, too!

Missie: A highlighted Jack Black does not say "romance" to me.

Moment of Truth

Robyn: His hand is down his pants. Her hand is in his pocket. Knowing what I know about guys, shouldn't he be happier right now?

Missie: What you can't see is the shiv she's sticking in his ribs while she's trying to get at his wallet. Back pocket, honey, it's in the baaaack pocket.

$he's on the Money

Robyn: Dude, if I saw a woman in the grocery store wearing that, I’d faint too.

Missie: More like She's On the Crack because no one not under the influence of illegal drugs would wear that outfit.

The Nanny Solution

Robyn: Nothing says luurve like a mutant baby in a catsuit. OMG, I think I just threw up a little in my mouth.

Missie: I am sooooo calling Children and Family Services, because nobody should do that to a helpless baby.

Solitary Soldier

Robyn: BRAINNNSSSS...

Missie: There's a reason he's solitary. And it ain't by choice.

"Director- CUT!"

rob.writer@cox.net (Robyn) — Sun, 26 Aug 2007 21:07:00 +0000

Sometimes, that’s how I really feel. I have to laugh at people who think romance readers can’t distinguish between fantasy and reality; they would have no more concerns if they could hear my internal dialogue with heroines. It usually goes something like this:

“Umm, okay. He’s tall, gorgeous, has no commitment issues, has a job, and isn’t gay. Your problem with him is what, again?”

But there has to be a conflict, so I get the Somewhat Implausible Reason I Don't Jump Him. I’ve written more than a few myself. And almost every heroine will, at some point in the book, do something stupid. I’m not talking about the waif who is TSTL. She could have several doctorates and a tenured position at Harvard, but she’ll do something stupid. That’s okay, too. After all, it’s the equivalent of yelling at the blonde in the slasher flick, “Don’t go in the basement! At least not in your skimpy nightie!” Fun times.

What makes me want to get out the 2x4 and warm up my batting arm is the nonsensical reason she always comes up with in the last act to keep the hero at arm’s length. She’ll invariably be upset over something that really, after everything else that’s happened, doesn’t matter. This hero has just gone through at least 250 pages of hell for this woman. He’s saved her. She’s saved him. They both know that the other is the Only Man/Woman For Me, so what’s the problem? Something pissy that makes me want to choke the life out of her. It’s like the authors know they’ll need two more chapters, so they spin the Wheel of Random Angst.

You haven’t said you love me.

You’ll always love your first wife more.

You ~sob~ LIED to me!

You hate my father.

You hate my cat.

I don’t know how to be a Viscountess.

Puh-leeze! I feel like the Colonel in that old Monty Python skit who yells at the director to stop because it was quaint and amusing, but now it’s just got silly.

Get it together, girl! Didn’t the last 23 chapters (and a big chunk of my life) teach you anything? It isn’t a good sign when I begin regretting putting off the laundry to finish this frigging thing. If it was done 20 pages ago, stick a fork in it and serve it up already.

Authors and editors, I beg you- if you need a bigger word count, bring back the prologue and the info-dump, but put the wheel away.

I Love The Internet

rob.writer@cox.net (Robyn) — Thu, 23 Aug 2007 14:21:00 +0000

Where else could I read about a naked man walking down Melrose with a leopard around his neck?

Or a boy who has impaled his nose with a fork? (WARNING- this is an actual picture. And I was worried about my daughter getting sand in her ear. Yeesh.)

Or soldiers who are saved by feminine hygiene products?

Before Al Gore invented the internet, what would I have done with my hour and fifteen minutes this morning?

Umm, don't answer that.

Cowtown RULES!

rob.writer@cox.net (Robyn) — Mon, 20 Aug 2007 03:00:00 +0000

Y'all, I just spent the greatest week with my family. In Fort Worth, Texas.

Yes, you read that right. Fort Worth.

Now, I used to live near Dallas. And I had relatives who would genuflect before the Texas flag every morning and thank their Creator for the awesome privilege of living in Dallas. Because in Dallas, you could still be classy and sophisticated and urban AND be Cowboys football fans.

But Fort Worth? Cowtown. Not classy. Not sophisticated. Moooo.

I have to spread the news far and wide- I LOVED that city. Fort Worth has the cleanest downtown area I've ever seen. No trash. The two winos I saw stayed to the shadows. One beggar. Who didn't beg from me.

There were polite, smiling, flat-bellied policemen on bikes who courteously directed you toward the nearest pizza place. There were blue vested workers who swept the streets free of pamphlets and beer bottles, who actually scrubbed gum off the sidewalk. I expected to be awakened each morning by gentle yet insistent birds who then made my bed, and to have competent but badly dressed mice bring me my coffee and newspaper.

I could totally see myself walking down the shining streets, peering into the quaint Western wear shops, carrying my brown paper grocery bag containing a baguette and a limp green leafy thing, trading Gilmore Girls quips with a friend, and then running into a man who has always infuriated me even though he's disturbingly, mutantly cute, only to come to the horrifying realization that deep down, I really like him. Yeah, it's that kind of town.

What did you do on your vacation?

Sad But True

noreply@blogger.com (Missie) — Sat, 18 Aug 2007 16:22:00 +0000

The Ant and Grasshopper

TRADITIONAL VERSION:

MORAL OF THE STORY: Be responsible for yourself!

MODERN VERSION:

The ant works hard in the withering heat all summer long, building his house and laying up supplies for the winter. The grasshopper thinks the ant is a fool and laughs and dances and plays the summer away. Come winter, the shivering grasshopper calls a press conference and demands to know why the ant should be warm and well fed while others are cold and starving. CBS, NBC, PBS, CNN, and ABC show up to provide pictures of the shivering grasshopper next to a video of the ant in his comfortable home with a table filled with food. America is stunned by the sharp contrast. How can this be, that in a country of such wealth, this poor grasshopper is allowed to suffer so?

Kermit the Frog appears on Oprah with the grasshopper, and everybody cries when they sing, "It's Not Easy Being Green." Jesse Jackson stages a demonstration in front of the ant's house where the news stations film the group singing, "We shall overcome." Jesse then has the group kneel down to pray to God for the grasshopper's sake.

Nancy Pelosi, John Kerry & Harry Reid exclaim in an interview with Larry King that the ant has gotten rich off the back of the grasshopper, and both call for an immediate tax hike on the ant to make him pay his fair share. Finally, the EEOC drafts the Economic Equity and Anti-Grasshopper Act retroactive to the beginning of the summer! The ant is fined for failing to hire a proportionate number of green bugs and, having nothing left to pay his retroactive taxes, his home is confiscated by the government. Hillary gets her old law firm to represent the grasshopper in a defamation suit against the ant, and the case is tried before a panel of federal judges that Bill Clinton appointed from a list of single-parent welfare recipients. The ant loses the case.

The story ends as we see the grasshopper finishing up the last bits of the ant's food while the government house he is in, which just happens to be the ant's old house, crumbles around him because he doesn't maintain it. The ant has disappeared in the snow. The grasshopper is found dead in a drug related incident and the house, now abandoned, is taken over by a gang of spiders who terrorize the once peaceful neighborhood.

MORAL OF THE STORY: You fill it in...

Oh so White and Nerdy

noreply@blogger.com (Missie) — Mon, 13 Aug 2007 19:58:00 +0000

Hey, everyone! One of our internet buds needs some help, so I am sending out the Batsignal...

I received this email earlier today from Paige, a weight loss buddy of mine from Utah. She has a chance to meet Donny Osmond if she gets enough votes in this contest. Read on...

"Hello friends,
I am writing to ask you a favor. Would you take just a moment to vote
for me for Donny Osmond's biggest fan? I submitted a little blurb about
why I'm such a huge fan, and I'd really like to win tickets to his
upcoming contest and (sigh) actually meet him! But I need a little help
from people like you.
You just go to this site:
http://www.kosy.com/pages/donny_biggestfan/
then click on vote, and I am entry #4.
You can only vote once for each email account, so if you have two
accounts, you could vote twice (or ask your spouse or kids with email
accounts to vote for me). Thank you for helping me get to meet Donny!
Paige"

So, whaddya say, Snarklettes? Can we help a sistah out? Please click the link above and let the girl get some Osmond love.

Oh the Scandal!

noreply@blogger.com (Missie) — Thu, 09 Aug 2007 17:32:00 +0000

Hi, my name is Missie and I have never read a Harry Potter book.

I do not watch Survivor, American Idol, Big Brother, The Apprentice, or any Bachelor/-ette type shows.

I know enough of Amy Winehouse to know her tattoos and hair scare me, but know nothing of her music. I do not know the name of any of Beyonce's songs. I don't care who Justin Timberlake is dating.

I will never ever buy perfumes "designed" by Jennifer Lopez, Paris Hilton, Britney Spears, or any other pseudo-celebrity, no matter how wonderful they smelled, just based on principle. (although for a brief period in the late eighties/early nineties, I was in love with the perfume by Cher, because it smelled good and came in a really cool bottle.)

Lest you think I am hopelessly out of it, let me assure you that I can:

*Name all four Teletubbies and their respective colors

*Recite almost all lines from Napoleon Dynamite and the Spongebob Squarepants movie

*Sing with accuracy along with Weird Al Yankovic's "White and Nerdy"

*Intelligently discuss each presidential candidate's view on major issues.

Don't you wish your blogger was hot like me? My coolness knows no bounds.

I know. My mom bores me, too.

Vacation, All I Ever Wanted

rob.writer@cox.net (Robyn) — Wed, 08 Aug 2007 01:20:00 +0000

HA! If you were watching MTV in the 80's, that song will go through your head the rest of the day. (GoGo's, if you wanna google it.)

Yes, I'm going on vacation *hallelujah* and actually getting in the car and driving away from my town *thank You Jesus* and BOTH kids are stoked and ready with no discernable teen angst *angel chorus singing.*

Be back Monday to tell you all about it, but I thought I'd leave you with another 80's gem:

From Tri-Star Pictures- the terrifying tale of a woman attacked when her ugly black velvet futon grows a man!

See ya Monday!

Alright, Kinda

noreply@blogger.com (Missie) — Tue, 07 Aug 2007 02:06:00 +0000

Losing a parent is a weird thing. It can't be described adequately by someone who has gone through it to someone who hasn't...there just aren't the words.

My dad had been sick for a very long time. He had emphysema, and then was diagnosed with Stage Four Lung Cancer that had metastisized (sp?) to his liver. To top it off, he came down with pneumonia. And all the while, he continued to smoke.

But even with all this going on, we still never expected the end to be as quick as it was. Go into the hospital on Friday, go into eternal reward on Wednesday morning.

My parents celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary on July 5th. We planned their party for July 28th, since it didn't fall around any holidays and more people were likely to be able to make it. My dad went into the hospital on July 27th. He was unable to make the party. My mom did go, since she didn't want to disappoint anyone who'd already made their way to Central Oregon for the shindig. She was such a trooper...all decked out in her new flirty, flouncy dress she bought to surprise my dad, hair and makeup all done..She laughed and joked and had a good time with everyone, all the while worried about her man who lay intubated and sedated in a hospital 30 miles away.

We were told on Monday morning by my dad's oncologist (who had no idea my dad had been admitted over the weekend) that my dad never should have been placed on a ventilator. He should have just been given what comfort there could be and passed on...that we were only prolonging the inevitable...that he wasn't making it out of this one...that he was never coming home again.

Now, I ask you. How do you comfort a woman who has been married for fifty years to this man, who has never known anything else, who grew up with him, bore his children, followed him from pillar to post around the world, when she gets this kind of news?

I realize this entry is very choppy and badly written, but I need to get this out, get it posted, and be done. I told Robyn yesterday on the phone that I am sick of this story. I am sick of the sound of my own voice. I am sick of all the details. I have had to call so many people, and deal with the visitors and family, and coordinate the food, and soothe the egos involved, and do so many things, that I am sick of this..this...this busy-ness of death.

I just want to sit for awhile. Sit in a quiet room and cry a little and rage a little and throw a few things.

I miss my dad. I love my dad. I am mad at my dad. Not mad that he died...but mad at how he chose to go.

I am a big freedom person. You can be free to do whatever you want to do. But be aware that you don't live in a vacuum. Your choices will either help or hurt someone. Every time my dad chose to smoke, he set this end up for himself and for us. Every time he lit up, he decided how his final days would be spent. Every time he bought a pack of cigarettes, he set this appointment up for his children and wife to be standing beside his bed in a sterile cold CCU ward after midnight listening to the fading sounds of his breathing.

So while I mourn, I quietly rage. I mourn that my dad will never get to see my daughter develop from the outrageously adorable toddler she is now into the wonderful young woman she will be. He won't get to see my son as he transitions from goofy pre-teen to tall handsome high schooler. And he won't be here to help my husband and I celebrate our 20th, or 25th, or 30th wedding anniversaries. He won't be here to commiserate on the hazards of raising teenagers or complain about the government. He won't be here for me to tell about the latest political thriller I read, and get his take on it after he read it.

I won't smell his smell anymore. Mennen aftershave mixed with the Johnson's Baby Oil he used on his hair to keep it soft and shiny. (no lie. it totally worked, too. I tried it once and looked like I combed my hair with a porkchop.) And I won't get to see him come into whatever room my mom's in, go up behind her, and give her a hug and a kiss on the neck. Or a pat on the butt. Or hear a "Hey, baby, you got any coffee?"

I miss my dad. I want him back. For me. For my kids. For my heartbroken brothers. For my mamma.

I wish I could ask him if all his choices were worth it.

Prayers, Please

rob.writer@cox.net (Robyn) — Wed, 01 Aug 2007 21:08:00 +0000

Some of you may remember that two years ago, my mom died of lung cancer. I'm very sorry to say that Missie's father has passed away, with the same disease. She may lurk when she needs a break, but I'll make sure she gets any condolences you'd like to send.

Losing loved ones to cancer truly is the club no one wants to join. And the difference in our situations just points to the fact that cancer makes no damn sense.

Let's just say that Missie's dad wasn't Jack LaLane and leave it there. Doing The Good Thing For Your Body wasn't number one on his list. My mom was health itself. Missie's dad smoked; my mom smoked but quit twenty years before she developed cancer. He didn't do everything 'right' and lived for two years after his diagnosis of Stage Four. My mom did everything you're supposed to, and died six months after her diagnosis of Stage Three.

I'm so angry about so many things. I was angry that we had to watch my mother slip away and know there wasn't a thing we could do about it. I was angry that she had to lay on a table, with her breasts exposed for the radiation, arms flung out for the chemo pumping into her veins, and she had to just lie there and take it. These white-coated people literally poured poison into her two different ways, and she couldn't obey her first, natural impulse to fight.

I'm angry that forever after, my children and grandchildren will have to put a check next to the cancer box on their medical histories. I'm angry that I get scared if I develop a cough. I'm angry that sometimes I still dream about her and the next day I'm no good to anyone. I'm angry that the things she would have loved seeing, my children's prom pictures and graduation and college freshman mania, she won't.

But mostly, I'm angry that now my best friend has to go through all this. For those of you who have your health, thank God and go hug your family. If you don't, go hug your family harder. You can also go here and here to see what you can do to make sure that as few people as possible ever join this club.

I Gave Up Johanna Lindsey Clinch Covers For This?

rob.writer@cox.net (Robyn) — Mon, 30 Jul 2007 03:19:00 +0000

My family and I went to our favorite place the other night. The place the kids always beg to go to, where we spend many happy hours:

Barnes and Noble. Books and Starbucks. What more do you need?

My kids run for the fantasy section, while hubby scours the bargain shelves. Me?

You don't really need to ask, do you?

My darling husband of almost 20 years (August 8) took great pleasure in showing me the cover of a romance he found on the bargain shelf. He howled over it. This one.

It's not that bad, but I had the feeling I'd seen this guy before.

I had.

Here, as a matter of fact.

And here. This guy gets a lot of work, and you can understand why. Look at his range!

Le Tigre AND Blue Steel. I wonder if he can do Magnum?

Now, I loved me some Fabio. He always took the work and the fans seriously, but not himself. And John DeSalvo, well...even if he had the exact same expression every time, at least he had some action shots.

But they were de-throned for THIS GUY?? It's like art departments everywhere decided to do the romance cover novel version of superhero costume generators.

You start with shirtless semi-hottie. Then, customize!

1. Add your choice of background- urban, jungle, or forest.

2. Add weapons to fit your hero.

3. Choose drippy font and random laser beams.

Presto! You've got your cover!

In a way, it makes me nostalgic for the headless Highlanders.

Up Against the Wall, Redneck Mother

rob.writer@cox.net (Robyn) — Tue, 24 Jul 2007 22:00:00 +0000

Places I have Actually Been

Things I Have Witnessed People Doing (and Would Have Done Had I Drunk Enough)

A Thing You Probably Think is a Joke

Something I'm Afraid Isn't a Joke

People Who Could Be My Relatives

I've never been there, seen it personally, but I know it's not a joke. And I do have a relative there.

To my cousin, Major Rick Williams, who grew up redneck like me: thank you for making sure I can make fun of our upbringing on the internet. Come home soon.

I'm Enjoying This Too Much

rob.writer@cox.net (Robyn) — Mon, 23 Jul 2007 02:44:00 +0000

What editors want is a thing like unto the Holy Grail for writers. We'd love to know what they want. What some of them need, however, is a primer on English literature.

A cheeky writer in England sent off barely disguised manuscripts of Jane Austen's best known works to major publishing houses, to see if Jane could get a contract these days. He even left intact perhaps her most famous line, which opens Pride and Prejudice: "It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife."

He received universal rejections, but only one had the nerve to call him on his blatant plagiarism. Penguin's editor even wrote that his ideas seemed really original!

I had to stop and wonder why I'm enjoying this so. It seems like karma has run over their dogma, if you follow. After scolding writers on everything from adverb usage to 'you used the word that too much' to heroines' hair color, they can't even pick up on a plotline from Jane Freaking Austen?

It's funny. C'mon, you know it's funny! Of course, it isn't funny when I realise that somewhere along the line I started viewing editors as the enemy. Not a professional who knows exactly what her line needs and looks for the best candidate. Not a hard-working book lover who has to slog through a slush pile two feet deep. Not a partner to help me publish the best book possible. But the enemy, whose gates I have to storm because he is keeping me from getting my prize.

Which leads me back to my original question. What do editors really want, anyway?

Insomnia

rob.writer@cox.net (Robyn) — Mon, 16 Jul 2007 12:58:00 +0000

A couple of nights ago, I couldn't sleep. No particular reason; my brain just wouldn't shut off. When that happens I typically will read or write, even though what I wind up writing falls under the "What was I smoking?" category.

But neither of those was happening, so I turned to the age-old remedy: channel surfing. Late night television is a world all its own, one filled with bad old movies, reruns you've already seen twenty times, and infomercials. Good God Almighty, the infomercials. A little sponge on a drill that will make your face look ten years younger. A ladder that morphs from a step stool to a scaffold that will work wonderfully for the do-it-yourselfer. Who also happens to be a NASA engineer. I lusted after the Magic Bullet Personal Blender System after seeing Mick and Mimi's party. Who wouldn't want to make two kinds of breakfast muffins, gourmet chicken salad lunches, and two different pasta sauces all without dirtying a single pot or pan?

But I happened to view something else that night. A dating show. Good. Lord.

Now, I remember The Dating Game. Bachelors 1, 2, and 3 had to answer really stupid questions from a nervous bachelorette hidden behind a screen. She made her choice based on those equally stupid answers, and the moment we all wanted to see? Her face when she saw exactly what her date looked like. And how the two guys she didn't pick looked. You could practically see in her eyes, "Why didn't I choose him? Or him? These two guys are fine. I'm going to get stuck with a nerd, I just know it." But it had rewards; the men were usually very nice, and they went on an all-expense paid cruise to Puerto Villarta or something.

Ah, for those days. This particular show had a mini The Bachelor quality to it, with one guy being fought over by 5 girls. I find the whole concept of The Bachelor insulting- any guy who thinks he's worthy of having 25 beautiful women fight over him has too bloated a self image to be attractive. And IMO, any woman who participates in such drivel deserves to have her heart broken. "But, but, I LOVED him! ~sob~ I only knew him for two weeks, and in that time he was sucking on ten other girls, but I LOVED him!"

So why did I watch this dating show? Because Mick and Mimi's party was over, and I just couldn't take the guys from Air Supply hawking Time-Life's collection of 70's easy listening classics. (I'm all out of love, I'm so lost without you...)

This guy, Adam, what someone younger than me would consider a hottie I suppose, finally pares it down to two girls. One, Jessie, is a feisty little thing, who practically full-on copulates with the guy on the dance floor. The other, Blair, is more shy, dancing on the fringes, hoping to actually talk to him. The 'interview' portion made my blood boil. Adam says, "Blair is the nice girl you want to take home to Mom. Jessie is the bad girl." At this, he smirks and almost giggles. "I don't know which way I'm going."

I've never wanted to smack anyone worse in my life. No, not him. Men apparently still have the madonna/whore complex fully in place, with all our vaunted equality. Guys still know a slut when they see one, I guess. Adam did; he chose Jessie. What got me was that Jessie knew exactly why he chose her. She knew he respected Blair, and wouldn't be ashamed to take Blair home. But he only wanted Jessie for one thing, and there was no way she was 'good enough' to meet his mother. AND SHE WAS HAPPY ABOUT THIS. SHE WAS HAPPY SHE'D WON. And not because she won anything more than the rest of the night with Adam- they didn't even get a rattan chair out of the deal. My hand actually itched. Could she not see the diss? Have we come to the point where our equality has turned to bite us in the butt? Even if she just wanted a night of anonymous sex, would she really want it with a guy who thinks she's not a sexy woman, but a whore?

The world has never needed romances more. There was a Romancing the Blog post last week about a single lady's family who worried that her reading romances was causing unrealistic expectations for her. I say more power to her. Dreaming about a man who wants her, who will be smacked down if he treats her wrongly, about holding out for everything she wants- including a gold ring, and getting it? I'd much rather dream about that than Adam in his shiny shirt, smirking over his one night stand.

On second thought, yeah. I want to smack him too.

I Had a Dream...

noreply@blogger.com (Missie) — Thu, 12 Jul 2007 14:54:00 +0000

In our fair city, there is a beautiful rose garden.

Every year, it blooms in a riot of colors so brilliant that it dazzles the eye and lifts the heart.

When I was pregnant with my girl, I imagined dressing her up and taking many wonderful pictures of her romping amongst the flowers in this special garden. These pictures would be heartwarming and touching and worthy of being blown up and framed. We as her doting parents would look back on these pictures years later with tears in our eyes remembering what wonder and awe she expressed visiting this lovely place with all the "fwowers".

And so I present to you now what I call Alison Amongst the Roses...

What are you doing? Why are you taking my picture?

I find you and your intrusive camera distasteful.

Lemme get this straight...you want me to smile by these flowers right here? Yeah, right.

My husband couldn't figure out why we have one child who is a complete ham-bone (most of the time)...

and another child who looks like she smells something putrid...

Gee, Honey...I have no idea.

Ever Notice...Cute Guy Monday?

rob.writer@cox.net (Robyn) — Mon, 09 Jul 2007 15:16:00 +0000

Ever notice when an older lady stumbles across a mystery and solves it, an inordinate number of murders start happening in her previously quiet, quaint small village?

Ever notice that news networks talk about how "real news" only covers hard-hitting stories, not celebrity pap, then pretend that talking to experts about the Paris Hilton jail phenomenon isn't really talking about Paris Hilton?

Ever notice how the heroines of historical romances are usually "a slip of a girl" that barely comes up to the hero's sternum, yet the hero gets hot and bothered over her long, long legs?

Ever notice that kids cannot hear you when you are speaking three inches from their ears, but if you barely whisper that you are thinking of going to the movies while they are downstairs with the computer and the tv on and you are upstairs in your bedroom with the door closed and the radio playing, they'll hear you?

Ever notice that competition shows (American Idol, etc.) only prove one thing: when America gets to vote, they're sure to screw everything up?

And since I haven't done this in a while, here's something worth noticing- from Desperate Housewives, James Denton.

Movin' On Up

noreply@blogger.com (Missie) — Thu, 05 Jul 2007 21:34:00 +0000

Tomorrow is moving day for us.

Try not to be jealous.

I don't have the time or energy for a well-written post about the goings-on in our lives lo these past few months, so here are the main points to bring you up to speed:

1. Put house on market thinking it would take a few months to sell.
2. House sold in 3 weeks.
3. Used neighbor whom we love as realtor.
4. Could have sold house ourselves and saved paying neighbor whom we love eight thousand big ones.
5. Currently kicking ourselves over that one.
6. Thought husband's job situation would be resolved by now and we would be moving to some other locale.
7. Husband's job situation not resolved, so moving within a mile of current house.
8. Moving within a mile of current house in order to keep son in same school with same friends until we move to another locale.
9. Almost had to go on anti-psychotic meds due to trying to find house within one square mile to rent that had a) enough room, b) right price, and most importantly, c) no other people's pet pee stained carpets.
10. Found out that property management companies by and large suck pondwater.
11. Finally found rental house ACROSS THE STREET from son's school so he will be able to walk there.
12. Yay. Get to live in school zone.
13. Found almost THE EXACT SAME HOUSE AS THE ONE WE ARE SELLING.
14. Exact same house has 300 more square feet and a bonus room over garage, which will be my office. It's our house, only on steroids. And reverse floor plan. Much bumping into walls to commence.
15. Yay. Stairs. To my office. My legs should look great after this summer.
16. Little to no boxes packed due to husband's plan of, "We'll just load up the car, take to new house, unpack immediately since everything will go in the same place, and come back and pack more boxes."
17. Husband turns down help from all able-bodied male friends saying, "Missie and I can handle it."
18. Currently looking for new husband, see numbers 16 and 17.
19. Since MOVAPALOOZA 2007 wasn't enough to have going on, I also decided to celebrate the "Yay I'm Not Pregnant" Festival this week.
20. Much suckage of life to commence.
21. Also planning my parents' 50th wedding anniversary party to take place at the end of this month. Long Distance. As in not in my town. As in doing everything over the phone. As in I am the only one of their three children planning, executing, and paying for any of this. As in getting more gray hairs every day. As in "crap, what did I get myself into?" As in Happy Anniversary Today to my mom and dad since today is the actual date of their wedding but we couldn't do it this weekend since most people wouldn't be able to come. As in someone pull me away from my keyboard before I type anymore run on sentences that aren't making sense oh my goodness I have had too much caffeine and now need adult supervision and my daughter has a runny nose and my son has allergies and I want to go take a nap. After eating copious amounts of chocolate.
22. Wah.
23. The end.
24. The children say, "Send Help."

I Love It, I Hate It

rob.writer@cox.net (Robyn) — Sun, 01 Jul 2007 23:54:00 +0000

I love it when my kids laugh. It’s the most beautiful, healing music in the world. I hate it when one of them screams angrily because the other has directed the beautiful healing laughter in derision for an inconsequential mistake.

I love it when I can take the dog on a walk and stop to kibbutz with the neighbors. I love coming away from those short encounters knowing that I’ve been witty and smart. I hate it when I realize I conducted the whole conversation, complete with hand gestures, smartly and wittily holding a plastic baggie full of dog poo.

I love it when I can get lost in a book from another generation. Don’t get too excited, I mean the eighties. I love reading an Alpha hero who is all hot and bothered by the heroine and thinks (a quote from Loving Evangeline by Linda Howard) “By God, he would have her!” I thought, there is my new standard for romance heroes. Call it the By God I Will Have Her Factor. Even if the story’s PG and the love scenes fade to black, I want the BGIWHH Factor. I hate it when I decide to read more books from that era and wind up slogging through ‘masterful’ heroes who are little more than rapists that blame the heroine for being too appealing.

Most of all, I hate needing the escape because my husband went to the doctor with chest pains and the doctors aren’t quite sure what happened. Not a huge pain that radiates down the left arm kind of thing, so we weren’t totally worried. They think he had an ‘episode’ where his heart didn’t get enough oxygen. A mini-heart attack, kinda. I hate it that his blood tests came back showing that genetics and heredity are vengeful witches that will bite you in the privates. On top of everything, he’s got diabetes.

I love it that he is a hard-working man who provides for his family. He is like the Energizer Bunny that way; he never stops. He is a poster boy for Great Work Ethic. I hate it when he still carries that Must Work Now thing through times when he doesn’t feel well and still has twinges of pain. I hate not knowing when to bite my tongue and be supportive, and when to let my head a-splode and beg, cajole, and threaten him if he doesn’t take it easy. I just plain love him.

Summertime

noreply@blogger.com (Missie) — Mon, 25 Jun 2007 18:13:00 +0000

Just a quick post to show off the beauty of my chirrens and my state.

Have a good one, y'all. Go play in the water.

Summer Vacation

rob.writer@cox.net (Robyn) — Thu, 21 Jun 2007 16:32:00 +0000

Hey, everyone- Missie has been rather excruciatingly busy with work in like, Palm Springs and Denver and stuff...feel the sympathy flowing through your bones?

And I've had some rather personal crises of late, so we need to take a blog vacation. We'll see you July!

In All Solemnity, I Turn Over The Keys...Er, Reins

rob.writer@cox.net (Robyn) — Sun, 17 Jun 2007 02:09:00 +0000

It's Father's Day. And I am thankful that I hit the Dad jackpot; I have a very distinguished Dad from whom I inherited no sense of style at all. Honestly, he is Senior Ken Doll. His hair is never out of place, hair, I must add, that is not iron gray but a gorgeous silver-white. Of course. He worked for a gentlemen's clothier for years and it shows. He is way too sophisticated to have a kid like me, but still fun.

I also have a stepfather who is as much Dad to me as my bio-Dad. He was a football player back in the day, and despite his age and numerous back surgeries, he'll always be eight feet tall to me. He's a strong silent type with a high-pitched cackle of a laugh that I miss hearing. I'm exceedingly grateful that he went back to work, in real estate, right before my mom got sick. I know he was able to keep busy and be surrounded by friends after she died.

I also got a great father-in-law. He doesn't look a thing like hubs, but they think and act as one. Right down to the Demon of Uncontrollable Punning.

My husband is also a fabulous father. And he is proving it by this one act: He is teaching the kids how to drive.

I carried them, had surgeries and episiotomies having them, potty trained them, taught them to read and tie their shoes and dress themselves, and had (and continue to have) the sex talks with them. I taught them about personal grooming and deodorant and shampoo. I, in short, am done. I'll be on hand to pick them up at parties if they're in trouble, to hug after broken hearts, and to help choose colleges, but the Next Big Thing is totally on hubby's shoulders.

Which is good, because OHMIGODSHE'SFIFTEENANDAHALF! She's demanding the book from the DMV! She's ready to study and take the written test! My baby! My little angel! DRIVING!

Talk me down, friends, talk me down.

I know I will be like my mom was- she was convinced she had a brake on the passenger side floorboard. I'm surprised she didn't put her foot right through, and try to brake the car ala Flintstones. In the most terrifying moments, she was also a master of hissing like an angry rattler as she sucked in enough air through her teeth to make everyone in the car pass out.

Which is why I'm so totally happy to turn this responsibility over to him, and I won't have to drive with the kids until they've safely mastered the skill. Right? Right?

Sigh. I'd better stock up on oxygen bottles and reinforce the floorboards.

What Goes Through My Mailbox

rob.writer@cox.net (Robyn) — Thu, 14 Jun 2007 19:43:00 +0000

Like most of you, I have a spam filter on my e-mail. It doesn't work as well as it should; I still get notes from Patricia49 on this great new drug to inhance my manhood, and it is amazing how many deposed African royals want me to launder their money for a small fee.

But every so often I get a good one, like this one from my brother:

"TO ALL THE KIDS WHO SURVIVED the 1930's 40's, 50's, 60's and 70's !!

First, we survived being born to mothers who smoked and/or drank while they were pregnant. They took aspirin, ate blue cheese dressing, tuna from a can, and didn't get tested for diabetes. Then after that trauma, we were put to sleep on our tummies in baby cribs covered with bright colored lead-based paints.

We had no childproof lids on medicine bottles, doors or cabinets and when we rode our bikes, we had no helmets, not to mention, the risks we took hitchhiking.

As infants & children, we would ride in cars with no car seats, booster seats, seat belts or air bags. Riding in the back of a pick up on a warm day was always a special treat. We drank water from the garden hose and NOT from a bottle. We shared one soft drink with four friends, from one bottle and NO ONE actually died from this. We ate cupcakes, white bread and real butter and drank koolade made with sugar, but we weren't overweight because WE WERE ALWAYS OUTSIDE PLAYING!

We would leave home in the morning and play all day, as long as we were back when the streetlights came on.

No one was able to reach us all day. And we were O.K. We would spend hours building our go-carts out of scraps and then ride downthe hill, only to find out we forgot the brakes. After running into the bushes a few times, we learned to solve the problem. We did not have Playstations, Nintendo's, X-boxes, no video games at all, no 150 channels on cable, no video movies or DVD's, no surround-sound, CD's or Ipods, no cell! phones!, no personal computers , no Internet or chat rooms... WE HAD FRIENDS and we went outside and found them! We fell out of trees, got cut, broke bones and teeth and there were no lawsuits from these accidents. We ate worms and mud pies made from dirt, and the worms did not live in us forever.

We were given BB guns for our 10th birthdays,made up games with sticks and tennis balls and, although we were told it would happen, we did not put out very many eyes. We rode bikes or walked to a friend's house and knocked on the door or rang the bell, or just walked in and talked to them!

Little League had tryouts and not everyone made the team. Those who didn't had to learn to deal with disappointment. Imagine that!! The idea of a parent bailing us out if we broke the law was unheard of. They actually sided with the law!

These generations have produced some of the best risk-takers, problem solvers and inventors ever! The past 50 years have been an explosion of innovation and new ideas. We had freedom, failure, success and responsibility, and we learned HOW TO DEAL WITH IT ALL! If YOU are one of them... CONGRATULATIONS! You might want to share this with others who have had the luck to grow up as kids, before the lawyers and the government regulated so much of our lives for our own good. And while you are at it, forward it to your kids so they will know how brave (and lucky) their parents were."

I was smiling all through this, laughing as I remembered my glory days. Then I thought, why don't my kids have lives like this? Why can't they bike across town to the candy store and stay out until dark, or even after dark as long as everyone was in the front yard?

Then I read this little entry from my mailbox:

"After tossing her books on the sofa, she decided to grab a snack and get on-line. She logged on under her screen name ByAngel213. She checked her Buddy List and saw GoTo123 was on. She sent him an instant message:

ByAngel213:Hi. I'm glad you are on! I thought someone was following me home today. It was really weird!

GoTo123:LOL You watch too much TV. Why would someone be following you? Don't you live in a safe neighborhood?

ByAngel213:Of course I do. LOL I guess it was my imagination cuz' I didn't see anybody when I looked out.

GoTo123:Unless you gave your name out on-line. You haven't done that have you?

ByAngel213:Of course not. I'm not stupid you know.

GoTo123:Did you have a softball game after school today?

ByAngel213:Yes and we won!!

GoTo123:That's great! Who did you play?

ByAngel213:We played the Hornets. LOL. Their uniforms are so gross! They look like bees. LOL

GoTo123:What is your team called?

ByAngel213:We are the Canton Cats. We have tiger paws on our uniforms. They are really cool.

GoTo1 23: Did you pitch?

ByAngel213:No I play second base. I got to go. My homework has to be done before my parents get home. I don't want them mad at me. Bye!

GoTo123:Catch you later. Bye

Meanwhile.......GoTo123 went to the member menu and began to search for her profile. When it came up, he highlighted it and printed it out. He took out a pen and began to write down what he knew about Angel so far.Her name: Shannon. Birthday: Jan. 3, 1994. Age: 13. State where she lived: North Carolina. Hobbies: softball, chorus, skating and going to the mall. Besides this information, he knew she lived in Canton because she had just told him. He knew she stayed by herself until 6:30 p.m. every afternoon until her parents came home from work. He knew she played softball on Thursday afternoons on the school team, and the team was named the Canton Cats. Her favorite number 7 was printed on her jersey. He knew she was in the eighth grade at the Canton Junior High School. She had told him all this in the conversations they had online. He had enough information to find her now.

Shannon was in her room later that evening when she heard voices in the living room.

"Shannon, come here," her father called. He sounded upset and she couldn't imagine why. She went into the room to see a man sitting on the sofa."Sit down," her father began. "This man has just told us a most interesting story about you."

Shannon sat back. How could he tell her parents anything? She had never seen him before.

"Do you know who I am, Shannon ?" the man asked. "I am a police officer and your online friend, GoTo123. I pretend to be a kid online, to protect kids like you. But some don't. I had a friend whose daughter was like you. Only she wasn't as lucky. The guy found her and murdered her while she was home alone. Kids are taught not to tell anyone when they are alone, yet they do it all the time online. The wrong people trick you into giving out information a little here and there. Before you know it, you have told them enough for them to find you without even realizing you have done it. I hope you've learned a lesson from this and won't do it again."

Good grief. No wonder our kids are locked in our houses, but even there they aren't completely safe. They can't have a life like I did because they don't live in the same world I did. Sometimes I honestly wonder if I should have had kids at all to send them out into this dump. Then again, if anyone can make this place better by being in it, it would be my babies. No conclusions, no words of wisdom, just...sigh.