I'll Take "Blogfriends Who've Met In Real Life" for a Thousand, Alex
I’m all giggly and excited, because in a couple of days I’m going to meet another wonderful blog-friend for real!
I’ve been reading Miguel’s blog for a long time, and he never ceases to fill me with wonder, that such beautiful word pictures can be painted, and such lovely sentiments can be expressed, and that a person who writes like most people can only dream would want to visit me. . . .
I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time, and now, it’s this week!
The plumber has fixed the shower in the big bathroom, and all the sheets are clean. It’s turned cold and wet here so I put an extra blanket on the guest room bed. I’ve got tomorrow all planned out: I don’t have to be at the college until 5:30, so I’ve got all afternoon to break some paths through the piles of quizzes and tests and books and folded laundry, pile books on the floor so there will be places to sit, and remove all doo-dads from all tables and surfaces so the kittens won’t have anything to swoop off onto the floor. I’m going to dust, AND, (this is how much I love Miguel!) I’m going to. . . . get the sweeper out of the hall closet and USE IT. I’m sure I remember how.
There are several local bloggers who want to meet him, too, so maybe we can arrange a get-together. I can always clear off more chairs!
I want Miguel to be comfortable and to have a good time, and I want everything to be prepared and nice for him. So, naturally, I put a pot pie in the microwave two days ago and it literally blew up. Nothing left but coal-black charred remains. I opened the microwave door and thick suffocating black smoke poured out. I threw the charred dregs out the patio doors, opened all the windows and turned on all the fans. I have scrubbed out that microwave with vinegar, with germ-killing foams, with baking soda, with detergent. . . .it’s better each time but honestly? The whole house stinks.
That’s the kind of hostess I seem to be. I want everything to be nice for a much-wanted guest, so I put a turkey pie in the microwave, burn it to a black charred crisp, blow it up, throw it out, and spend the next eight years trying to get the stank out of the house.
I try. I really do. House Beautiful should give me a prize for effort.
Seriously, sometimes I think I’m like a cow that gives a full pail of milk, and then puts her foot in it.
Miguel will be here Thursday. I hope he can stay a long time. I hope he isn’t disappointed when he meets me. I hope he’s not sensitive to odors. . . .
Oh, man, I am so looking forward to this!
It's None Of My Business, Really, But. . . .
Celebrity miscellany that, for some reason, really bothers me:
1. Ellen’s dog. I think the agency is wrong, wrong, wrong this time, and those who made this decision have, in fact, have shown themselves to be stupid twits. The death threats they’re getting are over the top, though. The real victim is the hairdresser’s little girl. The owners of the doggie agency must not have any kids of their own. (One would hope, anyway. ) If I were a billionaire who could afford to treat a dog better than most families are able to treat their human children, I’d certainly stop by this particular agency every day and say things like “no money from me or anybody I know today or any day, asswipes!” get that sweet little girl another dog, and mention this doggie agency by name daily, so people don’t forget and possibly give them some business. And if they sued, they’d just look stupider. (“Stop saying my name and telling people what I did! Stop it, stop it, stop it! Wahhhhhhh. . . .”) Of course, it’s obvious by now that the people who run it don’t care because they’ve already shown their collective IQ to the world. As for the family who now own the dog. . . shame on you. That dog belongs to that little girl and you know it. You’ll always know it. Enjoy.
2. Rod Johnston. But then, any man who leaves his wife for another woman is scum. How disappointing; I used to think Rod was cool and decent. Life is full of disillusionments, and adultery is never ‘right.’ I hate it that he turned out to be just another loser. And Lynn’s rerun in the Sunday paper made me cry.
3. Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, Nicole Ritchie, Britney Spears, and that sad, sick, filthy, babbling, unstable drunk who lives under the bridge down from the Burger King: one and the same. But why aren’t we reading about the nameless drunk? He would probably respond to the help instead of wasting everybody’s time!
4. Brad Pitt, Angelina Jolie, Tom Cruise, and Katie Holmes: Infidelity, illegitimacy, adultery, scientology. . . charming role models, those. Does anybody out there really care what these dreadful dirty immoral people do?
5. George Clooney. He never calls, he never writes. . . .
Park Place and Boardwalk Were MINE, With Houses!
Last night, at around nine p.m., the phone rang. It was my friend Scott, inviting me over to play Monopoly. (I run with a wild crowd.) Hub was busy, so I went by myself. It was tremendous fun; I hadn’t played Monopoly in years, mostly because I always lose.
I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know how to play Monopoly. Our set had carved wooden game pieces; the first time I saw the metal iron, dog, etc, I thought maybe their REAL Monopoly markers had been lost and replaced with silly little dollhouse toys. Monopoly taught us how to count and deal with money, make change, win, and LOSE. If someone was a poor loser, uh oh. That wasn’t tolerated in our house, nor should it be in anybody’s house, or anybody’s school, either.
Never in my life had I ever won a game of Monopoly. My parents played to win, and cut us little kids no slack. Why should they? That wouldn’t have taught us a thing. As I grew up, I still never won. In college, I never won. When Hub and I would play Monopoly with friends, I never won. I was always the first one out: the one the other players took pity on with little loans of fifty and a hundred dollars.
But I was never the winner. Ever. Come to think of it, I’m seldom the winner when it comes to board games; my small children even beat me at Candy Land, and I was trying!
I never won at Old Maid, or Animal Rummy. I still seldom win at Scrabble, and it’s one of my favorite games; I’m too impatient with slow-moving games to do well.
But last night my losing Monopoly streak ended, for I ended up, somehow, with Boardwalk and Park Place right at the beginning, and I managed to use them to collect most of the properties on the board, including, thanks to a piece of backfiring strategy by my host, who I hope is still my friend, all four railroads.
First one forced out was my host’s young son, and while I know that his dad felt bad about the boy losing so early on and so thoroughly, I am used to playing with kids and if kids want to really learn to play a game, they’ll play by the rules and not expect any coddling. This applies to all aspects of life, by the way. So out he went and his property went to others and we played on until another player landed on. . . Boardwalk. I got all of his possessions, including his self-esteem. 🙂 (Thanks for the stuff, Joel.)
Then it was Scott and me, one on one, head to head, each determined to ruin the other in true Monopoly tradition. Thanks to those railroads, he didn’t have a chance.
I ended up with stacks of cash INCHES tall, and as I looked at them I suddenly became nine years old again and the only thing I could think of was. . . Man, I wish that was real money.
I’m not nine any more, but I still wish that was real money.
After the game was over, we played Scrabble, and everybody got their revenge on me. I just don’t do well with slow-moving games. But I still like them. Losing ain’t all that bad, you know. I mean, the loser still got to play, didn’t he I?
