Thursday, June 29, 2006

We are such hotties...

So, a lady in my office came up to me to wish me luck on my new adventures in OH-land, and wanted to see a photo of the Scotsman.
This is what she said:
"Oh, he's a cute young man. His eyes. You know, he looks like John Travolta."
Oh my. Just. Oh... my.
Now, my Scotsman is preTTy darn handsome. Blondish hair. Blue-green eyes that smile at the corners. Very nice face and teeth. Squarish build. But, he's not John Travolta.
There's no strut to the walk of the Scotsman. At least, not a Travolta-esque strut.
And, kilts he may wear, but my boy probably would not be caught dead wearing a white leisure suit with sparkly lapels. OR a large trench coat with suspenders and occasional wings either, for that matter. (Remember Michael? Was that dumb or WHAT?!)

ANY way. I told him and he was all, "ON WHAT PLANET do I look like John Travolta?"

But, that's old ladies for ya.
My mom, while doing a play with a younger guy in the cast, wanted to set me up on a blind date with him.
SHE told him I looked like.... Carmen. Electra. Thaaaat's right. Dennis Rodman's ex-wife. Swimsuit model. Workout video queen. MTV talking-diva supreme.
Carmen Electra.
I'm sorry, but if I looked even remotely like the Elec, I would NOT be working at the Reporter for... nothing.

So, we're not the VOLT or the ELEC.
Too bad. We could probably use the publicity for our writing careers.

Shhhhocking!!! at

Tuesday, June 27, 2006


My friend, formerly referred to in this blog as "Florida", now referred to as (The) Future (Mrs.) Lilly, or just FL, has this to say about her new fiancee:
"He's so cute, and he doesn't have any idea! (giggle interruption) I just love that about him!"
Wouldn't it be funny if us girls said things like that about other characteristics we saw in our boyfriends?
Like, "Oh, he's so arrogant, and he doesn't have any idea. I just love that about him!"
OR, "Oh, he's got terrible hygiene. He smells like a dead mule and he doesn't have any idea. I just love that about him!"
There's the ever-useful, "He's drunk as a skunk, and he doesn't have any idea... oops, gotta go, he fell down the stairs again. I just love that about him!"
and "He's unemployed and doesn't have any idea. I just LOVE that about him!"
Personally, I go around telling people that the Scotsman, "is actually a grizzly bear, but he doesn't have any idea. He goes around catching fish with his bare hands, scratching his back on tree trunks and scaring tourists. I JUST LOVE THAT ABOUT HIM!"

love your man, and give him kisses, xoxo, at

Thursday, June 22, 2006

Angry White Female

My boyfriend often carries a maori club with him around the office. The Maoris used this club to beat to death their enemies, then pulled teeth from the victims, lodging them in the weapon as trophies.
Of course, my boyfriend's club has no teeth in it...yet.
Today, I feel like him. I am in a VERY BAD MOOD. I don't want to be at work, or to talk to my boss, or to write anything, talk to anyone, or have anyone BREATHE NEAR ME.
I have no maori club, so I have resorted to holding a shiny black lacquered rock with lovely orange koi painted on it. It is a gift from my boyfriend, and right now, is the perfect size to hold discretely in my hand, with just the right weight and feel to it to allow me to pretend that I'm threatening the livelihood of anyone who might dare to interrupt me this morning.

Ahh!! It worked better than my usual trick: a Starbuck's mocha.

boys are stupid, throw rocks at them (and at everyone else, today) at

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

Bad Church Music (BCM)

An Entry Inspired by the Good Woman who Writes "Blonde Champagne"
(God, let us pray, hear our prayer, BLESS Mary Beth Ellis!)

Apparently the Catholic church suffers from the same affliction as my dear Quakers do, and that, my friends, is Bad Church Music.

These are the songs that haunt you in the night, when you cannot sleep.
Those with verses so absurd, you very nearly have died from being unable to breathe while stiffling laughter during their performance every time they are played.
The ones performed so enthusiastically and terribly, you still hear the screechy strains reverb-ing through your consciousness in quiet moments.
The just-plain-stupid ones.
You KNOW what I'm talking about.

There's one Easter hymn that will forever live on in the Hall of Silly Fame for my sisters and me.
It goes like this:
"Up from the grave He arose!!
With a mighty power o'er His foes!!"

My sisters and I, sitting in the front row as the ministers' daughters, were very creative even at that young age, often coming up with alternative versions of the very BCM. One Easter, The Song was listed in the program.
(Now, mind you, Easter service is important. Your congregation doubles with all the visitors who show up.)
My sisters and I had the audience, the inspiration and the perfect opportunity.
We sang:
"Up from the GRAVE HE AROSE!!!!

We still can't hear that song without quietly changing the words, then giggling hysterically. Usually having to excuse ourselves to laugh in the foyer rather than destroying the service!
(I'm at my desk, giggling with myself right now, while I type. That image of Jesus, shooting from his grave Mighty Mouse-style, propelled by muscles in his mighty wriggling toes. HILARIOUS!)

Other great moments:
My father, holding up our newborn baby brother, is barfed upon during the chorus of "Showers of Blessing".

The Crazy Turkey Lady, who sings with great gusto, every Christmas Eve, "Oh Holy Night"
The words: "Ohhhhhh niiiii-ght, di-VIIIIIIIINE" ring on this very day.

When my sisters realised the song "He touched me," sounded pretty creepy all of a sudden.

Special musical guests our church actually lived through: The 40-year old daughter of our organist, playing her Accordian. (Words from my father after a particularly appalling performance, "Oh, well, Beverly. That many buttons does that really have?") AND The-Man-Who-Played-A-Handsaw. (AWFUL!!!!!)

Read also:, MB's entry today is about BCM.

Jesus loves the little kitties, all the kitties of the world at

Monday, June 19, 2006

Country Clubs

The Scotsman played with his pipe band at a country club golf tournament awards ceremony this weekend.
I stood with the country club people/audience, as they marched down the fairway of the 18th hole, to the green, where they played some pieces before the ceremony.
AHHH!!!! I hate country club ladies when they are mean and ignorant and drunk!
They were making fun of the woman who plays in his band, for being a woman in a bagpipe and drum corps, for wearing the traditional Scottish outfit, and just because she had an interest in something other than shopping and gossiping and cheating on her husband, in general.
Not all country club ladies are this way. I know some very nice rich women who go to the country club for things like tennis instead of for things like--BRANDY. There are very nice ladies who play bridge, and lunch and do little projects in the community and then there are those who torment the country club staff and spend their afternoons getting manicures while the nanny takes care of their two-year olds.
These are the ladies who would die if they ever had to deal with real life.
But, I did like their hair!

p.s. I have a new bow, that is my size, and now I can shoot really far, and hit things like the sidewalk!!

i'm hungry, it's time for lunch at

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

Look how CUTE!!

This is the Scotsman's lovely kilt-wearing behind. He was at the Highland Games last year, when this photo was taken, and the person who took it published it on their website.
Go to to see it. Look at the pictures from last year's games!

That is all, thank you! at
I have found something more torturous than math!

It is: the Bureau of Motor Vehicles and the Spawns of Ineffiency who run the place!

Back in January I got that speeding ticket, while headed to the blind date from hell, the one where I recieved a candy bar as a reward for being a nice person (see Feb. 1 entry called "The Candy Bar").
Well, I paid that ticket. (See, I really am a nice person, 'cause I was gonna make HIM pay it. I guess I did deserve that candy bar!) Only, the idiots at the BMV decided not to recieve my check. THEN decided not to notify me that they hadn't recieved it until after they had suspended my license. (They are NOT nice people, there are no candy bars in their future.)
I found out my license had been suspended going on five days after it actually happened on June 1.
And when I told them a check had been sent in, the phone receptionist who called me JEAN on several occasions, didn't seem surprised that they had lost it.

The guy behind me in line said he sent in two money orders that they "never got." riiiiight.

It took me two hours on two separate days to get the issue fixed. At one place, I sat in front of a government employee for a full five minutes watching her fix her paperclip dispenser with little pieces of scotch tape before she looked up at me and said, "what do you want?"
And believe you me, I wrote that second check and personally hand delivered that puppy straight into the hands of the IN state clerk, with a little threatening flourish of the pen on my signature to let them know I meant business! That'll show 'em!

What a waste of time and energy!!! Why are they allowed to be so disorganized then charge ME $30 in late fees? I just think it's as ridiculous as when my junior year math teacher told us "imaginary numbers were invented in 19xx..."
WHAT!!! Why am I learning this? IMAGINARY NUMBERS??
As if math wasn't frustrating in the first place when all the numbers were actually real, now you're telling me we're studying the fantastical dreams of some poindexter in a polka-dot bow-tie who one day in August, set aside his tuna-fish sandwich and said, "Wouldn't it be neat-o if a number could do this?? Let's make up some that can!" And all his fellow Comb-Over Club members thrilled with dastardly glee and tapped their finger tips together in uncontrollably evil math related emotion.


Thursday, June 01, 2006

I am looking for a new job

IN DAYTON!! If anyone knows anyone who needs a most excellent writer, designer and/or public relations rep., let me know. I can send my resume in 2 seconds flat. (zip,zip!)

I'm moving in with the Scotsman on July 21!!!
Hooray! The ManCave will be gone, however, and we will have to create just as neat a place that accomodates the two of us.
Super-Girly AND Big-and-Burly.
I see NO PROBLEMS with that at ALL!!!! (heehee)

So, for the next couple of weeks, that will be my main focus, trying to sort through job descriptions. Which, sounds about as fun as...NOTHING. I hate looking for new jobs, because I am not good at that part. The interview, no problem. I like to talk. Trying to match the skills on my resume to what somebody else is looking for in their perfect employee: makes me want to die of embarassment at my inadequecies and drown myself in a giant bowl of ice cream.
Or in a giant chocolate mousse.
(Have I mentioned that I'm trying to cut out sweets?! I KNOW, ridiculous! The Lumberjack just took a moment to collect herself after spitting out her peanut butter cookie, I just know it.)

If you know anyone who hires professional tiger-trainers, I've got proof that I can do it at