tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32365017905811620092024-03-14T03:14:14.464-07:00Memoirs de JulianHi I'm Julian Joseph, and I'm a dog (well, technically I'm a reincarnated Autistic boy). If that's an issue, you can go read a cat's blog or maybe my friend Cooper's livejournal. I've decided to start this blog to vent about my frustrations, delusions of gradeur and the funny but true happenings (or mishappenings) of my life. Follow me as I explain the dog world and all of its many wonders... I'd also like to shout out to my G-mama because she keeps it 100.Julianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13368920710962759614noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236501790581162009.post-54814075801111329102011-11-15T10:47:00.001-08:002011-11-15T11:47:21.984-08:00Prisons were made to be broken.“You need to give me a minute, Joe,” Mom sternly advised me this morning as I was racing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZNQBlPVzceGgU5GSteCs-aQyW7KmlBr0qWUJEHPYfAbKiI6cYhyphenhyphencPcEMJn-PUf_PfBec8d1eSUVEY2lHJB2ogTZKrjZk1HtaZe8OVhc13ffOZL87kaD1gbvz0N15bgSwRCTc63urKojY/s1600/joebutterfly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="180" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZNQBlPVzceGgU5GSteCs-aQyW7KmlBr0qWUJEHPYfAbKiI6cYhyphenhyphencPcEMJn-PUf_PfBec8d1eSUVEY2lHJB2ogTZKrjZk1HtaZe8OVhc13ffOZL87kaD1gbvz0N15bgSwRCTc63urKojY/s320/joebutterfly.jpg" /></a></div>to and fro from my butterfly “good boy” bed to the front door. Doesn’t she understand the pace of urgency? <br />
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“I can’t just <i>give</i> you a minute, Mom. Didn’t Justin Timberlake’s new movie teach you anything? It must be bought, stolen, or killed for, and frankly, my bladder’s urging me to take the latter if you don’t <b>GUN IT, SISTER</b>!”<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7oSBbgdaBmSt7GdAiIInY08n7uN1Q0iUM-9kriZb8hN5JniUxuUBFyEyKx5AubROqga54tsShsw9wh1K6Yzyd5JPzaVhsJ_MXfm1Sx6V3MAASE7D-9ABQ8VvwjYSdZM-tfcqV_7ElUUc/s1600/In-Time-Justin-Timberlake-Looking-Front.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="180" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7oSBbgdaBmSt7GdAiIInY08n7uN1Q0iUM-9kriZb8hN5JniUxuUBFyEyKx5AubROqga54tsShsw9wh1K6Yzyd5JPzaVhsJ_MXfm1Sx6V3MAASE7D-9ABQ8VvwjYSdZM-tfcqV_7ElUUc/s320/In-Time-Justin-Timberlake-Looking-Front.jpg" /></a></div><br />
“These days, a minute isn’t something you can promptly give away or request, Mom. You have to earn a minute, and I feel I’ve earned my fair share of minutes. Enough so, I could probably buy a few days worth after that unforgivable stunt you and dad pulled a couple of week s ago...”<br />
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Oh, <i>I’m sorry</i>. You guys probably didn’t hear. About 3 weeks ago, as a result of me deliberately ripping Petri (my beloved duck-duck)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik6lG3ekp2j5DEYtOYLUgdZ7uN-hN9Ty5Ee75FkqpS5LkvPC-8r9u7gAv724HB8dRqfLwhUUGSV_CfqH_Jri-bKdUXOiVfw4UmA5Jql2lU6R8UJc0hlKqEVw4huq9LH3HJ6PzXUf7ORM8/s1600/pitriduck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik6lG3ekp2j5DEYtOYLUgdZ7uN-hN9Ty5Ee75FkqpS5LkvPC-8r9u7gAv724HB8dRqfLwhUUGSV_CfqH_Jri-bKdUXOiVfw4UmA5Jql2lU6R8UJc0hlKqEVw4huq9LH3HJ6PzXUf7ORM8/s320/pitriduck.jpg" /></a></div>at his seams for quacking about me eating the blinds, Mom and Dad decided it was time to drop me off at G-mama’s for the weekend. I assumed they needed a break, but I didn’t see this as fit punishment, seeing as how G-mama’s house is a safe-haven (usually), and not so much a retribution for bad behavior. But, none-the-less, I was thrilled to be amongst the geese babies and my dear ole’ Grand… or so I thought. It wasn’t until G-mama wistfully enticed me to join her in a car ride (which she <i>knew</i> I couldn’t resist) that I somehow ended up in the most deplorable, wretched place I’ve experienced in my four years of prancing this earth…<br />
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Friends, this is where the story begins…<br />
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I knew from the instant Craig (my boorish, boiled friend) and I initially met, he emerged into my life for an unforeseeably good reason. However, I wasn’t aware just how crucial his presence was until I arrived at “the clinic” on that dark October morn. <br />
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Craig appeared sometime in mid-May amongst the flowers, birds and bees. As he blossomed from small, unwarranted bump to grossly oversized cyst, our friendship, too, budded from amicable acquaintances to business cohorts. I didn’t understand then the true reason of his existence, but was too afraid to pop the question in case he was in one of his touchy moods. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiESIDBXfxzx-DR9q1xGwGsaO6D3Tam-pxwxYS-BmtmoPKeA0klxDVBJCOPZOaewl4jwUkF82emcXvPZlHgQ3XjYvUYUsgf3BTSNmCRYA8L57_npH3TYu1qfrsVbWTVlRfPpe7oHyq2nqw/s1600/Perry-Bush-53638828988.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="282" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiESIDBXfxzx-DR9q1xGwGsaO6D3Tam-pxwxYS-BmtmoPKeA0klxDVBJCOPZOaewl4jwUkF82emcXvPZlHgQ3XjYvUYUsgf3BTSNmCRYA8L57_npH3TYu1qfrsVbWTVlRfPpe7oHyq2nqw/s320/Perry-Bush-53638828988.jpeg" /></a></div>Now, it’s one thing to have a chip on your shoulder, but a cyst on your back is just as cruel, especially when he constantly comments on your weight or your abnormal hip-to-thigh ratio (whatever). All of his quirks were soon to be as trivial as any time Rick Perry decides to open his mouth regarding immigration or just any topic in general. <br />
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It wasn’t until September he decided to reveal himself to me entirely. <br />
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“Joe,” he whispered to me in one of the several accents he used to cover his true identity. “I need you to listen carefully. You’re not going to realize it until it’s too late and I’m gone, but they will come for me. I’m going to give you a set of instructions you must use in order to beat the system and break free.”<br />
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Naturally, I had no idea what was going on and whether or not the little, black fiends were using him to set me up! (The fleas are constantly seeking revenge since the last time mom took me for a dip!)<br />
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“Break free from what?! You don’t understand, I’ve tried everything to open the front window and it just won’t budge, just like Lil Wayne!”<br />
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“Forget the window, Joe! Now, I can’t tell you exactly when, but you will be caged and I’ll be gone, and if you want to escape without contracting the mange, you must heed my advice.”<br />
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“The mange!!! Isn’t that what Amy Winehouse died of? Yikes. I’d rather yodel the Bible in its entirety than catch that dreadful sickness!” <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSQ2h83KTtmBJdznNQinnRqZcnwbXvZJYfRNj376LYak-yfZv6cDs4Zmx1hj5CgIVExbDImqpMQjBDuifODS-yil4XTy8p8XWoGqCDSsMlYOvFhB6wbcBOHDL2V8sQ6QWMrWAoV8GY6e8/s1600/amydog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="216" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSQ2h83KTtmBJdznNQinnRqZcnwbXvZJYfRNj376LYak-yfZv6cDs4Zmx1hj5CgIVExbDImqpMQjBDuifODS-yil4XTy8p8XWoGqCDSsMlYOvFhB6wbcBOHDL2V8sQ6QWMrWAoV8GY6e8/s320/amydog.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Craig said that my buzzed haircut couldn’t have come at a better time. This was our chance to begin the arduous process of tattooing the map of the clinic onto every centimeter of my body. For weeks, Craig and I would meet at 2:00 a.m. (making sure Mom was in a state of REM), to discuss the prison’s schedule. We would work diligently until dawn on the tattoo to ensure every little detail was precise and in place.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj39E_hz__GrZsGITC9XIWU880izsi2gvjXBzv6lXH9RNo6ofv8gOIN3QShoXIScSB6bb6OwhyvWWLtqcRRrZY3GIaZuPEXy8GklM1pbMaZTBNmI2anuKHjjkOQClS0tk5xXB4IRgxS4S8/s1600/prisonbreak1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj39E_hz__GrZsGITC9XIWU880izsi2gvjXBzv6lXH9RNo6ofv8gOIN3QShoXIScSB6bb6OwhyvWWLtqcRRrZY3GIaZuPEXy8GklM1pbMaZTBNmI2anuKHjjkOQClS0tk5xXB4IRgxS4S8/s320/prisonbreak1.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Finally, the day had come. Like he promised, I hadn’t realized it until G-mama waved goodbye, and the gas mask was on my snout. It was only hours later that I awoke to the barks and screams of labradoodles and cock-a-poo’s, some smelling like ginger and mint, and others who had yet to receive the clinic’s cleansing ritual. I knew right then I had to get to a mirror and fast.<br />
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I was groggy but knew I wouldn’t last long in this prison if I didn’t make a move. Like clockwork, the guards came by for roll call; I made one guard aware of my “IBS,” and was promptly escorted to the yard. I made a mad dash to the specific spot where Craig had hidden a piece of broken glass. This was my chance to read the exit route strategically placed on my back. It only took me seconds to navigate the blue and black lines, but I knew exactly what I had to do...<br />
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Yet, low and behold, when I arrive back at my cage, I overhear a conversation; something about my G-mama was on her way! Could it be true!?? <br />
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When I saw her petite frame strut through the door, I kind of felt like a dinkus for letting Craig talk me into tattooing the map of said prison onto my entire body to only be busted out of the joint by my dear old grandma. <br />
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But hey, what are grandma’s for?<br />
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Needless to say, Craig is now just a vague memory and in his place? A pretty unruly scar. When my grandchildren ask of its origin, I’ll tell them I arose victoriously from a prison break…(I can only hope they don’t have the television show on DVD that far down the road....then they’ll <i>really</i> know I’m a fraud-sickle! )<br />
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<br />MaryClairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381290452641062777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236501790581162009.post-37643435733206174582011-10-25T11:43:00.000-07:002011-10-25T11:43:43.069-07:00Age is Something that Doesn't Matter...Unless You're a Cheese.Attention, foolish knaves! ‘Tis the day of my birth! Everyone rise and applaud! (WaAHooOOO!) And now, for God’s sake, stifle your impulses and lend me your <strike>ears</strike> eyes.
I feel it only fitting to address my followers in a more mature tone today. After all, I’m no longer a baby. I’m four! This means a few things. For one, I can vote now, and I’m definitely a supporter of the Pentatonix. Allow me to introduce you to their flow if you haven’t had the pleasure already— they’re pure genius. SOO JELLY!!
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Get this! Mom said next year, my pals and I can try out for The Sing Off (every little gay boy’s castle in the sky). I’ve already got our first 5 costumes on lay-a-way at K-mart! I know we agreed on NOT sharing our group name until we’re tighter vocally, but I feel it only appropriate to mention it, being it’s my birthday, and I’m the most advanced singer when it comes doo-wappin’ some acappella. So let’s hear it for the Holy Howl Babies! OW OW!
We’ve been practicing all month for today in particular. Here’s a sneak-peak for your listening pleasure (Clearly, I’m the one recording, and yes they call me “Ma’am,” which is obviously in reference to our inspirational leader, Abby Lee Miller, Dance Instructor Extraordinaire—she gives us the swift kick in the pants we need when our whining is incessant):
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My mother’s precious, don’t get me wrong. Awkward and special in her own stocky way. She means well, I’m sure,<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRHrd3H92fs8TuKFUYXcm4QtNhI1wuqUDOzohd3kGtfEYfJv_u7Cu0QulmXOxTMhCHzj-Ef9OPJBHxJegw1AiGrH0t9YHpXzPywfVvVIiKDXbHOYX8yP_M5hQYAbGpxRnCLDrzhICy_AI/s1600/joeannaclown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRHrd3H92fs8TuKFUYXcm4QtNhI1wuqUDOzohd3kGtfEYfJv_u7Cu0QulmXOxTMhCHzj-Ef9OPJBHxJegw1AiGrH0t9YHpXzPywfVvVIiKDXbHOYX8yP_M5hQYAbGpxRnCLDrzhICy_AI/s320/joeannaclown.jpg" /></a></div> but if she even thinks of sticking me in that damn clown costume again, I’ll shriek inappropriately, yell “stranger” and run for the <strike>Hollywood</strike> hills. I’d like to change it up a bit, so I sent out a mass email to all of my friends asking for some original ideas for a costume.
Here are a few I’m thinking of doing:
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****Since we all can vote now, I'd love to hear which costume you'd like to see me in this year!! 1-10? Any other original ideas?
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcuZ8xCZLIahzuoMd53qqBacnAyMGEMwC-apWS6xdjjtVqXJawD5TCJUuRHgvBqKkOzCluyM5Xk4gavPcpMre63Z038xSXilaNlBztrNw5d1CrjzAmgW-pwgOl5MBqhjETLwguX5dITRM/s1600/westminsterdogshow131.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="185" width="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcuZ8xCZLIahzuoMd53qqBacnAyMGEMwC-apWS6xdjjtVqXJawD5TCJUuRHgvBqKkOzCluyM5Xk4gavPcpMre63Z038xSXilaNlBztrNw5d1CrjzAmgW-pwgOl5MBqhjETLwguX5dITRM/s320/westminsterdogshow131.jpg" /></a></div> Well, if none of those do the trick, I’d like to try on the hat as a commentator for the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show. I think the irony is nothing short of uproarious. Only problem there is I don’t know if I could train my voice to be that deep and monotone, but I have the British accent down. The spectacle would sound something like Charlie Day among James Earl Jones and Michael Clarke Duncan.
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Any who! I love Halloween because it’s so close to my birthday, and also, because I enjoy scaring the chicken-pox out of children. I’ve honed this skill for many years now, and I find myself getting better with age. I have a few tricks up my sleeves for this year’s prank. I’ll post pictures and blog about the level of awesomeness next week. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Happy Tails and Happy Birthday to me!
MaryClairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381290452641062777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236501790581162009.post-10349434791831361052011-10-12T12:06:00.000-07:002011-10-12T12:07:10.512-07:00Oh, cheese and crust! He's lost his head!I don’t dive too deep into the pool of the supernatural, even though I’ve been told (only a couple of hundred times) the spirit of Maurice Gibb must live in my throat. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXf15k1x2kDpMUmsfUxc-6XMNxbonpoAn6mfnAl0GPVzVH8XTBVo3i2NdSOqtEV7KOKNDcesHoNe8U29BFJjAkoaIhYuJ9tYk6QEGig8lGpQtaMfv68OsMbY98i6w-ZNiEiDK4RyAsqd0/s1600/mauricegibb.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 128px; height: 127px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXf15k1x2kDpMUmsfUxc-6XMNxbonpoAn6mfnAl0GPVzVH8XTBVo3i2NdSOqtEV7KOKNDcesHoNe8U29BFJjAkoaIhYuJ9tYk6QEGig8lGpQtaMfv68OsMbY98i6w-ZNiEiDK4RyAsqd0/s320/mauricegibb.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662668203732061298" /></a> Gosh, if that were the case, and I was rocking the stylish wardrobe of the BeeGees’, I would go to every coffee house in Atlanta and show those damn “hipsters” how to truly rock a fedora… <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYhYN1T_esborgn6T6nlUZe18nXIGTzIasgIr28unyPi3R90t-aK4SAiMJH9Y-UpS_35CPnriku0oG6EqIDs3EU4iFrhhuzzr0nOEkrODYwA8IRGpsskNIIjs9byx1HhzhVS3QnZpF_qg/s1600/fedora.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 170px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYhYN1T_esborgn6T6nlUZe18nXIGTzIasgIr28unyPi3R90t-aK4SAiMJH9Y-UpS_35CPnriku0oG6EqIDs3EU4iFrhhuzzr0nOEkrODYwA8IRGpsskNIIjs9byx1HhzhVS3QnZpF_qg/s320/fedora.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662666915155624626" /></a><br /><br />I’m not even that superstitious! Wait, well. I have this theory that Max is actually the cat from 1993’s Hocus Pocus, and all of us humans should proceed with caution when in his presence. Why this theory, you ask? <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx-nx4jQhjkBvGklHfWBej3OUQDKbExMiO3v7IoEAqzM0bTOqQBjkOLExUReRSENXvVz4DGGoS2Bsh97rmOHPMVB2A9tF6eclSPUGEvvG5Z9ODmkEWCRLqNYNCA5lPwhL15kFEf0vQGDE/s1600/maxhp"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx-nx4jQhjkBvGklHfWBej3OUQDKbExMiO3v7IoEAqzM0bTOqQBjkOLExUReRSENXvVz4DGGoS2Bsh97rmOHPMVB2A9tF6eclSPUGEvvG5Z9ODmkEWCRLqNYNCA5lPwhL15kFEf0vQGDE/s320/maxhp" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662669926209925746" /></a>For starters, he’s black, has a British accent and his breath is atrociously close to that of an unwiped keister. I mean, the latter is probably due to the fact he’s on his like, what.. 7th, 8th life by now? I’m sure most of the dead are prone to having death-breath… hehe!! (look what I did there!!) Well, anyhow, the jigs up, you fugly little monster. I know your skecret! <br /><br />Let me stroll back on topic. There have been some umm, well, “spooky” happenings in my apartment since October began (at least that’s what mom and dad are bellyaching about). I, for one, think my mother is off her wooden rocker and trying to scare the Lebanese out of my dad (not a hard task, by the way). <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdILKRCCsifkVIxWJbtCHqZ6FKj4abjdwUJjN1VjlV3wQgRHudksnuievJVc6DAlERPhRCwDzszGZcSDGfHiQzvNBbk6w9hZoZ-zEWGAhPkIKCx9kUfMaUvyyHzoPMcmXV-QpwLSAVkQs/s1600/dadscared.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 77px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdILKRCCsifkVIxWJbtCHqZ6FKj4abjdwUJjN1VjlV3wQgRHudksnuievJVc6DAlERPhRCwDzszGZcSDGfHiQzvNBbk6w9hZoZ-zEWGAhPkIKCx9kUfMaUvyyHzoPMcmXV-QpwLSAVkQs/s320/dadscared.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662671869833988258" /></a> She insists it’s the contrary, but states she does get a good kick out of standing behind doors and jumping out to hear his girly scream and see his eyes pop out. <br /><br />With all that said, I’ll fill you in since I know you’re just DYING to hear what happened (pun intended and delightfully provided by yours truly):<br /><br />1. Last week, we’re all getting ready for bed— brushing teeth, combing each other’s hair, applying Carmex and licking the last wall that needed my stamp of approval. I had gotten in trouble the day before for turning up Dave FM too loud and disturbing the tubby pregnant lady above us (she’s a stomper and deserved a taste of her own medicine). My punishment was cleaning duty, all 1200 sq ft (whatever). I’m saying all of this because we went to bed, door closed and locked, to a clean and garden-fresh smelling home (spank you very much).<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf4B6enSIwAcZXnVhAYiyvc4YgaTVKXsbD_zH8iukULB7wJfX2W_FNW1OlQ6QuwdSmC7Ek12VulGmFXVoIZB9bT_7cSc0Mj-4IeYo3OGUzaMfc5YCS0F97V7D5dUeJTkeECzrj3GjpE-U/s1600/mcdisapprove.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 171px; height: 199px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf4B6enSIwAcZXnVhAYiyvc4YgaTVKXsbD_zH8iukULB7wJfX2W_FNW1OlQ6QuwdSmC7Ek12VulGmFXVoIZB9bT_7cSc0Mj-4IeYo3OGUzaMfc5YCS0F97V7D5dUeJTkeECzrj3GjpE-U/s320/mcdisapprove.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662674053419812354" /></a> The next morning, we wake up to my dog bowls in the middle of the hall. Dad asks mom, “Did you put these here?” She had some smart-ass remark like, “Why, yes. Yes I did, Matthew,” followed by a disapproving/stank-face look. They immediately turn to me and assume because they’re mine that I must have woken up in the middle of the night, unlocked the door and strewn my plates in a fit of fat-boy rage! I told them I was nestled all night in between dad’s hambones. After all, being the light sleeper he is, he couldn’t deny that fact.<br /><br />2. Last night, mom and I were doing our usual before bed routine-- all lights off, doors locked, sound machine on and meechums goodnight. We wake up at 7:30 this morning and mom walks out and gasps…. The hall lights were on. We both distinctly remember looking down the dark hall before closing the bedroom door last night… <br /><br />It’s interesting now that I think of it, but I’m pretty sure the whole dog bowl incident happened a week ago from last night. Regardless, dad’s freaked out and what’s more! American Horror Story comes on tonight. I’m thinking of sneaking out the back window to play a nice little trick on the folks when they’re in the middle of tonight’s new episode…. Might wear a black mask? Might go to Starship and buy a leather one-piece? Might bang on the door and say, “I HATE TREES!” (that’s for those AHS fans)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtoKCw3BuNPrfMHqUEmRZaZMD5Mh155O6ltXXsxptuMcU1Pvv85BTuzwPk6ddrCeZM8TUwRG0_MllpLkhlUHnPdEApqiQ3ovM351XVinTVc__br-zmJYj2gdq2MEHyj-tt-OEJaRYo7YQ/s1600/tammietwins.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtoKCw3BuNPrfMHqUEmRZaZMD5Mh155O6ltXXsxptuMcU1Pvv85BTuzwPk6ddrCeZM8TUwRG0_MllpLkhlUHnPdEApqiQ3ovM351XVinTVc__br-zmJYj2gdq2MEHyj-tt-OEJaRYo7YQ/s320/tammietwins.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662674962800250242" /></a><br /><br />MMM. Well this could get interesting. Gosh, I love October and not because I’ll be four in 13 days! If anyone else has any bright ideas on how to scare the Bejesus out of my rents, do tell. I’m all ears!<br /><br />Love, <br />Angel JoeMaryClairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381290452641062777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236501790581162009.post-53175757791677735042011-09-13T08:51:00.000-07:002011-09-13T11:21:03.759-07:00You Have Toilet Breath, You Potty Mouth!I’d be lying to myself and pretty much everyone else (with the exception of my grandmother’s who think I might as well be the second coming of Christ Himself) if I said I wasn’t a hellion on four legs. Hey, at least I can admit it aloud; a perfect example of exhibiting real moral fiber (or so they say). Here of lately, my temper is easier to set off than a hair-trigger. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJuDRK-9y4iz3k5NBbhfhlkFHzq8Rb7ndC4LeZDHPgZQc6Ojj2g3J2ZG7ry7Hlzm0LjbwcypYuif1-FnJp06WpAliNLnjRpwcwQDjScag7vIzbDdfXpATsoV_dJQwF5ixHSOaUL0GBLQI/s1600/pottymouth.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 269px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJuDRK-9y4iz3k5NBbhfhlkFHzq8Rb7ndC4LeZDHPgZQc6Ojj2g3J2ZG7ry7Hlzm0LjbwcypYuif1-FnJp06WpAliNLnjRpwcwQDjScag7vIzbDdfXpATsoV_dJQwF5ixHSOaUL0GBLQI/s320/pottymouth.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5651896417887005794" /></a>To flip the switch from seraph to menace can be done faster than you can say, ‘you’ve-got-toilet-breath-you-potty-mouth.’ (I'm going to attribute a lot of my pent up anger and lash outs on the voice in my head/ brat on my back, Craig... you'll meet him soon enough). <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHobi5cg-ePK1cHiVpw9G8SC03PlTsIcesCRL_yrMoyaUY6zo7xu2BzdWbG4NPSB3pnt4KKPLmyJLPW4oPUVFv974iz0dCSgfpP8FVc_Y7X1pPQJXtxAcTxGT6tEHPuPdgmVjOLTFgWjI/s1600/jim-carrey-yes-man-1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 236px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHobi5cg-ePK1cHiVpw9G8SC03PlTsIcesCRL_yrMoyaUY6zo7xu2BzdWbG4NPSB3pnt4KKPLmyJLPW4oPUVFv974iz0dCSgfpP8FVc_Y7X1pPQJXtxAcTxGT6tEHPuPdgmVjOLTFgWjI/s320/jim-carrey-yes-man-1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5651896640622679906" /></a> You know that Jim Carrey movie, ‘Yes Man’ (and I’d honestly rather watch reruns of The 700 Club from 1979 than that atrocious film) <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpMjFREeY5Ypmcj-gHaw_OgF7nFb9IFGVEM_8har1iJuTnSkQo0iibS-Tzn1YTERbuTcXzRgVPm2zXRpH31oIWVV1-ispb2ZZAfh2XNyck1ITCnso_hbhDZySTKBdE8K67kFkSSB-GYb4/s1600/Pat_robertson.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 293px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpMjFREeY5Ypmcj-gHaw_OgF7nFb9IFGVEM_8har1iJuTnSkQo0iibS-Tzn1YTERbuTcXzRgVPm2zXRpH31oIWVV1-ispb2ZZAfh2XNyck1ITCnso_hbhDZySTKBdE8K67kFkSSB-GYb4/s320/Pat_robertson.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5651901749401578594" /></a>where that goof of a human has to say ‘yes’ to everything he’s asked to do? Well, check it out: when my parents are in like stage 5 of REM sleep, I press play and let them subconsciously hear the concept of the movie. So, I’m hoping instead of hearing, “No Julian, you can’t construct a gay bar at the dog park.” Or, “No, Joe. I’d rather you not be the nude model for a college art class.” I’ll someday hear, “Joe, I think Piedmont is in dire straits for a classy yet dimly-lit watering hole for gay canines. Great idea!” And, “You know, Joe. Fat is the new skinny. Go pose nude, and make sure I get a copy of every canvas!” <br /> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJrinbtXNXZ_ROjBtctX3puXViJpTKqoggdnAIP41_JfV6pfldYRWd4MFLJSQ4QX4UJ-ecj0XFU1LfLK7zLNcnFyfVFyvyDX25t0imEBKDYthxSON7-Rw8t44XdxWeEfqiAs6fBzZHPps/s1600/dogasmodel.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 296px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJrinbtXNXZ_ROjBtctX3puXViJpTKqoggdnAIP41_JfV6pfldYRWd4MFLJSQ4QX4UJ-ecj0XFU1LfLK7zLNcnFyfVFyvyDX25t0imEBKDYthxSON7-Rw8t44XdxWeEfqiAs6fBzZHPps/s320/dogasmodel.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5651897431867196242" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiznPsty7OgFpZQR8UYZsjPvQdXMTRgSRiJT_Qd0fxi76roP7Cm5tyob02DY6TDMtaXL5Jgkg-Q7DiIsDJUb32UaeAJBRG94e5Q_s4cHxrwun057BSPIyDQh9rQYGBAp7YQ7I60OLZXVMw/s1600/sshh-dont-wake-dad1.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiznPsty7OgFpZQR8UYZsjPvQdXMTRgSRiJT_Qd0fxi76roP7Cm5tyob02DY6TDMtaXL5Jgkg-Q7DiIsDJUb32UaeAJBRG94e5Q_s4cHxrwun057BSPIyDQh9rQYGBAp7YQ7I60OLZXVMw/s320/sshh-dont-wake-dad1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5651898259412575490" /></a> But sadly, my world is converse to this. It’s always, “No Joe, don’t bust that medicine ball/volley ball/beach ball/my balls.” Or, “Julian, don’t you dare bite Grandma Sue’s plants out of anger!” Or, “Joseph, I can’t believe you ripped another set of blinds because I had to go to work and couldn’t stay home and play Taboo or Don’t Wake Daddy!” <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMus7jqJEJ0dlue8Hw7R_qwCB3SQsvcNLOMaOswtnsHxpYkGavKc8yNGkm_fv-rHCTgpvKzh2S8gYG3ADMMf1fo1flKHZRrD2ZSSpxPrXW3CUu7mTw2rc4t8WLCWRybX6xb_8TcX2trQk/s1600/squirrelfeet.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 294px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMus7jqJEJ0dlue8Hw7R_qwCB3SQsvcNLOMaOswtnsHxpYkGavKc8yNGkm_fv-rHCTgpvKzh2S8gYG3ADMMf1fo1flKHZRrD2ZSSpxPrXW3CUu7mTw2rc4t8WLCWRybX6xb_8TcX2trQk/s320/squirrelfeet.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5651903233374651874" /></a>It’s a never-ending no-fest in my neck of the woods, and I’m just a squirrel trying to crack a nut on a yes! Speaking of squirrels, I made this little novelty for a special someone :)<br /><br /><br />Whatever. <br /><br />And yes I know, I know...It’s been a hot minute since I’ve given you guys the dirt and bones via BlogSpot—so run me over with your Prius already! (HA, that's a laughable exaggeration. A paraplegic could win that race). <br /><br /><iframe width="640" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/meEIIjt6R2o" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br />One could say the past three weeks have closely resembled a nice joy-ride on Griffin’s finest fair ride, The Scrambler. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFNpqcIXCn2wgU4_09VnRSDW7FVgON0AXCjq8EX4WJ_HBIH_3oB09MtoeVl7CQzgS6_dp9LD5k5_MsL4yFb0H-V60cDL2iGKj4octYpUlhaQcOSxDVcM3F2uD4qmmPdN8Cll4S018f9IA/s1600/scrambler.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFNpqcIXCn2wgU4_09VnRSDW7FVgON0AXCjq8EX4WJ_HBIH_3oB09MtoeVl7CQzgS6_dp9LD5k5_MsL4yFb0H-V60cDL2iGKj4octYpUlhaQcOSxDVcM3F2uD4qmmPdN8Cll4S018f9IA/s320/scrambler.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5651897932936947426" /></a><br /> <br />I’ll do all you homo-erectus’ a solid and fill in the blanks.<br /><br />First things first: we moved...again…for the 2nd time in two months. Let’s just say change and I go together about as well as your mom’s string bikini and those luscious liver spots of hers (mmm).<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVSIl7Y8K-sX0yRDeLB6Ec9XXi2eUEwhVixTonLdkuKEEp2JpUKGgoMe96qOV59C7uLtP4ceKCIG8kL75JGPOX8kRb7L23DKBO10NLwcg4iC6zul1eEIQOv94lvK8GE6cmhsUfNKoUOnE/s1600/bikni.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVSIl7Y8K-sX0yRDeLB6Ec9XXi2eUEwhVixTonLdkuKEEp2JpUKGgoMe96qOV59C7uLtP4ceKCIG8kL75JGPOX8kRb7L23DKBO10NLwcg4iC6zul1eEIQOv94lvK8GE6cmhsUfNKoUOnE/s320/bikni.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5651907641703461922" /></a><br /> I feel like I was born clutching scotch tape, old newspapers and water –stained cardboard boxes. In the past four years, we have moved a total of 12 times to four different cities! I’m fed up; I was quick to inform the odd couple that I’m not an army brat (but it’d be cool to do as the Romans do), I’m tired of changing schools, making new friends, and if she even thinks of uprooting me again, I’m calling social services. Deal with it. <br /><br />Then she laughs and says, “I think you have to actually make a friend first to then make a new one, you spoiled brat.” …And there goes the wind from my sails. I’m as deflated as Ron Jeremy’s personal doll collection.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmB3_9Z3az44Gsj11gzcVNXvCedEF_f_a_D6m0MQ0ArNmSCcheEVas86AjLZ35EU4zYL0S17btorKXNFp9_juC0bk-h0HUZ5clpo_KzOVDEZCER5f1NYmexTTg8V37c7tKCr0a-sreeZI/s1600/Ron-Jeremy2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 251px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmB3_9Z3az44Gsj11gzcVNXvCedEF_f_a_D6m0MQ0ArNmSCcheEVas86AjLZ35EU4zYL0S17btorKXNFp9_juC0bk-h0HUZ5clpo_KzOVDEZCER5f1NYmexTTg8V37c7tKCr0a-sreeZI/s320/Ron-Jeremy2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5651901945930689538" /></a><br /><br />If she wants to play dirty, that’s fine. Next time she even has the idea cross her mind about moving, I’m going to beat her to the punch.<br /><br />“Oh so you’re moving again, mom?”<br /><br />“Yes we are, but what do you mean <i> you’re </i> moving, Joe?”<br /><br />“Well, I was thinking you could do you and I could do me…I’d move to Mexico, start up my own business, let all my fantasies and ideas blow like crop-dust in the wind.”<br /><br />“So, your future dreams and goals can be compared to flatulence, am I right?”<br /><br />“No! Now you’re just putting words in my mouth! All I’m saying is: I have a splendid idea that I think would really juice up tourism in Mexico.” <br /><br />“And…that would be?”<br /><br />“I’m going to sell Chiclets.”<br /><br />“Ummmm, you know that’s slang for cocaine, don’t you?” <br /><br />“Mother, no.….<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1cRbbhj42RFODvrb9JumQ0H98YhZx4JCR72yIj3PybCt1YBqxGQZByOFDji6uAoal0_PQrBNecTxU2GyjnqzCC8cFoxI8BEzUK-D_YRqVbId0e8SCceNrd9bduUryq5SlZCvErsr3epQ/s1600/chiclets.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 315px; height: 259px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1cRbbhj42RFODvrb9JumQ0H98YhZx4JCR72yIj3PybCt1YBqxGQZByOFDji6uAoal0_PQrBNecTxU2GyjnqzCC8cFoxI8BEzUK-D_YRqVbId0e8SCceNrd9bduUryq5SlZCvErsr3epQ/s320/chiclets.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5651901005048528034" /></a>I was referring to the square chewing gum. Come on, don’t be ignorant! You get like 58 pieces for a nickel at every Mexican restaurant in America. Granted they dissolve in your mouth after like six good chomps, but that’s probably why they give you a nice handful to begin with! I can see it now: Little gangly Espanola’s running to and fro in the streets, selling assorted bags of my yummy Chiclet candies. But instead of Chiclets, I’d call them Ju’s Chews… … yeah… I need to Google the translation for that.” <br /><br />“Well, I can say without a doubt, I’ve never been more proud of you, son.”<br /><br />Soooo that’s how the conversation would go… in my head. But, she’d probably make some smartass remark like, <br /><br />“Hah. I’d give my liver to an alcoholic to see you fail in that endeavor, Josephina..You're going to need a new idea because that one's already taken, bud. ” <br /><br />Whatever…<br /><br />What else is new?? Mom got a new car; dad and I got season tickets to UGA from Gmama and Gdaddy. Both were AWESOME presents! There’s really not too much else to say other than the window at the new apartment is already getting tricky to see through due to the snot I’ve smeared on every inch of it. I sit by that damn window for eight hours every day waiting on mother’s return…and she wonders why I have separation anxiety….Hmmpph. I’ll post a video or something cool tomorrow. <br /><br />See ya on the flip side! Muahahahahh!MaryClairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381290452641062777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236501790581162009.post-79199843654486794752011-08-17T10:59:00.001-07:002011-08-17T11:55:33.584-07:00Touch of GaySo I had myself a nervous breakdown this morning, and figured I’d share my thoughts on this experience with my dedicated fan base.
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfMV9VrDYKUtogZds4ZgNCEU4z2uHQdoKdUbmoStmVB567bMmAt1V1kon_o6U6LYogJABU6v81xhy41nR_UFYIxzd9mOuu_GYk9kAs8jHx7iAo4uQG146QxUxHQrup_mBiOmwTN4THido/s1600/just-for-men.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 220px; height: 220px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfMV9VrDYKUtogZds4ZgNCEU4z2uHQdoKdUbmoStmVB567bMmAt1V1kon_o6U6LYogJABU6v81xhy41nR_UFYIxzd9mOuu_GYk9kAs8jHx7iAo4uQG146QxUxHQrup_mBiOmwTN4THido/s320/just-for-men.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641893049930766962" /></a>
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<br />As I was doing my daily flexing, spritzing and plucking regime (ehemm), out of the corner of my eye, a patch of shimmering gray hairs snatch my attention away from my <s> flabtastic </s> muscular physique. Before I decided to sashay my way to Walgreens to purchase the first economy size bottle of Just for Men in sight, I began to marinate on the situation...and then…
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<br />Light bulb!
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9FYm7RPtHcFIgWGs80vUThha8uT_fhjRajL0pNdTpDw0c0cBouUkcUKWOzC9gdqAjqJQRB8ns3e-O77Fy8mrnN5A9kGAjfMZGxRB9Z-q6QrRn6WeNYCsJz4_SYvPK9dhktRZo3P9HVCQ/s1600/dog-light-bulb-by-TimSimpson.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9FYm7RPtHcFIgWGs80vUThha8uT_fhjRajL0pNdTpDw0c0cBouUkcUKWOzC9gdqAjqJQRB8ns3e-O77Fy8mrnN5A9kGAjfMZGxRB9Z-q6QrRn6WeNYCsJz4_SYvPK9dhktRZo3P9HVCQ/s320/dog-light-bulb-by-TimSimpson.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641898471436820066" /></a>
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<br />A little bit of gray hair is natural, and, not to mention, the perfect scheme for getting me into the bars I’ve been trying to creep into since ’08; like Minx Nightclub and Lounge, Crocodile Rock, Hair of the Dog, The Hen House, The Thirsty Turtle, Horse Feathers Grill & Lounge, Pelican Pub, Green Iguana, Red Dog Bar, The Fox Jazz Club. 2011’s blessing in disguise, really. Thanks Father Time!
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTT5nl6k1KjtIqxn1jpwQu4DePu6Yz9WVTM6lGfeupFyTgu77QfqWaDSv0CXNaEpPD4oLKD-yOde9KsQ4jWAOf_4IMom6s4FY4xmvPh_8AUgZ7ZEOwhpMviVRHf6NHDcQpPseq0oIIevA/s1600/benjamin-button-motorcycle-ii.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 233px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTT5nl6k1KjtIqxn1jpwQu4DePu6Yz9WVTM6lGfeupFyTgu77QfqWaDSv0CXNaEpPD4oLKD-yOde9KsQ4jWAOf_4IMom6s4FY4xmvPh_8AUgZ7ZEOwhpMviVRHf6NHDcQpPseq0oIIevA/s320/benjamin-button-motorcycle-ii.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641894436487011746" /></a> I mean, who’s ever heard of a 4 year old with temples of ash and a beard of steel gray? I’d be Atlanta’s sexiest silver fox. Almost reminiscent of Brad Pitt’s character in The Curious Case of Benjamin Button at his absolute dog-gone finest (or when his age actually matched his appearance). Am I comparing myself to THE Brad Pitt? You bet your stanky leg I am.
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<br />But just picture this: me waltzing into the club, dawning a captain’s hat, a blue fitted sports coat and crisp, white linen shorts. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRrpt-EJFObwFg0mCTAtK9hQulH3U27EVwm4JyXjU0X7VZumw12uSgS4J1Slsa2lHagpBsTEY2rw7Xr5OJiHWEF3mKRpMHdRX3ggJ7Se96F2iCvqpcO8j21xftVMaule9yb8BZwkd5fs0/s1600/stewie+sexy+party.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 184px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRrpt-EJFObwFg0mCTAtK9hQulH3U27EVwm4JyXjU0X7VZumw12uSgS4J1Slsa2lHagpBsTEY2rw7Xr5OJiHWEF3mKRpMHdRX3ggJ7Se96F2iCvqpcO8j21xftVMaule9yb8BZwkd5fs0/s320/stewie+sexy+party.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641894763127351906" /></a> There hasn’t been a more perfect match since dingy, coarse hair met coconut-infused leave-in conditioner (at least in my case. Thanks Miracle Coat!) Every pair of hungry eyes would be on me (predictably so). I’d be the center of every little man’s nautical fantasy… It’d be just like that episode of Will and Grace....
<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgISUotvu0d7v-_qpasqKy5XkJSxFWDA9PMia-l6DFofM5t9hcYe2M9eMkuOxlAvP-s2an0nUaafHfIQniRci8EokKx_TzDlfO8NNxvGbwquZviAPKBlwRKgVcW_bR9ebseum1hj4Ucxts/s1600/willjackyacht.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 160px; height: 120px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgISUotvu0d7v-_qpasqKy5XkJSxFWDA9PMia-l6DFofM5t9hcYe2M9eMkuOxlAvP-s2an0nUaafHfIQniRci8EokKx_TzDlfO8NNxvGbwquZviAPKBlwRKgVcW_bR9ebseum1hj4Ucxts/s320/willjackyacht.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641895512185837378" /></a>
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyVbpUjB5CKbW31oWnfvy3GfXC3SLjl1K2jDzpHIqxe-WqMz5Y0okMYIJDxfoWd4S_HTsgunTW5UDNtFk3hIRImHSMGXrwhNnoGJ04NTmYvJK0UL10Ys076xCpgjWxjFBlx_BbmJGUdS4/s1600/funny-dog-pictures-new-new-hobby.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyVbpUjB5CKbW31oWnfvy3GfXC3SLjl1K2jDzpHIqxe-WqMz5Y0okMYIJDxfoWd4S_HTsgunTW5UDNtFk3hIRImHSMGXrwhNnoGJ04NTmYvJK0UL10Ys076xCpgjWxjFBlx_BbmJGUdS4/s320/funny-dog-pictures-new-new-hobby.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641896212245624546" /></a>
<br />Or perhaps, I’ll try a Latin club like the Minx. Even if the gray hair didn’t do the trick, they’re pretty lenient on letting minors slip under the red rope. I can see it now: I’d rumba, samba, merengue and salsa my way into the hearts of Benjamin Bratt and Emilo Estevez. Speaking of Emilio, let’s take a minute to appreciate my all-time favorite movie indirectly staring Mr. Sheen’s bastard brother himself… Now! Roll that beautiful bean footage…
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<br /><font face="Verdana" size="1" color="#999999"><br/><a href="http://www.myspace.com/video/vid/227826" style="font: Verdana">Emilio</a><br/><object width="425px" height="360px" ><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"/><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"/><param name="wmode" value="transparent"/><param name="movie" value="http://mediaservices.myspace.com/services/media/embed.aspx/m=227826,t=1,mt=video"/><embed src="http://mediaservices.myspace.com/services/media/embed.aspx/m=227826,t=1,mt=video" width="425" height="360" allowFullScreen="true" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" allowScriptAccess="always"></embed></object><br/><a href="http://www.myspace.com/12717091" style="font: Verdana">SAUTER</a> | <a href="http://www.myspace.com/video" style="font: Verdana">Myspace Video</a></font>
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<br />Ahh, Night at the Roxbury… Such a classic film, especially for its script and cinematography…
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioVvJctLgCfkbBBQUIwfvw-68vtzbV8tvSuJrr-aU3BnF3jpPnNsA-XtDGcyXcVmQBVbgImrd1GOVJ44uChdttnsl1c-FOQAQ_40bxkRKWYqsVsN9dSAyO-SIJj4JPohMTIiUdl5ZVO7I/s1600/touch+of+gray+JET+black.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 120px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioVvJctLgCfkbBBQUIwfvw-68vtzbV8tvSuJrr-aU3BnF3jpPnNsA-XtDGcyXcVmQBVbgImrd1GOVJ44uChdttnsl1c-FOQAQ_40bxkRKWYqsVsN9dSAyO-SIJj4JPohMTIiUdl5ZVO7I/s320/touch+of+gray+JET+black.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641895800369860018" /></a> Now! Back to me and my stance on the situation at Walgreens. While part of me wanted to completely get rid of these atrocious, stringy grays, I decided to take advantage of this ever-sophisticated look, threw the Just for Men into a discount barrel and opted for the Touch of Gray. I hope this urbane yet classy look will reel me in a top-notch stud—you know, a mountain of a man who’s dark, handsome and sweeter than 8 pound baby Jesus’ leg rolls.
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<br /> Plus! Mom’s super busy looking for her perfect new condo, so I’ll have ample time to slip Johnny and Rosco in to help me make my fake I.D. I have to think of a good alter-ego name to use. Here are a few ideas:
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<br /> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj59KEAHNT7qsoRgPo_XbPYgWuexviBJtnGURV9458Kb92zok2EZo3hiX_6HFeLkV2tP0dMTOjfa4PqWP3Al382tyzYdoqpCOrIpJiuX_T5CV7tyZRWBccjK7Oa2JH23cUzOiMAeNbY88/s1600/McLovin.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 174px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj59KEAHNT7qsoRgPo_XbPYgWuexviBJtnGURV9458Kb92zok2EZo3hiX_6HFeLkV2tP0dMTOjfa4PqWP3Al382tyzYdoqpCOrIpJiuX_T5CV7tyZRWBccjK7Oa2JH23cUzOiMAeNbY88/s320/McLovin.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641896923262015138" /></a>
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<br />1. Stevie Turnipseed
<br />2. Muhammad Golightly
<br />3. Dan Dazzle
<br />Or my personal favorite…
<br />4. Demitri P. Ennis
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<br />I’d like to hear some feedback, blogspot. Or maybe, throw out a few new bones for me to chew on. Until next time.
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<br />-Joe
<br />MaryClairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381290452641062777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236501790581162009.post-56259515008745936702011-08-09T10:10:00.000-07:002011-08-09T11:23:04.240-07:00Foot loose and prancing free :)This just in: Dance Moms equals my new favorite television show (the marathon on Saturday had me squealing and running out the door to Michaels for ribbons and bows). Not because my mother reminds me of the haughty, vile creatures who lure and stir above the fruit of their loins, critiquing and bellowing over a mediocre pirouette piquee. But because I so desperately dream of meeting Abby Lee Miller, taking her ponderous, curvy rump for a drag and draft at the Church Brew Works, and prodding her oversized brain with questions such as:
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ0KDOkwWSUz88o9yqG-y9sSto8MHDCm_F4ieblfaEDbRHykIoxHtxHZGrREvhoub_TpPurhaNEByIRz4roCyoXYAk_ufcg_0og4_FgpL9jO7HEg5hHbKyO5HYtMq6hHgQypQ-8efrbkE/s1600/Abby-Lee-Miller1.png"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 179px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ0KDOkwWSUz88o9yqG-y9sSto8MHDCm_F4ieblfaEDbRHykIoxHtxHZGrREvhoub_TpPurhaNEByIRz4roCyoXYAk_ufcg_0og4_FgpL9jO7HEg5hHbKyO5HYtMq6hHgQypQ-8efrbkE/s320/Abby-Lee-Miller1.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638906788442104994" /></a>
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<br />1. Must all good dance instructors fit within the stereotype of being overweight and over-bearing with cane in right hand and cigarette in left?
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<br />2. How long did it take you to realize that you were more of a “behind-the-scenes” kind of gal rather than a front and center stage sister?
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<br />3. What’s the earliest age a child should begin smoking cigarettes to make sure they maintain a dancer’s frail-frame and a neck longer than Alexis Bledel?
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXofMAckpD0CtEcK_XGXVBeNZhKJvUd_JIzBn4sTSOxxXjaj_H4tYcAghk9-35sqWUfbzHsV7wqEHmQmO98zn6FEcg7pn-xpKGET4DMSNADAdhvdBgCv-0DI76zT0m20jxk8kFgX-yxRk/s1600/Alexis-Bledel-Long-Neck--58537.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 210px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXofMAckpD0CtEcK_XGXVBeNZhKJvUd_JIzBn4sTSOxxXjaj_H4tYcAghk9-35sqWUfbzHsV7wqEHmQmO98zn6FEcg7pn-xpKGET4DMSNADAdhvdBgCv-0DI76zT0m20jxk8kFgX-yxRk/s320/Alexis-Bledel-Long-Neck--58537.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638906102059403826" /></a>
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<br />And finally…
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<br />4. Can a short, black person, like myself, have a real future in ballet?
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8NV-O7BOD71oTTe8sbsVoJ8dK9EirWOiX5wbNae9OE0WLrCy9BbwQM1X9fSikshg9ynks-2hzTlob7bT1LGtCFosWaPPFfzMPx5vxlErXLdxldqlg3TY7Bc862YFaSuN0Y5ZJBl_LoHA/s1600/images+%25283%2529.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 206px; height: 244px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8NV-O7BOD71oTTe8sbsVoJ8dK9EirWOiX5wbNae9OE0WLrCy9BbwQM1X9fSikshg9ynks-2hzTlob7bT1LGtCFosWaPPFfzMPx5vxlErXLdxldqlg3TY7Bc862YFaSuN0Y5ZJBl_LoHA/s320/images+%25283%2529.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638909405831183970" /></a>
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<br />I have no doubt in my mind that Abby and I would become fast friends. I could entice her with my cat-walk (it’s more of a prance, really) and show her elegance, lace and curls really does come in a small, black (gay) package. Also, I’ve become quite the seamstress as of late (I’m currently working on a trendy bag for my friend Ophelia). If she had a place for little boys who love to reap what they sew (pardon the pun),
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCChUDCwQYl7QyCh2D178bCIudeePZVlCN-58QZdAoam-OHf5wcdszeIus5RxMgMQtIUXAb96tfyuQoDwRB6X2uyqmb8y5oac9U861_2x_arntYA0azN6rI9HNEz_L1SYWxlOhL1fHROI/s1600/tumblr_lf9qykSa4g1qzhx9lo1_500.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 246px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCChUDCwQYl7QyCh2D178bCIudeePZVlCN-58QZdAoam-OHf5wcdszeIus5RxMgMQtIUXAb96tfyuQoDwRB6X2uyqmb8y5oac9U861_2x_arntYA0azN6rI9HNEz_L1SYWxlOhL1fHROI/s320/tumblr_lf9qykSa4g1qzhx9lo1_500.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638914507608655442" /></a> then I’m her sequined and stunning knight in shining (metallic) armor!!
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<br />I’ve always dreamed of dressing up little girls (and/or boys) in rhinestone leotards, poufy pink skirts and banana-shaped headbands, and that’s probably because I so badly want to be a little girl
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKBU-bmi9gX80PaaXsIVBgZZGBx3qn5YsTrqtmbI1dN_WHWHV4pecECFdJwSjHpxuTRD62dJA5fkwTL_1nQ4LyExGDgfoyJitXaRE2LmJMB9dkodj2ba2i5jPBhZN2yGFvGjHjESoABXw/s1600/560_0_resize_watermarked_lt_5.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 257px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKBU-bmi9gX80PaaXsIVBgZZGBx3qn5YsTrqtmbI1dN_WHWHV4pecECFdJwSjHpxuTRD62dJA5fkwTL_1nQ4LyExGDgfoyJitXaRE2LmJMB9dkodj2ba2i5jPBhZN2yGFvGjHjESoABXw/s320/560_0_resize_watermarked_lt_5.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638919874808644562" /></a>
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIqL7NQCJ9qfP5V8KkbyBo2sd50bi9iEdNTDtpkCBAyGP3rloyungmMBNjEW_BPwFEKatNqDGNHWNU5eF9NLr8w9RY9iLvQSRL2m9ZMwTSfcxgmd5eqhROVwJhkWdzUjx4Qwds8qD5qU4/s1600/560_0_resize_watermarked_rb_5+%25281%2529.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 227px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIqL7NQCJ9qfP5V8KkbyBo2sd50bi9iEdNTDtpkCBAyGP3rloyungmMBNjEW_BPwFEKatNqDGNHWNU5eF9NLr8w9RY9iLvQSRL2m9ZMwTSfcxgmd5eqhROVwJhkWdzUjx4Qwds8qD5qU4/s320/560_0_resize_watermarked_rb_5+%25281%2529.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638920024855847570" /></a>
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu-8lpN2zx1q4luVpXamFvjUKns28hmtpeiXPov5VN9ytfucY-uOUz85uVO3TPiRkdeROfyCdTmoAWMWmksvIh7AJEt-K6IId0Ogd7rEysOyQXwctsK0wPhPc8D7BH_dehNeONPsI3xW4/s1600/560_0_resize_watermarked_rb_5+%25282%2529.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 208px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu-8lpN2zx1q4luVpXamFvjUKns28hmtpeiXPov5VN9ytfucY-uOUz85uVO3TPiRkdeROfyCdTmoAWMWmksvIh7AJEt-K6IId0Ogd7rEysOyQXwctsK0wPhPc8D7BH_dehNeONPsI3xW4/s320/560_0_resize_watermarked_rb_5+%25282%2529.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638920126515235666" /></a>
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI_9Ep2vFk_JlNpLlaOK1sTlvc992QBcRVJVVNZxeNsjoSO13msC8f8RfLcPlto2SQDLIUX4tfso2MQRiS324oLg72LfXffclGc5W0jVmsOQdgJAT9OXIbnf7hSKPbLZnox3DfhLfok4o/s1600/560_0_resize_watermarked_rt_5+%25281%2529.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 226px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI_9Ep2vFk_JlNpLlaOK1sTlvc992QBcRVJVVNZxeNsjoSO13msC8f8RfLcPlto2SQDLIUX4tfso2MQRiS324oLg72LfXffclGc5W0jVmsOQdgJAT9OXIbnf7hSKPbLZnox3DfhLfok4o/s320/560_0_resize_watermarked_rt_5+%25281%2529.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638920244184051618" /></a>
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBK-K9bbYFjYGdWW8erun3ZqwlQF-LKrXhFEfptj2KRR7yHIa_m-PVjxv6vlEWy2JLkE0rWPS8B1zIIBxGeCrACxzcPot3Vunnc3uaq7_78xN_gKd5Fni0fy1hvOyNYw528d47n7bRScs/s1600/560_0_resize_watermarked_rt_5+%25282%2529.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 175px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBK-K9bbYFjYGdWW8erun3ZqwlQF-LKrXhFEfptj2KRR7yHIa_m-PVjxv6vlEWy2JLkE0rWPS8B1zIIBxGeCrACxzcPot3Vunnc3uaq7_78xN_gKd5Fni0fy1hvOyNYw528d47n7bRScs/s320/560_0_resize_watermarked_rt_5+%25282%2529.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638920358866149794" /></a>
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg47iwQUNkScEyiF4-biuIKa-80PKSx_MkrIdQSHg0OlPJ_peUSm23FVTZqNRTduIL-n_hWI4ZPZPQE2QUnfTrr6uC0iLFUTMYYe-SiemAC2xk5wetgBotnkQbF7CwZr8BFUD0n3G1lOqE/s1600/560_0_resize_watermarked_rt_5+%25283%2529.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 254px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg47iwQUNkScEyiF4-biuIKa-80PKSx_MkrIdQSHg0OlPJ_peUSm23FVTZqNRTduIL-n_hWI4ZPZPQE2QUnfTrr6uC0iLFUTMYYe-SiemAC2xk5wetgBotnkQbF7CwZr8BFUD0n3G1lOqE/s320/560_0_resize_watermarked_rt_5+%25283%2529.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638920505293089122" /></a>
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg1duiRru621giQDsfiX-3AFEY46ISxST-13dBgvvmyU1-z_XH25MVzJ648IWdVDKHWRs_JAnnFkcIt9zUwY_esX3kQHZibvp2xaie19-lRyVofIlTAdHmbQy04CyDgo6-uOAPPyDdxW8/s1600/560_0_resize_watermarked_rt_5+%25284%2529.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 210px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg1duiRru621giQDsfiX-3AFEY46ISxST-13dBgvvmyU1-z_XH25MVzJ648IWdVDKHWRs_JAnnFkcIt9zUwY_esX3kQHZibvp2xaie19-lRyVofIlTAdHmbQy04CyDgo6-uOAPPyDdxW8/s320/560_0_resize_watermarked_rt_5+%25284%2529.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638920664225109234" /></a>
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<br />…uhmm… uh… anyway!
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<br />Wait a tick! I think I’m on to something…MaryKate and Ashley Olson I’ve got it!!!!!
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<br />I’ll become a DRAMA TEACHER!
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<br />Oh my gosh! I’ll be able to put on performances (like I do around the house), choreograph skits, duets and numbers, all the while being behind the scenes yet indirectly at the forefront of the entire show.
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<br />It’s absurdly brilliant how brilliant my brilliance can be.
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<br />It should be a sliver of pie to get a job no one wants… right? Guess we’ll see. Maybe I’ll phone Greg Gregson and see how things are on his end of the rainbow.
<br />
<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXAbLt-56vOpwYpGQtEdbY-O8QHt_NJLgdnEVasHQ64-Mhjum31nCb30R1_WgbArAVYf-b4elPf_0phr-D92RgS6zxORmCFW5rkEEPAkZvVLDukuqQnv0CVYxhi-ey_J7EJk_k61i9lXo/s1600/greggregson.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 233px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXAbLt-56vOpwYpGQtEdbY-O8QHt_NJLgdnEVasHQ64-Mhjum31nCb30R1_WgbArAVYf-b4elPf_0phr-D92RgS6zxORmCFW5rkEEPAkZvVLDukuqQnv0CVYxhi-ey_J7EJk_k61i9lXo/s320/greggregson.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638905582428884626" /></a>
<br />
<br />I’ll be in touch <3 hugs and meechums.
<br />
<br />-Julian Joe.
<br />MaryClairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381290452641062777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236501790581162009.post-16532854761667367612011-07-27T10:30:00.000-07:002011-07-27T12:14:34.039-07:00I love the Monkey's Uncle.. whoa whoa!I suppose I’ll be the good son (not that hobbit, Elijah Wood), and wish my mother a happy 43rd birthday. SO….Happy Birthday, Maw-Maw (one year older and one year closer to my inheritance)! BooBAM(brough)!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbfiafdqpitutcXXwuYqdu-Ug3_J-flyonyn0_XeTmh9G0smaGLOjp_6kJ4Kgi4OXLLhkZXWtDmwvgQYZXNJSaew9znYrW7BQdfAxrcr4ndlRLMBN6HCmDrR4uPVnYJQ4yg0hlUpWxJus/s1600/thegoodson.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbfiafdqpitutcXXwuYqdu-Ug3_J-flyonyn0_XeTmh9G0smaGLOjp_6kJ4Kgi4OXLLhkZXWtDmwvgQYZXNJSaew9znYrW7BQdfAxrcr4ndlRLMBN6HCmDrR4uPVnYJQ4yg0hlUpWxJus/s320/thegoodson.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634087533278253202" /></a><br />Last night, out of sheer boredom (I assume), she decided to tell me the story of HER birth, not mine. Figures she would embellish and make her earthly entrance more thrilling than how it actually occurred. I was trying desperately to tune one ear to the Newlywed Game <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF6rApHL2azgnoHgS7KRWUMlK3WziZMWN56dm1FlPQWqKiXlW5OX5t1R3mVln1K4spbH-x_935sK0E8q3gW961IXVakAWNtCSSRnIGR7m1CsKoDU_dbE8CdqFaQuzSHUVni_ftheqA-y0/s1600/primary_sherri.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 181px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF6rApHL2azgnoHgS7KRWUMlK3WziZMWN56dm1FlPQWqKiXlW5OX5t1R3mVln1K4spbH-x_935sK0E8q3gW961IXVakAWNtCSSRnIGR7m1CsKoDU_dbE8CdqFaQuzSHUVni_ftheqA-y0/s320/primary_sherri.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634100307847480578" /></a> (Sherri Shepherd, you are one hell of a funny lass), and one ear to mom’s verbose poppycock. As soon as she told me she was born at 7:27 on 727 and weighed 7 lbs and 27 ounces, I suddenly lost interest, called her a liar and decided shaving my face with a cokehead’s pinky nail would be a drastic step-up from listening to her elaborate birthday fabrications. <br /><br />I tried to calmly and tactfully remind her that no one cared if she was born on a Wednesday twenty-three years ago, and that I’m positive she’s had a few other birthday’s fall on Wednesday due to the earth’s orbiting path. With a quick whip of her hair, she got in my face and insisted I put a lid on it with the nerd talk. Not to mention she threatened that if she caught me watching The Sci-Fi channel again, she’d hack my Facebook and list it under my interest. <br /><br />“Go right ahead, Bee-otch. Guys appreciate men with a point a view and superfluous knowledge of all things space! It’s a nostalgic reminder of childhood games such as capture the Ewok and assembling Jobba the Hut forts out of masking tape and cardboard boxes!” <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTNREkvUI8qZq-08EAgnr2VRoXGf5dmY5jMb4I9hyphenhyphen_5gRwuDROT3WJzQvfZUHUfeEJbZSWYyZy6z7bJRHI5O5UhtZKDnq9o3k6eQ1gRNs7g5FpP5wr2zVBiFAzGl6wX7gWjgVEiW6svQw/s1600/ewok.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 235px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTNREkvUI8qZq-08EAgnr2VRoXGf5dmY5jMb4I9hyphenhyphen_5gRwuDROT3WJzQvfZUHUfeEJbZSWYyZy6z7bJRHI5O5UhtZKDnq9o3k6eQ1gRNs7g5FpP5wr2zVBiFAzGl6wX7gWjgVEiW6svQw/s320/ewok.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634088393857389442" /></a><br /><br />Just as I was trying to simulate in my head a remote control to mute the babbling broad, my phone rang. It was dad, and he needed my help to surprise mom. I told him it would cost him and gave him the following wish list:<br /><br />1. a Red-Velvet Cheesecake Blizzard…XX-Large! <br /><br />2. The VHS of The Adventures of Milo and Otis (always had a crush on Otis…might be the name of my first born).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfVQZvUMb0gfpdinMUzLCwW7Chv9RP0ppq9oLji0JY75l9mHAIbZkN7x350sx4bU5RGd4dJ99nKWRi9mgV2N2fTdg5dvh2dCjaSbdlK6bwMKHmAaqRK6Dk8SZsFRBoZgjW9fGpnjCZWt4/s1600/milootis.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfVQZvUMb0gfpdinMUzLCwW7Chv9RP0ppq9oLji0JY75l9mHAIbZkN7x350sx4bU5RGd4dJ99nKWRi9mgV2N2fTdg5dvh2dCjaSbdlK6bwMKHmAaqRK6Dk8SZsFRBoZgjW9fGpnjCZWt4/s320/milootis.joKcgZrz1S4sHfOZ-nC3ekFaddaBs4WSf"id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634088784167580882" /></a><br /><br /> 3. A license plate that reads, “DNIS DA MNIS” for my red Mini Coop (though the nickname dubbed by my dad was theoretically given to hold a negative connotation over me, I’ve grown to like it!... soooo, you’re dumb!).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDrjY9-3ntXzZhmF4kkNXgq1kbCxBdeWtiNI1lqoIiBuuN6TkIBmSFjXCkcYeIoWqwYG-zhdVjTiRO3Tj2bSBgJrR-qNllbr8Kj1D3bhz9pJTOFRTdS35jhuZiTtH-D6eREgWoXVa8I-0/s1600/BMW-MINI-Cooper-Convertible-Pedal-car-red_2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 195px; height: 128px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDrjY9-3ntXzZhmF4kkNXgq1kbCxBdeWtiNI1lqoIiBuuN6TkIBmSFjXCkcYeIoWqwYG-zhdVjTiRO3Tj2bSBgJrR-qNllbr8Kj1D3bhz9pJTOFRTdS35jhuZiTtH-D6eREgWoXVa8I-0/s320/BMW-MINI-Cooper-Convertible-Pedal-car-red_2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634111494531327890" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6hG1RqYu-75fmXfK-ZbvFj6aGlfJZ1bddrvXVak-ryb5RdjFRnFBBS_yVj864gmxcFaAtSnIs7vhuwEeK3w8VXfi75bboKduQYOEPL381FEhP84DOnMjwOCCQGMx7flwiiLA4Cfi9Pkk/s1600/gqVA.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 165px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6hG1RqYu-75fmXfK-ZbvFj6aGlfJZ1bddrvXVak-ryb5RdjFRnFBBS_yVj864gmxcFaAtSnIs7vhuwEeK3w8VXfi75bboKduQYOEPL381FEhP84DOnMjwOCCQGMx7flwiiLA4Cfi9Pkk/s320/gqVA.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634111677409279602" /></a><br /><br />4. DivaGel (for my new Faux hawk I’m working on....props, Sanjaya).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUx1mK_OBdOWOnq-cL03BFx6lnZT6bhLjiwS_7EQsQuMr4nHQsfc_WRGrSEDH6xHsiFKpQD7hYF6Kz5xAqFEDCMyWSxvoWOee5FREJ5j1gLDipfktkaWrjgbN7S5OW5gPgY2Q0dtNuQ6I/s1600/faux+hawk.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 253px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUx1mK_OBdOWOnq-cL03BFx6lnZT6bhLjiwS_7EQsQuMr4nHQsfc_WRGrSEDH6xHsiFKpQD7hYF6Kz5xAqFEDCMyWSxvoWOee5FREJ5j1gLDipfktkaWrjgbN7S5OW5gPgY2Q0dtNuQ6I/s320/faux+hawk.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634095981643328242" /></a><br /><br />5. Pajama Jeans… acid wash. (Mom rants about them, and I think I might trust the hellcat on this one).<br /><br />Although I was only halfway kidding about most of those, I knew good and well what to expect from his response:<br /><br />“Dream big, Gayboy. A mini-coop? Wow, son. You know how I know you’re gay? Because you strive to be on the Canadian Olympic Curling Team…. The <span style="font-style:italic;">Women’s</span> Canadian Olympic Curling Team.” <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGCRc5mg4FkTqzmK29-_FcrQtaMP2VIlsqD8RP9cPwBZ836icWejh-kpNeFuFVFP8aDUPAgII3kIkn_g_-N33A0gwWDoL2rM4nN26GaHTDVIhPobZbT1_M72DocAO4msG-uMcCzsLtwfs/s1600/images+%25281%2529.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGCRc5mg4FkTqzmK29-_FcrQtaMP2VIlsqD8RP9cPwBZ836icWejh-kpNeFuFVFP8aDUPAgII3kIkn_g_-N33A0gwWDoL2rM4nN26GaHTDVIhPobZbT1_M72DocAO4msG-uMcCzsLtwfs/s320/images+%25281%2529.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634096962017174546" /></a><br /> <br />“I don’t need your harassment, lesbian! Stop stealing lines from my favorite movie!” <br /><br />“It’s Lebanese, Joe. And you <span style="font-style:italic;">would</span> like the 40 Year-old Virgin…probably because of all the gay references.”<br /><br />“Whatever. You know that huge hole in your manties? Yeah. You’re welcome.”<br /><br />You know if I didn’t love my mother as much as I do, I would have spoiled it for her and just told her dad was on his way over. BUT, I figured, what the hell. He’d probably sulk and cry if I tinkled on his dream, and <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYBUKVl0PW9Zj6iYyJQC3cXAv0UnWWYTvqsXJa4H2Zf9LVItPkyoM7lC7s_U_I7ZpTptuKMnMzNLb-fiDXybdSjIZV7EhWrkJKO6p8vQcP9fMzBRf5NrCaQ-FviFo6cn1DliJNLYRcZTs/s1600/285533_894770890033_23208865_41723196_6437422_n.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 130px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYBUKVl0PW9Zj6iYyJQC3cXAv0UnWWYTvqsXJa4H2Zf9LVItPkyoM7lC7s_U_I7ZpTptuKMnMzNLb-fiDXybdSjIZV7EhWrkJKO6p8vQcP9fMzBRf5NrCaQ-FviFo6cn1DliJNLYRcZTs/s320/285533_894770890033_23208865_41723196_6437422_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634102295950370194" /></a> I didn’t feel like hearing his terribly loud, screetchy voice on repeat “JOE! JOE! JOE!.” I’ll pass.<br /><br />Enough about birthdays, because the only one that really counts is mine and that’s in October. <br /><br />Here are a few things on my mind at the moment:<br /><br />--Why won’t the Indian boys downstairs ever ask me to play cricket with them? I’m a fast learner and a speedy runner… whatever. Not to mention, I love anything British. <br /><br />--How many balloons would I have to inflate to get myself on the doorstep of Vern Yip…The man can decorate. Ok? <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSQXwnwgQhR9dS39_bKOnrqmedogghKX8US-ZEEpSOaVJzV5cp4BkhZLqjKX24S5mkLbB8Nc36rdxJSkXqI_KCTyc3oe6UdnszHXNtKimKh5245AA2VQ9nZpiBApWfDkpJthDMfcV9xck/s1600/article-1209399-062FF3A5000005DC-891_634x485.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 245px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSQXwnwgQhR9dS39_bKOnrqmedogghKX8US-ZEEpSOaVJzV5cp4BkhZLqjKX24S5mkLbB8Nc36rdxJSkXqI_KCTyc3oe6UdnszHXNtKimKh5245AA2VQ9nZpiBApWfDkpJthDMfcV9xck/s320/article-1209399-062FF3A5000005DC-891_634x485.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634103494167651074" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrbhESmPnnBxVV2Gb7C2AMEUULax4Mz2QeJRQwbk_6m8WrcqFel6mSnreRBQbiTSmKysStPjPQRCIoOEeMMEBBxxIM8Y7LsNff1CcZW4LYrd_3s__GiJ3NMmCxnqjupJdseX96BxUl8Yg/s1600/5cfc1_vern-yip-hsn-2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrbhESmPnnBxVV2Gb7C2AMEUULax4Mz2QeJRQwbk_6m8WrcqFel6mSnreRBQbiTSmKysStPjPQRCIoOEeMMEBBxxIM8Y7LsNff1CcZW4LYrd_3s__GiJ3NMmCxnqjupJdseX96BxUl8Yg/s320/5cfc1_vern-yip-hsn-2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634097621271412498" /></a><br /><br />--I know what G-mama means when she says run-and-run, so maybe I can ask her if I can dig-and-dig when I’m there this weekend?<br /><br />--I can’t take it anymore: I have GOT to get Uncle Mauricio a new boyfriend… that’s top priority.<br /> <br />Well, I really have nothing more to say today. I’m busy plotting how to keep my parents from going out of town this weekend. Any suggestions? I’ve already tried to fit myself in dad’s man-purse (fail), tirelessly attempted to bite through a few cords under the hood of the Camry, and developed a huge sebaceous cyst on my butt…please tell me all this effort hasn’t gone unnoticed?! <br /><br />Speaking of the cyst on my back, as soon as mom heard the doctor say “sebaceous,” her eyes were wide with this crazy look in them. I’m suffering from the aftermath of her meticulous plan to pop it and leave me with a hideous scar. <br /><br />Oh! And speaking of scars, I have a huge one of on my face. Ever since Cooper ripped me a new one, I feel I’m channeling Scar from the Lion King. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgre-McJbft0EraUA1PEGky7np5YLqDZpSH2oT9gDJYUdquc0iDOXJumyhNUUyGShvwnAPy2Y1QjLKa86fQ_fVkNNUvE-m58kZ7tPyddBIvmSqjP3NXBOpZn3h_uFDxS1XF5n0Vvp3cYYQ/s1600/Scar+lion+king.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgre-McJbft0EraUA1PEGky7np5YLqDZpSH2oT9gDJYUdquc0iDOXJumyhNUUyGShvwnAPy2Y1QjLKa86fQ_fVkNNUvE-m58kZ7tPyddBIvmSqjP3NXBOpZn3h_uFDxS1XF5n0Vvp3cYYQ/s320/Scar+lion+king.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634099208434884962" /></a> Not too shabby considering he’s one of my many idols, following close behind Neil Patrick Harris and runner up, Sean Hayes.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfrlPkFLglmzVRF6SCA_xVfiF8Svrx36Wr3ZauAf4P3jRs_R8ZyuJTnZDZ-VwOU35ES4MftQNPF-BnC9wwTxNoEZqsWklQpEVOGnBQ_4vWDCWBFrAs52nWuhbpITAX7gXLy0gORQUyhfs/s1600/images+%25282%2529.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 194px; height: 260px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfrlPkFLglmzVRF6SCA_xVfiF8Svrx36Wr3ZauAf4P3jRs_R8ZyuJTnZDZ-VwOU35ES4MftQNPF-BnC9wwTxNoEZqsWklQpEVOGnBQ_4vWDCWBFrAs52nWuhbpITAX7gXLy0gORQUyhfs/s320/images+%25282%2529.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634098248836859362" /></a> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaMuPsfBsi7Z2y12E19nQwurdcqnzuryUNmIVZiLKEi1_wifru2w8cqHeBKErZukfzXLiRsw6NSmqdl36d6wCBnDXGDGfbRcN2Kywj33idsOSRIEkbNyWo4zXtlmHz_PfxIuH8Jl0CCME/s1600/1037x300.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 232px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaMuPsfBsi7Z2y12E19nQwurdcqnzuryUNmIVZiLKEi1_wifru2w8cqHeBKErZukfzXLiRsw6NSmqdl36d6wCBnDXGDGfbRcN2Kywj33idsOSRIEkbNyWo4zXtlmHz_PfxIuH8Jl0CCME/s320/1037x300.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634098692012312322" /></a><br /><br /><br />I’m done here.MaryClairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381290452641062777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236501790581162009.post-88766585386622831022011-07-20T06:46:00.000-07:002011-07-20T11:21:28.614-07:00Been planning it for years...This is a true story:<br /><br />Last night around 10:00, I heard a noise at the door. My intuition that it was for me kicked in, and I went to scope it out. Mom is as deaf as a leopard these days, so of course she didn’t even hear me grumbling, “old hag’s good for nothing,” as I pranced toward the door. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoMuErnGDFQle8au4kGvpyIvVw66okV4yE_mwOxvSIH6QLsSvwjbKoulk7AbZ1yYx_fUaNPlimeeYMqA-mDv2-x5UzlGWLKDErm4zweukIvc3z5_sQ-FtTuMESy5mCO5OgUcATkEylNSY/s1600/def-leppard-short-shorts+%25281%2529.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 280px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoMuErnGDFQle8au4kGvpyIvVw66okV4yE_mwOxvSIH6QLsSvwjbKoulk7AbZ1yYx_fUaNPlimeeYMqA-mDv2-x5UzlGWLKDErm4zweukIvc3z5_sQ-FtTuMESy5mCO5OgUcATkEylNSY/s320/def-leppard-short-shorts+%25281%2529.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631491564613419618" /></a><br /><br />(I'd give both dew claws for hair that big and shorts that short...whew doggy!)<br /><br /><br />Behind door number 1 <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbwQ4IaOap953FD-nEjeAa8lYwWnGzHLYyKSCw_T_WDtcOREfpH1iBiNbqRUYVGnTAWgWUZKHwrCmUvZYuzLo-8FNlEuEJUSenshmZvu_OFLyxwuWR_YLokMTsABgamVWXQTlR26-ZxZA/s1600/doorNumberOne2.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 285px; height: 177px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbwQ4IaOap953FD-nEjeAa8lYwWnGzHLYyKSCw_T_WDtcOREfpH1iBiNbqRUYVGnTAWgWUZKHwrCmUvZYuzLo-8FNlEuEJUSenshmZvu_OFLyxwuWR_YLokMTsABgamVWXQTlR26-ZxZA/s320/doorNumberOne2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631495761127723490" /></a> was a frightened mutt with leash still attached. I asked this puppy (who was 3 times my size, naturally):<br /><br />“Whoa, I say! Who goes there!?” (I love using my Shakespearean accent every chance I get; makes me snigger every time)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr-KzzAeSgn5QMC775c2p5xPthQ6LdyAmwMnl3erfdAUiVZPqlla5NjtWFfaKMDPFA2NX3zfmugePzNKmH0_WiGhi-3TMyoYtQsTERgyKDGk2XEAQQYGuL7MkJb1XFGBbQ-aOz9ZqEOUo/s1600/04-Shakespeare-Dog.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 280px; height: 280px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr-KzzAeSgn5QMC775c2p5xPthQ6LdyAmwMnl3erfdAUiVZPqlla5NjtWFfaKMDPFA2NX3zfmugePzNKmH0_WiGhi-3TMyoYtQsTERgyKDGk2XEAQQYGuL7MkJb1XFGBbQ-aOz9ZqEOUo/s320/04-Shakespeare-Dog.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631495498901340658" /></a><br /><br />Puppy: “I’m a run-a-way.”<br /><br />Me: “Hate it for you. I’m a spoiled brat.”<br /><br />Puppy: “I’m terrified of stairs and can’t get down them.”<br /><br />Me: “Oh, a classic case of bathmophobia.”<br /><br />Puppy: “My owner would beat me and throw me down flights of stairs, so I had to leave. I’ve been <br />up on the roof for about an hour, but I decided not to end my life.”<br /><br />Me: “What do you want? A consolation prize? SCRAM!”<br /><br />My mother immediately noticed I wasn’t up her rear-end and was about to make a mad-dash for the Moghul Sweets 2 blocks away <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgalRRVTXlfmBId39ILVQBZjm2cCvFDkYtRCjrJmGqs4REZ1i2DoHvXiPtT8cFf9o_AQ85hTdkj4FJI0EZIHJjjW4VjDp3yZcCi3FowrmiMEqSkRsO-9dXV_mMV-SyBCBP7BT6rEUvhHSg/s1600/swaminarayan-mandir-sweets.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 221px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgalRRVTXlfmBId39ILVQBZjm2cCvFDkYtRCjrJmGqs4REZ1i2DoHvXiPtT8cFf9o_AQ85hTdkj4FJI0EZIHJjjW4VjDp3yZcCi3FowrmiMEqSkRsO-9dXV_mMV-SyBCBP7BT6rEUvhHSg/s320/swaminarayan-mandir-sweets.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631482183110383810" /></a> (tasty Indian delicacies…if you can’t beat em’, join em’!), when she came to assess the situation. Apparently, my mother has a much bigger heart than she let’s everyone believe and tried to coerce the gangly creature to the bottom floor with MY treats (like I said, good for nothing). <br /><br />Forty-five minutes later after Sarah McLachlan strolled back in from aiding PETA,<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVZgpPXNQPP9I-yhzvwB91HGaVxV0gSPyf6HCzSAMoG8vH-HJAlIp-iQCRujAeSbEP76_zOeCKR-tmtrTnGrJV8q-ah8wxJOWTwXLYTrtnNbF-folSrwLL32sEqFUDDTCcM-drUE39oXI/s1600/27517_346904851875_9764_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 135px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVZgpPXNQPP9I-yhzvwB91HGaVxV0gSPyf6HCzSAMoG8vH-HJAlIp-iQCRujAeSbEP76_zOeCKR-tmtrTnGrJV8q-ah8wxJOWTwXLYTrtnNbF-folSrwLL32sEqFUDDTCcM-drUE39oXI/s320/27517_346904851875_9764_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631490124542783346" /></a>all I heard was how big of a bitch I had been to the freakishly large puppy. Then she pulls out the ammo….The big guns… The one thing she knows will forever get under my skin follicles. <br /><br />“You have the worst case of LMS I’ve ever witnessed, Joe…in my LIFE.” <br /><br />I gasped for air. Mom took a concurrent hit to the nads, gut and face with the Little Man’s Syndrome remark..<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibydBXfgsj8IaEeafQUoLebtJVJDI9Iqo8Gd754iH9CBYxHchgh5H1xEjZOm8COTtKMvjqFFqGuR5LHDBqgQCZV5n9jAXu60AvaI8dhHZgh4K3Tiz47ErqbDt40UUoo4c0UTAxMdSboQA/s1600/ive_got_little_dog_syndrome_dog_shirt-p15553425351496381222hfo_400.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibydBXfgsj8IaEeafQUoLebtJVJDI9Iqo8Gd754iH9CBYxHchgh5H1xEjZOm8COTtKMvjqFFqGuR5LHDBqgQCZV5n9jAXu60AvaI8dhHZgh4K3Tiz47ErqbDt40UUoo4c0UTAxMdSboQA/s320/ive_got_little_dog_syndrome_dog_shirt-p15553425351496381222hfo_400.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631487576264078962" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPwNRy4EyHUKgceiFmEZANUJx3JhU2xDf-FkP7EnmqRIs2dgXV0EF5VOQPDO6IBlnPUOd9NtmUQKTzK9OaOQzlVOcVvr1fu1KL-AdmLYe2lfg0TEJwJEoaC7YWNiikPP4rHsc7D3covNs/s1600/368912093v3_225x225_Front.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPwNRy4EyHUKgceiFmEZANUJx3JhU2xDf-FkP7EnmqRIs2dgXV0EF5VOQPDO6IBlnPUOd9NtmUQKTzK9OaOQzlVOcVvr1fu1KL-AdmLYe2lfg0TEJwJEoaC7YWNiikPP4rHsc7D3covNs/s320/368912093v3_225x225_Front.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631487779638846338" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVt6bpgzmYGkEjp35gmN34H3fYl1t5Dbh0jzgnfwYvd7gcVywhj7fmv7tJsK0Em_ov3Y4eanvFumKg4f9dftTps1OWKwWj64O5Zj2ezz2tVaCmc1UGeulH82JaHA-E_dNR_msqBTDoOys/s1600/abc_devito_070828_ms.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVt6bpgzmYGkEjp35gmN34H3fYl1t5Dbh0jzgnfwYvd7gcVywhj7fmv7tJsK0Em_ov3Y4eanvFumKg4f9dftTps1OWKwWj64O5Zj2ezz2tVaCmc1UGeulH82JaHA-E_dNR_msqBTDoOys/s320/abc_devito_070828_ms.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631487862783117170" /></a> (i had to put the DeVito in here...it just makes sense)<br /><br />“WHAT THE HELL!! You know how I feel about that identifier, Mom!” <br /><br />“You brought this on yourself, Julian. Bullying stray pets!? Trying to rip a hole the size of your dad’s monkey-ass into Cooper’s neck?! The constant need to be in the front of EVERYTHING and EVERYONE!?”<br /><br />“I get that last one honestly, MOM! Spank you very much… I’m texting dad and telling him what you said.” <br /><br />I methodically plotted the tactical strategy of using one parent against the other (anyone with half a brain knows 60% percent of the time, it works every time….<---I just made that up).<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj78UucvpA6l7Lkt5N7S23hCT7vMCa5jsksmI_ow8LYXF-0Kxy4xI-VDsWSMqOU5Ld77KgSj8fmQ3EMfvdbvheKotU8FuFopBGPmsFkP7jpjYFnV1WeNpZfJy_OWgjaLaoS6sFurebetEs/s1600/sex-panther.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 280px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj78UucvpA6l7Lkt5N7S23hCT7vMCa5jsksmI_ow8LYXF-0Kxy4xI-VDsWSMqOU5Ld77KgSj8fmQ3EMfvdbvheKotU8FuFopBGPmsFkP7jpjYFnV1WeNpZfJy_OWgjaLaoS6sFurebetEs/s320/sex-panther.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631497065857522610" /></a> I ran under Mauricio’s bed and began texting in a whirlwind of rage and exasperation. I was so caught up in tattling on mom I didn’t realize it was past my texting curfew… but it was too late.<br /><br />Here was the conversation:<br /><br />“Dad, I just wanted to inform you that mom’s talking mad trash about you, and since I’m your homeboy, I thought I’d let you know.”<br /><br />10 minutes later….<br /><br />“Joe, what the hell are you doing texting me at 11:30 on a week night? If this isn’t an emergency, your pimpled butt is MINE when I get home tomorrow.”<br /><br />I had no other choice but to laugh at his comment seeing as how my mom hits way harder than he does (amateur..pshhht). His threat didn’t scare me the least bit. In fact, I laugh in his face every time he swats and misses… My friend’s call me whiskers, because I’m quick like a cat. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8VPjhQ5twVHPKNAFbBwe_TG9jCknMmcgvYNukDIuia3N13WvOuHxu1rmaUtICvD6Ean9ommYVB6xLrDIQi8AyksoFYL0gev35rbUessqw7klo8uZtHzfU5Pxzrl1RPVghHLWiRpwTwaM/s1600/will-ferrell-portraying-harry-caray.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 173px; height: 208px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8VPjhQ5twVHPKNAFbBwe_TG9jCknMmcgvYNukDIuia3N13WvOuHxu1rmaUtICvD6Ean9ommYVB6xLrDIQi8AyksoFYL0gev35rbUessqw7klo8uZtHzfU5Pxzrl1RPVghHLWiRpwTwaM/s320/will-ferrell-portraying-harry-caray.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631492498261780898" /></a><br /><br />(That's right, Max. Read it and weep, gay-boy. Don't you think for one single second I'm jealous of <span style="font-style:italic;">your</span> whiskers)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYCDYV_6IARgV6rARUEnU1WiT2bZf5lo6Pr4iVTjm1slvzvuVRo7L-X3p_uL8nKVIcNAQpUjQCakvvG0iWw4cJJdlBJ9jA8_GrzfqERFwyet_mQcGCbYzsbLbpgvLqllUsgmNtLFg6BGE/s1600/263593_1677154804972_1120530683_32126057_8277084_s.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 73px; height: 130px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYCDYV_6IARgV6rARUEnU1WiT2bZf5lo6Pr4iVTjm1slvzvuVRo7L-X3p_uL8nKVIcNAQpUjQCakvvG0iWw4cJJdlBJ9jA8_GrzfqERFwyet_mQcGCbYzsbLbpgvLqllUsgmNtLFg6BGE/s320/263593_1677154804972_1120530683_32126057_8277084_s.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631493297753561010" /></a><br /><br />Speaking of whiskers, I’ve been thinking about growing a mustache. My beards the jam, there’s no doubt about that, but I think a stash would give me a little more edge. I asked mom her thoughts about this, and I think she said something like, <br /><br />“Yeah, that’s the perfect way to get little boys in your time-out bed. Good idea, Joe."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj909KPbAq8ANkI_hl3rY5msKMLn72C8UYCTjx2C5_l27mqsledbJRM22UQ-iKtd8HK8K7C4uLXJ4Mwi5bnJ3JVNJHCeiK9eAM-0sNZ6vLRCfQJCz8rqCl1BI7YnMfxJVz7DyWk-_LDmG0/s1600/m.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 113px; height: 170px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj909KPbAq8ANkI_hl3rY5msKMLn72C8UYCTjx2C5_l27mqsledbJRM22UQ-iKtd8HK8K7C4uLXJ4Mwi5bnJ3JVNJHCeiK9eAM-0sNZ6vLRCfQJCz8rqCl1BI7YnMfxJVz7DyWk-_LDmG0/s320/m.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631499093018604226" /></a><br /><br /><br />Whatever, I’m still partial to the idea. I’d like to know what my followers think<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-NBkhTABDwUQ9yxURVPTRI-ppzJGYkCzMED-9vSXn__J27uo_M5Ow1cyVjT2XexuEeOtNFmmKLha4ZixksdyCMAPgAc5y8o3KXTKaxwuaH9SBk5Bfd3RRo3L4_FIi90tuPKEuhgdscMM/s1600/stash.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 208px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-NBkhTABDwUQ9yxURVPTRI-ppzJGYkCzMED-9vSXn__J27uo_M5Ow1cyVjT2XexuEeOtNFmmKLha4ZixksdyCMAPgAc5y8o3KXTKaxwuaH9SBk5Bfd3RRo3L4_FIi90tuPKEuhgdscMM/s320/stash.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631488093767409858" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIrsV8IBqWLQe6yPaoDY6dCu64ljnBbNnjpAWGgDBXOvzo0EgR-VhcoDHuHdZ_WWzoEplJUgq3PCR_WPzl3Q9GnwPHZuIjyvk6aDujjsIbs2un5eCnarKuPTkynzsGKpG65Um4l9CA8ts/s1600/Mustache-Of-Mustaches.gif"><img style="dis/s1600/368912093v3_225x225_Fo 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 190px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIrsV8IBqWLQe6yPaoDY6dCu64ljnBbNnjpAWGgDBXOvzo0EgR-VhcoDHuHdZ_WWzoEplJUgq3PCR_WPzl3Q9GnwPHZuIjyvk6aDujjsIbs2un5eCnarKuPTkynzsGKpG65Um4l9CA8ts/s320/Mustache-Of-Mustaches.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631488299226618018" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcorXbsYXMGxx5UesLWUI67-nUlxbX1UoculcggvceKdk13DnwAtV5yfvDx2sLz4tqE1CKYwVbIxQgofFEtN4YBJoYsPZD8UTjjK8UxaJlGxp07kD_NHgHFC7bPNrJwmCn-SsWVSMvXlo/s1600/Mustache%25282%2529.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 253px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcorXbsYXMGxx5UesLWUI67-nUlxbX1UoculcggvceKdk13DnwAtV5yfvDx2sLz4tqE1CKYwVbIxQgofFEtN4YBJoYsPZD8UTjjK8UxaJlGxp07kD_NHgHFC7bPNrJwmCn-SsWVSMvXlo/s320/Mustache%25282%2529.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631491430567082914" /></a><br /><br />Until next time, Sayonora, suckers!MaryClairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381290452641062777noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236501790581162009.post-35213037213782106402011-07-12T09:29:00.000-07:002011-07-12T11:26:22.781-07:00Just like Fashion, it's a Passion for the with it and hip...I’ve decided to dedicate this blog to all of my fellow fat felines and fence jumpers. Rather than grovel in disgust over my recent weight gain, I am instead embracing my pudgy lamp chops; I’m going to work it better than Precious did in her multiple <s>hallucination</s> dream sequences.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOPZCPRWinqipO9OP1z52NXSNyscOM72rsWDe6Xt2Di6zUDgAmCqLKpjQiaHJTkMJArArlK6fqqdDHbedONX8-4nWW0UIcapSD4dpzdAztJQEpLdTY5RaKqxj5Hri44lqMCJMsynD78tE/s1600/THUMB-1264602263precious_dating.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOPZCPRWinqipO9OP1z52NXSNyscOM72rsWDe6Xt2Di6zUDgAmCqLKpjQiaHJTkMJArArlK6fqqdDHbedONX8-4nWW0UIcapSD4dpzdAztJQEpLdTY5RaKqxj5Hri44lqMCJMsynD78tE/s320/THUMB-1264602263precious_dating.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628532943779645394" /></a><br />So here’s to my canine cohort and feline fat sickles who are suffering with swollen guts and limbs. You deserve to be recognized for your inner and outer beauty. Here are just a few of my friends I met in the “Nathan’s Juicy Plump Hotdogs” chat room: <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9D174LmCcOk5bw1JTDcCb1YzrPY_ltw0mYX4K_M6NdYp-p408mZw0H-_9fDn_F_lap4kxAv7vfqcI7EnXcL9mfWD3z2LnR9OfROYMUpNSOcuewGhbaDSyrkmvNMZCvEsaoDbEje1GGdI/s1600/fat_cat23.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 314px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9D174LmCcOk5bw1JTDcCb1YzrPY_ltw0mYX4K_M6NdYp-p408mZw0H-_9fDn_F_lap4kxAv7vfqcI7EnXcL9mfWD3z2LnR9OfROYMUpNSOcuewGhbaDSyrkmvNMZCvEsaoDbEje1GGdI/s320/fat_cat23.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628524599622272610" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTKP9oVopEkNTrIWBSCKs08jFlQtEL7RHsvdMGa3oBKDJ3fPKng1iu7j0zaFuvZV9ClhoTwuGDPXu01BqHYkzNbuha0EeG3hI3_QnCL0tUxZYuHYGCwbzfi86TVo_imWyWg9V-kOl-C4Y/s1600/fat-dog310x293-main_Full1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 297px; height: 264px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTKP9oVopEkNTrIWBSCKs08jFlQtEL7RHsvdMGa3oBKDJ3fPKng1iu7j0zaFuvZV9ClhoTwuGDPXu01BqHYkzNbuha0EeG3hI3_QnCL0tUxZYuHYGCwbzfi86TVo_imWyWg9V-kOl-C4Y/s320/fat-dog310x293-main_Full1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628524714960386642" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYfDby5DfJ32gAwuvgbzt5tMuwnnnfGvWPSD5ddjLlL9x_kfgcVjeyAte5Nio3UxvHbcQ27jyZOwyV0zeib9vEQmrzD4etWa-r40kpbsNU7GQlWkk8Gbx3W4H7DeH-qXOVIiahjr0rmyM/s1600/FatDog.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYfDby5DfJ32gAwuvgbzt5tMuwnnnfGvWPSD5ddjLlL9x_kfgcVjeyAte5Nio3UxvHbcQ27jyZOwyV0zeib9vEQmrzD4etWa-r40kpbsNU7GQlWkk8Gbx3W4H7DeH-qXOVIiahjr0rmyM/s320/FatDog.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628524883693203362" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxk3udI342ELkJHKC5TbZ6rvewbXtFqUQBvyjrZrHt9TGIfOhzYt84sReN2cCeSPDX_F8C4JcubbqOzSHU5lDSKruOYftS9QCnLXSApa5qjCmSMqoCw_qukbSDnMNJMyPZj0yIXAKUm9I/s1600/fat-dog.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxk3udI342ELkJHKC5TbZ6rvewbXtFqUQBvyjrZrHt9TGIfOhzYt84sReN2cCeSPDX_F8C4JcubbqOzSHU5lDSKruOYftS9QCnLXSApa5qjCmSMqoCw_qukbSDnMNJMyPZj0yIXAKUm9I/s320/fat-dog.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628525088500482130" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAQUgWM0Tzl6uvpn62uxYpGz8zFwA2LZPNINOL1JJAr2bPmBlqLM8fdM7CteUIQFlTLDlJL7WcauoWcTfKbCospZyKDhWMHbeBstILr_h7SKKX0qBleYLbFmsz-blxnjyiP9KXCse8zr0/s1600/n23208865_35837721_4161357.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAQUgWM0Tzl6uvpn62uxYpGz8zFwA2LZPNINOL1JJAr2bPmBlqLM8fdM7CteUIQFlTLDlJL7WcauoWcTfKbCospZyKDhWMHbeBstILr_h7SKKX0qBleYLbFmsz-blxnjyiP9KXCse8zr0/s320/n23208865_35837721_4161357.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628525240475274002" /></a> well, well, well, would you look who it is... didn't realize Bailey was a chatroom whore.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHSdSKiGVFnDyHuyPlczwsOHJdyth2ujNc7GRXk5y1JrBz7gL1F3KcdxpVm3A5f9Y2GkwLrFDihDQL81a5NPC3HZyN7EYu9bG36X4M6N1SCvX2JVKHrEt9rVNv7HJNobIIkmKMGZs3KIw/s1600/560_0_resize_watermarked_rt_5.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 218px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHSdSKiGVFnDyHuyPlczwsOHJdyth2ujNc7GRXk5y1JrBz7gL1F3KcdxpVm3A5f9Y2GkwLrFDihDQL81a5NPC3HZyN7EYu9bG36X4M6N1SCvX2JVKHrEt9rVNv7HJNobIIkmKMGZs3KIw/s320/560_0_resize_watermarked_rt_5.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628525488398150050" /></a>...ummm, I think this girl just wanted to be a part of something bigger than herself.... hard to imagine...something bigger that is...(hehe)<br /><br />You know, I don’t mean to start on a rant (because that <span style="font-style:italic;">never</span> happens), but it’s really not our fault if we’re slightly plump, round, fleshy, curvaceous, tubby, portly, what-have-you. We eat just about anything <span style="font-style:italic;">you</span> put in front of our faces, and aren’t allowed to eat it until after <span style="font-style:italic;">you</span> say “uhnn, leave it!!” and then, “ok, now you can eat it.” (Exceptions for me include: grapes, Doritos, vegetables, Grade D meat from Taco Hell because that’s all they serve, anything Alpo, plantains, strawberries, fruit in general, and any/all leftovers…b/c microwaves cause cancer)… which brings me to my next rant.<br /><br />It’s been brought to my attention that I have a repulsively huge boil on my beautiful, slick jet black body. A boil! (How ghastly, I know.) In the past few weeks, it’s nearly tripled in size. We thought it was a wart (um, eww right?), but this thing is massive, blood red, and hard. It needs to grow legs and skip on its merry way before mom’s attempts at popping it succeed, and I’m left with a fugly scar. (I have no clue what her fascination is with popping things, but boy does she get off to it).<br /><br />I for one don’t think it's one of those things that can be popped necessarily. However, Mom continues her efforts in researching what it could be and how/if it can be ruptured. I don’t really think she cares exactly <span style="font-style:italic;">what</span> it is, but is more fixated with how to get rid of it. <br /><br /> [Side note: If this lump is malignant or I die from a staph infection because my mother can’t get a handle on her pop craze (not to be confused with the other type of pop craze in which victims are fooled by mainstream bubblegum “artist” who miraculously top the pop charts with synthesized vocals, and make a stink with their excessive wardrobe selections, stank attitudes, easily forgotten interviews and need I say, terribly hilarious acting <s>skills</s>”) case in point: <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuPwBhI8WgB9RBszd2_bUCqKgCW22Ir8l7kboXXOaKnkxY9hfBubFi5S27cxJa-hVKRSOg6dC6qkDdF7qeXelvU2dzgrAA4Dqr-tBk2jQFTDOu6sDtRChOYm160PY7PyHpEIpd3hzqxXc/s1600/images.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 196px; height: 257px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuPwBhI8WgB9RBszd2_bUCqKgCW22Ir8l7kboXXOaKnkxY9hfBubFi5S27cxJa-hVKRSOg6dC6qkDdF7qeXelvU2dzgrAA4Dqr-tBk2jQFTDOu6sDtRChOYm160PY7PyHpEIpd3hzqxXc/s320/images.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628527920386897074" /></a> please refer to this blog.]<br /><br />All I’ve heard come out of her loud mouth for the past month: “Damnit Joe. That thing is an eyesore. And not to mention, it’s getting in the way of your bi-weekly haircuts.” <br /><br />I got on my laptop just the other day and she had <s>intentionally</s> accidently left this youtube video up. <br /><br /><iframe width="425" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/r0yeSA6eXyc" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br />Behind the video was a Word document that read:<br /><br /> “Oh… Poor Abby!! Joe, do you really want it to get to this point?....I kind of do….[insert evil laugh here: Muahahahahah.]” <br /><br />……Speechless. I had no words. So, I quickly put on my thinking cap (it’s cute and pink and my Aunt Mrs. Suzanne bedazzled it for me) and decided to have my friend Luther over to help me stick it to the man (woman…mom, I mean). Instead of finding me in her bed when she got home, she found this picture of Luther instead…<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKO3NV0ajf8Tk_-0Dw6EPrnMwSTGZuydfcRE-PzV6piEDAmze3l9PMtDCTpQcgAHkRNMMnTk7YPEGQwVDQ3oCnPbn0Q2GpgUDF-col3wpcZ9MHqn3t4rJbEEC8N7BfQxzsYm28fLyZg6Y/s1600/dog+in+bed.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 258px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKO3NV0ajf8Tk_-0Dw6EPrnMwSTGZuydfcRE-PzV6piEDAmze3l9PMtDCTpQcgAHkRNMMnTk7YPEGQwVDQ3oCnPbn0Q2GpgUDF-col3wpcZ9MHqn3t4rJbEEC8N7BfQxzsYm28fLyZg6Y/s320/dog+in+bed.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628528249595256610" /></a><br /><br />And the note he was writing on my laptop? <br /><br />“MaryClaire… look under your sheets. Love, Luther V.” <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlKi4pYVHOAWTSLNUiVQdCKBKV18BvNHo4rn_TyjPxUfiIz6apvYFqQp9OL7b9YG3lAZ6XMQstwoD4z1cRSEpsaCnyXa14oZ63gm4s1cMns5za9_DJRd4UcbK0RcXwwXkES-FNRBp195U/s1600/4405895719_c1af683a21.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlKi4pYVHOAWTSLNUiVQdCKBKV18BvNHo4rn_TyjPxUfiIz6apvYFqQp9OL7b9YG3lAZ6XMQstwoD4z1cRSEpsaCnyXa14oZ63gm4s1cMns5za9_DJRd4UcbK0RcXwwXkES-FNRBp195U/s320/4405895719_c1af683a21.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628530787095242802" /></a><br /><br />I decided to let Luther be the culprit rather than me, considering she can’t spank someone else’s child!! Sometimes my brilliance is overwhelming even to me. [insert evil laugh here:….muahahahahah!]<br /><br />I’ll probably have my computer privileges revoked for that one, so until next time….<br />Joe.MaryClairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381290452641062777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236501790581162009.post-34364980257205039182011-07-06T07:41:00.000-07:002011-07-06T11:58:36.111-07:00Oh, Heavens to Betsey!I’m sure inquiring minds would like to know why I have been an absentee from my own blog. Well even though I’d like to think of myself as perfection on four gorgeous legs, my parents would be in opposition to this. <br /><br />Basically here’s the low down: I had my computer privileges taken away for a week because… because…? I think I was talking back??? Or could it be I snuck out after curfew? Wait! I think it was because I mumbled “child abuser” under my breath when Dad popped me for feeding Cooper my table scraps. Whatever the reason, I woke up to eat some Honey Smacks (love that Frog, dagnabit) and watch cartoons (Go Diego Go, to be specific) and my laptop was confiscated from my work station.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhybQBD9CvivIYRys5gDfd-02oiUoYI37ghROQ6VFRIN4f5PzGaVHuXJNKOWvkjyGsnBGl7FyCYEX-5m8qLp5j4uvapSJojJjwucy-lzjxyBg8zeToAJQ-m08jrJ0QiDTOOH15Rk02thOs/s1600/dig_em_frog.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 189px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhybQBD9CvivIYRys5gDfd-02oiUoYI37ghROQ6VFRIN4f5PzGaVHuXJNKOWvkjyGsnBGl7FyCYEX-5m8qLp5j4uvapSJojJjwucy-lzjxyBg8zeToAJQ-m08jrJ0QiDTOOH15Rk02thOs/s320/dig_em_frog.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626271347034391426" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEire3R5cTzVj5DvwveAv7L88gDP7j1lngfuumn5vI1NL5TlgCRayu36qVugj8QsT0dvOUKM0TFd1ngiraR-k0aiLVDxgGaL4VwrDatIGzyUTERKXL89dRADjNYX1Uyw2cnATEiwR-GyENA/s1600/character_diego.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 264px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEire3R5cTzVj5DvwveAv7L88gDP7j1lngfuumn5vI1NL5TlgCRayu36qVugj8QsT0dvOUKM0TFd1ngiraR-k0aiLVDxgGaL4VwrDatIGzyUTERKXL89dRADjNYX1Uyw2cnATEiwR-GyENA/s320/character_diego.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626271474490041698" /></a><br /><br />I immediately ran into my parent’s room, jumped on Mom’s face and shrieked, “Someone’s stolen my central processing unit and now I can’t blog!!! What the hell…” and was interrupted with, “Joe, it is 6 am. Your laptop wasn’t stolen, and you need to get off me.” <br /><br />My rebuttal: “But but it was! And you guys need to get a security alarm pronto. I don’t know how it is in Mumbai,<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGzJutYSoICjY257Zs4j_4hVU6d8F81qH5lz9AefRdDQ3sVTMTavcoyngzknMLB25jZP4-hk_MVrQ1rJQLItbx06jE9bZtF_2TQMrcs0QrDq-ghyUuZAggM5ouAdJQLmbXIVXXfCiODx8/s1600/NO_DOG%257E1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 178px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGzJutYSoICjY257Zs4j_4hVU6d8F81qH5lz9AefRdDQ3sVTMTavcoyngzknMLB25jZP4-hk_MVrQ1rJQLItbx06jE9bZtF_2TQMrcs0QrDq-ghyUuZAggM5ouAdJQLmbXIVXXfCiODx8/s320/NO_DOG%257E1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626315340773258930" /></a> but in Atlanta, we don’t go stealin other people’s possessions; especially a little boy’s only communication to the outside world…which brings me to another point of concern I’ve been meaning to share with you both…I’m officially a PORKER.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjorwomikdDYJ_yJCBwjJcL8syzK6lYJqC4UtiC9Z691sNBacwSQaSIUzisQ2bKTUkMDwvac2SaPf1Efk3WVmvvRJxAXjelK7aUb7qLzZe78g9duQjWwsCzV0GeazxGZLOr8OW5G3Mnogs/s1600/porkers.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 256px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjorwomikdDYJ_yJCBwjJcL8syzK6lYJqC4UtiC9Z691sNBacwSQaSIUzisQ2bKTUkMDwvac2SaPf1Efk3WVmvvRJxAXjelK7aUb7qLzZe78g9duQjWwsCzV0GeazxGZLOr8OW5G3Mnogs/s320/porkers.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626315540298690482" /></a>We never go running anymore! Hell, my neon pink headband,<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2m4DlzhKyIlxckc_G5VGxTbeVSFF6kmXusn9QtXiMb93P-ByamRY1b8USPvGOsuxKSLe6FxtEp4lbLwz4wFfytZZkyGdU7dVC4fr3G_rodOrBrV5KYHGNB3dVW6Z1WjjpvePZkplZpmU/s1600/hot_pink_headband_wristband_set.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2m4DlzhKyIlxckc_G5VGxTbeVSFF6kmXusn9QtXiMb93P-ByamRY1b8USPvGOsuxKSLe6FxtEp4lbLwz4wFfytZZkyGdU7dVC4fr3G_rodOrBrV5KYHGNB3dVW6Z1WjjpvePZkplZpmU/s320/hot_pink_headband_wristband_set.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626315136309567554" /></a> which is usually soaked with sweat, is dryer than a popcorn fart. Cooper keeps telling me to suck it up and stick my pawpaw down my throat (not trying to tattle, but I think he takes diet pills too…skinny bastard). I’d rather stick with an all-natural weight loss program. You know like, herbal remedies, exercise… that sort of thing. Not persistently purging chicken rice and water. I’ll pass, thanks.”<br /><br />Silence…… snoring……drooling….rolling over. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0e-e331dps6fH79WdXt8UHBbXjNL3JjusEPax_gJ3MhgOifXzBEirCVVA-hpDn4JD85TwkbNjWOJSRKE8T1hdrceQJsb6Ua_q3EYAvaf97bpHATe8KDSxQ5SNR-x37CgjyN4bDy95TUI/s1600/13765_619745937243_23208865_37109093_8325938_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0e-e331dps6fH79WdXt8UHBbXjNL3JjusEPax_gJ3MhgOifXzBEirCVVA-hpDn4JD85TwkbNjWOJSRKE8T1hdrceQJsb6Ua_q3EYAvaf97bpHATe8KDSxQ5SNR-x37CgjyN4bDy95TUI/s320/13765_619745937243_23208865_37109093_8325938_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626278056449195106" /></a><br /><br />“Mom!! Did you hear me? I’m a fat lard of pooh and everyone knows it! You know how Gmama gets on you about your weight because you’re abnormally short? <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinTR6H70ySZQCeuw1C2ws4xZBbSQ04gN04fRCF_7k9hbSuTKRcbjxMD_cEamZhA-Ou0clyagfzGHMqO8NPNZORU4wAxWZCwgLhgdX8dnURcghUozmBRWZW_MoIoLfRWbU11oJYbPpLQiQ/s1600/abc_devito_070828_ms.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinTR6H70ySZQCeuw1C2ws4xZBbSQ04gN04fRCF_7k9hbSuTKRcbjxMD_cEamZhA-Ou0clyagfzGHMqO8NPNZORU4wAxWZCwgLhgdX8dnURcghUozmBRWZW_MoIoLfRWbU11oJYbPpLQiQ/s320/abc_devito_070828_ms.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626275634113194674" /></a> And I heard her say that when short people stack on 5 pounds it makes it look like 20? Well thanks a lot for the genetics, Betsey! If I had just one inch of Grandma Sue’s height, I’d be cookin’ with gas.” <br /><br />“Julian. First of all, don’t be chauvinistic towards our neighbors. I know there’s an overabundance of Indians living around us, but for the most part, they’re nice people. Secondly, Dad and I discussed how absolutely filthy your mouth is and how disobedient you’ve been lately, and we decided to take away your rights to blog for a week. You clean up that dirty-ass mouth and attitude, and you can get it back. Thirdly, you’re not a porker. The only weight you’ve gained is from the Leikenkugal Summer Shandy <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX-gFtr76i7gOPwAqmIXucoMG4r7Uz5o2DMAzuVh875pHlYwuliRXWeMhYxSVTpMSPajKxKUnQipn6u6P-SXNRqce_fJuePoIYXtwKwH1PzbLVe3vncrfS2I-foJbsU3SfB2Tf3bFG7-w/s1600/summershandy.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX-gFtr76i7gOPwAqmIXucoMG4r7Uz5o2DMAzuVh875pHlYwuliRXWeMhYxSVTpMSPajKxKUnQipn6u6P-SXNRqce_fJuePoIYXtwKwH1PzbLVe3vncrfS2I-foJbsU3SfB2Tf3bFG7-w/s320/summershandy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626275898263503298" /></a>you steal from me when you think I’m not looking, and you pouting when we don’t give you seconds at dinner… so why don’t you build a bridge and get over it.”<br /><br />Let me just say, I was revolted that my mother 1. Labeled me as racist. 2. Reaffirmed my fatness is from utter glut of beer, food and laziness and 3. Used a really lame comeback. <br /><br />I could only respond with, “Well… I NEVER!!” and stormed out of the room in a fit of <br />rage to only indulge in my self-pity and an oversized bag of bagel chips (muy delicioso, [just a little glimpse of my Spanish. Thanks Diego!]). <br /><br />I decided to show my parents that I’m not a brat. Just to prove how much blogging really does mean to me, I didn’t udder a single word about it during the holiday weekend. <br /><br />Speaking of the holidays, here’s a slightly condensed recap:<br /><br />Friday night, zapped a Hungry Man’s meal. Watched How It’s Made. Played online poker. Won twice, lost once. Had a few O’Douls. Put me to sleep. Dreamed about finding Max’s detached tail and leaving it in his water bowl. Saturday, woke up to Mom and Dad packing. Booked it to Griffin. Saw Gmama. Smothered her with meechums. Chased Mary. Cooled down. Chased Mary again. Slurped Bailey’s water. Nested in Bailey’s bed. Watched Bailey lose it. Went to see Aunt Ali, Annie and Ollie. Was mauled by Ollie. Cried. Cried some more. Went swimming. Met new friends. Did a little dance. Made a little a love. I got down that night. Sunday, snuck out of the house. Got in trouble. Sun-bathed. Went swimming again. Booked it back to Atlanta. Went to bed at 11. Woke up at 3 and puked. Woke up at 5:30 and puked again. Went to Grandma Sue’s for the 4th. Puked in Mom’s car on the way. Puked on Grandma Sue’s oriental rug. Puked on Grandma Sue’s outdoor rug. Puked on Grandma Sue’s mat. Napped. Woke up to sparklers in my face. Cried. Cried some more. Passed out.<br /><br />Phewww! Hope everyone's 4th was filled with a little less pukage and a lot more pie! Just want to say thank you to my parents for allowing me to blog again. Guess I’ll leave you boys with one of my more thoughtful Julianisms:<br /><br />“Get lifted from your soul. Top it off with sound, don’t you know.” <br /><br />Oh.. and this... is America. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnFsCEFWiRwiDici1Xz_zmbDWf4GJah9JGFHNQBUuzjchK-BNmfg80pRrwW0bNqglVblMUXd5hEwzegjqIEWZQDEYaJD1_ggHx18zeGAM-bTC7GtQL1PEFmTL9W8jaC9CmD9Wz2OwMqng/s1600/560_0_resize.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 280px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnFsCEFWiRwiDici1Xz_zmbDWf4GJah9JGFHNQBUuzjchK-BNmfg80pRrwW0bNqglVblMUXd5hEwzegjqIEWZQDEYaJD1_ggHx18zeGAM-bTC7GtQL1PEFmTL9W8jaC9CmD9Wz2OwMqng/s320/560_0_resize.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626276166634763058" /></a>MaryClairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381290452641062777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236501790581162009.post-3005584049787732182011-06-23T06:58:00.000-07:002011-06-23T08:38:17.798-07:00Pardon the Hiatus<strong>Ello, Gov'nuh! </strong> Gosh, I'm chipper today. Maybe it's because it's Friday eve. Maybe it's because I'm so fresh and so clean,clean (great hook, Outkast). Maybe it's because my aunt brought home this huge plush hamburger, and it's all I can think about. <br /><br />Ok, so I just lied.. call me a fibber and we'll leave it at that, people. There's something bigger on my brain right now, but I'm having anxiety putting it into words...ok, I'll try, just because this is my blog, and I was told you're <em>supposed </em> to let out your innermost thoughts and feelings on here..so here it goes:.. I'm love sick.<br /><br />I've only had two boyfriends in my life, but it twas Benson who broke my heart.. just snapped it in half like it was some kind of Alpo treat or Beggin Strip... oh Beggin Strips are his favorite (...be still my heart). Here's a picture of us and our moms at the Mountains in N.C.... our first romantic get-a-way together.. hmmpph (and yes, we <em>had</em> to be supervised, whatever.):<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioMAjXb7bIP5zpF05PizIWDV_vBrLJ5YQxR9OQNA4K-FBReWcZysoWYl3Fkb0h0bpUgLvJnVUkBLoilq08F2G9JwvzshJBBHMPHWL6tYFvXH572p_7IPK9Zz30AgkCMgYHNvy_uNflgjg/s1600/9620_1239168135766_1126140024_30753434_8043330_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioMAjXb7bIP5zpF05PizIWDV_vBrLJ5YQxR9OQNA4K-FBReWcZysoWYl3Fkb0h0bpUgLvJnVUkBLoilq08F2G9JwvzshJBBHMPHWL6tYFvXH572p_7IPK9Zz30AgkCMgYHNvy_uNflgjg/s320/9620_1239168135766_1126140024_30753434_8043330_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621423217602623890" /></a><br /> <br />But while I'm on this reminiscent kick, I might as well give a few other shout outs to some very important influences in my life....(in no particular order, might I add).<br /><br />Mary Jane Winsor<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTN8e7SdSn5O9IlpxwF2JFYG7IYRP_5wA0V8ELiEGqnO_v75YOGlNWJFqBY-nCsv_vR9r_49-UXZFjDUv-K1aU9bjso3BjYK6FYGMSqYWJT8qULcgAbL8_t_J2b6sxPy8md04DicGgDT0/s1600/180386_736504122903_23208865_40600170_5705552_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTN8e7SdSn5O9IlpxwF2JFYG7IYRP_5wA0V8ELiEGqnO_v75YOGlNWJFqBY-nCsv_vR9r_49-UXZFjDUv-K1aU9bjso3BjYK6FYGMSqYWJT8qULcgAbL8_t_J2b6sxPy8md04DicGgDT0/s320/180386_736504122903_23208865_40600170_5705552_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621425000198166274" /></a><br /><br />This little wild child is a shat brickhouse. I think her mom puts muscle milk in her food, because she can pin me down in one swoop with her strong, rat-like tail. She's a talker, too. It's like, "I'll have a double tall latte, non-fat milk, hold the mocha java, with two shots of holy-crap-did-you-see-that-bird!" Always gabbing about her mom's escapades and what-not; sometimes I just look at her and I'm like, "M.J., shut your trap and look out the window in silence for 10 minutes.. Gee wizzard." Got mad love for my bittle Mary Jane :)<br /><br />Guess I could introduce you guys to the doucher, since he does make the Memoirs page frequently. So, ladies and gents.. Cooper Brower.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdMIGLNornUk7fDclvuNefvoipMy7r6UaTwpqalXA4Tay-i4T5XxtD6-XmRSEt_ixoZorrcIn15Cfw4zqPC8aKRkNh_b3dSJmmfQdoVdCR7dZT1g5Jd6XPSww7NeNmycOhpWWL6EWVnU0/s1600/164699_728261895393_23208865_40455103_1714218_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdMIGLNornUk7fDclvuNefvoipMy7r6UaTwpqalXA4Tay-i4T5XxtD6-XmRSEt_ixoZorrcIn15Cfw4zqPC8aKRkNh_b3dSJmmfQdoVdCR7dZT1g5Jd6XPSww7NeNmycOhpWWL6EWVnU0/s320/164699_728261895393_23208865_40455103_1714218_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621426752365035602" /></a><br /> <br />Don't let this picture fool you; he's like quadrupled in size at this point. He kind of reminds me of a merman--a long, lanky merman who's just been given feet to walk for a day, and he's trying desperately to figure out how to use them. Cooper is about as graceful as an Oregon linebacker. It's almost sad to watch him run or gallop or whatever it is he does. Cooper can annoy me more than the fleas in my butt, but I do have a spot for that little lanksta wanksta in my heart. <br /><br />Moving on: Bailey Hitson (my grandmother's pet)<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisen4nJOvFuZQ6-oAW1n-AAA0BZz0ecCDROCEJRBnKn0FgqlEqYHaZKnJJTcdyu_STFBOWfNYcjp6SZIqL8JlDHXoOq5BYNClTBHhKD6LIih-y4sN6jx0AlMekHpng2TjXA_xETTVp81M/s1600/14545_1265845050938_1374133677_741725_192105_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisen4nJOvFuZQ6-oAW1n-AAA0BZz0ecCDROCEJRBnKn0FgqlEqYHaZKnJJTcdyu_STFBOWfNYcjp6SZIqL8JlDHXoOq5BYNClTBHhKD6LIih-y4sN6jx0AlMekHpng2TjXA_xETTVp81M/s320/14545_1265845050938_1374133677_741725_192105_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621432500257354178" /></a><br /><br />Bailey's good at three things: velcroing himself to my g-mama's thigh, yapping at anything that moves and royally pissing me off. That's about it on Bailey.<br /><br />Annie Bland:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYIwXzsHy6BFu62WJtIYhG9Q2DksBmrg0W_2aTvDvPVO98J98HLkdWQFIi71dtiaOuMcovWVTiLFS3mQjHqQ4FMJaWhANxmcXiF9YlP0YStVmoOJy9246biPY7QdR-xnVCB3QFotxVLy4/s1600/227122_555673785207_208600310_31770990_3970037_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYIwXzsHy6BFu62WJtIYhG9Q2DksBmrg0W_2aTvDvPVO98J98HLkdWQFIi71dtiaOuMcovWVTiLFS3mQjHqQ4FMJaWhANxmcXiF9YlP0YStVmoOJy9246biPY7QdR-xnVCB3QFotxVLy4/s320/227122_555673785207_208600310_31770990_3970037_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621431302463016658" /></a><br /><br />This booger is a mess. We actually get mistaken on the phone sometimes because we sound so much alike. I love her because she taste like vanilla beans, and she loves me because I'm her chocolate supreme! Nothing but good, good things to say about Francis.<br /><br />Finley Mayfield<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVu_QaiHaCQv4LetMChNyzPrSEk5bsPCWaUr14g6LxEJprX-1kLPo0fDEoebanQEWte98RDdMp_H3t0Ol6BQeeyLorNBIrymJpWMfq198R7dl0LCEtq1a6uybK39pvTw9E0Oak5ZJCyck/s1600/216915_706090796688_46706202_36129990_8280546_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVu_QaiHaCQv4LetMChNyzPrSEk5bsPCWaUr14g6LxEJprX-1kLPo0fDEoebanQEWte98RDdMp_H3t0Ol6BQeeyLorNBIrymJpWMfq198R7dl0LCEtq1a6uybK39pvTw9E0Oak5ZJCyck/s320/216915_706090796688_46706202_36129990_8280546_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621432912507252706" /></a><br /><br />Finley is a wee-bit of a titty baby, but it's not something he can necessarily help. Even though he's somewhat of a scardy-cat, he's always shown me a good time whenever I'm invited over to play at his house. We both like the same kind of music, and his kisses always smell like lavendar and linen potpourri. That's a great trait to have, if you ask me.<br /><br />Forrest Humphrey<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTZb-ANoAmng2XOi7HwWIkMApcY6cREKORG5XD6fbn1PBT-LpUiBa3onTeZY0IYMhLBIc0LdZbS6f-0Orh7rLFuBgoI9jvnFXuhQ9OomxkvPAy35PWTD5komX7fSVAyldG8ygi_OJKjRU/s1600/forrest.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTZb-ANoAmng2XOi7HwWIkMApcY6cREKORG5XD6fbn1PBT-LpUiBa3onTeZY0IYMhLBIc0LdZbS6f-0Orh7rLFuBgoI9jvnFXuhQ9OomxkvPAy35PWTD5komX7fSVAyldG8ygi_OJKjRU/s320/forrest.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621434075787004866" /></a><br /><br />My little man. He's got a lot of oomph, and he's super handsome (I gave him some of my swag for less than a buck fifty). He and I became fast friends when the stork dropped him off at my Aunt Ti-Ti's house. I miss him dearly, and need a lot more of his spots in my life.<br /><br />Harper Powers..<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_MI82uSYXQAm_-J3xtYGNsJ-GaCXK3u-LM7kbdFgbQEzSuLev07MIWCK92YGIWj4SxS079kn9SMUvCLQeGu2r5a92tK3CVPbGZwGfsw5V0EwCnZHhPmuCh6vLsY_JqG2CFhtv2bxbXgI/s1600/7631_615943851653_23208865_36957371_131272_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_MI82uSYXQAm_-J3xtYGNsJ-GaCXK3u-LM7kbdFgbQEzSuLev07MIWCK92YGIWj4SxS079kn9SMUvCLQeGu2r5a92tK3CVPbGZwGfsw5V0EwCnZHhPmuCh6vLsY_JqG2CFhtv2bxbXgI/s320/7631_615943851653_23208865_36957371_131272_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621435335816500994" /></a><br /><br />This just kind of breaks my heart... he moved away and lost my number. I miss him and my aunt more than anyone could ever know...<br /><br /><br />Sam Dowling.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm38m_sodkcnUdueRFHstX5bKR7tXcY-iuDMTH4xgv4sN2wZR99MRLA7tHItf61fhB0tQrGJPt6Lc1Cg-qoyCaX2MqpFs8b9Akut0VPhY2bDNVzmJjP-t2zHM5AQIDu0eVpac1OkRZ3pk/s1600/69069_1519834911864_1114260134_31516555_1666304_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm38m_sodkcnUdueRFHstX5bKR7tXcY-iuDMTH4xgv4sN2wZR99MRLA7tHItf61fhB0tQrGJPt6Lc1Cg-qoyCaX2MqpFs8b9Akut0VPhY2bDNVzmJjP-t2zHM5AQIDu0eVpac1OkRZ3pk/s320/69069_1519834911864_1114260134_31516555_1666304_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621435961470885282" /></a><br /><br />Such a stud and really a fun guy to be around. He knows Atlanta like the back of his left paw. It's always going to be a rowdy time when we're in the pack. He's a stunner, no doubt. He gets all the ladies...I reel them in with my gaydar, he hooks em' for the bait.<br /><br />Mary Hitson.<br /><br />Named after my mom, she's scared of flashes so I couldn't put a picture of her up here.. Darn. In fact, she's scared of a lot of things, which is a bit ironic considering she's a Pit Bull. Our favorite hobby is to run-and-run. We chase geese and each other in my pawpaw and nanny's backyard (hahaha--I mean, G-mama and G-daddy). A Cool cousin, I guess. Kind of a dyke though. (Oh well, You can't pick your family!)<br /><br />I'm going to leave you guys with a stitching that I just finished. Yeah, I know, stitching is for the gays... which I definitely am! So I guess that works out! It's not all that great since I just started, but I'd like to consider this a self-portrait. Whaddya think?!?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHgGfSZY2_vVcpUGCQYyGS7F3Dcx0eq3Jl8bKS6tyrkB5y_ZCBLn8dww3o2mgwVMti9B2913DDuUWmKnladJdRGW6lGDx39EQmDZClRKnyVefMCJu6zjlNo7ofTwqeccuy6bagIhSVjMw/s1600/lotti-the-dog-face-girl-lrg.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 248px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHgGfSZY2_vVcpUGCQYyGS7F3Dcx0eq3Jl8bKS6tyrkB5y_ZCBLn8dww3o2mgwVMti9B2913DDuUWmKnladJdRGW6lGDx39EQmDZClRKnyVefMCJu6zjlNo7ofTwqeccuy6bagIhSVjMw/s320/lotti-the-dog-face-girl-lrg.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621439810646688770" /></a>MaryClairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381290452641062777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236501790581162009.post-43982334123922246682011-06-15T07:17:00.000-07:002011-06-15T09:16:42.687-07:00"because as we all know....money can't buy knives."It is a <a href="http://www.imdb.com/video/screenplay/vi3750494489/">Surf Ninjas</a> kind of day, people, and that movie will never get old; especially since Rob Schneider's character is a ginger, and that in itself is a knee-slapper. If it were up to me, I would have made the Schneidster a red-head from birth (to me, it just works, comparable to The Beach Boys appearing on every movie soundtrack Drew Barrymore has ever starred in). <div><br /></div><div>Have I told you guys the news yet? Probably have not, but before I break out into the latest folly & frenzy, I think all of my dedicated readers need a language key to follow to fully comprehend my lingo. </div><div><br /></div><div>Here's some insight to my Julianguistics (I'll continue to update this list):</div><div><br /></div><div>1. <b>Meechum</b>= a kiss</div><div>2. <b>Canoodle</b>= to snuggle</div><div>3. <b>Rah Rah</b>= a red bone/a nickname</div><div>4. <b>TikiTiki</b>= a type of neck meechum</div><div>5. <b>Squeechum</b>= a hickey </div><div>6. <b>Tittelbaby</b>= acting like a child/brat/wussy</div><div>7. <b>GiGi </b>(pronounced "gee-gee")= really (ex: "Julian, you're adopted." .."oh gigi??!")</div><div>.......</div><div><br /></div><div>Let me stop you right there and elaborate a little on the back story to the example I just gave...Bear with me as I venture down a few rabbit holes before making my way back to the tip (hehe)...</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> Grandma Sue has a black cat. His name is Max. Max apparently has adopted my filthy mouth, which has indirectly landed me in the doghouse...again. My Dad called Mom the other morning and fussed at her about how Max has been using profanity around the house, and targeted me as the rhyme and reason (he'll say anything to get attention--what a decrepit piece of crap).</div><div> It all started with the text messages I got from Max earlier this week. Of course he's all jealous because I'm more feline then he'll ever be. He's made it lucid to me, on more than one occasion, he's sick of my prancing and prissing around when I'm in his mother's house (refer to the cat-scratch fever post). I'll just recreate the conversation for you to get a better idea of what kind of mutant I'm dealing with:</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Max</b>: I've never met a real live gay.</div><div><b>Julian</b>: who is this?</div><div><b>Max</b>: Max.</div><div><b>Julian</b>: Well, I've never met a cat with no tail... how did you get my number?</div><div><b>Max</b>: I wasn't born with a tail, and Matt left his phone on the table so I memorized it.</div><div><b>Julian</b>: Actually, Max. You <i>were</i> born with it, but Grandma Sue cut that beast off because Matt's allergic to you. I believe he said, the less cat he has to deal with, the better. Your eye-soar of a nub was actually once long and fluffy like mine. Hence, I'm more of a cat than you.. Burn.</div><div><b>Max</b>: Yeah, I don't believe you... Funny thing is, I overheard your mom and dad talking about how Matt's allergic to your meechums, and that's why you're only allowed 3 a day... Burn.</div><div><b>Julian</b>:....grow a tail, pussy.</div><div><b>Max</b>: Oh, gigi? One more thing... you're adopted.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I didn't respond to that last comment because I was already dialing my mom's number to confront her about what the cat said. She vehemently denied it, and promised Max was full of piss crystals and was doped up on medication (probably anti-depressants, if I'm allowed a guess). Regardless, I'm not adopted. I'm not adopted. I'm not adopted. But I <i>will </i>be adopted when my dad decides to stop being a tittelbaby and sign the papers (hint-hint, cough-cough, nudge-nudge, daddy-o).</div><div><br /></div><div>I gotta get the hell off of here and clean my closet. We're moving in two days! Skeet!! (that's the big news...Oh! And that I got my first chest hair--what what big boiii!)</div><div><br /></div><div>Hugs & Meechums,</div><div>Joe</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>MaryClairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381290452641062777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236501790581162009.post-34105468100876091832011-06-13T06:58:00.000-07:002011-06-13T08:47:53.127-07:00You Can't stop it..When I really want to do something I'm going to do it. Here is a list of things (grows everyday) that my mom, dad, Gdad and even Gmomma can't stop me from doing. Ya ya I hear you guys “No Julian don’t do that”, but sometimes I just choose to ignore it. You know press some buttons...I get instigating from my Dad ;) <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Top Five</span> <br /><br />1.Roll in goose pooo. – I know what you’re thinking, “Why Julian would you ever want to do that?” Well I like to get dirty. Sometimes I think it’s really funny when Gmomma chases me and gets upset. Problem is she gives me a dag gone bath every time so I choose my goose poo carefully. The bigger poo the better. <br /><br />2.Chasing Geese. I love to chase dem dang birds. They are so goofy and mean. I don’t like them on my property so I chase them off. Problem is Gmomma thinks I’m going to eat a baby or something. Gmomma! I’m not a killer! It does make me laugh thinking about what Gmomma is saying when I go chase my goofy feathered friends. <br /><br />3.Swim in the dirty dead fish infested waters. I’m sorry but I can’t be away from my parents. Even when they say “No Julian! Mom and Dad wants some alone time to fish.” You know what I say “Whatever Mom and Dad I’m on my way!” I don’t care if the water is -20 degrees! I’m gonna swim out and laugh as I watch my Mom go crazy. <br /><br /><br />4.Lick Walls – The texture, taste and shadows are irresistible. I don’t know why my parents just won’t let me do it. Of course they always bicker about it! One day they’ll lick the wall and say, “Oh Joe we are soooo sorry for ever doubting you. This wall taste great!” <br /><br />5.Escape Fences – This is new favorite of mine to do at Dad’s house. It shows that nothing can stop me in life. I wait for them to turn their backs and I dart out to freedom! Last time dad caught me out in front of his neighbor’s yard barking at Mexicans. I was trying to tell them that I wanted some tacos, but my Spanish is not good (thanks mom) and Dad came out madder than a wet hen! He tried to give me a spanking but I said see ya! <br /><br />I’ve been thinking about digging holes to add to my hobbies. Cooper has been talking about it for a while now. Apparently he says you can dig all the way to China where we can eat all the bones we want! I don’t know if I believe him though (he’ll say anything to sound cool). Anyways if I want to do something I’ll do it. No one can stop me now. I’ll leave you with one of my favorite songs… <br /><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p22Xzq5RzUc">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p22Xzq5RzUc</a><br /><br />I like to Dance when I win. #winning <br /><br /><br />http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KQ3Xom5XAM4Julianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13368920710962759614noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236501790581162009.post-63042760153857805142011-06-12T19:46:00.000-07:002011-06-12T20:23:08.207-07:00Oh! You're just the worst!!!!I hear said title <em>quite</em> frequently around my stomping grounds. Whether I'm pulling a "Dennis," as my parents stifle a chuckle and say, or I'm just mouthing off as usual, the phrase, "oh now, well you're just the <strong>worst</strong>, Julian!" is definitely uttered a good percentage of the time. Yet, I will say, most of the time it's spoken in a joking and loving manner. But, I was having a heart to heart with myself the other day, and my oversized brain stumbled upon this school of thought: you know how some people believe when someone says "just kidding," after making a possibly offensive joke to another individual (but a joke none-the-less), 50% of the time they really do mean what they're saying? Let's go ahead and apply that to the previous statement. It's safe to say my parent's really do think I'm Dennis the Menace...hah.<br /><br />I guess they have plenty of reason to accuse me and with such the appropriate quintessential 90's movie reference (kids of the 90's, I swear). If that's the case, guilty as charged, people! But let me just say, they egg me on plenty. I'm sure I'd have a plethora of witnesses' to choose from who would side with me-- no lies, jokes or games. My hair is slicked back, gelled and I mean business.<br /><br />In other news, caught me a large-mouth bass today, and that is NO exaggeration, friends. And of course by "caught" I mean swam out to, sniffed, gulped the shadows around its half-eaten carcas and paddled back to shore. So yeah, I caught him... more or less. Mom and dad came up short on this excursion. Actually, I take that back; Mom reeled in three nice big logs--broke G-dad's line, too (woops!! and yes I just did, Mom).<br /><br />Dad said if it weren't for Mom he would have left me in the water today when I was trying to climb up the side of the boat, barely escaping the six snapping turtles coming at me in every direction! (exaggeration again...yeah, so). I know my biological father doesn't pay mother any alimony or child support, but at least he really cares about me and knows how vital it is that I don't show up bloated on the operating table or when announced D.O.A. Talk about never showing your face in public again...(he's still pretty green and has a lot to learn)...<br /><br />This weekend was a success. But I'm tried and back in this hell-hole of a house. I don't mean hell-hole in any other offensive way than how I'm saying it-- it's hotter than a bitch in heat in here (and I would know, trust me!)<br /><br />Signing off,<br /><br />Your friend and <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9zdNdjF-htY">lover</a>, (<-----)<br />Julian JoeMaryClairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381290452641062777noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236501790581162009.post-59695939519436712102011-06-08T10:43:00.000-07:002011-06-08T11:17:07.998-07:00I'm blue...If I was green I would die.Like I predicted, Mom and Dad sent me a text at or around 10:30 last night, chastising me for my (what I thought was) witty but somewhat rude post about Cooper...(whatever). I was thinking about posting the convo to the website "text from last night" just because I've always wanted to do that.. or at least <i>say</i> I have.. (of course, the conversation wasn't even close to being sexually explicit & or within the graphic realm of acceptable for the website's already sparkling reputation, so I rejected the initial idea). Anyway, the conversation went something like this (I deleted it out of anger so I apologize if it's not word-for-word): <div><br /></div><div>"Julian. Your father and I are disappointed at the choice language you've been using on your blog. You knew the rules to begin with when we all sat down and agreed to let you do this. Maybe it's time for another sit down to reiterate the rules? We love you-Mom & Dad."</div><div><br /></div><div>... I know, right? So here was my response:</div><div><br /></div><div>"Mom & Dad: Maybe you two should stop wasting your "free time" at "work" and do something productive rather than read my blog. Just saying...-Love, Julian."</div><div><br /></div><div>...Mom's response:</div><div><br /></div><div>"Joe. I can't even get mad by your witticism considering you get it honestly. Your father, however, is not impressed."</div><div><br /></div><div>My comment back:</div><div><br /></div><div>"Tell Dad to quit fussing, sweating the small stuff, making mountains out of molehills, being a grumpy Gus and/or sour Sam, and grab a sense of humor while he's at it.."</div><div><br /></div><div>I never received anything back. I think Dad's waiting until he sees me to ring my neck.... good thing I can out run him!! (how ya like them apples, Faja!!?)</div><div><br /></div><div>I'll leave you on this note since I know that I'm in <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k3pltmw6cmI">trouble</a> (hopefully it'll put Dad in a better mood!!)</div><div><br /></div>MaryClairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381290452641062777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236501790581162009.post-88610459161406139662011-06-07T09:35:00.000-07:002011-06-07T10:10:54.800-07:00P-A-R-T--Y? because I gotta.Hello loyal followers,<br /><br />This week is being spent with my g-mama, g-daddy and the other minions that occupy this realm (they shall remain nameless), while Mom gets ready for my big move. I won't lie to you, fans, I'm a spoiled little monkey when I'm in Griffin. My Grand knows exactly whats up when it comes to treating her grandbabies with TLC, and boy, am I ever in need of that (just joshing you, Mom... don't be jelly). However I will say I got into a LITTLE bit of trouble when I decided it'd be funny to roll around in goose poop. I just <strong>love</strong> to egg those geese on (pun intended--thank you, I'll be here all week... but for real though). G-mama told Mom who then told Dad how I had to get a bath, and I'm really not looking forward to hearing that lecture when they get here this weekend... thanks a whole heap, Grand!<br /><br /><br /><div>In other news, I'm delighted I get to see my good friend Annie this weekend. Her mom's the jam and hooks up <em>my</em> Mom when we go to the doctor. Really sweet gals, I must say. Because I'm such a people person as yall are all very aware, I like to befriend those who intrigue me.. You know? The ones that aren't so mainstream, normal and boring, because heavens! I know I'm not (and I'm reminded of that daily). So my dear Annie's a <em>little </em>on the emo-ish side, which makes for a great friend to turn to for musical inspirations and recommendations whenever you get the urge to sit in a bathtub full of scissors. Last time I saw her, she had purple hair. There's nothing wrong with purple hair...if you're an 86 year old senior citizen who routinely goes to the tanning, nail & hair salon for the new up-do and free cable to tune into the Home Shopping Network & The 700 Club... just saying (& might I add, I've always admired those old broads for keeping it real..meechums, darlings!) Regardles, Annie's a cool catdog. I've inserted a photograph of Annie so you can put a face to a name... and see what I mean by emo-ish......</div><br /><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLwZXZkkEGJv-LWnqkRXYQv6mvua9XsemWkocr_rswkHNxvffFyrk_0l5EM-t2nH-QhIhqAVowIx-WM-QyGELWTJdiKSqqQhli3_ubkqLY8fBsebpExFE78Xg0InCmWDPd1-gjOLbHSlQ/s1600/anniefrannie.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615522164200286146" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLwZXZkkEGJv-LWnqkRXYQv6mvua9XsemWkocr_rswkHNxvffFyrk_0l5EM-t2nH-QhIhqAVowIx-WM-QyGELWTJdiKSqqQhli3_ubkqLY8fBsebpExFE78Xg0InCmWDPd1-gjOLbHSlQ/s320/anniefrannie.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLwZXZkkEGJv-LWnqkRXYQv6mvua9XsemWkocr_rswkHNxvffFyrk_0l5EM-t2nH-QhIhqAVowIx-WM-QyGELWTJdiKSqqQhli3_ubkqLY8fBsebpExFE78Xg0InCmWDPd1-gjOLbHSlQ/s1600/anniefrannie.jpg"></a></p><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>(what a gem!)</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I'm just going to go ahead and put it out there... Cooper's retarded. He's the lankiest and weirdest looking son of a bitch I've ever met, and I mean that with the upmost respect. Mr. G's dog, Celine, has a bigger brain than my cousin, and she's a chiwawa. (see below my mentor and hero Mr. G. showing off Celine's enormous brain).<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMVzmr6fd5fF31dUU_NLfhyphenhyphenMMHyIubu9jy81cGudJPP8vBp8-QNsQO4TNBajwMQesvS78Ob24GEsxXlqAuDSVX6Iqz5yvLcMInXGXDTFdOOzp4fqvKG096D-P6Q903DLzVsyma-TxO_Lo/s1600/celine.bmp"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 181px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615521072165406434" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMVzmr6fd5fF31dUU_NLfhyphenhyphenMMHyIubu9jy81cGudJPP8vBp8-QNsQO4TNBajwMQesvS78Ob24GEsxXlqAuDSVX6Iqz5yvLcMInXGXDTFdOOzp4fqvKG096D-P6Q903DLzVsyma-TxO_Lo/s320/celine.bmp" /></a></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>(^ if I could steal every shirt and tie from his wardrobe, I'd do it and leave the evidence that it was me... my diamond couture watch he gave me for my birthday.. or that I bought for myself and said it was from him.)</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Ok, well I better get to scootin' since I'm probably going to get in trouble for saying S.O.B. ,but I feel it rings true in the context. Just waiting on that irate text from mom or dad..."Julian, you know your grandmother reads your blog. Why must you be so vulgar?"...And my response, "I learned it from Cooper..."</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>-Joe</div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div>MaryClairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381290452641062777noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236501790581162009.post-73633119700953836482011-06-03T08:20:00.001-07:002011-06-03T09:04:40.112-07:00Panked and Personificaton<strong>A few things that are troubling me; listen up!:</strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>So, as many of you already know, I go ape-style crazy over any type of light. Every time I waltz into the room, I play Kanye West's "Flashing Lights" in my head as my theme song (just in case you didn't already know the extent of my homosexuality).</strong><br /><br /><strong>Well mom and dad let me go into the woods on a potty excursion and all of a sudden, I see this bright white light, and I'm immediately drawn to it like fat kids are to Klondike bars and clowns. Sooo, I got a little too excited and snapped at my dad..on accident...and here it comes... he panked me. Then mom saw the tiny little scratch on his finger and b/c she's obsessed with dad. wouldn't you know... I'm panked again (hard bc she's got bigger muscles then dad--sad but true story). </strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>I was appalled. How can I get into so much trouble when I'm visiting Big Abe and Grandma Sue? It's my get-a-way haven for crying out loud!!! Needless to say, I sat in the time-out chair for about an hour, pouted and cut my eyes at mom and dad JUST SO THEY KNEW my level of anger and disappointment. Rude.</strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>Might I add, Max swatted at my bottom, and now I think I have cat-scratch fever. Thanks a whole heap you fat feline foul-mouthed fart-fah-nooger. (fabulous alliteration, Joe).</strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>To make matters WORSE, mom couldn't find a sitter for me today since school's out, and I had to go with her to work. I mean, she didn't bring me any puzzles or books; she left my Game Boy at home, and don't I have any snacks to feed my boredom. Mom, you just lost 623 points on that one.</strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>The good news is, I'm going to stay at my G-mama and G-daddy's house for a few weeks while mom and dad move me into my new apartment!!! Hooray! I told them both I wasn't lifting a finger to help, so I'm going to Griffin to stay out of their hair (and get them out of mine..finally). </strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>Enough venting for now. I'll post and let you know how things are on the south side.</strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>A little exit music for your ears... Toodles.</strong><br /><strong></strong>MaryClairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381290452641062777noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236501790581162009.post-45648426455409604552011-06-02T08:05:00.000-07:002011-06-02T08:12:17.804-07:00While Mom's AwaySometimes I love when my Momma is away so I get the whole house to myself. Below is a list of my Top 5 Favorite things do while mom's gone. <br /><br />1)Think of ways to get Matt in trouble. <br />2)Beat up Cooper/laugh at him when he's in his cage <br />3)Tear up the blinds and blame it on cooper (Doesn't usually work though...) <br />4)Day dreaming: I'm at G Mommas house chasing dem Birds and swimmin! <br />5)Lick walls <br /><br /><br />These are a few of my favorite things..Julianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13368920710962759614noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236501790581162009.post-90860728440790956272011-06-01T10:39:00.001-07:002011-06-01T12:23:17.552-07:00G-mama thinks I might have caught a multiple personality disorderThere's a Chinese proverb that reads, "The beginning of wisdom is to call things by their right names." Now, in my house, this poses quite the problem. The name on my birth certificate is in fact Julian Joseph. However, I literally have a slew of nick-names, each to which I respond (if I feel like it, of course). Would you like to see the list? Ok, Here goes:<br /><br /><br />1. JuJu<br />2. Juliana<br />3. Juicy<br />4. Joe<br />5. Julie (pronounced "Hoo-lee")<br />6. Julio (refer to #5, but with an "o")<br />7. Sugarshi* (clever, huh?)<br />8. Monkey<br />9. Sweetbabyangelprince<br />10. HooHoo<br />11. Josie<br />12. Ju Joe<br />13. Doodle<br />14. RahRah<br />15. Scooter/Scooter Joe<br />16. Juliana-ja-booty-do<br /><br /><br />Whether or not I've caught a multiple personality disorder is hard to say, but it is likely. I hear they fly around in the air like a sneeze. There are a few other theories as to why I am the way I am. If you don't know me, you're probably asking yourself, "what does that even mean?" Well, I have Asberger Syndrome which is an autism spectrum disorder that is characterized by significant difficulties in social interaction, along with restricted and repetititve patterns of behavior and interests. In Lamen's Terms, I'm a brilliant, socially awkward individual with obsessive compulsive tendencies. Mom says it's pretty common... I think she's just saying that to make me feel less scrutiny when in public. <br /><br />It could be that this particular blog is an introduction, an opening, a prologue, a preamble, if you will, to my oddity and foible quirks and sayings. With that said, I'll keep your thoughts buzzing and leave you anticipating what's to come....<br /><br />For now,<br /><br />Julian JosephMaryClairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381290452641062777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3236501790581162009.post-84207348481885733282011-06-01T08:04:00.000-07:002011-06-01T08:10:39.004-07:00MannersFor the past couple of weeks I have been putting up with this manner BS my parents have been trying to "teach" me. Don't eat too fast, sit before a treat is given, shake hands for a treat, sit before the door opens, dont jump on people..the list goes on!I have been very nice up until this point. I'm gonna start eating food off the table, jump on people and get in the trash...if I want to lay in bed all day I will. If I wanna look out the window and wake up my parents I will!Julianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13368920710962759614noreply@blogger.com0