And I'M The Weird One. Message Me When You See Bigfoot. Or Hogzilla. Or Someone Who Wants To Hang Out And Watch PPV At The Nearest Holiday Inn.

(c) 07/07/11 Natalie Dee: SW gosh camping is just grand aint it

With Apologies to Misters Simon & Garfunkel

"Hello bronchitis, my old friend. 

How I detest feeling you again, 

With your hack-ing a-a-nd wheezing,

You pre-vent thinking o-o-or sleep-ing ...

But now with two shots in my bum, 

z-pac and codiene on its way —

It's safe to say (I pray),

I'll hear the sounds ... of silence."

This post has been brought to you by CatCon,

who is quite used to finding herself among 

"people talking with-o-o-out speaking (to her), 

people hearing without-o-o-out listening (to her),

and people writ-ing songs that her voice should never share, 

and yet she dares, disturb the sound of of silence."

Carolina In My Mind

Sitting on the beach, overwhelmed with a glorious sensory overload, I thought of two dear friends whom I knew were there with me in spirit. Given that they weren't actually within earshot to hear either a squee of delight, a sigh of contentment, or an alternating rhythm of the two, I decided to text them a simple message.

In my immediate short-term memory, or within my direct line of sight were several captivating images.

Like this one.

Or this one.

Or this one.

Or this one.

And definitely this one.

So. I scrolled to their names in my cell, composed a simple three-word text message, and hit "send."

My phone buzzed me back almost immediately with a response from sweet CVZ, with the simple advice to "enjoy" and her always-appropriate admonition to "breathe." (I do need reminding. To breathe. It's a problem.) A few minutes later, my phone buzzed again. Absorbed with all my my enjoying and breathing, I reached for it with a smile, certain it would be an equally happy response from sweet SPG.

Hmm.

Apparently, I only had SPG's landline programmed. The notice was from Verizon, kindly offering to transmit my text as a voice message. For a split second (Or two. I can be impulsive. It's a problem. Ironically, SPG is the one who has talked me down off that particular ledge.), I considered it. I thought, "Wow-isn't-that-cool-you-can-send-a-text-to-a-landline-and-it-magically-turns-into-a-voice-message." Just as my finger was headed in for a landing on the "send" key, two things occurred to me.

One: It wouldn't be my voice. It would probably be some skeevy computer-generated voice. Or worse, a voice like the lady who lives inside the voicemail box. Who doesn't sound like me, but might sound enough like somebody to make SPG wonder, "Do I know this chick?"

Two: Context. Not only would a disembodied, unknown voice be delivering the message, but those three words would be delivered in the absence of any frame of reference.

I started to imagine picking up my own phone to hear something along the lines of: "the following is a message from meaningless-number-number-number (I don't know anyone's actual phone number anymore. Do you?) ..." followed by my well-intentioned, share-the-moment three-word text. And then I decided against it.

Because I may be overly excitable, impulsive and even delightfully obnoxious, but even I know hearing a random voice on the phone saying "greetings from heaven" is just creepy.

Tee Gee Eye Eff Eff

(lace up your roller skates and cue Donna Summer and a spinning disco ball here)


"Friday. Thank God It's Flashback Friday!"


Yes, my darlings, I am once again feeling:

A. Lazy; 

B. In need of yet another dose of alliteration; 

C. Smugly satisfied (see B); 

D. Like I am the undisputed queen of my universe and all that revolves around it (see C); and/or

E. All of the a-freakin'-bove

Ding-ding-ding! If you chose A, B, C, D, or even E, you also may revel in your own sense of smug satisfaction, for you are correct. Today we'll revisit the first appearance of HRH Princess Snarkerella and her establishment of one of Halfglassistan's many arbitrary and capricious holidays.


Enjoy.

By Royal Decree ...

As Her Royal Highness Princess Snarkerella, it is my duty (one of many) to consider (many applicants) and determine (eeny-meeny-miney-moe) the High Holidays of Halfglassistan.

[trumpets sound]
[trumpets sound again, as HRH is late to the podium]
[trumpets playing a light jazzy number while HRH is delayed behind the velvet curtain as she fiddles with her hair]

And ...
[TRUMPETS SOUND]
Ahem.

I — your humble leader — declare (-are, -are, -are) — today (-ay, -ay, -ay)  Overflow Day (-ay, -ay, -ay) — upon which (-itch, -itch — OK, kill the echo effect) — upon which we fill the official drinking vessels of Halfglassistan (Libbey®) until they overflow with hope. 

Why today? Why today? 

I say, "Why not today?" 
We overdose on hope, not because it is easy — but because it is hard. 

Hmmm? What's that, you say? Ummm, yeah — no, I can't take credit for that last turn of phrase — good catch. But — I like it. And — it fits. 

So — go forth, and — hope. 
That is all. Carry on. 

CROWD: "Snarkita! Snarkita! Snarkita!" 
ME: "Don't cry for me, Halfglassistanita ... " 

Oh, please — you didn't see that coming?

Don't Make Me Call Your Mother

Dear Summer,


Please refrain from showing up and persuading spring to emulate you. She is quite impressionable and, I must say, I am very disappointed in the influence you've had on her. It is far too soon for her to be sizzling the way she is. She should be sweet, not sweaty.


I'm going to have to ask that you not come around here anymore. Or, at least not until the date on your invitation. In fact, it would be ever so lovely if you were fashionably late.


Sincerely,
Me

Take It Down A Notch

Dear Spring,

You're nice. You are. Cute, perky — it's hard not to smile when you show up.

Actually you're downright adorable. Always sporting a bright sunny outlook, gorgeous outfits — really, your taste in colors is divine — you've got an infectious personality that really just blows people away.

And your perfume? It's delightful. Truly.

But you try too hard, kid. Ease up. This happens every year. You get all excited and overheated, and it's just too much too soon. Don't move so fast. Seriously. Summer really owns the whole sultry persona, so just leave it to her. She's always going to be hotter, so although you're doing an incredible job of matching her numbers, please stop trying to compete.

While we're on the whole "a-little-goes-a-long-way" topic, enough with the yellow powder. Please. I know you can't help it. I know you get all worked up and before you know it — poof! — it's everywhere. But if you're going to put it all over yourself, can you at least indulge in a shower a little more often? Really. People are talking.

I just thought you'd want to know.

Sincerely,
Me

If You Want Something Done Right

Dear Life,

Please disregard my letter dated Thursday, March 4.

Clearly, I will need to solve my problems myself. On the off chance that you actually care, I am happy to inform you that this process already has been initiated. Modest improvement has been noted, and I expect full resolution within five to seven days.

I'll keep in touch. Until then, I'll thank you for your cooperation.

Most sincerely,
Me

p.s. Those fairies sucked. Big time.

Try Again

Dear Life,

As you'll recall, late yesterday afternoon I phoned to inform you of my frustration with the day you'd delivered. I clocked out an hour-and-a-half early (at your suggestion, may I remind you) to take a nap (also at your suggestion, may I remind you) with the covers over my head (I feel, I must, yet again, remind you that this, too, was your idea).

I despise redundancy (as must be apparent in my opening statement) almost as much as verbosity; however, I feel it most important to clearly and abundantly, without equivocation or any chance of misinterpretation, state (restate, in my opinion) my expectations.

When I expressed my interest in what is known colloquially as a "do-over," you should have made clear if that goal was not, in fact, achievable. Given that you did not discourage my line of thinking, and did, in fact, encourage it, I think it only reasonable to expect you to deliver on my request. And, let's be honest, shall we? I believe it is a universally accepted notion that when one puts the covers over one's head, one expects things to be quite different when one pokes one's head out of said covers.

Again, as much as I deplore repetition (as I have stated, along with my distaste for circumlocution), I simply feel I cannot stress enough that, as you introduced the whole escape/replace notion I embraced late yesterday afternoon, you are compelled to deliver on your implicit promise. I can only assume two things: one, perhaps the hour-and-a-half allotted yesterday was not sufficient; and, two, perhaps you did not correctly note my desired outcome. This brings us to today's missive. I am putting in writing my notice that today, I not only will allow more time, but also will very clearly state my expectations.

I shall be making myself unavailable to you for the remainder of the day. I shall, as you so clearly recommended yesterday, crawl back into my bed and pull my covers over my head. My expectations when I crawl out are as follows:

1. I am able to breathe again. Through both nostrils. At the same time. And without the use of a box of tissues every 4.75 hours.
2. My eyes will no longer itch, nor ache. Nor will my nose. Nor my throat.
3. The pressure in both of my ears will have been relieved. As will the ringing. Seriously. Enough with the ringing. It's enough that I feel I am underwater. Does there have to be a tuning fork under there with me?
4. My muscles will not be aching. Nor will I have any chills.
5. My head will not be pounding. Really. It's simply adding insult to injury at this point. Which, by the way, so is the ear ringing (see #3).

Seeing as I am giving you more time, Life, and you so clearly under-delivered yesterday, I have a few additional requests I'd like to see fulfilled before I come out:

1. The excess weight I am carrying will have disappeared. You know how much. You put it there.
2. At the same time, my muscles (which will not ache, please refer to #4, list one) will be tightly toned. You know the shape I'm talking about. The one you gave me in college.
3. My legs will be shaved. And my feet pedicured. Go ahead and throw in a manicure, too. And a conditioning treatment on my hair.
4. My house will be cleaned. Like my mother's coming over. Yes, that kind of clean.

Well. In looking over those lists, it seems you'll have plenty to do, so I shall close now. It matters not to me how this is all achieved. You can send in a team of fairies while I sleep, for all I care. (Be sure to send a white-gloved team for #4, list two.) Just make them efficient. And quiet. And pleasant. I imagine fairy grumblings would be just as, if not more, annoying than the incessant ringing (Incessant. Truly.) in my ears.

That is all. I trust I'll not have to remind you again.
Most sincerely yours,
Me

Wordless Attempt-to-Overcome-My-Fear Wednesday

Punxsatawney Till

Hullo, all. Tilly here.


Um. So. Here's the thing:  I wear a lot of hats in Halfglassistan. 


If My Half-Glassed Life were a sitcom, and if this were a very special hour-long episode, right about now would be when the grainy clip montage would run.


But it's not. And we don't have that kind of budget.


So you'll just have hover and click on these highlighted words to check all my mad skills out for yourself:

• See how I am a licensed home healthcare worker here, here and here. 
• Read press releases and snippets from news conferences that reference my status as an internationally known network news CEO here and here.
• Be inspired by my turn as a motivational guru here.
• Delight yourself with my wit as a guest blogger here and here — and, well, right here.

You see? I pull my weight (all 17 pounds of it) around here. Happily. Very happily.


So today, when HRH Princess Snarkerella asked me crawl out my warm toasty bed to see how many more weeks of winter there might be, I was somewhat confused. 


First, that guy in Pennsylvania already has that gig. Second, South Carolina likely only has days of winter left. And third — well, I don't know that I have a well-thought-out third reason.


So. Well. No. Just no.

I suggest you call that fellow in PA. Tilly out.

Mr. Manning, You Know What Must Be Done

Dear Peyton,

You know I love you so. Your leadership (on the field, and as evidenced by your work with children so beautifully chronicled by SNL). Your athletic prowess. Your determination.


You also know how much I despise the Saints. I know, I know, your father was (is!) a legend in New Orleans and throughout the NFL. And deservedly so. Inasmuch as I can love Archie and hate the Saints, I also love certain family members who, much to my chagrin, do include "Who Dat?" in their lexicon.

My brother-in-law is a diehard Saints fan.

[sigh]

While I wish my brother-in-law all happiness in every other way, I just cannot stomach the thought of the Saints in the big game (sorry — can't afford to pay NFL licensing fees, but I know you know what I'm talking about). Seriously. I've been ill all day. Even more troubling to me than the Saints actually being in the game is the thought of them actually winning it.

So. Please. My dear, sweet Peyton: You know what you must do.

I shan't distract you anymore. See you in two weeks.

Sincerely,
Me

STILL IMAGE FROM SNL DIGITAL SHORT "UNITED WAY" ©2008 NBC UNIVERSAL

Wordless Sassy-Scale-For-Self-Affirmation Wednesday

get it at VoluptuArt™

Fra-Geeeee-Lay

Big weekend at Team Wedding HQ: Chili and NFL wild card playoffs.

No. No, there's not a trace of sarcasm in that statement. That is what passes for a big weekend 'round here. We're easily entertained.

A snippet for you:

WHERE: TWHQ


WHEN: Saturday evening


THE SCENE: Mr. J in his chair; me on my couch; Tilly running between the two spots hoping against hope that this will be the day someone sets one of those steaming bowls of smells-so-good down for her to dive in; on the tube, a promo for a new Jerry Seinfeld-produced show on NBC called "The Marriage Ref," in which a couple argues over the wife's insistence on keeping her first husband's fake leg. Don't believe me? See it for yourself here. But come back.

MR. J: "I'd like to think you'd make mine into a nice, tasteful planter."

ME: (mouth filled with chili) "Mmm-hmm-grbrbaw ... I was so getting ready to say just that ... Grbrbaw-hmmm-mmmm."

MR. J: "I thought so."

ME: (taking time to finish the next mouthful of chili) ... "Or a lamp."

MR. J: (thumbs-up)

So easily entertained.

I Want You To Want Me

Oh, I am feeling all kinds of special.

Halfglassistan is becoming quite the not just my imaginary kingdom of all things awesome destination of curious bored work-avoidant discerning loyal subjects minions readers within six degrees of anyone everywhere.


Which is, ummmm, just freakin' awesome.


Because, as CatCon would tell you — loudly — if she were here: I want you to want me. I need you to need me. I'd love you to love me.

'Cause I'm just a needy obnoxious melodramatic attention whore an extrovert like that.

Waiting For The Other Ball To Drop

Here in Halfglassistan, we have no problem admitting to the incessant occasional lifestyle of flirtation with procrastination. We know our flaws weaknesses well.

And sometimes we declare a state of procrastination for the greater good.

Go ahead, judge if you will. We're also well aware of the concept of rationalization, so we're way ahead of you.

In fact, while we're discussing various -ations, let me get to my point: We are in anticipation of our New Year's celebration.

Yes, I know it's already January 5. Yes, I know that for the vast majority of the world, real life began yesterday.

Guess what? When you're not receiving a regular paycheck and have no office other than the one above your garage to report to unconventionally employed as I am, you can make up the rules as you go.

Jealous much?

I didn't think so, but it makes me feel not at all a wee bit better to imagine you are.

Besides, being unconventionally employed as I am, I actually worked NYE, NYD, and straight through into the wee hours of the third day of this new decade.

Take that, bitches. (Eh. Not really. I actually enjoyed what I was working on and the bowl scene sucked. A "take that, bitches" just kinda felt appropriate with the snark I had going. Carry on.)

So, in light of the great-debilitating-emesis-worse-than-four-months-of-chemo that was inflicted on Mr. J after I unwittingly brought said evil into TWHQ, we toasted at midnight December 31 with Gatorade.

And that, my friends, just will not cut it after the year we've had.

So. Go ahead to your offices. Go ahead and start your diets. Go ahead and lace up those sneakers. Go ahead and start making (and breaking) all your resolutions.

Until next Monday, we're gonna party like it's 2009.

Take that, bitches. (Hmmm? What's that? Oh. Yeah. Yeah, that one I meant.)

Kiss Me Goodbye ...

... I'm defying gravity.

Things have been hopping in my little center of the universe of all things awesome corner of the world. I've been getting my glee(!) on like the painfully deluded and in need of serious help wannabe rockstar I am.

Mr. Santa put the Season One cd in my stocking, and it has been a tres fab soundtrack for my oh-so-gleeful endeavors these past few days.

Oh, that man must so wish for spontaneous selective and reversible deafness love me.

... sigh ... 

glee logo ©FOX Broadcasting Company

Happy Ewwwwwwwww Year

Can you hear that? 


I can. It's God laughing.*


He likes to do that when I make plans — get all creative with the whole working-in-mysterious-ways thing He's got going on.


All TWHQ wanted to do was a big, snazzy, end-of-the-year blowout.


But, TWHQ contracted a big, nasty, end-of-the-year blowout.


I'll leave that last play on words open to interpretation, but yeah ... yeah ... it pretty much means what you think it might mean. And then some.


See you in 2K10, sports fans.


*or, He's saying, "What? You don't like this head start on your weight loss goals? You say violent stomach bug; I say motivation. Tomato, tomahto. WHOA! OK, too soon to talk about food ... I get it, I get it. Do you need me to hold your hair?"

Nurse Tilly Reporting for Duty

Hullo all. Nurse Tilly here.

Just taking a quick break from tending to Princess Funky McFunkenstein to help my loyal assistant Piggy reach the tissues off the shelf. Seems it was a better idea to send the 4-inch-tall purple plush pig to fetch them rather than the 5-foot-5-inch-tall grown-up.

While Piggy drags them back to PFF's lair, I thought I'd post a quiz for you dear readers:

WHO is a big ol' whiny crybaby when she's sick?

1. CCW
   
2. CatCon
   
3. Her Royal Highness Princess Snarkerella
   
4. NOT me (nor Piggy)
   
5. All of the above
   

DING-DING-DING! YOU ARE CORRECT.

Wait! What? You say you didn't choose an answer yet?

[sigh]

Like it matters ...

Nurse T OUT.

You Knew What You Were Getting Into When You Married Me

... is pretty much what I say every year to Mr. J when he would just as soon let the 8th of November pass without fanfare.

But birthdays? Are not ignored in my world.

I don't care how old you are, Mr. J; and I sure don't care how broke we are, 'cause I don't need money to make a fuss. I only care enough to never have anyone sing to you in a cheesy restaurant, and to never (never, I promise!) throw you a surprise party.

And that's only because I expect the same in return. The only cheesy singing on my (oh, and yours, too) birthday shall be done by me. And the only surprising on my birthday shall be done by you. We agree on that.

But that's it. 

I will never ignore a birthday (I might forget, but that's a whole other story), because I am exponentially cheesetastic like that. I will never stop being grateful that one day in November, 1962, you happened. I may have taken another six years to show up, and then another 29 to find you, but none of that's important.

It was always meant to be.

What's that? Er, no. 

No. It's not easy being this cheesy.

Below, birthday happiness 2009:

Nom, nom, nom ...

One dozen little cups of happy.

Red velvet.

Caramel apple and chocolate peanut butter.

The black bottom, a brilliant concoction of dark chocolate cake with chocolate chip cheesecake and cream cheese frosting.

Nurse Tilly, asking for the 4,782nd time, "Why? Why can't I have a little happy cake of joy?"

Why? Because you can't have chocolate. And there'd be fewer for me. But mostly the chocolate reason. Really.

Thank you, Cupcake, for coming to Columbia. And thank you, anonymous college girl (ACG) working at Cupcake for your validation when I picked these out.

ACG (smiling): "Are these for a special occasion?"

ME (drooling): "Yes, they are. My husband made me promise not to get him anything for his birthday, and this is the anything I'm getting anyway."

ACG (seriously): "Ma'am, you did the right thing."

Yes, I did, ACG. 

Yes.

I. 

Did.

Take Care of Your Twins

Breast Cancer Awareness month is almost over.

Go get your ta-tas touched.

Early detection saves lives.

Thing 1 and Thing 2, Dr. Seuss properties ™ and ©1937—2009