Archive for the ‘Hotclue v/s Beth’ Category
September 14, 2011
OH NO! HOTCLUE’S BACK!
Folks, I don’t know what to tell you. I moved all the way from Chicago to the Upper Northwest, Washington state to be exact, thinking I’d be rid of her once and for all, but look what happened now. I heard a familiar laugh, turned around a few minutes ago, and there’s Hotclue, perched on top of the brown desk that holds all of my important papers, all of which I’ve been ignoring ever since I got here. And what is she wearing this time? Black leather bustier and black leather Daisy Mae shorts, for God’s sake. With black leather high-heel boots all the way up to there.
Me: Hots. My God. Black leather?
Hots: Well, Count Bobbalallapaloozo bought the whole outfit for me in France last week. (Preens a bit.) Don’t you like it? He did!
Me: Well, it does fit, I’ll give you that. Don’t you think the thigh-high boots are a bit much, though?
Hots: Beats what you’re wearing. Look at you! What happened to your fashion sense? I thought I taught you something, at least, but I pop in and what are you wearing? Orange scrubs. SCRUBS yet! White low-cut socks. Beige t-shirt at least two sizes too big. Good lord, woman, let you out of Chicago for a month and you lose every fashion trick I ever taught you. But–the good news is, that’s why I’m here. We’re going shopping.
Me: Uh…well, it’s been awfully hot here, and…uh…
Hots (Fanning herself): Don’t ‘uh’ me, lady. You didn’t even do your hair today. You’ve forgotten everything I taught you about good grooming, I can see that.
Me: But…but…I’ve been writing. All those blogs for that 14 author blog tour…
Hots: You call that writing? In that outfit? I wouldn’t be caught dead in that mess.
Me: Well, it’s comfortable…
Hots: Comfort? You want comfort? You can be comfortable when they wrap you up in a body bag and carry you out. You’re in a terrible rut. I KNEW I should have come back before now. (Hops down, does a pretty fancy soft-shoe ramble, doesn’t miss a step.) See? I’m comfortable too, and I can even dance in this outfit. Let’s see you do this! (Executes a fast Michael Jackson slide across the room, not easy considering she’s doing it over thick carpeting.)
Me: Just out of curiosity, how the heck do you do that in four-inch heels?
Hots: Imagination, my dear. I have a wild imagination. Anything I imagine comes true. You just need a complete leather outfit like this. Only…(Pauses for a second to think)…I think yours would need more pizazz. Anything would help. How about some feather tassles on the jacket, right about…
Me (Screaming): Noooo, no feathers! I already did that, don’t you remember? At that party, years and years ago, all those black feathers, and the kid who lived there found some of the feathers and asked her parents the next day what the heck kind of a party did they have in their attic last night? That one?
Hots: Oh, I remember, alright. Wasn’t that the one where our husband and his buddy had to carry you home and put you to bed? That one? The night you don’t even remember how you got home?
Me (Averting my eyes, trying to fluff my hair, which won’t fluff, and trying for an innocent tone): I don’t recall anything like that.
Hots: Oh, yes you do. I was the one embarrassed that night, I can tell you. That poor woman’s kitchen sink–
Me: Stop! Stop!
Hots (Relentless, now that she’s got me): You had plenty of black on that night. Untill they got you home and–
Me: Okay, okay, keep the black leathers. At least you’re not loaded down with jewelry this time.
Hots (Patting her hair) Only because my jewelry is being cleaned at the moment. At the jewelry cleaners in France. But YOU–look at yourself! I can’t believe it! Not even one single diamond on you. I’m SO embarrassed!
Me: Hots. These are my writing clothes. Some of them.
Hots: And the others? I bet there’s not a jewel or feather on them, either! What happened to you?
Me: I mostly wear…well, jeans, when I’m writing. And, I guess, T-shirts. Or sweats.
Hots (Smirking): Do your fans know that?
Me: Uh…no…probably not…at least I never came right out and said so.
Hots: So. You need a new image. One you can talk about. Are we going shopping?
Hots: Beth, Beth, Beth. We’re going to Paris, of course. Count Bobbalallapaloozo has kindly offered his jet, it’s waiting at the airport in Seattle.
Me: Seattle’s quite a ways from here, Hots.
Hots: I’m always prepared for anything where you’re concerned. We’re taking the Count’s helicopter, it’s waiting out in the yard. You ready for some couture originals?
Me: But…but…wait a minute, why do I need couture originals to write murder mysteries?
Hots: Oh. My. God. Don’t tell me you’re still writing those things. How about a hot romance?
Me: I don’t do hot romances. On purpose anyway. I do murder. Which I feel like doing right now.
Hots: Piffle. Did you EVER finish the one about Jack and Raven? The one in Alaska? Or are you still diddling around with Chapter One?
Me (Huffily): I finished it and it’s published and people are loving it, so there!
Hots (Stopping in mid-pirouette): It’s actually a BOOK now? With actual pages?
Me: It is. It’s an e-book too. And I’m getting ready to start a new one. Any day now.
Hots: But another murder mystery? In the same town? In Alaska? My God, didn’t you kill off enough people in that poor town in the last book? What’d you finally call that thing, anyhow? Last I heard you had three or four separate titles for it.
Me: My publisher decided to call it RAVEN TALKS BACK, and well, I didn’t kill off EVERYONE there.
Hots: Why not?
Me: Well, actually, some of them are in prison.
Hots: So, you almost wipe out a whole town in Alaska and now you’re going back to finish off the rest of the population? Is that it?
Me (Grinning): Something like that.
Hots: You have a strange mind, you know that? Sometimes you frighten me.
Me: Not as much as that outfit you’ve got on frightens me, that’s for sure.
Hots: Forget my outfit. Just stand up now, come on. Get your shoes on, and for God’s sake, not your tennis shoes. We’re going to Paris.
Me (Sinking): Well…okay, but I have a favor to ask you.
Hots: Anything, I’ll do ANYTHING to get you away from that computer and out of those things you call clothes.
Me: Uh…could we make a quick stop in Alaska? Like a month or so? I need to do a little more research.
::::From Paris:::: Hey, folks, I’ll be back to my computer in a few days. Stop by again soon, I’ll leave the porch light on for you. I love y’all, you KNOW I do! Gotta go now, Hots is trying to talk her hairdresser into coloring my hair in tiger stripes. Looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me…
XOXO, Beth, who is determined to stay blonde.
Oh, and PS, Sarge back in Washington still hugging her new Birkenstocks says Hey!
March 18, 2007
Where Is Hotclue When I Need To Borrow Her Body?
So my middle daughter has decided to get married early in April to The Most Wonderful Man In The World, which our entire family agrees is certainly true. A simple home wedding ceremony out on their terrace, party to follow, with fifty or so of their nearest and dearest. It all sounds so lovely and I know it will be.
Except for one thing. Me.
My God, WHEN will my daughters (I have three) EVER stop putting me through the shopping for the mother-of-the-bride dress thing? That just about tops my list of the most miserable events in the world, second only to hot flashes and trying on bathing suits at the local barge boutique.
I went to the mall the other evening looking for a nice outfit, only to discover there are no nice outfits–that I like anyway–for less than $275 On Sale. Which tells you one of the reasons why I rarely go shopping, and then only under duress. Champagne taste, beer pocketbook. True in the fifties, still true today.
The other reason–well, this is Hotclue’s blog, but it’s my personal reason. You remember I told you Hotclue is a perfect size 8? Or was it 6, I forget.
I’m not either of those sizes and my fruitless quest the other night proved it. There is nothing, repeat NOTHING worse than standing in front of a triple mirror and trying on several outfits on the ONE day in Chicago when it’s 80 degrees in March and the air conditioning hasn’t yet been turned on in the mall and everything you put on makes you look like a beached whale just out of the water.
One look in that triple mirror and all the sins of the past holiday season (oh, okay, I’ll come clean, the past few decades) are apparent. PLUS, and this is a big plus, all the clothes today seem to have ruffly cute little short sleeves or ruffly cute little things around the middle. There doesn’t seem to be anything for those of us who are more…well, let’s just say matronly. Yes. Matronly. That sort of describes the situation.
So I come home from the mall sweaty and miserable and empty-handed and find Hotclue sitting on one of my doll shelves fanning herself, wearing, of all things, a full Colonial hoop-skirted Southern Belle outfit. Pale green lace, ruffly white lace shoulders, ruffles around the hem, teeny white ballet slippers on her teeny white feet, and I have NO idea where she found the white lace gloves. But there she was.
Me: Hotclue, what are you doing in that outfit?
Hots: Practicing, of cawahse. Lawd ‘a mussy, ma’yam, you went shopping and came home with NOTHING?
Me: Excuse me? Practicing for what?
Hots: You foahgot Count Babalallapallozo is taking me down south to Gawgia? I want to make sure I’m prohpuhhly drayessed, don’tcha know.
Me: And you picked up that accent from which Berlitz book?
Hots (fanning herself): Ah watched Gawn With The Wiyund six tames today.
Me: Hots, I hate to tell you this but this is the 2000’s, not the 1860’s.
Hots: Ha! That’s all youawl know. Thiyas is a breakaway dreyass, the Count had it special made for me. Want to see how it works? She reaches for a ribbon around her waist.
Me: HOTS, NO!
(God knows what she’s got on underneath but according to Sarge, who said a little about it here last week, she got all her new undies at Victorias Secret. I don’t want to see any of it.) (Okay, the truth is, if you must know, I want to wallow in all of it.)
Me: (Down on my knees) I’ve got a deal for you, Hots.
Hots: (Peering at me over the top of her fan) And thayat would be?
Me: I want to borrow your body just for the next three weeks.
Hots: Ah declayah, y’all are goin’ ta give me the vapahs! (Fans herself rapidly this time.)
Me: Do you even know what the vapors are, Hots?
Hots: Weyall, not exactly, but ah huhd about it in GWTW. I think it was Miss Pittypat.
Me: (Sigh.) Back to the subject, Hots. MAY I borrow your body for the next three weeks?
Hots: Well, honeychile, now ah’d just luvvvv to do that for you, but the Count is actually waiting outside in his limo.
Me: Hots, wait, please, I really, TRULY need–
So now Hots is Gone With the Wind, and I’m sitting here staring at my–uh–not quite size eight body, wondering how many more malls I’m going to have to hit before I finally find something I like enough to actually give someone money for it.
Wish me luck, I’ll keep you posted!
Love you all, you know both Hots and I do (and so does Sarge!). Come back soon, ya hear us?
Beth, who, in the interests of full disclosure, is nowhere near a size 8, drat the luck and her genes and all the Dairy Queen Blizzards she consumed over the years.
November 18, 2006
Hotclue Splits AGAIN!
Beth here this week. Again. Yeah, again. What can I say.
So last weekend, my daughter and her S/O, Chris, decide to come up and paint my kitchen and dining room walls and ceilings and trim and install ceramic tile under the cabinets and above the stove and sinks. Just as I’m getting things ready, I go into the bedroom and see that Hotclue’s got her entire clothes closet emptied on the bed, frantically trying to decide what to wear.
“What are you doing?” I asked, although I knew. She does this EVERY time there’s a big project going on around here.
No matter how I argue, she always does because she hates messes and she hates housework. Not that I blame her, but it gets old sometimes. All the time, if you want to know the truth.
She gives me a disgusted look. “I’m packing,” she says. “Can’t you see that?”
I stand there looking at her. Just looking at her. Hating her, actually, because I always get stuck here with all the work.
“Where this time?” I ask, eyeing all the Daisy Mae’s making their way to the suitcase.
“Well, B-e-th!” (She always says it like that too, with her hands on her hips, like some angry third grade teacher when her kids have thrown one spitball too many.) “Didn’t I tell you Count Babalallapaloozo has reserved a suite at The Reef in Grand Cayman? You can’t expect me to back out on that just to stick around here wiping up grout dust!”
“I could,” I say, disgusted. “I have to. How come you’re always exempt from anything even resembling work?”
“Because I’m the glamorous half,” she says. “I’m the beautiful, exciting half that gets to do all these things. Snorkeling. Sky diving. Dancing under the stars. Gambling. Visiting the Count’s money in his bank vault at Cayman, that’s always fun. You’re the half that stays home and does the work. Remember, you told all our blog guests back in February, that’s how it works. I go, you stay. You can’t back out now!”
She has a point. I did say that. “When are you leaving?”
Evil grin. “When are they coming?”
“They’ll be here about eight or nine tonight.”
She controls her snickering. “Well, isn’t that just too wild? The Count’s picking me up in his helicopter at seven thirty tonight. Gosh, I’m going to miss everything, aren’t I?”
She doesn’t look at all sad. In fact, she looks downright smug as she packs six bikini bathing suits, all of which fit into the palm of one hand. The witch.
Somehow this always happens. People come here to do something, they come in the back door, Hotclue slips out the front door, leaving me with all the cleanup. Again.
The only good thing was, I did talk her into leaving her spandex outfits home and wearing her little black dress that’s split down to there and up to here. I had to threaten to kill her if she didn’t and I also slipped some plain black pumps in there while she wasn’t looking. I know, I know, she loves her leopardskin three inch strappy shoes. But there are limits to what I’ll let her do. Although not many. Whatever I wish I could do, Hotclue does. I hope she comes back with a suntan. My skin’s too pale as it is.
Oddly enough, we didn’t have a bad time with the cats and my daughter’s Dawg, Danali, this time. The cats took a look at You-Know-Who and figured, “Oh, it’s him again,” and then laid their heads back down to take yet another nap.
Danali and I did have one caper Sunday morning, while Barb and Chris were at Home Depot for about the nineteenth time. He wanted to go out. I had just got up, was still in my jams, thinking about Hots and The Count at The Reef, probably having champagne and truffle and caper and sun dried tomato omelets for breakfast at that very moment.
While we were having coffecake.
Anyhow, trusting soul that I am, I let Danali out the back door. Two seconds later he was gone. I don’t even think it took him two seconds. I’m frantically stumbling around, looking for my shoes, anything, grab a jacket, run out the back door.
By this time he’s two doors down the street. We live on a busy street. I run out front, calling, PLEADING for him to PLEASE come back. You could almost read his thought processes. Amazing, just amazing. He’s standing in a yard three doors down, looking around, his eyes start rolling, he focuses on their door, looks back at my door, listens to me begging him to come back, looks back at their door and oh so obviously thinks, “Hey, dude, this ain’t Beth’s house. This ain’t even her yard! It ain’t my yard either! What am I doin’ here?”
He runs back into my yard like the sissy he is, into the fenced in back yard where he started out, goes straight to the back door and sits down, looking at me like, “Well, dude, you gonna let me in or what?”
I got him back in the house so fast he didn’t know what hit him. I have no idea if he did what he went outside to do or not. I didn’t care. I gave him treats for being so good and coming back home. I gave him coffeecake. I gave him a cookie. I would have robbed a bank and showered him with gold for coming back.
Trouble is, he knows he’s one up on me now. I can’t wait to see what he does next time, but I can tell you for sure, it’s not going to involve a door and a back yard and soulful, pleading eyes.
I thought Hots would be back early in the week, but just as I discovered on Tuesday that I was going to have an emergency hot date with an oral surgeon on Wednesday, Hots called from Grand Cayman telling me she was flying to Italy with the Count for some big dinner party, probably at the Vatican, knowing her, and she won’t be home till next week.
That Hotclue. She’s smarter than I am, that’s for sure, but don’t tell her I said so. I get stuck with enough work and ALL the toothaches around here. The good news is, the kitchen and dining room look stunning. Chris and Barb have invented another beautiful little island for me, and it really IS beautiful.
Love y’all, come back next week, we’ll do a writing blog on something vital, I promise.
Beth, a poor substitute for Hotclue, maybe, but a substitute nonetheless.
Oh, and thank you, My Fellow Americans, for your stellar performance on November 7th. 😉 Now if we could just get Nancy Pelosi to consult with Hotclue before she does anything, kinda like Bush checks with Rove…although…hmmm…maybe not…
September 24, 2006
Hotclue Battles Beth Anderson Over Kinky Friedman and The Texas Governor’s Mansion
Okay, Hotclue here. I saw Kinky on The Imus Show the other morning. In fact, since I knew he was going to be on, I set my internal clock to be up, have a cup of coffee ready, and be sitting in front of the television at five a.m. so I wouldn’t miss a single word. Not that I thought Kinky would actually be there that early, but as they used to say, the early bird gets the worm. Not that I think Kinky is a worm, or has one, at least not….oh, you know what I mean. Anyhow, I was there when they first showed him sitting on the stairs waiting for his turn and when I saw that I knew it was true love, because that’s exactly what I would have done. Sat on the stairs. Just like everyday common folks, right? Well, I was waiting, watching his adorable, handsome, cute, sexy self on those stairs…
Everything was going just fine and then Beth came in and the War started.
Beth: Why are you sitting on the floor, Hots?
Me: If it’s good enough for Kinky, it’s good enough for me.
Beth: Don’t tell me, let me guess. Kinky Friedman’s on Imus again.
Me: Yes. Sigh…
Beth: And I suppose you’re going to blog about him again?
Me: Yes. Sigh….
Beth: You know you’re going to piss off Count Babalallapaloozo again, don’t you?
Me: Yes. Sigh… Move over, there he is, sitting on the stairs! Isn’t he totally faboo?
Beth: Uh…that’s not exactly a word I’d choose to describe him, Hots.
Me: You’re just jealous because he’s going to be my next husband.
Beth: In that case, idiot, he’ll have to be mine too. Or have you forgotten that little point?
Me: Then you get to help me decorate the mansion after he’s elected.
Beth: *eyebrows raising* Oh, there’s an honor and a half. Thanks loads.
Me: Well look, I was thinking, how about a huge bearskin rug right in front of the sunken fireplace in the living room?
Beth: No way. You’ll alienate half of his constituency, Hots. At least the Animal Rights people. And probably him, too. He loves animals, you know.
Me: I know, isn’t he wonderful! Wait–I’ll what half of his what? I can’t have bearskin?
Beth: Nope. No leopardskin either. No animal skins at all, anywhere. Ever.
Me: *pouting* Not even in our private bedroom?
Beth: Have you forgotten, Hots, the man is going full bore into politics. There is no such thing as privacy, even in the bedroom. Trust me.
Me: Okay, okay, it’s still worth it. I’ve got it all figured out. I think all white ceilings–
Beth: Wait, wait, slow down. What about his cigars?
Me: Whatta ya mean?
Beth: Think, Hots. White ceilings. Cigar smoke.
Me: Oh. Well, we could have those fans installed in all the ceilings, you know, those ones like they have on The Emeril Show? He just claps, they open up, the smoke goes out the ceiling. See, I have it all worked out. I know what I’m doing.
Beth: I hope you know how to clap hard and fast. I can’t imagine him doing it. Hots, the guy’s a Texan, he’s a macho man. He’s not going to stand around clapping so the ceiling will open up.
Me: WELL, he’s a macho man who wants to build casinos so the schools can have more money, don’t forget.
Beth: I hope he doesn’t let Texas do it like Illinois did it.
Me: What’d Illinois do?
Beth: Built casinos so the schools would have more money. The minute the tax money started to come in, they redirected the same amount out of the school system into other funds. The schools wound up with the exact same budget they had before. Nobody really knows where all the casino money went, actually. It all seems to have dissolved into the same black hole a lot of the Katrina money went into.
Beth: Yep. Sorry.
Me: Well, I’ll just tell Kinky not to let that happen. After all, he’s going to be Governor!
Beth: I can see you haven’t been around politics much, Hots. You have to jump through a lot of hoops when you’re in politics. You don’t always get your way.
Me: Oh, he will. He’s going to reform politics in Texas. And besides that, he’s cute.
Beth: Hots. Forget the cute stuff. Kinky is never going to give you a second look.
Me: That’s what you think, maybe!
Beth: Hots. The man is going to be governor of our biggest state.
Me: Well, at least you admit that.
Beth: Of course I admit it. That doesn’t mean you’d make the ideal governor’s wife.
Me: *getting huffy* And why wouldn’t I?
Beth: Hots. Look at yourself. I don’t know where you ever managed to find a tiger-striped bustier with pink feathers to match those God-awful spike heel slippers you bought a week or so ago, but I can’t imagine you running around the Governor’s Mansion like that.
Me: *flouncing out of the living room* I’ve got news for you, Big Mouth Beth. I’m never leaving the bedroom, so there!
Beth: *muttering* And I’ve got news for you, Hots. Kinky’s going to be moving into the Texas White House. But you’re not.
Me, back again. I’m so mad. Beth always, ALWAYS has the last word, even when I leave the room first. Kinkster, don’t worry, sweetie. Hotclue’s waiting for you! Kinky…oh KINK-YYY….
Don’t worry, folks. Kinky’s going to be elected and I’m going to decorate the Governor’s Mansion for him. I just decided. Black ceilings…disco lights…flashing Coca-Cola signs…juke box…
Won’t it be lovely?
Love y’all, you KNOW I do. Come back soon, ya hear me? Maybe next week I’ll let Beth write something rational here because I’ll be in Aspen with The Count, waiting for the snow so I can have my skiing lessons.
(But don’t worry, Kinky. My heart really belongs to you.)
Hotclue Herself *thumbing through the Victorias Secret catalog, planning her inauguration outfit*
February 11, 2006
Actually, It All Started With the Ben-Wah Balls…
Free at last, free at last, Thank God Almighty, I’m Free At Last!
Beth finally (FINALLY!) gave me a forum where I could say what I want. Pssst: Don’t tell her, but she’ll be sorry. 😉
Beth and I get along inhabiting the same body, but our minds war constantly. Really, our bodies aren’t the same either. Actually, there are a lot of major differences between us.
Beth is 2,000 years old. She loves to tell people that because it keeps her from having to tell people how old she really is. I’m 24 and not a day older. In fact, today is my birthday.
Well, every day is my birthday, if you want to know the truth. Hers is in April, she’s a genuine Taurus, which explains why she’s so…well…damn stubborn. Me, I just buzz along happily, doing my thing depending on which day it is. Any day’s a good day for me. Beth keeps a calendar and notes everywhere.
But I know where the matches are.
Another difference: I’m a size 8. A perfect size 8, I’ll have you know. She’ll never tell you her size, even if you’re bringing in clothes for her to try on. She would rather walk out into the store in her underwear (we’ll get to that in a minute) than tell you what size she wears. Very embarrassing, actually.
About the underwear. Well, mine all comes from V S and they’re all lacy and thongy and gorgeous. As for hers, trust me when I tell you this, you don’t want to be in a department store when she walks out to pick out yet ANOTHER outfit while she dodges the clerk, who only wants to help.
Casual wear? Mine is all designer. Hers is whatever she grabs off the floor to write in. That’s usually sweats and socks. Yes, she actually wears socks, never, ever shoes while she’s writing. Sometimes I just have to just leave the room. She doesn’t care if there are a dozen holes in them, I wouldn’t be caught dead in half the things she wears. I’m telling you, it’s embarrassing.
Our personalities are completely different and this is where I really trip her up sometimes. I love to speak in public. She would rather sit in the back corner behind a screen with a bag over her head so nobody would know she was there. So…she lets me do all the conference speaking and I LOVE it because she has nothing at all to say about what I say there, just like here. I really take over then, Believe me, I’m lovin’ this blog stuff, yeah baby, almost as much as I Love Talking!
We write together. I do all the uncluttered, breezy, jok-y stuff, she writes all the serious stuff. Right now we’re working on a thriller. I get to write Jack’s chapters. She gets to write Raven’s. That’s the only thing we don’t fight about.
See, it all started, all this conflict, with the ben-wah balls.
Up to that time I never said much, just laid in the weeds, so to speak, waiting for I wasn’t sure what, although it’s been a while since I laid in any weeds. I’ll take a duvet covered feather bed, thank you very much.
Then one day she decided to clean out our husband’s bedstand drawer. Everything was going along fine, I was watching her do all that work while I filed my nails, until I heard her say, “What the hell is this?”
I looked over and down at her, since I was sitting on top of the dresser at the time, saw what she was holding, and I thought, this is it. It’s time I came out and wised this woman up.
That’s another difference, by the way. She is totally naive. She is. Everybody knows it. Her friends all know you can tell her the most humongous, atrocious lie in the world, and she’s going to believe it because to her, all things are possible.
She reminds me of the little girl in The Grinch, remember her, the one with the big eyes, singing “Ooo ra, doo ra” or whatever the hell those things sang in that movie? Well, that’s Beth. Hoo rah, doo rah, that’s her. Waiting for her Christmas present.
Me, I’m street smart and I know my stuff. Well, anyhow, there’s Beth standing there with this little box with two big balls in it, wondering what they were for. Like I said, naive, yeah, baby.
I knew what they were. But I waited to see what our husband would say.
He said, “They’re ben-wah balls.”
Now I’m sitting there, forgetting about my fingernails, wondering why he never showed them to her before. But I kept my mouth shut. I do that once in a while.
She said, “What are they for?”
He told her.
She said, “They go WHERE?”
That’s when she met me for the first time. I jumped down from the dresser, tapped her on the shoulder, and said, “Excuse me, dummy. Are you EVER going to wise up?”
She just looked at me. “But–they go WHERE? Is he CRAZY?”
“No, honey,” I said. “You are. Just put ’em back where you found ’em and hope he forgets about ’em.”
Fortunately for both of us, he did.
But that’s the day she first met me and acknowledged there was Someone Else there besides her.
It pays to come out, folks. It really does. Because here I am, I have my own blog and we’re going to talk about a lot of things.
Beth is a news junkie. She knows the name of every politician in the universe. I’m a clothes junkie. I know every good designer in the universe.
So the war for blog space begins…