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Sunday, July 6, 2008
Light At The End Of The Wordpress Tunnel
Actually
made a bit of progress on the new Wordpress blog just now. Thank God.
As soon as I can figure out how to
put up my header, I'm switching JannieFunster.com over.
Forever.
So dang humbling to be sliding back
down to the very bottom of the totem pole with my blog-site that has attained such a pinnacle of success.
But I'll
survive.
1:22 am
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Only 11 More Days Until This...
This...
Or This...
ELEVEN MORE DAYS!!!
10:55 am
Friday, July 4, 2008
Whenever I try to work with Wordpress I feel like crying because something is fucked
up somewhere. And I'll probably delete that f-word
tomorrow but for now I'm leaving it up so you can truly feel my angst.
And bear in mind I've eaten no pastry,
potatoes, corn, rice, pasta, bread, cereal, biscuits, cookies, cake, pie, candy, chocolate, ice-cream, sugar or fruit derived
sustances AND drank no alcohol, AT ALL these past 3 days. Just lean protein, salad, lo-fat cheese, peanut
butter and skim milk - not exactly the foods I'd take to a deserted island with me, if ever I were going to one of
those but I shouldn't complain too much, I did munch a bunch of steak tonight. Ribeyes, are they
okay on the South Seas Diet?
It was a lovely 4th tho. A great day. Wonderful fun with wonderful friends.
Kids loved the fireworks.
Now I'm going to bed.
Will kick Wordpress ass tomorrow.
I hope.
11:33 pm
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Me: at some point today, Kelly, I have to do my vocal exercises.
She:
Oh, is that part of the South Seas diet too?
later...
Me: Shit. Shoot,
I totally missed my exit for the museum.
She: Is this what happens to people on the South Seas diet?
yet
later...
Me: Dang, I'm in the wrong lane to make this turn.
She: Mom, do you really think
this South Seas diet is the best thing for your brain?
**************************************************
Other goodies I can't have for the next 13 days as my body learns to combat the insulin-resistance syndrome I've
driven it to...
WHOOPS!!! I Mean....
9:38 am
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
South Beach Diet, Day One
The blank blog
page loomed
like a moody mountain, like
a rabid rosebush in the night
and
I was mad because
all I'd eaten
all day were 21 shrimps, a lean
coffee, some smoked salmon,
2 small asparagi, and
2 cups of
skimmed milk, with zero hope
of rice, pasta, bread, potatoes,
cookies, candy, ice cream, pie,
cake, pastry, fruit, beer or wine
for the next 2 weeks. Zero !!!
I was hoppin' mad.
Yet, there was a glimmer of
hope in an ounce of lowfat
cheese and 2 tablespooons
of
peanut butter on lettuce
before I lay me down to sleep.
8:22 am
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Another pic from last year, my "Flapper Tapper." To
heck with $400 portrait sessions, the best photos of Kelly are all ones I've taken myself.
7:55 am
Why I Don't Go To Yardsales
I used to live
for yardsales until 1994 when a rabid collie bit my ankle as I was inspecting the finest in used Tupperware.
I
ended up in the hospital over that bite and my ankle was severely deformed thereafter, causing my husband to lose interest
in me, if ya know what I mean. (Bob had fallen in love with me for my well-turned ankles.) I tried wearing attractive scarves
to camouflage my gross disfigurement, some even with bells on them, but apparently I was damaged goods and Bob ran off with
a donut maker from Reno, made no difference to him she was a deaf-mute with a constant neck tic - she did have lovely ankles.
Well... no man wanted anything to do with me ever again and I considered going gay but just couldn't make
the leap. Of course I lost my job as a capri pants model, wasn't trained in any other work and ended up losing my house.
My cat had trouble locating to a studio apartment and ran off too.
And here I am, spending all my time on the Internet.
Just me, my disability check, a photo of my cat and this slow computer which will probably Blue Screen any day now.
And that's why I don't go to yardsales, as much as I could use a second plate, cup, knife, fork and spoon, in case
I can ever do make a friend and have them over for water and dry toast.
7:32 am
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Bach
Inside my little Toyota
a forest
of violins rejoicing.
6:47 am
Thursday, June 26, 2008
2:49 pm
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
SCRATCH
I went down to the store
and asked the girl for a box of scratch but she didn't know what I meant so I said, "Well, I wanna make
a cake from scratch." And she said, "Go home and drink another beer." So I did.
So, at home I went online and asked the Wordpress support guy for some scratch to build my new blog but
he too told me to go drink more beer. So I did.
Later I went to sleep and dreamt of kit-bashing
a Bachmann center cab switcher.
10:07 am
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
DOING IT
Mission
Blue Host successful. Project Real-Blog on track.
No, but seriously,
I'm pretty sure I'll be able to do the new site with COMMENTS myself, or at least I'm gonna to have a dang
good whack at it myself. Feelin' so good I think I'll write a reasonable facimile of
a poem Right Now, which will most likely suck, but what the heck. I'm too happy to shiv a git. Ah-hem...
If you see a guy at the
mall with a pistol in one
hand and a soda in the other,
I
won't be at all offended if you
assume it's not an all-natural soda.
(See,
told ya it would suck.)
(But Kelly's self-portrait doesn't.)
11:50 am
Monday, June 23, 2008
Real As Rain
Shame
I was at a fried chicken
place, empty except for a young asian girl and a well-dressed middle eastern terrorist.
A
leather-faced woman walked in, asked for a cup of ice water and sat facing me, three tables away.
She had only two visible teeth.
I suddenly became very interested in something out the window.
Without being asked, the terrorist offered the homeless woman $5 to get herself something to eat.
She bought a small bowl of mashed potatoes with gravy.
Later when she came to me, the
Christian, for "sugar" I gave her a dollar.
12:33 pm
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Sometimes it's inconceivable I have a daughter who's six. Inconceivable I
have a daughter at all. I'll be in the diningroom or bedroom and she in the livingroom and I'll think to myself,
"Has this all been just a dream," and I'll run to check and see if she's real. And there she'll
be. Real as rain. Reading or watching t.v. or eating or something, this girlchild wedging herself ever
deeper into the space love made for her.
2:42 pm
Friday, June 20, 2008
Hey, where'd my favorite pen go?
9:02 pm
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
The Perming Of The Bangs  Yes, that's my head and yes I perm my bangs every few months or so.
(I really do.)
11:54 pm
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Gilda toted papers in a denim bag because who else was going to clean
up handbills the Party kept posting on the poles and sides of falling-down buildings? Who else was going to bring
porridge to the orphanages and Jesus to the poor? Who else cared? Gilda never married but when she died
at 98 I was surprised to find the following among her scattered writings in a shoebox on her top
shelf...
Today
I burned
the poem
I've been
keeping
in my
wallet,
the one
I wrote
to you
last year
but never
sent.
This may
or may not
take away
a
longing.
10:26 pm
Monday, June 16, 2008
Fathers' Day, Dying Camera
9:35 am
Sunday, June 15, 2008
10:04 am
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Is Blood Thicker Than A Longlost Daughter?
Suppose
I show up with a knock on an Irish door someday
and an old man dressed in grey flannel pyjamas and a red
tassel
cap answers it. He may be holding an apple or a
lilac in his left hand. And suppose he confirms
his name
is Tom or Dick or Harry Eady and I tell him I've just spent
two days at his National Archives after
extensive Internet
research and I believe it's more than probable He and His
are relatives of Me
and Mine from a hundred and seventy
years past when what's-their-names sailed to Canada.
And suppose looking into his face is like looking into Dad's
face or Dad's dad's or his
dad's and all their uncles and
brothers I've ever met or seen photos of, but this old guy
is 87
and very hard of hearing and thinking I've just asked
for the the loo, slams the door in my face. And
suppose
I knock again and his daughter peeks through the door's
window and yells for me to scram
(because there's been a
rash of burglaries in the neighborhood lately,) or she'll call
the authorities.
And suppose I lurk in the bushes outside
their modest white and green shuttered house until she
emerges near sunset
and I dog her along the sidewalk
entreating her that I am her and she is me, and as she
finally stops for
a moment to realize that our distinctive
jawlines and strangely-angled yet attractive eyes seem
one-in-the-same,
our cheeks' with the inherited tendency
not to sag, our eyes crow's-footed from years of feeling joy
and sorrow too deeply, too fast, we both fall into glorious
laughter and tears. And suppose she invites
me in for tea
and we cackle about how all the friends and relatives both
here and back across The Pond will
be so excited, we'll have
to have big celebratory parties and probably get written up
in all the papers, plus tonight
we'll go down to the pub where
I'd been directed here from and won't they all be so amazed.
And she'll start calling her daughter and everyone she knows.
And suppose the news of who I am and how I've
traced him
over hundreds of years and thousands of miles, is too much
for the old man, he's so happy he
has a heart attack and dies
on the spot. Will I still be one of the family or a stranger then?
Guess I'll
just have to mosey over to County Cork to find out.
4:30 am
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