Monthly Archives: June 2009

A joke possibly only Aurora will get.

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*phone rings*

Valancy Jane – “Hello?”

Caller – “Is Mrs. Sturak there?”

Valancy Jane – “………”

Caller – “Hello?  I’m looking for Mrs. Sturak.”

Valancy Jane – “…………………. No, Mrs. Sturak’s not here. She um, she went to the yarn store. Yeah, she’s crocheting this massive doily for the couch! I… I gotta go Mom.”

Caller – “I’m sorry?”

Valancy Jane – “No, I’m sorry.  There is no Mrs. Sturak here.  And you really should watch Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead.”

Caller – *click*

Not exactly the picture of health yet.

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Valancy Jane – *limps*

Drea – *limps*

Valancy Jane – “I’m so proud of us.”

Drea – “I know.  Three straight days of getting up early and going to the gym.”

Valancy Jane – “We being so healthy.”

Drea – “It’s so good for us.”

Valancy Jane – *limps*

Drea – *limps*

Valancy Jane – *bursts out laughing*  “Aren’t we a great advertisement for healthy living?”

Willzyx (“Wil-zee-ack”)

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Willzyx

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.   Or carbon filter to carbon filter, tank gravel to tank gravel, as the case may be.

After several very loyal years of service on my desk, Willzyx has passed on to the great pond in the sky.  He was a handsome distraction, a good listener, and an avid plant enthusiast.  He’s seen me though many a change in my life, and I will sorely miss his shimmery wiggeles.  He was always as happy to see me as I him.  Bye friend.

One of my favorite things about summer in San Diego ….

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…. is that in addition to the Sunday afternoon organ concerts, there are Monday night concerts as well.  An easy stroll from my apartment, a little wine, a little cheese and bread, wonderful friends, it’s enough to make anyone love Mondays.

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It always makes me think of cake. And crave frosting.

We snagged my favorite seats on the side.
We snagged my favorite seats on the side.
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My wifey and her boyfriend!

I bet you can guess which one of us did, and did not, enjoy the experimental piece.

I bet you can guess which one of us did, and did not, enjoy the experimental piece.

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Who would you call ….

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…. if you were shoved into a booth with 14 fabulous gay men in varying degrees of soberity?

Clearly there was only one date awesome enough for brunch with my gay husband at Mo’s All You Can Eat (and drink) Brunch.  I think you know who I mean.

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That’s right, bitches.  The one and only Miss Kendra, “Pepper,” “Dizzy Van Damn!” and the great love of my life.  She charmed everyone, and earned a round of applause for fitting the four decker sandwich in her mouth.

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When people ask why I seem so perky, it’s mornings like this that I point to.

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Side effect.

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The upside to not being a bimbo is that you don’t really ever have to deal with the sort of men who want bimbos.

But when you go and put on the ritz and a little self tanner, and you’ve got a whole new range of satellites orbiting you.

On Sat, a friend hopefully mentioned that her date was bringing his roommate, and maybe I’d like him.  Five minutes after meeting him, I dubbed him “THAT THING” as in “I can’t believe anyone thinks I’d want THAT THING.”  He was tall, dark, handsome, well dressed and bragging about how long he’d been drunk.   Since I’m pretty sure he thought “intervention” was a sexual position, I didn’t press the suggestion.  He decided that he and I were “two of a kind” and was often overheard asking where I’d gone because I was “hot” and to pronounce that the way he did, try to make it sound like it has no consonants.  Various other sorts of dreamy eyed followers were by no means novel or rattling to me, but I’m not used to being able to attract men that shallow.  He was oblivious to my mockery but after using him to hail a cab by telling him it was hot the way he danced in the street like that, I wondered if maybe I should sit and have a good long think about whether or not I was becoming THAT GIRL.  Misusing my two best assets, my wit and my relative soberity, to pick on a drunk, was no more attractive to the right sort of people than the manhandling that pushup bra was doing to my other two best assets.

I can be better than that.

I don’t like it when Chip is gone.

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He’s deploying for the next six months on a submarine, and that means I’ll have to walk myself home and pick out my own wine and get my own quarters for laundry.  No more bills being passed over my head with a dismissive head pat.  No more southern tinged chuckles (especially when I make an ineffectual swipe towards the check).  No more bad date rescue.

Unfortunately, the US military seems not to have noticed that I DID NOT SIGN OFF ON THIS IDEA of sending him overseas (or underseas) and my raging disapproval didn’t seem to slow down Chip’s farewell party.

The boys certainly couldn’t be accused of not going in style.

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The boy that walked me home after the party told me Chip had told him to be careful, because I was precious to him.

Well attention ports of call and fishies everywhere.  You be nice to this kid because he’s pretty precious to me, too.

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