Examining My Navel

This is going to come out wrong. I just know it.

I'm going to sound all falsely modest or worse, and I swear on all that is chocolate that's what has held me from writing this in the first place. In fact, if it hadn't been for the interactions I had in the dentist's office on Wednesday, I would still be poking pointy sticks at it to see how to write this without sounding like some whiny, pseudo-egalitarian candy-ass.

So, here goes:

The scene: Our heroine, entering one of the dental rooms, for fixing of a molar that has chipped, creating twin serrated surfaces intent on flaying her tongue with every word she utters. (Oh, hush. Creative license. Felt like the Grand Canyon.)

Sweet, Chipper Hygenist: "Hi! And how are you?"

Diana: "Just great."

SCH: "So. How does it feel. You know. Being finished with it all. All done with all the studying. I mean you're a medical doctor, aren't you? How does it feel?"

Diana: (blink-blink....Hell, it's been 14 years since I graduated. 11 since I finished residency. Can't really remember back that far....) "Ummm...just great!"

SCH: "I mean, you worked so hard! All those hours! All the studying! And now you're finished! It must just feel great! And now you're a Doctor! Wow!"

Diana: "But you worked hard, too. You studied, put your life on hold. You know what it's like."

SCH: "But I'm not a dentist."

Diana: "Yeah. I know. You still did all that."

(Flash forward to our heroine's dentist, Dr Dentist, coming in to the room)

Dr Dentist: "Hi Diana! So, chipped tooth, huh? How'd you do it?"

Diana: "Heh. Sorta embarrassing. Bit on a turkey sandwich. My jaw slid and I cracked top and bottom molars sharply. Was hard enough to shake me up for a second."

Dr D: "So, you have Wednesday afternoons off?"

Diana: "Yup. I only work two-and-a-half days a week. I have the world's best schedule."

Dr D: "I have Friday's off, but I have to work 11 hour days the the other four days to do it. But I can't complain to anyone who's a doctor about the hours. Boy. The hours YOU guys put in."

Diana: "Heh. All in the past. Your hours are way worse."


I just don't get it.

I'm not pretending here. I really, really don't get it. Yes, the hours were long. Yes, the loans were best not thought about. Yes, the stories were really good (wish I could remember most of them). I have no idea if it was at all like combat. I've never been in combat. But, you see, we were all doing this voluntarily. We all wanted this gig. Med school and internship and residency and all that shitty VA cafeteria coffee was the gold ring. We were really fucking lucky. We were not smarter. We were stubborn, lucky enough to know what we wanted, agreeable to sign away for ghastly sums in loans, and, again, lucky. We were good at deferring gratification. Most of us also were very good at taking standardized exams. Many of us were good at memorizing minutiae and seeing patterns. That's it. That's the sum of it. Not brains. Brains really didn't enter much into it. Trust me. Yes, some are truly brainy. They are a minority.

We were also not the only ones who fell in to this category. Everyone who works at what they do, paid or unpaid, is of the same ilk: Full-time parents, full-time nannies, full-time barbers, part-time barbers who are with their kids 4 days a week, the extremely nice and competent checker at the local Shopko who does everything right and whose line I stand in if she is working, no matter how long it is, etc, etc, etc.

Man! I just don't know how to respond to either the baffling hero worship, as with the hygenist, or the hierarchy, as with my dentist. Misdirected anger, I get. Somebody did them wrong and their trust is destroyed. I am cool with that. Guilt by association. Everybody in medicine is an uncaring, incompetent asshole. The problem with that is that they usually don't take it out solely on me, but the office staff, but that is another post.

I try to never tell people what I do when I am meeting them for the first time in a social situation, for just this reason. I want them to get to know me for as long as possible before they toss on the baggage that goes with the title. The reaction is almost always the same: They either gush or pull back. I really debated whether or not to even put it in the blog, but as it is part and parcel of me, I decided to throw it out there and be done with it. It is exhausting hiding things.

Working in a small town amplifies this, as expected. I truly had to work to get my non-doctor provider colleagues to call me by my first name. People like our Physical Therapist (who is getting his doctorate, for god's sake!) and the Nurse Practitioners. That's all who I've managed to convert. Our Physical Therapy Assistant won't. Our techs and receptionists won't. Our RN won't, despite my threatening to call her "Nurse Lastname" until she does. (Yeah, empty threat. I'm lazy. She knows it.) She maintains that it is not respectful for her to call me by my first name, despite me calling her by hers. I maintain that it perpetuates an unfair hierarchy. She smiles at me, shakes her head at my bolshie ways, pats me on the back and refuses all the same. Yes, we are exactly the same age, born with in 2 weeks of each other. We share parenting woes. We tell crude jokes to each other. Still, crude jokes not-withstanding, calling me "Diana" instead of "Dr Piffle" somehow implies the respect due to me.

Yes, I do get some of it on a basic level. I guess it is easier to take a pill that has the same active ingredient as rat poison if you believe that the person prescribing it has, not just the years in, but some extra magic, beyond the reading of the literature and the certification of the boards.

I just wish we deserved it.

Really, though, we don't.

Sorry.

Sibling Rivalry

I fear that someone is going to end up decapitated, amputated or blind.

As it is my lap that this is happening on and around, I fear that it will be me.

And, yes, they are truly playing.

Sigh.

The Paint Can Is Half Full

There is an up side and down side to everything, people.

Work 1/2 time, you miss out on 1/2 of the decisions. This means you can piss and moan about what was decided in your absence. I call this a "plus". None of the responsibility, all of the gripe.

They are painting the office. Right now.

{Mmmmm BOY! Smell those heady fumes. "What's that, Mrs Jones? You say your breathing has gotten much worse since stepping foot in the clinic? Good thing the painter is a fireman and can get a hold of a respirator if needed. Or an ambulance."}

Down, Babs. He's married.

It had been bandied about for months but finally, in a fit of pique, I guess our office manager threw up her hands and thrust paint chips in front of all providers who happened to be on site and had them chose between an unspecified number of colors.

{Let's just pause to muse on the whole "(s)he's a trained medical provider, therefore knows how to coordinate colors" concept. No wonder we have a God complex.}

I was absent.

This was probably good, as I am so far from being able to chose paint colors that, if there is a color on a wall, I will invariably paint it in a shade of whitish pale. The exception is Colin's room, which is a rather depressing shade of light blue that I agonized over to compliment his comforter. I should never be allowed to choose paint.

I am good at criticizing it, though. Those who can't paint, mock.

It seems that the other female provider wasn't there, either, though, so our chiropractor closed his eyes and pointed or something, resulting in us having the whole office painted in light olive and light brown with accent walls in all the small rooms of dark olive and dark brown.

The counters are grey.

My, look how much smaller the small rooms look with the dark, dark wall facing the door.

The painter mutters, "I didn't choose the colors," every time someone makes a comment.

On the bright side, it should markedly increase Prozac prescriptions.

Everybody, buy stock in Eli Lilly. It's about to go through the roof.

The State of the Household

It's Sunday afternoon, what has been described as the long, dark teatime of the soul, by Douglas Adams, rest his twisted, brilliant soul.

Sara is napping, Colin released to go play video games at last, and Charles is watching the football championship game. One of them. Who cares which one. I am barricaded in the kitchen with both pets and the computer. How cozy.

So, Diana, how are things in the recently enfurred household of Piffle?

Well, just jim-swimmin-dandy, thanks for asking.

"Really?" you ask.

Ah. Truth?

Well.

Hm.

Mad-kitty, it seems, thinks she is a dog, which includes drinking out of the dog's dish, which is a large dog's dish, seeing that the dog (if she makes it to big-dog-hood), will be a big dog. As a very small cat, she can only accomplish this by balancing on a single hind leg, her belly and front paws dangling over the edge of the dish, remaining leg hanging in the air. Now, she has her own small bowl of pristine (as it is changed a few times a day and she never drinks out of it) water, it seems that she actually prefers the water with chunks of saliva and dogfood floating in it. She also tries to cop the dog's food (kibble that is about the size of her petite kitty mouth) and sleeps in the dog's crate.

The dog is fine with all this as it makes kitty easy to ambush. Maybe ambush is not the proper term as ambushes are generally quiet and the dog thumps loudly as she careens across the tile floor, but, still, it is the best term I can think of.

If the pup finds Mad-kitty in her crate, she thumps down beside her, companionable paw over her, and then encloses kit's head in her mouth. Muffled "mraow"ing ensues and someone hollers, "Molly! Stop eating the kitty". Molly, looking surprised that we would misinterpret such an obvously neighborly gesture, opens up and kitty goes off in a huff. Molly gets out, as the only reason she ever wants in there is to torment the cat. The cat then goes right back in and the whole thing replays. Over. And. Over.

I am not making this up.

Clearly the cat wants to be chewed. We rarely intervene anymore.

We sigh a lot.

Her fur, in a strip from the back of her head to her tail, is matted, shiny, and encrusted with bits of dog food, as well.

Sigh.

Outside of that, well, she is still quite the gassy little 2 pounds of fur. As she is also quite the cuddly little thing, she also doesn't merely fart in your general direction, but in your face. It did get much better after the first de-worming and a bit better after the second one, but it looks as though a change of diet is in order. If she keeps up with the dog envy, though, we may need to change the dog's food, too. Drag.

She is also hell on plants. It is proof of how fond of her I am that she is still with us. An orchid I bought on a whim for $10 four years ago and debated tossing as it failed every attempt for me to get it to bloom again, (yes!) is finally putting out buds! I have moved it from my "keep out all you with small hands" cat-magnet of a sunny loft, to the dining room table, in an effort to enjoy these potential blossoms which will dangle beguilingly from the stem. I also didn't fail to notice that there was some potting soil on the table, trailing off from the only other plant not up in the loft, a toddler lemon tree. I think I will have to find another hiding place.

Yes, I know. You can't hide things from cats. I should just put it by the dog's dish, smear it in dog drool and be done with it.

She is very good with the kids, though, and even lets Sara tuck her in with a blanket and a stuffed dog. (No wonder the cat has a complex.)

And now, we turn to Molly pup. Or "Maul-y" as we have re-named her. Damn but she is the mouthy, chewy, one. We are making progress just this last week, though, as she has diminished her gnawing of our body parts and clothing from a conservative estimate of 4,089 times an hour to a mere 576 times an hour. That's a full order of magnitude, man! She also barks. Loudly. And often. And there is no doubt as to what she is saying, you stupid person, you. She, of course thinks she is a human. Her English vocabulary is getting rather good and includes "NO!", "Molly", "come", "treat", "down", "upstairs", "downstairs", "outta there", "inside", and "Leave. The kitty. Alone." The large spray bottle of water with a pinch of vinegar is also satisfyingly helpful in getting one's point across. At this juncture, just taking the bottle out and standing with it in your hand mellows her the hell out. This, of course, proves that she knows she is being naughty.

We almost took her back 3 times, but each time it was in the evening and by the time morning rolled around, we reconsidered the cute little fuzzball. She really is cute. And huge. At her 10 week check-up she was a bit over 20 lbs. We're guessing she will top out at around 100 lbs.

At 12 weeks old, she is now watching everyone who walks along the road with a suspicious stare. WTF? She's a baby! Emma didn't start that until she was a year and a half. Maia, our militant alpha female, did around 6 months.

Sigh.

So, that is where we are. Gnawed, farted on, bemused. But we all are trying.

Or "Oh, so very trying", as my Mum would say.

And then we roll the eyes. And buy yet another chew toy.

It is getting better. Slowly but surely, better.

Molly would also like you to know that she is very happy that the snow has returned, as you can see by the pictures. Much more fun to romp in snow. You can get it impacted in your sinuses and then sneeze big, snowy boogers all over the cat-dog.

Movies I Love

Spurred on by Joe In Vegas, I now hang my lily-white-ass out in the breeze and expose myself for what I am: Someone with, at times, appalling taste in films. All my credibility will now fall and you can now gather in groups and laugh at what I will watch slack-jawed and unblinking, over and over again. Especially #s 19, 27-29 and 38-41.

But please laugh quietly, I hate it when people make noise during a film.

In absolutely no order except as they hit me, well, except for the first one:

1. Pride and Prejudice (1995). The.Best.Thing.Ever.Sigh.
2. The Lion in Winter
3. Grosse Point Blank
4. Every single thing done by Monty Python
5. The extended versions of The Lord of the Rings Trilogy.
6. The Hobbit. By Peter Jackson. (Nope, not done yet. Not written, as far as I know. Not cast. But he has publicly said, somewhere, that he's interested, by gum.)
7. Bridget Jones's Diary
8. Raising Arizona
9. Sabrina (1954). Hepburn, Bogart, Holden. Bliss.
10. Philadelphia Story
11. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead
12. Oklahoma
13. Rear Window
14. North By Northwest
15. Casablanca
16. Silence of the Lambs
17. My Fair Lady
18. Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street
19. Seven Brides For Seven Brothers
20. Arsenic and Old Lace
21. Vertigo
22. What the Bleep Do We Know?
23. Harold and Maude
24. Bend it Like Beckham
25. Matchmaker
26. Bubba Ho-Tep
27. 4 Weddings and a Funeral
28. Notting Hill
29. Love Actually
30. Hope and Glory
31. Gosford Park
32. The Commitments
33. Say Anything
34. Roger and Me
35. Lilo and Stitch
36. The Harry Potters
37. Fame
38. Pirates of the Caribbean
39. Tremors
40. Lake Placid
41. Evil Dead, Evil Dead 2, and Army of Darkness
42. Excalibur
43. The Big Easy
44. Fargo
45. Breakfast at Tiffany's
46. Dangerous Liasons
47. Singles
48. While You Were Sleeping

Oh, god, that's enough, already. Aren't you sorry you asked, Joe?

{Edited to add-

Apparently not enough:

49. Mr Blandings Builds His Dream House (thanks, Stace)

50. Impromptu (thanks Colleen)}

Movies I Hate

Adorable Teri recently shared an extensive list of movies she loves.

As I am her Evil Twin, I was frankly surprised to find that there were very few movies on her very tasteful, highbrow list of flicks that I had seen. Namely, the Monty Python, the Muppet Movie, Super Size Me, L.A. Confidential, The Full Monty and Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Then, I realized that it was because I was her evil twin, not her good twin, that I had missed all this good fare.

So, in the spirit of Evil Twinhood, I started musing on all the horrible movies I have seen. Not those universally accepted horrible movies, like Ishtar (which I actually never saw, heeding the advice of every living soul who went and saw it, even with benefit of alcohol). No. Movies that most others seemed to love, at least based on the box office receipts. The list is partial because I can never seem to remember what I have seen and what I missed and what I was in the room with but was sleeping through, while Charles watched and teased me about not being able to stay awake afterward. Apparently, this happened a lot. What can I say. It was during the On-call Decade (basically 1989-2000). Loosing a night's sleep every 2-8 nights, depending on your schedule, will do horrible things to one's movie-watching memory.

Without further ado:

Movies Everybody Loved That I Despised

1. Titanic
2. Ghost
3. Braveheart
4. A Few Good Men
5. E.T.
6. All of the Rocky movies
7. Spider-Man and Spider-Man 2
8. Elf
9. Seabiscuit
10. Something About Mary
11. Van Helsing
12. National Treasure
13. Most Woody Allen movies
14. The Matrix
15. Star Wars 1, 2 and 3 (Phantom Menace, Attack of the Clones, Revenge of the Sith)
16. Austin Powers

That's enough. No justification aside from a blanket, "Gosh, I thought _____ movie was stupid, un-funny, without redeeming plot, horribly acted, pretentious, and/or made me want to throw something through the screen." There are probably many, many more, but I can't come up with them.

Sorry if I offend anyone by disliking your all-time favorite. Several didn't make the list as I felt quite sure that I'd hate them, so why try them. (Yes, yes. Terribly mature and open-minded of me.) Movies like Gangs of New York and Gladiator. So, in honor of the self-serving movie awards season, which would you add to the list? Go ahead. Make me shake my head in sorrow if you thought each and every minute of the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy was utter agony or if you thought Raising Arizona was the most un-funny 2 hours you have ever seen. I forgive you.

End Of Days 2

I know, I know. It's getting warmer. Global warming. Lalala. El Nino. Reduce, reuse, recycle.

I listen. I care. I do my best to leave a light footprint and all that. It's in my nature, having been raised in the Jimmy Carter era.

They say that it only becomes real when it hits home, when it affects YOU.

For the last 3 weeks or so, it has been above freezing, here in the once-frozen tundra. I wear mud boots rather than snow boots when we go for our daily tromps. The snow is long gone. There is warmth to the sun when it shines. It has rained AT NIGHT.

Dreading the worst and knowing that, despite the weather, we are in January, not late March, and therefore should expect a few more months of hard, cold weather, I got down and looked at the plants in the garden. Yup. The shrubs, like the above viburnum, have ruddy, swellings of new leaves. Here, we have the base of a columbine with not just green hints, but an actual leaf. Finally, here, we have bulbs coming up. Under the lilacs, which are budding, too. Can't blame them. It was in the 50s and sunny, yesterday. I was out in a T-shirt.

Supposed to be in the mid-upper 30s for the next week, at least.

This is not what has me getting my affairs in order, though. Nope. This is just some sort of climate swing, whether it is due to the misdeeds of man or just Ma Nature having a good laugh at us, I couldn't say for sure. One year, or one decade, in the grand scheme of things is too short a time in the whole cosmic scheme to tell.

{Break to sing Monty Python's "The Galaxy Song"}

Nope. What really has me getting my affairs in order and tossing a loaf of bread to a leper is what happened yesterday.

Colin came home from school and, after finishing his homework, asked if he could play on the computer a bit.

"Sure", I said. Why not. There's about an hour before dinner. He's done great. He then goes to his room to get something and comes back and says, "Mom. My room's a mess. I should clean it up before I play." And he proceeded to do so.

I fainted dead away.

The world is coming to an end. Consider yourselves warned.

It's National De-Lurking Week! What a Great Excuse To Beg For Comments.

So. As I am, we all know, a sheep, I have followed Teri, who followed Dana, who followed Sheryl, who seemed to start this whole National Delurking Week (formally just a day, last year).

I can't imagine anyone would lurk here as, well, what would be the point of reading the endless drivel of a mid-aged mid-western woman with a penchant for horrible haikus and pointless mocking without leaving a comment and joining in the fun?

Still, everyone has an issue or ten, and so maybe there is someone who has read and returned and now is embarrassed that they didn't say, "Hello" and are now standing off to the side, nursing their last bit of drink and wondering if they should stay and chat or just edge out the door.

Please, say "Hi". I (and the rest of us) would love to meet you. If you don't want us to know the real you, hell, it's the internet and we won't know the difference. I also won't know how to track you as I just don't have the time, energy, or desire to learn what to click, type, or kick to follow you.

Hell, even if I do know you, leave a token comment. Speak in code. Or Swahili. No point in being a sheep all by myself.

Haiku for The Dog With The Shit-Eatin' Grin

Why must you eat poop?
Cat and Deer, lord knows who's else.
Then you want a kiss.

Just when we think you've
done your worst, you slake your thirst
from her potty chair.

I'm afraid I'll be
brought back as a dog, if I'm
not good in this life.

Resolution #18

Pictures for you, originally uploaded by DianaP.

While outside yesterday, Sara, Molly and I came across what looks like a prison break. At first glance, it seems that the strawberries are attempting to topple the stone wall of the raised vegetable bed, but if you look closely, you will see the large patch of green right next to the fallen wall, encompassing the left half of the scene. Here we have, I believe, the instigator of the mischief, a large thistle. My only question is: does the thistle want to get into the horse-shit enriched enclave or is it helping someone else escape the bonds of pampering and sloth to glorious freedom? Either way, the strawberries are not completely blameless, as they are also to be found creeping over the fallen rubble.

I was under the impression that gardens were supposed to sleep in winter. Maybe it is the bizarre week and a half of above freezing temperatures, rain, and total snow melt that has given them the energy to fell stone.

Resistance Is Futile

Guess what word Charles and I utter most.

Go ahead.

Guess.









Nope. Not "and", "I", "the" or any of the other similar sentence starters.

It is "NO!" or it's less often used brethren: "NO!", "No!" or, rarely, "no".

We decided, last week, that we were becoming bored with the lack of vocabulary variety and that we needed an alternative for such recent real-life instances:

Me: "Sara, what would you like for breakfast?"
Sara: "CHOCOLATE!"
Me: "Ahhhhh, No."

Me: "Molly! NO! Stop eating the kitty's litter! and, NO!, don't lick me, now, please.

Me: "AAAAUUUGGGHHHhhh!" Madison, please, no climbing up my lightly pajama clad legs with your razor claws. (*whimper*)

Charles (muttered in soto voce in her ear): "Sara, no tantrums in the grocery store. If you don't stop this minute, you will go to the car at once, and...NO Dora The Explorer."

Me and Charles: "Molly! No!" or "Mollyno!, Mollyno!" (conservatively uttered, every 27 seconds, no exaggeration)

Aaaand, most horrifyingly recently:

Charles and I together: "What does she have in her mouth? Is that cat shit??? NONONONONONONONO! BAD DOG! Baaaaaaad Dooooooog! No!"

(Aside: No, we are not quite that stupid, the cat box is kept in the laundry room with the door blocked. It's just that for brief minutes, on occasion, the doorway is un-boxed and our attention is diverted. It is then that the dog-eating-cat-feeces-and-litter episodes take place.)



Remembering back to an old Dr Who series, as I recall, Charles came up with our new reply-in-negative: Resistance is futile. Just has that authoritarian ring we are looking for, especially if you roll the "R". Variety is the spice of life. Try it for yourselves. I think you'll find it fun. At the very least, it will garner you the odd look from the annoying customer, co-worker, or family member.

Wonder where this will rank on our kids' lists of What My Parents Did To Land Me In Therapy.

I Was Feeling Left Out

Well, just everybody I read and love is coming up with all these resolutions. I fought the urge to be all sheeplike, but as my middle name is "Fleecy", I guess it was just a matter of time. The thing is, I'm just not a resolutions gal. Nothing against them, I just feel like a failure enough without asking for additional confirmation.

So, here goes. Resolutions I can live with:

1. Eat lots of food that is bad for me.
2. Drink lovely wine, beer, and spirits when the fancy takes me.
3. Drink plenty of coffee and tea.
4. Realize I should drink more of that dull, tasteless watery water stuff but fail to do so.
5. Sit with a foot or two on the dash when in the passenger's seat of the car.
6. Fart and burp.
7. Dress with dull and comfortable abandon.
8. Mock anything I think deserves mocking.
9. Blog about anything that deserves mocking that would not hurt someone I love or get me fired. (Actually, with those conditions, it is hard to find material, sometimes.)
10. Kiss my kids and pets with annoying frequency. Charles is also kissed frequently but doesn't seem at all annoyed. Good man.
11. Shamelessly pander for back and neck rubs from poor Charles.
12. Grouse about all the mess in the house, yet not ask for help.
13. Listen to more music.
14. Buy a fuckload of plants for the yard, plant them, and then buy more.
15. Continue the War of the Thistles
16. Same for the War on Garden Bugs Who Try To Decimate The Plants I Have Slaved Over In Their Own Selfish Interest Of Feeding And Procreating.
17. Continue to lose ground in above wars.
18. Tell you all about it in excruciating detail, as though you had any interest in the hobby garden of a Midwestern middle-aged woman with poor fashion sense and short nails.
19. Make inappropriate comments but only partly regret them.
20. Read as much as possible.
21. Spend too much time reading blogs, but not as much as I could spend.
22. Nap. With a quilt. And a purring cat. A lot.
23. Feel that I should be doing more with my career and training than being a Doc-in-a-box in a stripmall, but then remember how much I dislike camping, let alone living in places of tents and latrine trenches and still feel guilty but realize that for me, running off to a truly high-need place is not what I am cut out for, so do what I can where I am at present. What a cop-out.
24. Swear too much.
25. Laugh loudly.
26. Hate meetings and when forced to partake in them, entertain myself with more inappropriate thoughts involving Those Who Mandated Said Meetings, the evil bastards. Death's too good for them. Why the hell did they think I went into medicine, I ask you?
27. Fall more in friend-love with you, my blog friends.
28. Be insanely proud of the smallest accomplishments of my amazing offspring.
29. Be petty.
30. Hate my hair.
31. Be horribly bored with my clothes but do nothing about it.
32. Wear almost nothing but jeans when not at work, jean-shorts in the summer.
33. Wish I could just wear jeans to work and be done with it.
34. Nitpick horribly. It truly is amazing Charles has not offed me and hidden the body. The man is a fucking saint, I tell you. Well, he would be if he just loaded the dishwasher correctly and didn't leave his socks all over the house, all balled up.
35. Basically live as I have for the past several years and mostly like it.

So there.

Bah. Baaaaaaaah.

New Year's Haikus

Pictures for you, originally uploaded by DianaP.

It's said what you do
on New Year's Day will be what
you do the year through.

If that is true, then
I will clean out the garage
this entire year.

I will also make
bad haikus for my blog that
you are doomed to read.

Sorry. So very
sorry. I should have planned a
trip to Guam instead.