Have you even had a haircut so disappointing you got in the car and cried?  I have.  Today.  It was my regular hair stylist.  I took a picture of what I wanted.  I did not get it.  Not even close.  Now I hate my hair.  It’ll take forever for it to grow out. 

Crap crap crap craaaaaaaaap.

And later tonight, we discover that Idiot Dog is missing.  We don’t know exactly when he became missing.  He was there this morning.  Not there when we got home.  No one can remember if he bayed at us when we all got

Here he is last week standing on the coffee table

 home or not.  We cruised the neighborhood and called all the shelters.  There is a found dog on CraigsList that should be him but there is some information that makes me not sure.  We’re waiting to hear back from them.  I’ll call all the shelters again tomorrow. 

We don’t know if he got out somehow – all the gates are still locked, Or if he was doggynapped.

Either way, my day is crap.

I took the day off and dealt with plumbers today.  It was wretched.  Not the plumbers, they were perfectly nice.  Friendly, even.  It took all day for them to dig up the line, run the camera, and tell me horrifying things involving clay pipe, roots, and cracks.

We paid them 1,461.98 and we are by no means finished.  The main sewer line from the house to the street needs to be replaced but the quote of and additional 1,100 nearly cause me to have a seizure.  We’ll tackle that part ourselves.

I think it’s high time The Bandit learned to use a shovel for something besides clocking his sister over the head.  Don’t you?

Friday night, we all thought with great relief, that My Honey had fixed the plumbing problem.  First my brother snaked the line and then, when My Honey got home, he used an even bigger snake. 

Confident that all was flowing properly, I took a shower on Saturday morning.  And then I started a load of laundry.  I could hear the screaming from the front of the house all the way down the hall, through the kitchen, passed the family room and down the hall into the office.

“Shut it off!  Shut it off! SHUT IT OFF!!!”

The water from the washing machine was coming up every drain in the house: both toilets, both showers, and the kitchen sink.  Water was everywhere.  It took seven thousand towels to mop it up.  This exact scenario happened a number of times as different attempts were made to clear up the clog. 

And you thought it was humid outside.  I’m here to tell you, with the addition of the humidity brought in from our swamp cooler and now the man-made lake in the middle of the house, you can barely breath here.

My Honey valiantly snaked the drain again.  And we tried again from the laundry room drain.  We ran bladders down the pipes trying to force it.  We cried.  We swore.  We tore at our hair.

My mom was being a total champ.  She’d come over in the morning to “play”.  We had all kinds of plans to go shopping and have lunch.  Instead, she got to take my kids to pick up donuts while My Honey and I stood over open holes in the floor where toilets used to be and walked squishing through the house.  I assured her that we wouldn’t be long – either it would get fixed or a professional would be called.  We started a game of Scrabble.  I was called away from the game a number of times to assist with plumbing issues and my mom got tired of waiting for me to take my turns so she made my words for me.  Some how I managed to lose that game.   Curious, don’t you think.

Hours later, My Honey admitted defeat.  I called a plumber.  I chose the one who’d advertised with a magnet on the front of the phone book with a 25.00 coupon.

“Mr. Rooter, how are you today?”  She was very chipper.

“Well,” I began, “we’re quite damp over here.”

The operator chuckled at my wit.  She promised to send someone within the hour.

I was standing out in my front yard to talk to her – it was too hot inside.  I felt the first rain drops hit my head.  Excellent.  I’ve been lamenting the lack of rain for weeks.  Now I had water coming out of everywhere.  Thank you Gods of Over Kill.

I took the kids and my mother and we fled, leaving My Honey to deal with the plumber.   We had to leave – the kids were having a fantastic time peeing outside, but I was not willing to participate in that particular ritual.  It’s really remarkable how there is nothing in this world that makes you have to pee more than being absolutely forbidden to do so.

We were at Target when I got the call. 

“Roots.”  Just the one word, that’s all My Honey said.  I started to whimper.  That is the worst word you can hear from a plumber.

We have an enormous fir tree.  I hate that tree with teeth-gnashing passion.  The tree itself is fine – it’s just a tree, after all, and I’m not insane.  The reason I hate it is due to it’s tenants.  There are pterodactyls that live in a nest up there.  That is the only explanation I can come up with for the sheer size and volume of bird poop I find on my car EVERY SINGLE DAY.

Apparently, the Army men met up with the tree’s roots that are slowly strangling my plumbing and created the catastrophic plug.  I have to take a day off work because the plumber, a really nice young man named Aaron, is coming at 9am to run a camera down the drain to find out exactly where the roots are causing the problem. 

Over the course of this week, I will have my driveway torn up while sewer pipe is being replaced.  I’ve had a toilet sitting in my hall since Friday.  You have to walk passed it to get to the bedrooms.  I have a raving case of PTSD as it relates to water/drains/flushing. 

My Honey and I are steeling ourselves for the estimate tomorrow – I’m expecting well over 1,000.00.

It’s a damn good thing we have the 25$ off coupon, huh?

My father has terrible hearing.  It has come from a lifetime of using power tools, and it has always been a source of much amusement in my family.  What makes the disability funny is that, no matter what absurd thing my father thinks he heard, he’ll repeat it back to you as if that’s exactly what you did say and, obviously, you’re a total idiot.

I remember one particular incident when I was a kid that has become a long standing inside joke in the family.  It all came about because my father would frequently get too busy during the day and forget to eat lunch.  By the time he would get home from work, his blood sugar would have plummeted and he would be in quite a foul mood. 

On this night he was grumbling around and acting surly when my mom asked him, “Did you forget to eat again today?”

“No!” he yelled back, “I have not been sniffing chickens!”

He only became more angry when we all burst out laughing. 

Now, any time he says something wacky, or someone hears something wacky, we’ll just reply, “He’s been sniffing chickens.” 

Now that he’s had his stroke, he can’t hear and he get confused.  It has led to some very hysterical conversations.

I told you last night, the toilet in our front bathroom was overflowing quite dramatically, but it was too late to do much about it when the plunging proved completely ineffective.  This morning, I called my brother, the plumber, and asked him if he had time to come by and see what he could accomplish with a snake.

He called me later to tell me the horrible news that the toilet was going to have to come up.  “Whatever’s down there is solid.”  Doesn’t that sound ominous?  There was horrifying talk about worse case scenarios that involved pulling up tiles and drilling holes in the floor.

When my Honey got home from work, he tackled the project again.  He took The Bandit aside to see what he could find out.  We all knew that the boy was behind it somehow.  In fact, I am really amazed that this is the first plumbing emergency we’ve had.  I thought for sure, the minute that boy learned how to walk and flush, we’d be pulling miscellaneous items from our plumbing but, so far, we’ve gotten off lucky.

“Are you missing any toys?” My Honey asked the boy in a round-about sort of way.  That’s how you have to approach him with these things.  The direct approach is a HUGE mistake.  If you do that, he’ll say exactly what you want to hear, and you have no idea if you’re getting anything even remotely close to the truth.

“Maybe,” was his cryptic answer.

After much negotiation, we have finally come to the conclusion that the boy is missing either 5, 10 or as many as 12 plastic Army men.  And he is very pissed that he’ll never get them back (shudder).

“Well, they’re Navy Seals now, boy,” was My Honey’s sarcastic rejoinder.

Back to my dad.  I was trying to tell him this story over the phone.  That was my first mistake.  Don’t ever try to tell him anything over the phone.  You can’t yell loud enough and don’t even think about trying to spell the word he’s not understanding – he won’t hear that either, even if he could spell.  But, my father loves hearing stories about my kids adventures, so I try.

“Where’s your Honey?”

“He’s trying to get Army Men out of the toilet,” I told him.

“What?” he’ll say.

I’ll repeat myself – louder and slower. 

“He’s trying to do what?” he’ll ask again.

“He’s getting ARMY MEN out of the TOILET,” I’ll tell him again.

“Oranges?” he’ll say out of left field.  “Who put oranges in the toilet?”

“NO.  AAAAAARRRRRMYYYY MEEEEEEEN,” I’ll say really loud and slow.

“Oh, onions.  That’s funny.  Why would he put onions in the toilet?”

Now I smack myself on the forehead.  “NO! ARMY MEN.  ARMY NOT ONION.  ARMY.”  By this time, I’m yelling.

“Hold on a minute.”  I can hear him messing with his hearing aide.  “What are you yelling at me about.”

“He’s getting Army men out of the toilet,” I’ll repeat for the zillionth time, but this time in a normal voice.  We’ll start from the beginning since now he’s turned his ears on.

“Oh, Army tanks.  That makes more sense.”  Oh Jesus.  I let this go.  At least this time he’s in the ball park.  “Well, then what did he do with the onions and oranges?”

“Nobody did anything with onions and oranges.”  I sigh deeply.

“Why did you bring them up then?”

My Honey is yelling from the bathroom his funny line about Navy Seals. 

There is no way in hell, I’m trying to get that joke across.

The Reality Train pulling into the station.  Departing soon for all stations South of Wonderland.  First stop – Overflowing Toilet in the Front Bathroom.

Also stopping at Litter Box Needs to Be Changed and Dear God, What Is That Smell?

The universe called, I need to participate again.  Drat.  Apparently, I’ve floated around on that little success long enough.  Life needs to be dealt with – and pronto.

The Bandit wet his bed and the sheets need to be washed.  The toilet really is inexplicably overflowing in the front bathroom.  The cat box is damn near lethal.  Something is rotten in the state of the laundry room and that needs to be discovered, quickly.  The dog ate a full loaf of bread.  And then the bread that was thawing out from the freezer.  AND THEN a dozen homemade blueberry muffins. 

I am alarmed by how many things on this list involve odors.  Maybe you shouldn’t stop by the house until I get this under control.

There is no more time to sit on your laurels.  Get your butt back in the chair and some new words on paper. HUP! HUP! HUP!

It took me three and a half hours to calm down enough to sit in a chair to compose this post.

Monday’s post was very timely.  In it I told you I wasn’t expecting to hear anything from the agent for another month or so.  HOWEVER, I received an email from her today.

She is at the Romance Writers of America National Convention – something the Quills had wanted desperately to attend, but alas, the economy got in the way.  She was wondering if I was attending the conference this year because, “I wanted to let you know that I am just about done reading SEEING LOVE CLEARLY and have really enjoyed the story!”

HOLY CRAP!  I’m feeling very Sally Field right now.

She goes on to say, “I would love to chat with you a bit.”

HOLY MARY MOTHER OF GOD!

So I danced around the office and scared the dog and caused My Honey to sit, blinking at me in confusion, while he tried to decipher what I was talking about.  My voice had risen about four octaves at this point and probably only the dog could hear me anyway.

So, I calmly (hahahahahahahaha!) sat down and composed a reply email.  I was really proud that I was able to keep my instances of all caps down to three words.

She will call me Monday.  I’ll try to speak like an intelligent human being.  I don’t want to scare her with my EXHUBERANCE!

This has been a really good week for the artistic lives of the Brights.  Just tonight while I was doing my ridiculous Dance of Glee, My Honey was signing his endorsement contract with Steve Clayton – a company that makes the picks he uses.

And I had all kinds of stuff to write to you about – There is an Idiot Dog update that you will find amusing, I’m sure.  And something very tragic, but I’ll get to that later – much later – when that news has had time to settle and I’m able to give it the weight it deserves.

Until then, if you see me floating about and/or biting my nails in angst – give me a kiss, buy me a cupcake but don’t expect conversation to occur at either a decibel or an octave that is comfortable to the human ear. 

And I just might punch you in the arm, I’m finding that I can barely control myself.

A bunch of you have been asking if I’ve heard anything from the agent.  The agent that has my full has been in possession of it for 3 1/2 weeks.  I’m not concerned because she informed me in our last communication that it would probably be 8 weeks until she was able to get back to me.

At the same time I sent my full manuscript to her, another agent asked for a “partial”.  That’s industry lingo for a selection of chapters.  I haven’t heard from her yet either, but it’s too soon to fret.

I’ve also entered a contest with Kensington Brava.  They won’t be revealing winners until September.

So I wait. 

And I’ve had a bit of a blockage.  This isn’t something I’m used to.  Normally, I have to restrain myself from writing more than one thing at a time.  I don’t know what my problem is.  I’ve tried to work on the knight story that I was working on months ago, before I got all caught up in rewriting that whole story for the agent (see above).  For more than two weeks, I’ve opened and reopened that document and watched the blinking cursor without adding any appreciable number of words.  I did a bunch of research, but when it comes to applying that new information, it just doesn’t seem to come.

Last night, an opening line came to me for a completely different story so, during some down time at work, I started with that.  We’ll see what becomes of it. 

Guess what I did tonight instead of writing?  You’ll never guess so I’ll give you a hint.  You know how periodically I give you stock investment suggestions?  Here’s a new one.  WD-40.  Go get some of that.

Seems kind of out of the blue, doesn’t it?  But that’s exactly what I’m dealingwith.  Blue and Green.  Crayons.  In the dryer and now all over a load of clothes.  WD-40 is the best thing to get it out, but it takes a bunch of work and several washes and then you’re clothes smell a little mechanicy.  I made that word up.  I do that.  I’ve also coined trafficky for when there’s a lot of traffic, obviously.  You can use either of those in conversation if you want.

This is the third or fourth time this has happened.  I have decreed that Crayons are no longer allowed in my house.  Or in my car.  The nooks and crannies of the back seat of my car are filled with puddles of melted crayons.  You want to know who I blame?  RESTAURANTS.  Must they always give my kids crayons?  And then when I won’t let the kids take them with them – for obvious reasons – they shove them in their pockets and VOILA they’re melted in the dryer.

AAAAARRRRRRGGGGG.

So anyway, I’m going to go through a couple more cans of WD-40.  That stock should show some growth for your portfolio.

People, I have found proof that God exists.  Well, let me be clear.  I’m referring to the God the Quills have prayed to for years.  We’ve even considered forming an official church and becoming tax exempt for the IRS.  We are very dedicated and loyal to this God: God of bleached white flour and refined sugar.  The G0d of butter creme frosting.  The God of chocolate ganache.  The God of delicate lemon icing and vanilla beans.

My family and I made a spur of the moment decision to eat dinner at The Cheesecake Factory.  Regardless of the mixed reviews I’ve heard, we had a lovely experience.  And I’m sure you can guess that we topped off our meal with cheesecake. 

What kind of idiots would we be if we didn’t eat the food the place was named after?  Not these idiots, I assure you.

I knew instantly what I would order the minute I saw the dessert menu.  Sassy was willing to share it with me – mostly because I became instantly incommunicative the minute I saw it on the menu.  I would not be swayed.

Stephanie’s Red Velvet Cake Cheesecake.

I’ll give you a moment for silent introspection.  Pray amongst yourselves.  Smoke ’em if you’ve got ’em.  BYOC (bring your own cake).  We pretty much allow anything in our church.  We’re very liberal that way.

It was everything I hoped it would be.  As you can see from the picture, it was red velvet cake, cream cheese icing, cheesecake, red velvet, icing, cheesecake, icing and a glorious mound of whipped cream.

The cake was moist, the frosting tangy, the cheesecake like manna from heaven.

I tell you, I almost orgasmed at the table.

Other people had other desserts, but honestly, I have no idea what they had.  I was in rapture.

After My Honey informed me that we would no longer be allowed in the restaurant if I didn’t stop making those embarrassing noises and licking the plate, we ran into the mall for some quick shopping.

I walked along the with the masses and regretted the folly of ordering dinner and not just getting dessert.  The salmon I had was excellent, but now I was over-full.  It wasn’t from eating the dessert.  I knew that would be happening.  The problem, as I see it, was eating the main course.  THAT is what made me uncomfortable.  Thank goodness I didn’t have a salad with dinner – I’d probably have ruptured something.

If our church ever makes up commandments or bylaws or some other organized nonsense, that will be right up there:  Thou shalt not order a main course when eating at The Cheesecake Factory.

My five year old, Bandit, was moaning right along with me.  He finally turned to his dad and asked to be lifted up onto his shoulders.

“Too tired to walk, little dude?” he daddy asked as he hoisted him up.

“Yeah,” he groaned.  “I think I have diabetes.”

“What?”  His daddy was having a hard time following the meandering conversation.  You have to be quick with five-year-olds – they go off on weird tangents and, if you don’t pay attention, you’ll get lost.  “Why, dude?”

“I had those two glasses of chocolate milk and then that cheesecake.  I’m just sure I have diabetes.”

I don’t know what that preschool is teaching him, but I’d love to be a fly on the wall sometimes.

At work the other day, I had to call the Tech Support Line.  I work for an enormous organization and, unfortunately, our Tech Support is manned by people from India.

Like most people, this distresses me to no end.  By the time I call Tech Support I’m already really frustrated and it annoys me to have to run through the same rigmarole every time before I can even state my problem.

When they answer the phone they always state their name.  It’s no secret that they are in India.  They all have an Indian accent.  Ava can imitate them to perfection.  But here’s the thing…when they state their name, it’s always a Western name related to the caller in the lovely sing song accent. 

“Hello.  My name is Susan.” or “Hello.  My name is Bob.” 

Uh huh.

But today, “Mark” said something that made me crack up while I was still on the phone with him.

He needed my ID number which happens to actually be all letters.  I slowly and clearly stated my ID.  Then “Mark” repeated it back to me in the Phonetic Alphabet.  I expected it to be Alpha Tango Romeo Whiskey – like that. 

I didn’t take into account I was speaking to India.

What I got instead was R as in Ramiel and V as in Vishnu.

And it doesn’t help that these people are unfailingly nice.  They are polite to the point of absurdity.  It makes a surly person feel bad.