Mean Streets

What does one say when finding this notice on the front door of her humble abode?

The correct answer is: Now???



Now that we’re supposed to get four solid days of rain, after a completely dry 2 ½ weeks?

Now that I’m supposed to be hosting my book club here tomorrow afternoon, meaning eight women will be parking their cars (where ours are) up on the cross street, and hoofing it down the hill to our house?

Now that this means you’ll barely have the street open for us to bring the car we’re not taking to Pittsburgh back to the garage while we’re gone? (Yeah, that’s going in my archives as the worst sentence I’ve ever written…. I think I’ll keep it.) I’m sure our neighbors up on the cross street would not appreciate having our car there an extra week!

Yes. Now.

Btw, another of the 'bookees' agreed to host (thanks, Linda!) and we averted that crisis! (I insisted on taking the dessert, since I was already psyched to make it-- will tell you about that-- and provide the recipe soon!)

So bright and early the next morning, in came the big equipment, shaking the street and rattling the windows. Soon the cutting began. The concrete saw did its thing, and loudly sliced the old slabs into sections. Then a mechanical ram (possibly hydraulic?) street-buster turned the sections into chunks o’ concrete. It was all kind of like a slice-and-dice operation, but on the street instead of an onion.

Meanwhile, the house was shaking like crazy, and I had to wonder what this will do in terms of settling, foundation cracks, door frames, and my weight loss. (I always have to wonder about that, even when it’s totally unrelated. You know, “Does this concrete mixer make my butt look big?” --stuff like that.)

When the shake, rattle and roll stopped, the pre-mix truck came down to pour all new slabs. And a crew of non-hottie guys did the smooth and finish stuff.

So because he’s as big a nerd as I am (though often about totally different things,) the Center of the Universe (CoTU) went outside and shot some videos of the festivities. And now, because he’s a bigger attention whore hound than I am, he wants me to post them here.

And to make the whining and whimpering stop, I’m doing it. Besides, I’m pretty sure that our 3-year old grandson will get to see the video this way! (No, he’s not a subscriber [yet] but his mom’s a frequent reader.) And he’s all about the streets and the signs. So this one’s for you, Zachary: check it out!

Battlestar Grammatica

Isn’t it interesting that some people who go out of their way to puff out their chests and pretend to be smarter/richer/younger than they are (or than YOU are) often shoot themselves in the foot (or the groin) without even realizing it?


A few days ago, a nationally recognized author was here in town, and was interviewed on a local news program. He got the full hour, and took every bit of it to toot his own horn, pat himself on the back, and rattle off his accomplishments and achievements. His grammar wasn’t perfect, but sometimes I think you have to chalk that up to the speaker being a little nervous, or just being human. (But yes, I do tend to think more highly of folks who use proper grammar. Sue me. Mrs. Burns made a serious impression on me in high school English.)

So he was getting on my nerves somewhat, mostly because he was so darn full of himself, but I was driving a rather long distance, and I just hung in there. And then it happened: He spoke of all the “allocades” he’s received over the years. Um, sir? The word is “accolades”. Don’t use it if you don’t know what it is! My respect for you? Sorry—major nose dive. Try again next year.

Obviously this stuck in my craw, or I wouldn’t be bothering you with it today.

Besides, today that scab was picked off by another seemingly innocuous occurrence. A very nice young woman was helping me choose a give-me-back-my-youth new foundation at the Clinique counter in a major department store. She was upbeat and friendly, without being cloying or chipper. Nice balance, and she seemed to know her stuff.

I was all ready to exchange BFF necklaces with her, when she pointed out that this shimmery stuff that was part of my free gift package could be used on my cheekbones or my degligee. Yes, you heard right—a new name for what she indicated (on her own body, I should add) as the décolletage. Somehow, she combined that with negligee, for reasons we can only guess at, and came up with a new word. I don’t expect to see it in the list of new words for 2010, but you never know.

Meanwhile, I’m glad she doesn’t sell men’s cosmetics. She might offer my husband something for his chockstrap.


(Sorry-- can't bring myself to post a photo here!)