If you love beautiful music and brilliant lyrics, check out Gregory Alan Isakov. Phenomenal. I mean it.
I have his first two albums and then got out of the habit of buying CDs and paying attention to when new stuff comes out, so I missed the most recent "That Sea, The Gambler" when it came out last year. But after hearing the whole thing (LastFm, cough cough), I'm going to buy it. Yes, I still buy CDs.
The LastFm page:
http://www.last.fm/music/Gregory+Alan+Isakov
The MySpace page for you youngsters with the MySpaces:
http://www.myspace.com/gregoryalanisakov
Did I mention how wonderful his music is? It is. Check it.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
I need some help.
It's not serious. But I'm starting a project soon, and I need supplies. Old magazine spines, to be exact. I need the three inches of magazine closest to the spine since I'm not sure how far down I'll have to cut them yet.
If any of you readers/lurkers have any magazines you'd like to part with (all colors, all types of magazine, excluding hunting/fishing magazines), please e-mail me at heatherann007@hotmail.com.
I'm not even sure if the project will work, but there's no way to find out for sure unless I actually just try to make it and see how it goes.
Thanks!
If any of you readers/lurkers have any magazines you'd like to part with (all colors, all types of magazine, excluding hunting/fishing magazines), please e-mail me at heatherann007@hotmail.com.
I'm not even sure if the project will work, but there's no way to find out for sure unless I actually just try to make it and see how it goes.
Thanks!
Monday, July 7, 2008
Devil Spawn
So, it's Sunday, and I'm vacuuming, trying to do something productive in the last few hours of my three-day weekend. And the doorbell rings. Maynard growls, and I sigh and roll my eyes because I know it's Devon, the hell spawn from two doors down who makes Bean cry on a regular basis.
Bean answers the door, and I tell her without turning to see the blond demon child standing in my doorway that I'm cleaning. They can either play out front, out back, or at Devon's house. Bean puts on her shoes, and they go over to Devon's house.
Fifteen minutes later, Hubs is looking out the window and pointing. "She's back," he says, "I'm betting that she called Bean.... stupid. What do you think?"
"I'm going to also go with 'stupid'".
I ask Bean why she's home already, and she confirms that Devon called her a name. "Snob." Whatever. Fucking brat. So Bean tells us she's going to ride her scooter out front. And that's great. We like physical activity and sunshine.
I'm vacuuming and watching out the window to make sure Bean is staying out front, on the sidewalk, and no slack-jawed yokel has run their car up onto our sidewalk and mowed down my child. And I see Devon.
In Devon's hand is a can of aerosol something. I think it's hairspray, but I still keep my eye on her. She's approaching Bean on her scooter, crouches down and starts spraying. At first I think it's silly string. But it's not silly string.
It's fucking spray paint, gold spray paint, and she's spraying it all over the sidewalk in front of our yard. In front of the yard that is part of the house that we don't even own.
So I run out of the house, yelling, "What are you doing? What is that? Spray paint, are you serious?!"
Hubs comes out and helps me with the hose. I'm foolishly hoping that I can spray the paint off before it fully dries. Not so much.
"Devon, do not spray our sidewalk with paint. Don't spray the sidewalk, don't spray Bean's scooter, don't spray anything!"
I go back inside, and I'm grumbling, Hubs is cussing, and we're both angry as hell.
"Why don't you go say something to her mom," he says. "She's just going to keep being a beast until someone says something. She can't keep destroying our stuff. This isn't even our house!" (I should mention that the day before, Hubs found some cables that HAD been attached to the side of our house, pulled off, with part of our dog's kennel hanging from it. More of Devon's handy work.)
"I don't want to. Her mom's so.... normal, and I don't like confrontation. You go."
"Fine. I'm going."
"Put on some pants, though," I say. "It will make you seem more credible. And less like a crazy neighbor in his boxers."
Hubs storms out, and Bean is still out front riding her scooter. Devon is cautiously hanging by the edge of our property line. A minute later, he comes back in.
"What did you say?"
"Nothing," he says. "I didn't go. I don't even know what to say."
So I shut off the vacuum and walk two doors down, Devon following me, but keeping a safe distance. I ring the doorbell, and her mother comes down.
Poor Tracy. So nice. So normal.
"I don't want to seem like I'm tattling on your daughter," I say, "but Devon just sprayed gold spray paint on the sidewalk in front of our house. I figured you probably don't even know she has the paint, and it's dangerous, so I thought you should know." (Don't you like how I play the safety angle, rather than the I-might-discipline-your-child-for-you-and-in-a-way-you-won't-like angle?)
"Oh, God," she says and calls Devon in.
I walk back home, and Bean comes in a few minutes later. "I heard Devon screaming in her room," she says.
And for a minute, I feel a pang of guilt. What if they spanked her with a wooden spoon? Or a belt? "What was she screaming?"
"That she hates her parents, and she hates us, and she hopes she never sees our faces again," Bean says.
"Oh," I say. "I hope that's a promise."
So hopefully we won't see her for a while. And even then, I don't think Bean will be playing with her any more.
But her memory will be there. Every time I pull into the fucking driveway and see that big fucking gold swirl on the sidewalk.
Ugh.
Bean answers the door, and I tell her without turning to see the blond demon child standing in my doorway that I'm cleaning. They can either play out front, out back, or at Devon's house. Bean puts on her shoes, and they go over to Devon's house.
Fifteen minutes later, Hubs is looking out the window and pointing. "She's back," he says, "I'm betting that she called Bean.... stupid. What do you think?"
"I'm going to also go with 'stupid'".
I ask Bean why she's home already, and she confirms that Devon called her a name. "Snob." Whatever. Fucking brat. So Bean tells us she's going to ride her scooter out front. And that's great. We like physical activity and sunshine.
I'm vacuuming and watching out the window to make sure Bean is staying out front, on the sidewalk, and no slack-jawed yokel has run their car up onto our sidewalk and mowed down my child. And I see Devon.
In Devon's hand is a can of aerosol something. I think it's hairspray, but I still keep my eye on her. She's approaching Bean on her scooter, crouches down and starts spraying. At first I think it's silly string. But it's not silly string.
It's fucking spray paint, gold spray paint, and she's spraying it all over the sidewalk in front of our yard. In front of the yard that is part of the house that we don't even own.
So I run out of the house, yelling, "What are you doing? What is that? Spray paint, are you serious?!"
Hubs comes out and helps me with the hose. I'm foolishly hoping that I can spray the paint off before it fully dries. Not so much.
"Devon, do not spray our sidewalk with paint. Don't spray the sidewalk, don't spray Bean's scooter, don't spray anything!"
I go back inside, and I'm grumbling, Hubs is cussing, and we're both angry as hell.
"Why don't you go say something to her mom," he says. "She's just going to keep being a beast until someone says something. She can't keep destroying our stuff. This isn't even our house!" (I should mention that the day before, Hubs found some cables that HAD been attached to the side of our house, pulled off, with part of our dog's kennel hanging from it. More of Devon's handy work.)
"I don't want to. Her mom's so.... normal, and I don't like confrontation. You go."
"Fine. I'm going."
"Put on some pants, though," I say. "It will make you seem more credible. And less like a crazy neighbor in his boxers."
Hubs storms out, and Bean is still out front riding her scooter. Devon is cautiously hanging by the edge of our property line. A minute later, he comes back in.
"What did you say?"
"Nothing," he says. "I didn't go. I don't even know what to say."
So I shut off the vacuum and walk two doors down, Devon following me, but keeping a safe distance. I ring the doorbell, and her mother comes down.
Poor Tracy. So nice. So normal.
"I don't want to seem like I'm tattling on your daughter," I say, "but Devon just sprayed gold spray paint on the sidewalk in front of our house. I figured you probably don't even know she has the paint, and it's dangerous, so I thought you should know." (Don't you like how I play the safety angle, rather than the I-might-discipline-your-child-for-you-and-in-a-way-you-won't-like angle?)
"Oh, God," she says and calls Devon in.
I walk back home, and Bean comes in a few minutes later. "I heard Devon screaming in her room," she says.
And for a minute, I feel a pang of guilt. What if they spanked her with a wooden spoon? Or a belt? "What was she screaming?"
"That she hates her parents, and she hates us, and she hopes she never sees our faces again," Bean says.
"Oh," I say. "I hope that's a promise."
So hopefully we won't see her for a while. And even then, I don't think Bean will be playing with her any more.
But her memory will be there. Every time I pull into the fucking driveway and see that big fucking gold swirl on the sidewalk.
Ugh.
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