Why I Write.

For me, writing is breathing.

It's my mood, on paper.

I have a box of letters never sent. Sticky note pads brim with my short hand rambling. More than one cocktail napkin tells the story of my life during the course of an hour.

Writing enables me to capture fleeting moments, grab them tightly and etch them into some sort of permanency.

I want to remember:

My Granny's enormous smile and the way her hands gracefully work the newspaper as she completes the daily crossword puzzle.

The way the corner of my mother's blue eyes crinkle, just a bit, when she laughs at me or with me.

How my father showed up to mud my kitchen six years ago, even though he was recovering from pneumonia.

My brother's high school graduation and the moment we both started to cry as we wrapped our arms around each other for a hug and I whispered "I'm so proud of you."

The second I looked at Apes, nearly a year into our relationship, and knew no matter what, I'd spend the rest of my life with her.

Without the written word, those moments, those precious snapshots, risk fading.

My family is too vibrant to fade.

Our memories should live long after we aren't here to share them personally.

It's but one reason I write.

Kathy Griffin: In My Vision.

Vision boards totally work.

I've always wanted to see Kathy Griffin perform, so I slapped a picture of her on mine and last night, I was sitting in Dar Constitution Hall, watching the fiery red head do what she does best - humiliate celebrities, curse (I thought I dropped the f-bomb a lot...) and dish backstage Emmy Award gossip.

Next up on my vision board: platinum, diamond and sapphire ring. No question. That believe it-receive it shit works!

Seeing Kathy run around on stage, waving her hands wildly, made my heart sing. Filled me up with joy. I laughed so hard my belly laugh came from the belly of a guy several rows down from us. I snorted often and probably rode the fine line between obnoxious and annoying.

We arrived for the show an hour early because I didn't want to miss a second of Kathy's act.

It was an act of Congress getting Apes to leave early on a Sunday night (NFL support groups are in our future). She agreed, but not without making her own demands. I had to agree to stay in the car until just before show time so we could tune in to the Redskins game while she checked other NFL scores on my phone.

This is what Fantasy Football On-the-Go looks like:


How I spent that same hour before the show:


Twenty minutes before show time, I made Apes put the phone away and tried (SEVERAL TIMES) to take a cute picture of us. My mistake was telling her not to make faces or do anything to ruin the shot (she's notorious for doing both).

Here she is totally goof-balling up the shot:


I saw it, rolled my eyes and she laughed, saying "Okay, okay! Take another one."



She thugged it up with her hands. Told me to take another. She'd be serious this time.



I don't think I need to tell you how tickled (with herself) she was when I turned the camera over to see if this shot was "normal."

I finally got the shot I was looking for, but frankly, after all the others, it seems so boring...



The hall was packed with all kinds. Gay boys everywhere. Straight women in skinny jeans and black high heeled boots. Husbands hoping to get laid for attending the show of someone they'd clearly never heard of before. Adults who'd been bullied in high school and relate to Kathy as well as revel in her success and in a small way, own it themselves.

Her comedy touched us all.

Some of the moments I loved:

"Did ya'll see the episode of My Life on the D-List where we filmed at Walter Reed Hospital? I had to fight to get Bravo to let me do that. They thought it would be depressing and not in line with the comedy we normally film. I told them to trust me, I knew we could find the humor in it. Fuck. I'm a comedian. I can make anyone laugh. Well, it's fair to say I bombed. No really, I bombed. My act fell so flat I had AMPUTEES RUNNING from the room. Bravo tried to make me feel better, saying they'd edit the footage to make it look like the event was a success and I was like, 'No. Absolutely not. The comedy here IS that I sucked so bad that people with no legs ran from me.'"

"Anyone else but me see the hypocrisy of the Republican party? Jamie Lynn Spears gets knocked up at 15 and she's a whore. Teenager Bristol Palin is "with child" and she's CHOOSING LIFE and isn't it wonderful. What the hell kind of PR shit is that?"

"I really feel like I missed out, not having a mom who'd do anything to advance my career. I want Dinah Lohan, Lindsay's mom, to be my mom. I mean, I would have KILLED to have a mom who wore low-rider, bedazzled jeans. My own mother prefers a tropical Mu'umu'u from Target. I'm serious about this. Why couldn't I have had a mother willing to fuck my way to the "middle" of celebrity? WHY? My mother only slept with ONE man. My dad. That's bull shit."

I hero worship Kathy Griffin. I must meet her. I will meet her.

She's genius. Foul mouthed. And completely in-e-propriate.

It's a Trifecta Perfecta.

Gratuitous April Moment.

April talking about how similar my mother and I can be when it comes to our sassy-ness:

"It's true, Heather. That leaf doesn't fall very far from the limb."

Drenched for Obama.

Obama was here.

Well, not HERE HERE. Not in my house, in my bed, where I am right now. That would not be advisable, nor did it happen.

I did not have sexual relations with that man.

He was, however, at Mary Washington University in Fredericksburg, VA yesterday.

There was a Biden/Obama rally and of course Apes and I attended.

Well, we tried to attend.

But as sometimes happens with us, it didn't go exactly how we thought it would (or should).

The newspaper said the gates opened at 3pm.

The program started at 6:15.

I considered arriving around noon, but the thought of waiting six hours under a sky that looked mean and hateful did not appeal to me.

So we showed up at 3pm.

Bad idea.

The line wrapped around the college twice. No joke.




I can't be certain, but after spending nearly four hours in line, I think we adopted the three young kids who were behind us. We knew their homework schedule, who their teachers were, why they moved from Richmond and how they came to choose their ring tones. If that doesn't make us parents, well, I don't know what would...

The line was electric. People were talking about the debate. They were excited. Energized. Kids were screaming "OBAMA!" Horns honked blocks away. Buttons, t-shirts, towels - all of it being sold and immediately put to use.

Regardless of political affiliation, it's moving to be swept up in an election you care deeply about. To see thousands of people who wouldn't stand in a grocery line for fifteen minutes willingly remain packed in an hours-long line to hear a Presidential candidate speak is inspiring.

As we inched closer and closer, I thought about how thankful I am to live in a country where I have the right to vote. It's a gift and one I don't take for granted. My father, a retired Air Force colonel, taught us early voting was a privilege and it's our responsibility to show up and be counted at every election.

What Apes and I saw while waiting in line could fill up several blogs, but this was one of my favorite sites:


This was the last "turn" the line took. That dude in the green shirt totally cut in line. The woman behind me brought it to the attention of the cop walking our way. She was having none of it. She'd already lost her 3 children to Apes and I, she wasn't going to loose her spot in line too.


As we drug our weary bodies closer and closer to the security check point, the sky opened up and dropped a year's worth of rain on our heads. Seriously, if someone had walked by and told me his name was Noah and he was building an Arc, I wouldn't have asked questions. My ass was loading up.

Someone left a box of trash bags on the side of the road, so we snatched a few.


I chose to protect my notebook and reading material instead of my head. But I wasn't happy about it.


I was less happy about this.


See those metal detectors? Just on the other side of them was the rally. That's right kids, after four hours of waiting in line, we got UP TO THE FUCKING METAL DETECTORS and the Secret Service told us they were at capacity and no one else was getting in.

We were told the broadcast would be loud and we were welcome to find a spot on campus and listen.

Later, reports estimated some 4,000 people made it into the rally. Another 12,000 were in line.

And we were at the METAL DETECTORS.

We were pissed, but not stupid. Stupid was the girl who (we think) tried to jump the barrier. Three agents snatched her in mid-air and face planted her into the muddy ground. We didn't get to see Obama, but we did have front row seats to that excitement. And we were under a small security tent while the other 11,998 rally hopefuls were nearly up to their knee-caps in rain water.

The rally host kicked off the event by asking everyone to turn toward the flag.


Hearing thousands of people recite the Pledge is something I'll never forget. It made me cry. Our words, our pride, they echoed. They filled me up. Standing there, I didn't care I was cold and drenched. The entire ordeal was worth it just to experience that one moment of unity. I beamed with pride for my father who fought for our country and for every other man and woman who've done the same. The cheer that erupted at the conclusion of the Pledge rivaled any football stadium cry.

Finally convinced the Secret Service couldn't be bought, bribed or manhandled, we decided to find a spot on campus where we could hear the program, but be ahead of the thousands of people who'd be trying to leave at the same time we were.

Before finding said spot, I had to pee. I'm not going to go into too much detail here, but peeling off my soaked shorts took no less than five minutes and I nearly had to call for help. That's all I'm saying. Pulling them up was no easier. I almost took them off completely.

Grumbling about my bathroom woes, we found an outdoor amphitheater. It was completely empty, but we could hear perfectly. We sat there, in the dark, alone, listening to Biden and Obama discuss their vision for our future.

We hollered. We clapped. We felt heard.

And of course, we took pictures.


I can't believe I was smiling in this shot. I really wanted out of my soppy clothes.


This is more like it. I'm not certain why Apes looks so scared.


All in all, it was worth it. Even though we didn't actually SEE the rally.

I'm grateful to live in this country. I love my father for serving it. I support our troops even if I don't necessarily agree with all the decisions that put them where they are.

VOTE VOTE VOTE for your candidate of choice.

We're lucky we get to.

PS - Apes and I are going to see Kathy Griffin tonight in DC. I don't think I need to tell you how excited I am. SUCK IT!

Mom Talk.

Moments ago:

Ring. Ring.

"Hello?"

"Feather, it's your mom. What's up?"

I tell her.

Tell her more.

Eventually, mom's distracted "uh-huhs" tell me I'm losing her.

Then she confirms it.

She cuts me off.

"Okay, I gotta go. I'm walking into the bar."

No need to wonder why I am how I am...

Friday This n' That

I know I normally save my random post for the weekend, but I'm still covered in paint and there's no light at the end of this tunnel.

Frankly, I wish the damn train would run over me and put me out of my misery.

Whoever (me) thought it would be a good idea to paint the house from top to bottom was a damn fool.

I did find a way to say thank you to Apes for surprising me with dinner by the river the other night.

Mind outta the gutters, people.

I found a semi-permanent way to say thanks.

Here's the front of our entertainment center (ignore the mess):


And here's the back:


It earned me some major "awww, you're so sweet" points. I highly recommend painting all over your furniture. Worked for me. I don't think I'll have to use hangers for a good week.

My brother Brett and his wife Ashely made my day yesterday.

As promised, my birthday gift arrived.

And who doesn't love a COOKIE BASKET?


Mom isn't going to be happy with you kids. She would have MUCH preferred you send oranges or some such fruit...

And finally, I leave you with this.

April is contagious.

Yesterday I received this email from Heidi.

Heather -

I just HAD to share Teri's APRIL MOMENT of the day (she's been having more and more lately...I think she's getting pregnancy brain, and she's not even pregnant!).

When I arrived at the office today, I learned the server was down and everyone was going to have to work from home. Everyone but me, of course. I have a laptop and wireless card, so I'm able to access a Verizon server and can get work done from here.

After learning about the server issue, I got in touch with Teri and told her that if someone else preferred to stay in the office, I'd be happy to let them use my computer and I'd work from home. I also told her if anyone accepted my offer, I'd need her to come pick me up since we carpooled today.

I asked around and learned everyone decided to head home, so I wrote Teri an EMAIL telling her I wouldn't need her to come get me. I was going to work from the office after all.

Her response to learning this information:

From: Teri

Do you have internet access?

I'll Keep Her.

Last night Apes got home from work about 5ish.

She rounded the corner yelling: "Put some clothes on, we're going out!"

To be clear, I HAD clothes on, she was simply suggesting I change into something not covered in paint. I've worn my paint clothes for several days in a row and I'm certain they could walk by themselves if required.

"Why? Where are we going?"

"Stop asking questions. Just go change."

I like it when she gets feisty.

I showered really quick and put on something more presentable.ish.

We hopped in the car and our first stop: Subway. To go.

Back in the car, I asked again where we were going.

Again I was told to "zip it."

Alrighty.

Several minutes later, we arrived at our destination.



The river.

She said she wanted to get me out of the house for a quick break because she knows how hard I've been working to get the house painted.

I could squeeze her to death sometimes.

Seriously.



We had to climb a bit to find a flat spot where we could watch the river go by and the sun set.



We had to search to find crevices that would hold our grub...



Apes being the Apes we know and love.



Quiet Happy.



More.



I'm riding a whale. See it? See his eye? You do, right?



Now I'm surfing.



And now I'm climbing. I know, my talents are many and astounding...



Either this is a special blur setting or we suck at taking our picture. It's one of those.



Just the most "true to us" picture in the bunch...



See.

I'll keep her.

Kid Stuff.

A few days ago, one of my friends kept me entertained with stories about how she used to torture her sister.

Tabasco in toothpaste.

Hiding underwear.

Cutting a "small" piece of bang in the midnight hour.

Kinda made me resent not having a sister. To torture.

But I did a-okay with my little brother Brett.

Having six years on a person is quite the advantage.

I was in fifth grade when my father received new orders. We moved to Osan,AFB in Korea and into a small townhouse which required Brett and I to share a room.

We had bunkbeds and at one point, did the whole tape-down-the-middle thing to ensure our goods stayed protected and in tact. Of course, I taped the line and for my trouble, got several extra inches of space. Fair is fair.

We weren't allowed a TV in our room as my mother thought (rightly so) that she'd never see us. So every afternoon, we'd amble upstairs, make ourselves comfortable on the horrible brown and yellow couch and tune in to Murder She Wrote.

Those of us living on the base only got one TV channel and it turned my brother and I into Angela Lansbury freaktards.

About a month into our murder-watching ritual, I had a brilliant idea.

"Hey, Brett," I said, my eyes earnest. "I have a REALLY cool idea! How about at the beginning of every show, we each have to guess who we think did it. But we can't change our answers once we guess."

"Okay."

He usually did pretty much anything I told him to. I miss those days.

"It'll be really fun! And guess what?"

"What?"

"Whoever wins, gets something really cool."

"What?"

"The loser has to do all the other person's chores for the day!"

"ALL RIGHT!" He was so excited. So unsuspecting. So trusting.

I miss those days too.

At the beginning of every show, I'd switch up who I thought did it several times, just to get Brett's wheels turning. Then I'd give my final answer.

So would he.

I always won.

Every time.

Brett did my chores for nearly a month before my parents took note and intervened.

And I had to admit what was going on.

And that because I got to stay up later than Brett every night, I was able to catch the same episode of Murder She wrote the night before.

I'm not proud of my trickery.

I was young. I hated my chores.

It's no excuse, but it was smart.

And that has to count for something.

Playing Hardball.

So, when you totally suck at softball and never (and I mean EVER) get a hit, when you DO finally hear the crack of the bat, it surprises everyone.

I mean everyone.

You surprise yourself.

Your own team.

And the other team who for two years (four seasons) has done nothing but watch you swing yourself around in circles as you valiantly attempt to get on base.

Last night, I stepped up to the plate, dug little gripper-holes with my feet and yelled "NASTY BOY!" to Zack because he spit sunflower seeds all over me as I walked out of the bench area.

I was more worried than normal as only my left contact was in. My right one had been giving me trouble, so it had to come out.

The first pitch came at me slowly (or perhaps it was my Bionic Woman - One Contact Vision that slowed the ball for me), but I actually HIT the damn thing.

I hit it!

Over the third baseman's head.

That's right. I found GRASS.

I almost forgot to run, I was so excited and interested in long it would take someone to retrieve it.

I barely made it to first. They were quick.

You would have thought I hit a home run the way my bench was carrying on.

Screaming, yelling, jumping up and down.

"I knew you had it in you!"

"HEATHEEEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRRRRRR! Way to go!!!"

I totally heard one of the little kids say:

"Did she really hit it this time?!"

I just laughed and did my first base dance....which I didn't even know I had in me.

My next at bat, I hit the ball again, but it pretty much landed at my feet and dribbled to the pitcher.

No first base dance.

At the end of our second game, one of the kiddos came running up to me and said:

"Hold out your hands, we have something for you!"

I raised an eyebrow at her...this kid likes sand and bugs....

"Just do it!"

So I did.

In my hands she dropped the sweetest thing ever (in softball):





Cute, right?

I love this team.

Oh, and Darren, the guy who hit THREE home runs (over the fence) and left the game sporting a knot over his right eye thanks to taking a ball to the face...

He got nuthin'.

He does it all the time....

Head in the Clouds.

Fall is my favorite time of year.

The air smells crisper.

A perfect-temperature breeze tickles my arms and legs.

Leaves tease, flashing spots of burnt orange and sunburst yellow.

Screen doors replace shut doors.

Weekends are made for football and Subway sandwiches.

The sky is so blue it almost hurts to look up.

But I do.

Look up.

Have since I was a kid.

I've been fascinated by the sky and clouds since I was a little girl running around in my Winnie-the-Pooh corduroy overalls.

I remember sitting next to my dad on an airplane when I was ten or so. I was in the window seat, pressed up against the pane as tightly as possible, my forehead nearly bruised by the effort.

"Dad!" I said breathlessly, pointing madly toward the window. "Look at all that snow on the ground!"

He peered over my lap and out the window. He smiled, tousled my pony-tailed hair and said, "Feather, those are clouds, not snow, goofy girl."

You'd think I woulda figured that out, being it was July and all. But from where I was sitting, the clouds looked like snow.

I used to lay on the lawn, sprawled out on my back, hands shielding my eyes as I tried to make shapes out of the clouds.

One time I truly thought I saw my grandfather's profile.

Another time, I'm certain a cloud flicked me off.

I saw bunnies, lawnmowers, refrigerators, steeples and airplanes that really were airplanes.

Sometimes a cloud looked so full I just knew if I could get to it, I could jump around and it would hold me.

I wouldn't fall.

It wouldn't let me.

At some point, I grew tired of my Winnie-the-Pooh overalls, but not of clouds and having my head in 'em.

However, there is still a connection between the two.

Pooh uttered one of my favorite quotes and I think it speaks perfectly to cloud observation.

To life observation.

He said:

And by and by, Christopher Robin came to an end of things, and he was silent, and he sat there, looking out over the world, just wishing it wouldn't stop.

My take on the 60th Emmy Awards. Drum Roll, Please.

The 60th Emmy Awards....

SUCKED BALLS.

(sorry mom, but they did).

Wow.

Only redeeming qualities:

The Laugh-In bit.

Tina Fey winning any and all Emmy's not bolted down.

That's it.

The "nothing" skit at the beginning of the ceremony gave me hope that one day, I too, could host the Emmy's.

The bar is WAY low.

Do you see what I see?

So, um, anyone but me see an issue here?

Anyone, anyone?

Yes, that IS April's Fantasy Football face.

And yes, that chair sports a nice imprint of her ass. That's what 12 hours in the same position will do to unsuspecting cushions.

I'm Afraid. Of My Hair.

Painting our house has not been kind. To my hair.

THIS is what I've looked like all week (sometimes, not this good):





I made mention of my Hair-on-Heroin look to my pal Amber and she suggested I do more than talk about it. She passively-aggressively dared me to blog about it.

It's no secret I have no shame and an extreme amount of difficulty shying away from a dare...so I did it.

Now I want to know what I win.

Amber, I'll be waiting patiently.

If it's a car, I like the color black.

If it's a woman, either Mariska Hargitay or Jennifer Nettles will be welcome.

If it's a vacation, Greece is high on my list.

But I'm not terribly picky...

In Awe of Annie.

Ever meet someone who was so brave, so courageous, so daring that they'd share something so painful in order to try and heal themselves with the hope of helping others?

That's Annie. My friend.

Annie has an eating disorder.

She's taken a very brave step and has begun blogging, with such honesty and grace about her thought process, her setbacks, her successes and how this disease affects her family.

Her husband blogs from his perspective with the same wrenching honesty. He does not judge Annie, but has destroyed scales in the middle of the night.

If you are struggling with an eating disorder, it's possible you might find solace and comfort over at Annie's. If you've battled your disorder, perhaps it's encouragement you have to offer.

I believe what Annie is doing is beyond brave. She's not hiding or sensationalizing what life is like when you live with an eating disorder.

What you read may shock you, but please remember she is a real person, with real emotions, doing a REALLY brave thing.

No negative comments. No judgemental comments.

I don't believe my regular readers would do such a thing, but in the event someone happens upon my blog and follows the link to Annie's, please be respectful.

Annie. I'm in awe.

Click HERE for her blog.

Thank you.

Pining for my Peeps.

I've mentioned this before, but it bears repeating.

Sometimes,

APRIL MAKES ME CRAZY.

I have this thing for Peeps, the marshmallow candy. Always have.



And by thing, I mean obsession.

I eat them a certain way:

Ears first, nibbling them a little bit at a time before moving on to the rest of the sugar coated marshmallow goodness.

I squish every bite around my mouth, letting the hard sugar scrub my teeth (it's like brushing).

I finish every bite with "damn, that's some good shit."

At first, I was perplexed when they started making odd colored Peeps for occasions other than Easter. However, I adjusted and saw the silver lining.

More Peeps for me!

Which brings me to my Halloween Peeps.

I squealed like a little girl when I came across my beloved Peeps during a random trip to WalMart a few days ago.

No question, I bought a box.

When I got home, I thought long and hard about where to "store" my Peeps.

Not "store" like "hide"....it wasn't at all similar to what I do when I'm ashamed of my fast food trash.

I am not ashamed of my Peeps.

Rather, Apes has asked me not to put anything sweet in the kitchen because she's a night eater and if she gets up for any reason, she finds herself eating ALL of whatever she can get her hands on.

She ate a entire bowl of pistachio pudding one time. I found that amazing.

I totally complied in order to protect my Peeps. I stored them in the desk drawer in my office.

Two days ago, I ate ONE.

ONE.

Put the box back in my office drawer. Hidden. Never even told Apes about 'em.

That night, she worked on the computer in the office.

I never thought anything of it.

Until yesterday afternoon when I went to grab another of my scrumptious Peeps.

Imagine my horror when I opened the drawer and there were NO PEEPS!

I slammed the drawer shut and re-opened it, hoping it was all just a very bad dream.

Nope. No Peeps.

I knew instantly what happened.

SHE ATE ALL OF MY PEEPS!

She's lucky I didn't storm down to her office and end our relationship.

Instead, I waited patiently-ish for her to get home.

I was in the office when I heard her come through the front door.

"Hey, Apes..." I hollered.

"Yeah."

"There USED to be an entire box of Peeps in my office drawer....any idea what might have happened to them?"

She actually had the nerve to laugh.

I think it was a nervous laugh, though.

"I KNEW IT! YOU ATE THEM!!!" I was not kidding.

"No I didn't, I threw them away."

HORROR. HORROR.

"You THREW them away?! WHY! An ENTIRE box of Peeps?! Why would you do that? They weren't even yours!"

"They were open. For all I knew they'd been there for a year, Heather."

"Oh, no you don't. They were HALLOWEEN Peeps, April. It's not even HALLOWEEN yet for another month. If they were Easter Peeps, perhaps you could get away with that argument. Did you even feel the Peeps to see if they were stale? Did you?"

"No. No, I didn't. I'm sorry I threw your Peeps away."

"I can't believe you. I really can't believe you."

She and I are working on re-connecting.

I first have to finish pining for my Peeps.

Fantasy Football is Making Me His Bitch.

As I expected, Fantasy Football is ruling our lives.

We had our first fall softball games on Monday and I had to GUILT Apes into going. She whined about how late the games were (8:30pm and 9:30pm), complained about being exhausted from work, and gave every other conceivable excuse before I busted her.

"Stop. Just stop. You are not going to flake on your first base obligation because you don't want to miss Monday Night Football."

I did the mommy voice and everything.

She conceded, but I saw the glimmer of tears in her eyes as we drove to the field.

After the games were over, she made a bee-line for the car and nearly killed us driving home so she could catch the last ten minutes of the game. It's important to note when she isn't consumed with the NFL, she thinks nothing of making me stand around after a softball game for 30 MINUTES while she befriends every person sitting in the stands.

On Sundays, I have to make her back away from the TV. She stands just inches from the screen, hands either on her hips or pulling out her hair as she yells about not starting this receiver or that running back.

I could be on FIRE and I'd have to wait until half time to receive any assistance.

Our Fantasy league is a family affair. Both my father and my brother play in it. When my mom was in town last week, I had the Fan Ball site up and my mom got that "You are so crass" look on her face.

"ASS MASTER? Is that YOU?"

"Uh Huh. It's my team name. I plan on spanking everyone."

She just shook her head. And said:

"KING DING-A-LING? That's who you are playing this week? What is it with these names? Who's that?"

I reveled in my answer.

"That, my dear mother, is your son. Do we make you proud?"

Given her eye roll, I'm not sure we do....

But on to how Fantasy Football is making me his bitch.

I love me some football (Go PANTHERS!) but I'm not the most knowledgeable when it comes to picking the best players during draft time. I am, however, one of the most competitive.

I like to talk a lot of shit. And I still expect to win.

Always.

Which explains why I have some pent up Fantasy Football anger.

First, my brother Brett wasn't even IN THE COUNTRY during our draft. He and his wife Ashley were vacationing in Italy. He had the nerve to call me before they left and inform me April would need to draft for him and that he reserved the right to not only hate his team, but bitch about it.

Oh. WAAAAAAAA. I'm so sorry you are headed to ITALY and have to deal with the team you receive. WAAAAA.

Turns out, April (being ever so honest and fair) drafted him what is turning out to be one of the best teams in the league. He has Donovan McNabb, Adrian Peterson and what appears to be a handful of other breakout stars.

The first week of play, Brett and I were pitted against each other. Team with the highest score got the W for the week.

He still wasn't in the country, so Apes had to set his lineup.

Not only did he beat me, but the two of us had the highest scores in the league. Had I played ANY of the other 8 teams in our league, I would have won.

So NOT fair.

I felt it necessary to email my brother:

Brett,

You suck.

Wanna know why you suck?

Because April drafted a KICK ASS Fantasy team for you.

And then you got lucky. Donovan McNabb scored you some 43 points.

You have the highest points of the week. And you still have one more player to go today.

Who is it? ADRIAN PETERSON.

Here's where it sucks to be ME.

I got stuck playing YOU.

I have the 2nd highest points in the league.

If I were playing anyone BUT you, I'd have won.

That's messed up, Brett.

You get to be in ITALY. You get Apes to draft FOR you. And THEN you beat me like that?

That's some bull shit.

I think you'd agree.

He didn't.

Let's move on to week #2.

Who do I play in head-to-head battle? My father.

Of course, I talk loads of shit before the games started last Sunday.

He wanted to put a wager on the game.

I explained when I won, he could hop a flight from Florida to Virginia and finish painting my entire house.

He wanted to know what he'd get if he won. I explained it wasn't worth discussing as it wouldn't happen.

Sunday evening, my dad's team was kicking my ass. It was brutal.

It was also my birthday.

I ignored the phone all night. My parents had already called to wish me a happy birthday. I knew any other calls from their number would be my father calling to harass me.

The voice mail I listened to on Monday morning confirmed it.

My dad, all matter of fact like, left a message that sounded something like:

"So, Feather, if my team DOUBLES your score, does that mean you'll come here and paint TWO houses for me? I just want to make sure I understand how this is going to work now that my team is killing yours. Just, uh, just call me back whenever you get a chance, okay? Okay. Thanks and love you."

I emailed him first thing on Monday morning.

Dad,

How you gonna leave a message like that for me on my BIRTHDAY?

I'm just saying.

You. GOT. Lucky.

My dad's response:

You obviously don't understand. That message WAS your birthday present.
I toned it down considerably in consideration of your rapidly advancing
age.

No question. Fantasy Football is making me his bitch.

Living One-Handed Bites.

It's going to take me forever to punch out this post with just my right hand.

I was (again) wounded in a valiant attempt to save our poodle's life.

He was under attack (again) from Rosie, the one-eyed wonder.

Why she had her panties in a wad and erupted into attack mode, I still have no idea. Normally she and Jean Paul (the poodle) are inseparable.

Apes had gone to work and I'd stopped pretending like I was going to get up "in just a second."

Far as I knew, the three of us (me, poodle and Rosie) were ASLEEP in bed, all BFF-like.

Clearly, I couldn't have been more wrong.

I woke up to Hurricane Rosie morphing into Cujo. She was already on top of the poodle, who was yelping fast and furious.

I scrambled to enter the bitch fight and stuck my hand in the flying fur to grab Rosie and pull her off.

While I don't believe she meant to bite me, she sure enough did.



Two puncture wounds where her jaws of steel clamped down on my hand.

They immediately started spouting blood. Profusely.

I don't do blood, remember?

Cupping my good hand under my ruined one, I tried to capture the blood that was leaking over everything. My bedroom looked like a fucking crime scene.

The poodle was still yelping, but I knew I was seconds from passing out and not being able to help him at all.

I made it into the bathroom, grabbed a towel to apply pressure to my wounds, and laid down on the floor until I no longer felt like I was going to faint or throw up.

Took 15 minutes.

Still shaky and with a throbbing left hand, I crawled over to check on the poodle.

Fucker was fine. He and I are going to have a chat about crying wolf. Before I intervened and risked any future career as a left-hand-model, he was carrying on like death was mere seconds away.

Grumbling, I turned my attention to my blood-spattered floor.

"April ain't gonna like that our floors got bloody..."

I know her.

She won't tell me, but when she gets home tonight, she'll sneak upstairs to make sure I got all the blood up from in between the wooden floor slats.

I know her.

Like the back of my chewed up left hand.

Evening Update:

I take it back. The poodle is a pansy, but not a pansy ass. He did sustain some injury during the earlier scuffle. He pulled a muscle in his neck/back and has difficulty doing anything other than walking in circles and whimpering. As any good mommies would, we've given him muscle relaxers (from the vet...we don't part that easily with our own) and he should be turning cartwheels momentarily.

34.

I celebrated my 34th birthday yesterday.

No, that's a lie.

I mean, it was my 34th birthday yesterday, but I've been celebrating all week.

Started with a lovely manicure/pedicure with my mother in DC. I'm guessing I owe another "thank you, I love you," to Dad.

I have pretty purple toes (dark purple, the manicurists SWEAR it's the new Fall color) and eyebrows that don't make my mother want to cry. She demanded I have them waxed.

On Friday, Apes and I headed over to see Gabby and Allen. Gabby was sitting her 3 nieces for the weekend and we were invited to movie night.

We love movie nights. Attire for the evening: Pajamas.

I wondered, only briefly, why the upstairs light flickered on and off when we pulled into the driveway.

Gabs opened the door and it was dark.

Still had no clue (needless to say, this birthday snuck up on me).

Within seconds I was met by screams of HAPPY BIRTHDAY from three of the most wonderful girls on the planet.

A balloon, flowers, cards and an ice cream cake sat on the table.


I love these girls.


I love ice cream cake too. Not gonna lie.


With full bellies, we headed downstairs to watch The Spiderwick Chronicles. The girls love it and I soon found out, can recite nearly all of it.


Of course, the pups joined us. This here, all cuddled up in my lap, is Mac (think Mac and Cheese. Yes, for real).




Apes got busy smooching Blue (Bluebird). Notice her eyes are closed. That's creepy. I mean, I kiss dogs on the teeth, but I don't close my eyes and get all romantical...I'm just saying...


Gabby and Allen. It's been a month and they're STILL married! Hey....nowadays that's a big deal...Of course, Allen cheated and didn't wear his pjs. Which he attempted to explain away by saying he doesn't wear them.


Apes fell asleep halfway through the movie but didn't disappoint. She was still good for a laugh. Early on in the evening, one of the girls asked what THE BRADY BUNCH WAS. I know, I know.

April fielded the question by saying:

"Oooohhh! It was a glorious show!"

GLORIOUS?

She took an unreal amount of shit for that. In fact, we're still giving her shit.

"Hey, Apes, can you bring me a GLORIOUS diet coke?"

or

"I'm going to take a GLORIOUS pee now."

Glorious. The Brady Bunch....

On Saturday night, we met up with our pals Cheryl and Dianne. As we rounded the corner I caught a glimpse of a balloon flapping in the wind and a bright green package under Cheryl's arm.

I felt special all over again. I had no idea they knew my birthday was the following day.

I felt REALLY special when they put a birthday tiara on my head. It was purple and matched my toenails, so I wore it into the restaurant proudly. I even waved aristocratically when other diners stared.

We had several drinks, lots of laughs and they gave me a party platter that couldn't have been more perfect.


I love it. Now we just have to have a party...

On Sunday, my actual day of birth (thanks mom!), I started down the stairs only to be met with screams of "NO! Not yet! Gimme 5 minutes!"

I smiled and wondered what she had up her sleeve.

This is what she was working so hard on.


I do love her.

As I was taking a picture of our mirror, a hand crept into the frame:


Not only do I have tickets to see Kathy Griffin at the end of the month, but I'm going to a film festival in DC in October! She knows me, she knows me well.

She also created a little something extra for me.

A puzzle.






She's a keeper, kids. Very special.

Also very special to me were the birthday greetings and voice mails from everyone. THANK YOU SO MUCH.

Silly Sarah and Cassie Rue, I got your messages and I'm gonna save 'em forever. Promise!

The entire week of celebrating made up for how I spent the rest of my birthday...

Here's what I did for 9 hours yesterday (and why I can hardly move today):




That's right. We're painting the house from top to bottom. Literally.

I smell like a vat of Icy Hot.

I also managed to infect my left eye somehow. I think it probably happened when I was sanding the wall and a clump of puddy fell directly into my eye. Yeah, that was probably it. Now it's red, puffy and swollen.

I'm nothing if not a sexy 34 year old.....