My Ovaries Think There Are Better Things To Quiver Over

I'm being forced to become a Keith Urban fan. Forced, and I'm not exaggerating for any comedic effect. I work with a girl who heard that I'm in love with Rob Thomas of Matchbox Twenty. After trading stories of him, she told me that she's also in love with Keith Urban, and when I didn't share any emotion to her attachment, she became convinced that, well, she could convince me that I should.

His music is now a part of my hard drive, and I'm not sure how I feel about that. I've even been to Monkeyville. While I admit that he's hot, and there are things I would do with him alone in a dark room that I cannot utter on this blog because my mother some times reads here, I'm just not that into him. He's sexy. He's really sexy. He has about the most gorgeous hair I've ever seen on a man, and the way he rides his motorcycle and plays the guitar is rather hot. He's got tattoos, which I also totally dig, providing they're not covering the entire body. He's also Australian, which can never hurt.



W Reflections

Fleur de Lait


Too Late to Turn Back Now

Nothing like pulling a cookie out to stuff it in your mouth, and then realizing as you feel it in your mouth, that half of it is missing. Half eaten or broken? Hmmm.


In Fairness, I Was Warned

I have this customer that is a little, well, looney. When she phones and I greet her using her name before she has introduced herself, she is shocked I know that it's her and proceeds to question how on earth I could have known. So each time we go through this routine of me telling her that I recognize her voice and then she responds with, "I know I sound like a little girl, but I'm really sixty-three years old." I've heard that line seventeen times since I inherited her account.

She often sends us correspondence on used cards. Used cards. Again, used cards. I've never heard of anyone reusing a Christmas card as stationary. So, that aside, she often draws on the cards...with crayons. She usually draws stick-type flowers, and then she writes what type of flowers they are underneath.

Today, I was opening a letter from her. On the outside, it read "Purple Phlox & Handicap Unlimited Bill Inside." So, I surmised I would have a drawing of some purple phlox on the bill.

Needless to say, dried, dead, purple phlox just scattered all over my desk. So much for artwork.



Yes, it's my birthday. I love a birthday more than a mother loves her child. It leaves me extra toothy and excited. It's similar to that feeling the night before Christmas, and you're only eight. I've never grown out of that. The anticipation is the best part. Climbing the steep hill of the roller coaster is much better than actually going down it.

My mother took me to lunch and said, "Someone sent you flowers, but whoever sent them, they don't know you." And I said, "Ohh, that means there's like a conglomeration of flowers...and way more than two colors or types of flowers." Then on the way back from lunch, she said "I had fun on your birthday," to which I immediately replied, "It's still my birthday. You're not shorting me half the day. What are you thinking?"

I take full advantage of my day. Okay, my week, and sometimes the month if need be. And to think, when I was sixteen, I pictured 27 as "the age" to be. I hope it turns out to be a cool one.

So, that birthday turned out to be not-so-good. I will say the most exciting gift I got is what that cake is resting on. That's the Emily cake platter from Crate & Barrel. Though I have given that platter as a gift, I didn't own it. The past few times I've been in a Crate & Barrel, I would stare at that thing longingly, and then tell myself to just walk away.



Okay, it's Music Fest. Like you knew I would do this.

Happy early birthday to me.