Friday, October 17, 2008

"You like me, you really like me"

Thank you for all the wonderful feedback. It seems a few of my already-favorite people think I have a way with biting social commentary. (Maybe its like when your mom tells you you're pretty, but who cares?) I'm no Frankie Can't Relax, but I got potentials to blow up a Winchells. Whatever, I'm no Ice Cube, neither.

I didn't watch the final debate. I feel ten pounds lighter. I have heard enough from everyone, especially the media. So pretty much everyone on TV, dagnammit! (Except for my favorite, home-town-girl, Domenique Sachse. More on our obsession with local journalists later.)

It's really late and this sinus infection is bearing down on me. I can feel where my skull ends and the soft tissue begins. I have a fun weekend ahead and I am willing the ugliness to go away.


One of mine & MMA's college friends is finally realizing a dream. One that we used to talk about all those years ago over $2.50 pitchers at Dudley's. The unbridled possibility of following a passion and taking the riskier path, hearkens sweet memories of a time before mortgages and family responsibilities; when taking risks and getting in trouble involved the law. I am so excited for him. There's a kickoff party Saturday. I'll tell you more about The Dream soon.


I was sent this book thing to participate in by some real bloggers.

So here are the rules for this Book Thingy.
1. Pass it on to five other bloggers with the rules.*
2. Open the nearest (not favorite or most intellectual) book to page 56.
3. Write out the fifth sentence on that page and the next 2-5 sentences.

The book is Stormy Weather by Carl Hiaasen and it was loaned to MMA by my BIL.

Ira Jackson found Lot 17 because of the bright yellow tape that police had roped around the remains of the double-wide mobile home where his mother, Beatrice, had died. After identifying her body at the morgue, Ira Jackson had driven directly to Suncoast Leisure Village to see for himself.

Not one trailer had made it through the storm.

From the debris, Ira Jackson pulled his mother's Craftmatic adjustable bed. The mattress was curled up like a giant taco shell.

(*I'm going to out myself and admit that I don't know 5 bloggers. I don't know if I have five readers.)


Girly Stuff said...

I hope you feel better quick! Can't wait to hear about The Dream. I remember those days of waxing and waning. Now it's all about dusting and whining!

Frankie said...

Aye, be glad you're not that Frankie chick. She's bananas. :-)

Aggie2percenter said...

I'm a bit affraid of this Frankie person. I don't know if she's a good influence on you. And she appears to be a cat lover.