Avery Gray

Blowing the Dust Off

2009-03-06T18:13:00.000-08:00

Life is an endless, soul-sucking miasma of chronic and debilitating exhaustion. Other than that, things are just peachy.

School is definitely one of the main culprits. Because the program I'm enrolled in takes semester-long courses and condenses them into 6 week torture-fests, I've been working long into the wee hours to finish a major project every week. The lack of sleep has certainly taken its toll on my supermodel good looks and weather girl personality. Why, I'd say I've dropped to a meager 8.5.

(We're talking on a scale of roughly six trillion.)

That's not the worst news I have to share with you, however. No, that juicy little tidbit would be that I saw my doctor, and she revealed that I have...

A GOITER!

What the fudge is a goiter, you ask? That's exactly what I wanted to know! Isn't that something that old people get? I mean, not people like me who are young but complain, "Oh, I'm so old!" and make other people who are older than them want to hit them, because, come on, that's so annoying! No, I'm talking honest to goodness old people who poop themselves and yell at parked cars.

Well, apparently not, because I have one, and I do neither of those things. Much.

All a goiter is, my doctor assures me, is an enlarged thyroid. Unfortunately, the fact that I have one probably means that I will now be put on thyroid medication in addition to the three other pills I have to take every day for the rest of my life for my PCOS.

I'm a walking pharmaceutical, yo.

Fortunately, my goiter is fairly small and was caught early, so I won't be walking around with a basketball-sized lump in my neck. It does make me tired, though, which isn't helping matters with the aforementioned crippling exhaustion I'm experiencing.

I'm quite the catch, ain't I?

Blerg.

Google is My Friend?

2009-01-21T17:42:00.000-08:00

I have a little confession to make. Since starting back to school, I've taken to Googling my professors.

(Believe me, it's not as hot as it sounds.)

The reason I do this isn't just because I'm a pathetic stalker-type person (I said not JUST because), but also because I find I am disinclined to take the advice of anyone who is not at least marginally better than me at the subject in question. And since many graphic designers today maintain a digital portfolio online, I feel well within my rights to snoop to my heart's content.

(What is that saying about curiosity and the cat?)

My first professor was very professional, and her portfolio was very nice (if a little bland). Still, she had lots of practical experience and she was very willing to share with the class.

My second professor was retarded, signed everything with "Smiles! :-P", and never met a shade of pink she didn't like.

Oi.

I didn't really know what to expect with my new professor, but I was not harboring high hopes. It's a good thing, too, because they'd have been dashed on the proverbial rocks with this Google nugget.

Allow me to quote her letter to Ask the Eviction Attorney:

Dear Mr. Reno:

I had new tenants move into a townhouse condo in mid-November. They paid $400 security and the remainder of November's rent before moving in. On December 1st, 2007 I didn't receive a check from the tenants, 5 days later, I receive an email from the tenant saying he had not mailed the check yet and wanted to know if I would just pick it up from them. This was very inconvenient, as I was 7 months pregnant, and would have to drive to the other side of town to get the check. I did go pick up the check from the wife at the townhouse condo, and asked them to mail a check in advance in the future. Since then, they have mailed the checks for January, and February in advance so we have received it on time. What I want to know is it too late to give the tenants "notice to quit" in order to evict them based on the fact that December's rent was late?

Ms. [name withheld to protect the grade giver]

*cough cough ballbuster cough*

Oh, excuse me. I was just pretending to cough while calling my professor a ballbuster. Uh, I mean...allergies?

Needless to say, the past two weeks have been insane. In the past two days alone, I've finished 45 newspaper ads like this one for my made-up client...

That may not seem like a lot, but consider that every ad had to be different--different sizes, images, layouts, and logos.

In the words of Mr. Reno, the eviction attorney, in response to her query:

You're kidding, right?

Sadly, no.

It's going to be a long six weeks.

I'll Be Frank

2009-01-13T11:56:00.000-08:00

And you can be Shirley.

Frank: Hey, sexy!

Shirley: Oh, you're finally getting around to acknowledging my presence?

Frank: Aw, come on, baby, don't be like that. You know I love you.

Shirley: Well, you certainly have a funny way of showing it. How long has it been? Two? Three weeks?

Frank: Yeah, but, you know, I had...stuff to do.

Shirley: Mmm hmm.

Frank: I had to, like, buy a toaster. And a vacuum. And a water filter for my fridge. Those things don't just replace themselves, you know.

Shirley: And that took you three weeks?

Frank: No. But...but my ear hurt, too. It still does. I have to put drops in it and everything.

Shirley: And that affects your ability to type?

Frank: Yes! Have you tried typing with your head at a 90 degree angle? It's not easy. I should know. Plus, school started back up, and I have a ton of work to do. So, it's not like I've just been sitting around, doing nothing--

Shirley: You've been making furniture for your Sims again, haven't you?

Frank: What? No. What?

Shirley: Tell me the truth.

Frank: Well, okay, maybe...

***

(I'm a featured creator, baby! Don't hate the playa, hate the game.)

Snow Din

2008-12-20T21:19:00.000-08:00

Okay, I think I've let you behold the sexiness an ample amount of time, and considering the 8 inches of snow and ice on the ground pretty much have us snowed in for the foreseeable future...

I guess I don't really have an excuse not to blog. Especially since, as my good buddy, Meghan (aka "The Blogless Wonder"), likes to point out, we Grays have, at last count, 6 different platforms from which to impart bloggy goodness to the world, including my iPhone and the new MacBook Pro--both of which are inherently portable.

(Thanks for that, Meghan. Now kindly suck it.)

I'm Avery Gray, bitch. I blog on my time, not yours. That's why my name's in the big, fancy letters. When it's your name up there, we'll talk, mmmkay?

Passive aggressiveness aside, though, I have been feeling guilty for not updating this here blog. Not enough to actually post, but close. Real close.

Instead, I've spent the past several guilt-ridden weeks learning to use Adobe Illustrator for my class in graphic design, and having my arse handed to me by Mike in Scramble (which is Facebook's version of Boggle) when my brain just can't take any more. Admittedly, not the best time to challenge a nationally ranked Scrabble player to a word game, but I like living on the edge.

Having passed my class with flying colors (100%, baby!), and given up on ever beating the master at his own game (it's Scrabble-like, Mike, and you know it!), the only real impediment to blogging has been the mind-numbing noise generated by my housebound half-pint and his feline friend.

(Two stories, 2000 square feet, and the only good place to play "Squish the Cat" is invariably within a 10 foot radius of wherever I happen to be? Go figure.)

Couple that with a nosey husband on a lengthy vacation, and you have the makings of what's known as "The Great Blogging Void". It's inevitable.

For the moment, though, the boy is glued to the tube, my husband is snoring away on the couch, and the cat...well, he could be trapped in a snow cave for all I know, which makes this a good (and, perhaps, only) time to blog.

Now if only I had something to say...

Behold the Sexiness...

2008-11-17T12:42:00.000-08:00

...that is my new MacBook Pro*.

15 inch display, 2.53 GHz Intel Core 2 Duo processor with 4GB of RAM, 320GB hard drive, and not one, but two sexy, sexy nVidia graphics cards.

Whew! I need a moment...

*Or a reasonable facsimile.

At Least She Got the Looks

2008-11-07T12:48:00.000-08:00

My sister came up to visit me the day after the election. Such good Bible-thumpin' times! I, in a misguided attempt to corral the vociferous "Obama is a RADICAL MILITANT MUSLIM" rants, tried, gently, to steer her into more neutral topics of conversation that wouldn't get us lynched by the lunch crowd at Olive Garden (the most liberal of all olive-centric eateries). I told her that such rhetoric is better stated a) before the election, and b) to someone who actually gives a crap what she thinks.

Lunch did not go well.

Although she believes my defense of Obama equates to dire peril for my eternal soul, she was persuaded to change the subject to my classes and how I was liking school. (If only she knew my professor is a Jewish lesbian who specializes in "ecoart"!) I told her it was going as well as could be expected, but that I will really be glad when it's done and I can focus on my future.

"Yeah," she said, "I really wanted to take some online courses so I could become a travel agent, but when I brought it up to the family, Austin (her 11-year-old son) told me I couldn't do that. When I asked him why, he said it was because then I wouldn't be there for him when he got home from school. So, I took that as a sign from God that it's not the right time to do something for myself just yet."

I smiled and nodded noncommittally. What else could I do in the face of such crazy? I love my nephew, but even on his best day, he doesn't really strike me as the conduit through which an all-powerful, omniscient deity doles out career advice. Nor do I think God really cares about whether she continues to stay home and coddle her mama's boy or spends a few hours a day bettering herself. He's probably a little busy planning an apocalypse or something.

Sadly, she's not the only nutjob in my family. My other sister believes God advises her on real estate. He told her He wanted her to have a more luxuriously appointed home in a posh neighborhood because she'd earned it with her good deeds.

No, I'm not joking.

I really don't know how I could have turned out so much differently than my brothers and sisters. We were raised to believe in God, and to seek His wisdom in everything, and I do have conversations with Him from time to time. Of course, mine are a little more one sided, and rarely involve payment for services rendered. No, I talk to God the way Mark Wahlberg talks to animals...

"Hey, God. How's it going? So, you're the Lord, huh? What's that about? Hey, thanks for all the cool stuff you do. Alright. Say hi to your mother for me."

Short. Sweet. To the point.

I must be doing it wrong.

THE Best Thing About Being a Student...

2008-10-28T08:49:00.000-07:00

Nice.

... But I Still Got It

2008-10-27T15:52:00.000-07:00

I'm old.

How did that happen?

The last time I set foot in a college classroom was ten years ago, and in that time, I've developed an incurable case of oldstudentitis. Everything I thought I knew back then, I actually know now, yet surprisingly, still no one wants to hear it.

So, this is how leprosy feels!

It's not bad actually. So far, my professor's pretty darned impressed with my work, and that's all that really matters, I suppose. It would be nice if I could make friends in my class, but since it's online and only lasts six weeks, it would be pointless to try and reinvent myself four weeks in as a younger, cooler version of Avery Gray. The kind that knows when to shut her piehole and not out herself as a know-it-all teacher's pet.

(Actually, that part hasn't changed since...well, ever. I was a Mathlete, for crying out loud. You think they hand out that honor to back-sassers? I should say not!)

A good portion of our grade is in giving constructive feedback to our classmates, and, frankly, I don't lack for material. I know, art school is not generally considered a Mecca for Mensa members, but for the love of all things holy, the word is "beige", not "bage", and developing 20 design concepts does not mean sketching the same one 20 times and adding more and more glittery stars.

(Honestly, how do these people dress themselves?)

The work has been challenging. We're averaging 6 assignments a week, including a couple of professional quality 2-D presentations. Next week we start work on the first of our 3-D presentations--constructing a countertop point-of-purchase display. For some reason, I'm expecting a huge drop in enrollment between now and then. Just call it a crazy hunch.

Me, though, I've already started gearing up for the project. I've got my sketches done, my favorites picked, and every glittery star to be found in the greater Portland area.

Oh, yeah. I'm ready.

The Boob Boy

2008-10-10T18:44:00.000-07:00

There are always certain dangers associated with teaching your children to do things like talk or open doors. I learned that painful lesson this morning.

Until recently, we'd been able to keep Ethan out of our bedroom using a doorknob cover. The subtle nuances of the imposing plastic had heretofore proved an impenetrable defense against the pint-sized marauder. He lacked the manual dexterity and hand span necessary to squeeze both sides and twist at the same time.

We thought ourselves safe. What fools we were!

I woke this morning about an hour before Ethan usually does and hopped in the shower, thinking nothing of the dangers lurking just outside. As soon as I turned the water off and pulled back the curtain, I heard it...

"Hi, Mom!"

Now, I'm not a prude, nor am I ashamed of my body. Ethan has seen me without my clothes on a number of times before, just not since he's been able to voice his observations.

E: "Mom, what are those?"

Me: "What are what?"

E: "Those big things on your chest."

Me: "Those are called breasts."

E: "Bretts?"

Me: "Close enough."

E: "Wow, Mom! They're bee-yoo-ti-full!"

Me: "Uh...thanks."

E: "You know what they look like?"

Me: "I'm afraid you're going to tell me."

E: "They look like...

like...

like my backpack!"

Me: "WHAT?!"

E: "My backpack's beautiful, too."

I'm thinking moat.

What's Up

2008-10-08T16:33:00.000-07:00

The service for my uncle was a beautiful affair, and I'm feeling much more at peace with his sudden passing. I want to thank you all for the thoughts, prayers, and well wishes. They have meant so much to me.

It has been a rough couple of weeks, but things are starting to look up. My dad has been approached by the local community college about putting together a curriculum for a DIY class on wind-powered generators. Though he won't get paid much, he will be part of the college staff, which means he'll get health benefits. That's fortunate because he has leukemia (in remission), and his insurance costs $900 a month.

(Kick someone when they're down, why don'tcha.)

School is going well. We had four assignments to complete this week, one of which was to provide a sample of a Photoshopped image--be it hand-drawn or an edited photo. Since I just got a nifty little Wacom graphics tablet for the class, I opted for the hand-drawn option. This could have gone horribly awry, considering that I haven't done much drawing for the past ten years, but I think it turned out alright.

The professor really liked it, but I haven't had much feedback from the rest of the class, so I'm getting a little nervous about it. This is a class filled with graphic design students of all levels, so to some of them, it could look horribly amateur, but since no one else has submitted their images, I don't have anything to compare it to.

Any graphic designers out there care to tear me a new one? I can take it, I swear!

On to the cute side of the news...

Last night, we attended Ethan's school open house where we had the opportunity to read the reports the students had dictated to the teachers about the most special people in their lives. Here's Ethan's:

"This is my mom. She's special to me because she likes me. She lets me watch TV. I watch SpongeBob with her.

When she was a kid, she was 10 years old.

Her hair is brown, her eyes are green, her lips look like a paint color. Her skin is peach colored.

My mom likes to take me to Kindergarten. She works in a factory, it's a juice factory. She lives in a home. It's at the bottom of Dibb's (Deb's) house. She has a kitty named Arrow. The kitty looks like a little cat to me.

My mom likes to watch TV with my dad, sports games. They like to hold hands, and they like to talk in the car.

The end."

Sweet, ain't it?

Apparently, to my son, I'm a green-eyed, painted harlot who works in a juice factory. Awesome.

Always Darkest...

2008-10-02T06:25:00.000-07:00

This week has been a very sad one for me.

On Monday, I learned that my parents, who have owned their own small business for the past twenty some-odd years, will be losing it come December 31st. It was a business that my dad especially put his heart and soul into, and with it goes their livelihood. They're worried, naturally, about finances. About whether or not they'll be able to find jobs in this economy. About starting over in their 60's. I can't say those fears are unfounded.

I haven't always seen eye-to-eye with my parents, but I still love them, and their loss still pains me. I hadn't quite recovered from their news when I got the phone call Tuesday morning that my uncle, who was very dear to me, died unexpectedly of a heart attack while he was visiting his wife in the ICU. My aunt's not expected to make it much longer either.

I've cried more these past few days than I have in several years, until I didn't think there could possibly be any more tears. But then I'd see something, or hear something, or think something, and it would set me off again--the bench my uncle made for me when I was seven that has probably seen better days, but which I've always found a special place for wherever I've lived, or the antique fishing pole he gave me when I got married, making me promise we'd go fishing together the coming spring.

The coming spring, I was pregnant, and we never did go fishing. Of all the regrets I have, somehow that one eats at me the most. Still, I know he wouldn't want me to wallow in sadness. He'd tell me to buck up and get on with life, just as he'd done any number of times in his own. Despite whatever hardships he faced--and there were many--he was always kind, always positive, and always determined. It's what I loved most about him.

I've been doing a lot of thinking about my own life lately and what I want to do with it. I'm blessed with the option to choose which direction I take it, but I've squandered perfectly good opportunities in favor of waiting for the "right time" to take advantage of them. When will I ever learn? If anything, this week has reminded me that there is no right time, there is only right now.

Although I'd already planned to go back to school before all of this happened, this cemented the decision for me. Now I'm all signed up to begin my first class in a one year online digital design program at the Art Institute on Monday. It's the first step toward a career in graphic design, which has always interested me.

I'm nervous and excited, but most of all, I'm grateful--for the parents who raised me, and the uncle who inspired me.

How Far We've Come

2008-09-29T08:37:00.000-07:00

I've had a book on my nightstand for ages that I've been meaning to read, and just never felt very compelled to do so. It's called "The Wolf and the Dove" by the late Kathleen E. Woodiwiss, and it is often lauded in romantic historical circles as one of those not to be missed novels. One that stands the test of time and tells a compelling story of love against all odds.

Bullshite, I say.

After having picked it up last night and read the first hundred pages or so, I can say with all certainty that the readers in romantic historical circles must be some hardcore masochistic bitches. In the first chapter alone, the heroine's father has been murdered, her mother beaten, her townspeople slaughtered, and she has been raped.

Good times.

After all that, you'd expect the hero to come charging up on a white stallion and avenge the wrongs done to this poor creature, right?

Nope, he just gets on with the rapin'. Yee haw!

I suppose it's romantic that he's the only one allowed to rape her for the time being. Shows his commitment to the relationship and all. Still, there's just something that doesn't sit right with me.

Maybe it's all the rape?

Well, whatever it is, I'm not sure if I care to see how it's all gonna play out in the end. I mean, even if he had a sudden epiphany that raping a woman and slaughtering her people were bad things, how does one redeem himself?

"Sorry about all the raping and slaughtering I did. Here's a box of Whitman's Samplers and a mixtape. I know how much you like Duran Duran."

Good first step, to be sure, but somehow I don't think it quite measures up. And I like Duran Duran, so that's saying something!

This type of bodice ripper style romance was apparently popular in the 70's, when this book was first printed, and has since fallen out of favor. Seems women today tend to like their heroes a little more heroic than sadistic. Strange as that may sound.

But having tortured myself with the first hundred pages (hey, maybe I am masochistic after all!), I got to wondering why I had bought the book in the first place. It's not like I was enticed by the cover, which is just as cheesy as you'd expect. It's not the sort of book I would normally read--if I'm going to read an historical novel, it's usually set in Regency or Victorian England, or medieval Scotland. Not medieval England. That's just plain nuts!

Well, off to Amazon I went, hoping to find the answer to that burning question, and here is what I found:

Out of 121 reader reviews of "The Wolf and the Dove", 101 of them are 4 or 5 stars.

That means that, of the 121 reviewers, 83% thought the novel was "above average" or "excellent".

83%!

Can one of you 83% please reassure me that there's a good twin at the end of this mess? 'Cause, if not, I am dumbfounded. I truly am.

School Daze

2008-09-23T08:29:00.000-07:00

I don't know how y'all do it.

A few weeks ago, before Ethan started school, I had joyous visions of the oodles of free time his school day would afford me. Two and a half glorious hours, every day.

Just think of all the blogging you'll do!

(Of course, in these visions I was also about 40 pounds thinner and immaculately coiffed. But that's really beside the point.)

Then reality had its way with me, and I suddenly realized the fallacy of my dream. I have a five and three-quarter year old. Their asses? Unlightable.

And since he has afternoon kindergarten--and he knows it--the threat of missing the bus if he doesn't eat his breakfast and take his bath has no affect on him. He knows it won't be coming for hours anyhow.

I suppose this is my fault for having such a laid back, lackadaisical approach to a morning routine for all these years I've been home with him. Heck, if we didn't have anywhere to be, I'd just as soon stay in my jammies until noon. I've always hated being rushed so early in the day.

Now, mornings are the only productive time Ethan's new schedule allows, and I've gone and borked it. Retroactively.

This past few weeks have been a test to both of us, but we're gradually getting the flow of the new schedule down. He ate breakfast this morning with relatively little fuss and went to take a shower without having to be asked. The house is a disaster, and the cat still hasn't been fed, but there are groceries to buy, and an oil change to be done, so I'm taking every little victory where I can get it.

This will be my last year at home with him before I re-enter the working world, and as much as I'm looking forward to it, I have a feeling next September will be a little preview of Armageddon in the Gray household.

Should be fun.

Special Place in Hell...

2008-09-05T16:37:00.000-07:00

Quick informal poll...

A gregarious five-year-old asks you, quite politely, if you would like to shake his hand. You resond:

A) by saying, "Sure! Put 'er there, pal!"

B) apologetically. "No thanks. I have a phobia."

C) by ignoring him.

D) by exclaiming, "God no! You're covered in germs! You should know better than to ask that," and making the five-year-old cry.

If your response was "A", you're my kind of people.

If you responded with "B", I understand, and I don't harbor any ill will toward you or your hippie parents (except for the usual).

If you answered "C", you are beneath my contempt.

If, however, you responded with "D" and are this guy...

...you're a store brand value pack douche. On clearance.

(P.S. Next time, don't piss off a mom with a phone and a blog.)

Speaking of hell...

Hubby's on vacation through the weekend. I'll post more when he's not hovering.

This 'n' That

2008-08-29T08:08:00.000-07:00

Certain individuals of my acquaintance have, in recent days, attempted to remind me that I have something called a "blog" on which I "blog" about various goings-on in my life. Sounds pretty crazy if you ask me. Surely, if I had something as wondrous and self-congratulating as that, I'd post on it all the time, wouldn't you think?

*sheepish chuckle*

Alright, fine. You got me. I've been a bad blogger, whiling away precious blogging minutes with reckless abandon. Fortunately, I had a feeling that might happen, and I had the forethought to document my activities through the magic of pho-to-graph-y. So, without further ado, I give you...

Ta da!! (That one's for you, M@.)

Yes, aside from devoting some serious time to taking shots of my cleavage with my iPhone--(two seconds)--these past two weeks have been busy, busy, busy. As summer wanes, and the new school year approaches, we took some time to enjoy the great outdoors...

...at a monster truck rally at the Clark County Fair in beautiful, scenic Ridgefield, Washington--home of the world famous Gee Creek I-5 rest stop.

(Yes, I am from an impoverished white family. Why do you ask?)

Ethan loves monster trucks, so he looks forward to seeing them every year at the fair. This year, we brought our neighbors' ten-year-old daughter, Emma, along for the fun.

She hated the trucks, but loved the rides, thought the goats were cute, and Ethan was "weird, but cool".

Sounds about right.

In addition to the fair, we also took Ethan to the Oregon Zoo, where they've just welcomed the first baby elephant they've had in fourteen years. Of course, no one could see him yet, but we did enjoy the animatronic dinosaur exhibit.

Unfortunately, my son has developed a strange disorder, brought on by close proximity to picture-taking devices, where he lists precariously to left. There is no known cure, but you can send money anyhow.

The biggest portion of my time, however, was taken up by redoing my living room walls--stripping wallpaper, painting, color washing, and striping them with metallic glaze--but I think they turned out bee-yoo-tee-full-ly. What do you think?

I hope you like it better than my husband did. Not that his opinion matters.

Speaking of the devil...

A couple of weeks ago, I got an awesome GIF program for showing the animated ceiling fan I made for my Sims...

(Animated, people! I'm a rock star!)

Anywho... The program ended up coming in handy for something else...

Yep, that's Squidward, rockin' out to Guitar Hero 2 (yes, 2) in his office--I'm sorry, pleasure den.

Like the arm fringe? I made it! And so can you. Here's a list of the things you'll need:

--1 delusional husband

--1 piece of expensive satin you were saving to make a throw pillow out of

--1 pair of scissors

--a ton of deep-seated resentment and shame

Voila! Arm fringe!

Oh, and we got one of these bad boys...

So, there you have it. You're all caught up on the mystery that is my life, but we'll be taking off tomorrow for my in-laws' beach house. Perhaps I will have more to share when we return.

Have a great weekend, everyone!

An Open Letter to Some Guy

2008-08-12T08:25:00.000-07:00

Dear Sir,

I appreciate your interest in me. Indeed, I am most flattered by the goo goo eyes and kissy faces you were making at me in the rearview mirror. It is not often that I attract the attention of a man of your unquestionable esteem and virility, as clearly evidenced by your choice of vehicles. A '98 Toyota Camry--with spoiler!--pretty much guarantees I'm a sure thing. And the way the sun glinted off your expired tags? Dreamy!

As special as your juvenile displays of lustful regard made me feel, I would hate to think I was just one among many potential paramours. You don't do this sort of thing all the time, by any chance, do you?

Of course not! What we shared was most assuredly momentous and rare; the basis, I'm sure, of an enduring illicit relationship. But while, in my obvious state of unbridled arousal, I may have appeared to be returning the sentiment by pursing my lips in wanton seduction, in actuality I was attempting to convey a much more pressing message:

"Look out, dumb ass! You're going to hit that car."

Alas, you did not heed my warning. And if there is one thing I cannot abide in my lovers, it is the inability to keep their car in its own lane while making lewd overtures to strange women in the cars behind them. Call me picky.

So, adieu, mi amour. Hope time buffs out the dents in your heart the way the body shop will undoubtedly buff out the dents in your car. And that other one.

Best save your goo goo eyes for the road from now on, eh?

Yours,
Avery

I'm Blogging...

2008-08-08T21:13:00.000-07:00

From a phone...from the future!!!

(Man, this iPhone is amazing!)

If You Said...

2008-08-08T08:08:00.000-07:00

Get your hubby a new iPhone for your anniversary, then, *ding, ding, ding*, you're a winner!

If you said get him his own iPhone, then, *awwwww*, you're not.

And if you said "F%*k his brains out, and photograph it with the new phone!" *cough eye in de sky cough*, well, congratulations! You win a consolation prize for being at least half right. He did seem a bit witless the next morning.

Rowr!

Yes, my hubby decided that he did not want a gift for our anniversary--besides the bow chicka bow wow--and instead began referring to my iPhone as "the family iPhone." And since my son has little patience for objects being used for their intended purposes, and our cat's texting skills are quite laughable, that pretty much narrows "the family" down to Ron and me.

This hasn't posed a problem yet, seeing as how my iPhone is still en route to the store where we purchased it. I was supposed to have it by today at the latest, but I'm not holding my breath for a miracle. Besides, isn't 08-08-08 some sort of mark of the beast or something?

No? Hmmm. Coulda sworn...

Anywho, I'm sure I'll have it soon, and I can avail you of all the cool features and such. Plus, I hear it's great for cleavage shots. I may have to overcome my inherent shyness and try it out. All in the name of research, of course.

In other news, in light of the fact that my husband will likely have to spend a considerable amount of time in Israel very shortly, he has lifted the moratorium he placed ages ago on home decorating in the Gray house (I can go a little nuts; let's just leave it at that) hence why I have not been around much lately.

Not that I don't love you all, but if you don't come with glossy pages depicting elegantly adorned rooms, preferably of the Old World European/Tuscan-inspired variety, you are dead to me.

Well, that's a little harsh. Maybe just in a persistent vegetative state.

Mmm...broccoli. Yummmm! When's lunch?

Until then, I have wallpaper to peel. Whee!!

It Must be iLove!

2008-07-15T09:13:00.000-07:00

Our anniversary is fast approaching, and this is usually the time of year my husband takes his vacation. In the beginning of our marriage, I believed it was because he was so overcome with love that he couldn't stand to be apart from me on the day we commemorated our blessed union of souls.

Yeah, did I mention I was retarded then?

It quickly became apparent that he chose this time of year so he could kill two birds with one stone: celebrate our anniversary AND fish for steelhead when the fishing is good.

Ah, romance!

Typically, he takes two or three weeks off so he can spend one week with me, and the rest of the time enjoying a nice, relaxing, fish-free time out of doors. But this year, he's only getting a week off, and I have a sneaking suspicion that I'm not going to rate well in the fish vs. wife battle.

If my husband would come out and ask me if I'd be upset if he takes the whole time to fish, I'd tell him I wouldn't be. He works hard all year long to support us, and I don't think it's too much to ask for some time to enjoy doing the things he likes. Of course, since he hasn't asked me, he's assuming that it will really upset me, and is therefore taking this time prior to the commencement of his vacation to butter me up. Not only is he willingly going with me to a wedding he would rather chew his own arm off than attend, he's now using the promise of technology to sooth what he assumes will soon be the savage beast.

He's getting me a new iPhone 3G.

Now, at first I assumed that it was just one of those I'm-giving-it-to-you-but-really-getting-it-for-myself type of presents that he seems so fond of, seeing as how my current cell phone, which I use very little, doesn't even have a camera on it, let alone the whole interweb, while he's always been something of a new technology hound. But the more I think about it, the more I'm really looking forward to having one, if only because I've never had the latest and greatest anything when it comes to matters cellular. By choice, admittedly, but then I've always thought of a phone as just a phone.

And I hate phones. I wish they would die!

But an iPhone? Well, that's different, isn't it? I mean, the "phone" capability is really only a small percentage of the gadget's abilities. It's really more of a small iPod/camera/browser/e-mail/GPS tool with a phone thrown in for good measure, but iiPodCameraBrowserE-mailGPSPhone is a terrible name!

So, yes, I'm excited about a phone. An Apple phone I could blog on, no less. But it does sorta lend itself to the time-honored question...

Just what the hell am I supposed to get him?!!

Because Four Fake Guitars Are Not Enough...

2008-07-03T09:50:00.000-07:00

We now have six. Six fake plastic guitars for three rockin' games on two different gaming systems.

My husband's in heaven.

First it was Guitar Hero III for the Wii. That proved to be merely an appetizer to the veritable smörgåsbord that is Rock Band for the Xbox 360. (And by smörgåsbord, I mean the addition of a poorly designed drum set and rarely used microphone.)

But, this past weekend, my husband was lured once again by Guitar Hero's siren song. Only, this time, the sirens took the spindly rendered forms of Stephen Tyler and Joe Perry.

Tramps!

So, we now own Guitar Hero: Aerosmith for the Xbox, which necessitated the purchase of an additional Les Paul guitar controller for our typical epic rock battleage--bringing the count up to a whopping six.

Six fake guitars. Not a single real one.

How awesome are we?

Add to that the money we've recently sunk into transforming his office into a lush den of raucous rockitude, and you'll understand my dismay that my husband appears to have no desire to get past the Medium level on any of the games. Yet he is looking forward with great anticipation for the releases of Guitar Hero: World Tour and Rock Band 2 this fall.

Great. More fake instruments we don't play.

Is this just a guy thing? A mid-life crisis?

Maybe I should just get him a motorcycle and a hooker. They'd probably take up less room.

First Rule of Fight Club...

2008-06-24T17:07:00.000-07:00

The hubby and I put up our pool for the summer a couple of weeks ago, and in that time, I have acquired the unenviable position of "Neighborhood's Coolest Mom".

Ugh.

Sunny or overcast, doesn't matter. I now have kids coming to my door in droves asking if they can come swimming with Ethan. I suppose I should be pleased that he has someone close to do fun things with. He's always been the odd kid out on our block, and because I may be a TAD on the overprotective side, it's probably my fault. Unlike many of the other neighborhood moms, I won't let him ride his bike, walk to a friend's house, or play in the street if I'm not there with him. He's only five, and even though this is a nice, family friendly neighborhood with fairly little traffic, this world is full of frickin' crazies.

Case in point: my neighbor across the street has just revealed that his new hobby is...

*wait for it*

CAGE FIGHTING.

Now, to really grasp why I find this utterly hilarious, you'd have to know him. He strongly reminds me of Michael Scott from "The Office"--bumbling idiotic blowhard with zero social skills and even less self-awareness. Even so, I kinda like the guy.

It's his wife who scares the bejeezus out of me.

If he'd told me SHE had taken up cage fighting, I wouldn't even have batted an eye. Her job as a principal of an alternative high school for lawless rapscallions and nefarious ne'er-do-wells suits her to perfection. She wears such a sour expression on her face, it wouldn't surprise me if even her vagina comes outfitted with a steel trap.

Actually, that would explain an awful lot.

So, imagine my surprise when Ethan asked if their kids could come swimming at our house, and he was told no because, as their daughter said, "Dad isn't sure about you guys."

Isn't sure...

ABOUT US?!!

Correct me if I'm wrong, but did I just get dissed by a brow-beaten cage fighting pantywaist?

Strange times, man. Strange times.

Who's Driving Anyway?!

2008-06-16T08:12:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, Father's Day, we spent a good portion of the time on the road. Since it was to be my husband's special day, I did the driving, even though he is the worst passenger in the history of locomotion. Not that I could tell him that. No, as I've mentioned, it was his special day...

Was.

Thankfully, today is a new day, and I have a blog.

So, for your benefit, dear husband, here are all the responses I so graciously refrained from making yesterday. Feel free to refer back to this list anytime you require my response in the future, and my one-finger salute does not adequately convey my sentiments to your liking:

"The speed limit is 60 through here."
Thank you, talking highway sign. As if your HUGE numbers weren't clear enough, you offer the added benefit of verbal confirmation. That must come in handy for all those sight-impaired drivers on the road. Kudos to you for being so darned progressive!

"There's a cop. Slow down."
Sure thing, because slowing down from 40 in a 40 mph zone to, say, 32 doesn't look the least bit suspicious, and would in no way draw his attention. Well, except maybe for that long line of irate drivers behind me whom I have effectively impeded. When he pulls me over, I'll let you do the talking.

"Watch out for that guy on the bike."
Oh, thank goodness you were here. I was about to make him the latest addition to my ever-expanding "Cyclists of the Pacific Northwest" hood ornament collection. Had no idea there was anything wrong with that.

"Pass this guy, then get over in the other lane, and turn right...NOW! Aw, man, you missed it!"
Yes, I did. But what I didn't miss was that day in Physics class when my teacher explained the general theory that when two objects of considerable mass traveling at a certain velocity collide, they make a big BANG! I think it's called the Principle of Duh.

"Turn that way. Why are you turning this way?"
Well, my dear, when I asked you 60 seconds ago which way to turn and got no response, I decided to make an educated guess. Heck, the chances were 50/50 that you'd infer I'm a dumb ass anyway, and 100% that you won't be getting any of it for the rest of your natural born life.

Congratulations, jackass. You're a winner!

Never Spam a Writer

2008-06-12T22:02:00.000-07:00

Dear Beloved,
What am I, a character in a bad Oprah movie? Just call me the Right Honorable Mrs. Avery A. Gray like everyone else. No, really, I insist.

Glory to God in heaven.
Trite, cliché. Nothing’s grabbing me here. Pull me in. Make me care.

My name is Mrs.Annen Joubert from South Africa. I am married to Mr. Abraham Benjamin Joubert, who is a farmer here in South Africa for many years before he died in 2004. We were married for eleven years without a child.
Okay, I’m gonna stop you right there. This is all riveting stuff—great human interest angle—but your tenses are all wrong. Are you currently married to a dead man? I’m not judging. Could be one hell of a hook.

He died after a briefillness that lasted for only four days.
Redundant. Don’t need to be beat over the head with his corpse. Unless the duration of the illness--I’m sorry, “briefillness”—is important to the plot, consider cutting this.

Before his death we were both born again Christians. Since his death I decided not to re-marry or geta child outside my matrimonial home which the Bible is against. When my late husband was alive he deposited a total sum of $10. Million (Ten Million, U.S.Dollars) with bank in Europe.
Logic flow problem—why was he farming if he was a frickin’ millionaire? You lost me.

Presently, this money is still under the safe keeping of the Reserve Bank Recently, my Doctor told me that I would not last for the next Two months due to my cancer problems.
“Cancer problems”? Vague, Ann. Try to be as descriptive as possible. Paint me the terrifying picture with words like "oozing lesions", "fetid bedsores", or "HMO claims representative".

Though what disturbs me most ismy or better still a Christian individual that will utilize this money the way I am going to instruct here in.
That disturbs me, too. Your syntax is atrocious.

I want a church or God fearing individual that will use this fund on, orphanages and widows propagating the word of God and give help to mankind.
Google “Christian charities” maybe? Weak plot device. Where are you going with this?

The Bible made usto understand that blessed is the hand that griveth.
“Griveth”? That’s not what my Bible says. Isn’t that like a cross between a lion and an eagle? No, wait, that’s a griffin.

I took this decision because I don't have any child that will inherit this money and my husband relatives are nota good Christians and I don't want my husband'shard earned money to be misused by unbelievers.
Whoa, red flag, Ann! You’re alienating a huge percentage of your potential readership. Consider changing “unbelievers” to “Koreans” or “Polacks”.

I don't want a situation where this money will be used in an ungodly manner. Hence the reason for taking this bold decision.
What decision? Avoid foreshadowing.

I am not afraid of death hence I know where I am going. I know that I am going to be in the bosom of the Lord.Exodus 14 VS 14 says that the lord will fight my case and I shall holdmy peace. I don't need any telephone communication in this regard because of my health because of the presence of my husband's relatives around me always. I don't want them to know about this development.Please assure me that you will act accordingly as I stated here in
Well, since you’re spouting Scripture, might I suggest a gander at Leviticus 19:11-12.

With God all things are possible. As soon as I receive your reply I'll forward your personal information to the bank in Europe so that they will contact you as the legal owner of this fund before transferring the fund into your nominated Bank Account in your country.
Personal information? My name's Avery. I'm a Gemini. I like long moonlit walks on the beach and mint chocolate chip ice cream. Now where’s my money, beeyatch?

I will also issue you a letter of a authority that will empower you as the original-beneficiary of this fund. I want you and the church to always pray for me because the lord is my shepherd.i will stop here becouse of my health Hoping to hear from you as soon as possible. Read Hebrews13:15v16 New Living Translation
Blah, blah, blah. Talking past the close.

Remain blessed in the name of the Lord.
You assume much.

Mrs.Annen Joubert.

This Story Needs More Cowbell

2008-06-12T07:39:00.000-07:00

Or less cowbell.

Or it has just the right amount of cowbell, and I shouldn't change a thing.

Gah!

As if my inner critic weren't demanding enough, I've kicked my own ass by asking for outside opinion from the two critique groups I belong to on the first chapter of my most recent work.

Although everyone thus far has loved the story overall, they've had mixed opinions about the elements that make it up.

More internal dialogue.

Less internal dialogue.

Just the right amount of internal dialogue.

Oooo-kay...

Believe it or not, I view this as a positive thing. When I'm critiquing a story that really doesn't need much editing, I still feel compelled to point out any and every little thing I can possibly think to mention because I don't want the writer to feel cheated out of a proper review. If all I said was "Looks good," they'd think I didn't take it seriously.

I'm really hoping that's what's happening here, 'cause I've gone over that chapter so many times my eyes are crossing. And that is not a good look for me.

If you have a Critique Circle membership (and are not easily offended), you can find my chapter here. It will be in review until the 17th.

Just don't tell me it needs more cowbell. I find I'm plumb out.

Like the New Digs?

2008-06-08T08:46:00.000-07:00

The beautiful, vivacious, and oh so clever Bee visited Chez Gray on Friday, and inspired me to change things up a bit. She even imparted to me the super secret location of an ultra clandestine website that features some awesome background images. (I'd tell you, but then she'd have to kill me.)

So, thanks for all your help, Bee! I sense a windfall of Starbucks in your future...

Unfortunately, since I've been pouring all my creative energy into my writing lately, I have nothing to post worthy of a grand unveiling of this magnitude. So, I'll be resorting to a musical guest.

Hey, I think Weezer's funny.