Valette: note to self: before participating in a blindfolded sex thing, make sure none of the other participants are related to me
Valette: good one to know
Steve: There goes the Valette / Damon threesome
Valette: also: HELL NO
August 2006 Archives
Valette: note to self: before participating in a blindfolded sex thing, make sure none of the other participants are related to me
Overwhelming Evidence Valette Was Cute And Innocent Once, If Only For The Briefest Of Seconds, And Don't You Want To Eat Her, Pigtails And All?
What's a trip back home for a family party without trolling through the old photo albums?
There's more nostalgia on Flickr.
Fairbanks is sorely lacking for entertainment. Which is evident by the number of people crammed into the high school auditorium to listen to an all-male a capella group from Boston University.
Okay, I know that "All-Boy A Capella College Group" doesn't sound like a terribly exciting way to spend a Friday night, but it was very cheap and actually? A Capella renditions of Elton John and Gorillaz and Rick Springfield and Ben Folds? Kinda fun.
Not to mention the certain members of The Dear Abbeys are pretty darn hott.
And, uh, there being absolutely nothing else to do in town.
My trip to Homer last weekend went quite well, even considering the Parks Highway was closed from all of the rain and flooding. Which meant my return trip to Fairbanks was on the Richardson Highway, adding 100 miles to my trip. But I was still able to make great time, even though the speed limit on the Richardson is 10mph less than it is on the Parks Highway.
Not that silly things like cliffs and corners and speed limit laws slowed me any.
The birthday party went great and my gift was a hit. The sun shined that day, there was hand-cranked home made ice cream, the grill only caught fire where it was supposed to, and I hit someone so hard in the side that he dumped his raspberry lemonade all over the kitchen.
There were balloon sculptures and old-man jokes and more people who share my DNA than should ever be in one house at a time.
Back in Anchorage I met Jamie and we had lunch at Noble's Diner where her work is currently hanging. She is a great person and her work is beautiful.
If you are in Anchorage you should totally get over there to see her work. Not only is her work beautiful, but the french fries? FANTASTIC. Seriously.
And then? There were SNAKES. On a plane and everything. I went to see it with Steve*, and we didn't even get arrested or anything.
Also, I totally didn't jump at the one scene where this snake totally flings itself from the depths of the plane and I expected to see a dead body not have a vicious snake leap out of the screen into my lap. Totally didn't jump. No matter what Steve tells you.
* I am not going to link to Steve's site because there is nothing there to link to. Which also means I can totally make shit up about our viewing of Snakes On A Plane. Like how he cried like a girl when the puppy got eaten. (Oh, wait, I think that might be a spoiler.) LIKE A GIRL.
I know I've said this before, but if you wear a bra, get thee to a bra fitting specialist right this very moment.
I so mean it and don't want to hear any excuses.
I know it's weird and uncomfortable and... weird. But treat it like a doctor's appointment. A checkup for your girls that doesn't involve squeezing them between two metal plates. A checkup that involves lace. And a tape measure.
Go to a fancy place (overheard in the dressing room next to mine while trying on a bra that was individually hand made in France with the sweat, blood, and tears of sweatshop children: "A bra is important to me! I'll pay up to $30 for a good bra!" Which, um, just to clarify: WalMart doesn't count for this exercise.) where the fitter knows how to handle a pair of breasts. She will know what size you should be and what styles would look best on you.
Let her pick out a huge pile of bras for you and then? Try them all on. Even if it takes you two hours. Even if they are all in size 34GINORMOUS and are bigger than the state of Texas (these are Alaskan boobs, dammit!).
It's best if she helps you try them on, because she knows where to hook it and how to adjust it and will tell you when it doesn't fit right, and you don't stand alone in the dressing room for 15 minutes trying to wiggle the band of a strapless up to where it really needs to go to support your GINORMOUS rack even though the band won't go any higher and OH MY GOD MY SHOULDER JUST DISLOCATED.
She will know. Trust her.
If she makes you uncomfortable during the fitting (and I mean more uncomfortable than an I Am Standing In A Tiny Room Half Naked While A Stranger Pokes At My Breasts kind of way), then leave. Don't buy anything you don't love or can't afford. Don't let her pressure you into anything.
If she makes you uncomfortable from the get go, don't lock yourself in a tiny room with her and disrobe.
Which, really, is just a great Life Lesson you should have learned in Junior High: If you don't like someone, don't let them get your shirt off.
Looks yummy, doesn't it?
And oh, it was.
I am headed to Homer to celebrate my father's 60th birthday. He is officially Ancient Years old and we are gathering the entire family together for pointing, laughing, and heckling.
A good time should be had by all.
And then? After the heckling? Snakes. On A Plane. And possibly in my pants. Taking bets as to how long it takes to get arrested.
I am more excited about seeing this movie than any human possibly should be, and yet probably not as excited as a good chunk of the internet.
But they are the scary chunk of the internet, the chunk that has never touched a real live boobie attached to a breathing human woman.
Which makes me feel better about myself, because I get to grope breasts every second of every day.
But the whole point to this (point?) (YES there is a point, a point I am about to reveal posthaste) is: who knows if/when I will get a chance to update this here blog thingymabobber (so, uh, what's new, Valette?).
Right. But I love all y'all anyway.
My weekend was rainy and lazy and grumpy. I didn't make it to the fair, didn't do any of the chores I had considered doing.
I was just barely able to finish the letter and present for my father, while being constantly reminded that I over think these things way too much and some general sappy crap would work just fine.
I tried to cheat on the letter, but the internet was no help whatsoever. It kept offering up letters written by a son of a post-operative male-to-female transsexual, letters wondering why good old Dad didn't run halfway across the continent to visit his child in the hospital, and letters about knocking up Dad's secretary.
So instead of fretting too much over birthday things, I spent most of the weekend with my camera doing this:
It is a very lazy afternoon. But it is also the last day of the Tanana Valley State Fair, and I have not been there once this year. I will also miss the start of the Palmer State Fair by a matter of days when I go to Homer for my father's birthday party next weekend.
Should I cuddle up on the couch with a book and the deck door open listening to the rain fall?
Or should I head to the fair and buy some homemade soap and essential oils and corn fritters and other over-priced and greasy things one can only get at state fairs? And take lots of pictures that probably won't come out anyway because it's too dark and raining?
biscateddj: Hello dear, Friendship is magical,simply the fact that i have a chance to meet/see or find someone precious like you.
biscateddj: I remember that Diamonds are forever and they always shine and bright,your picture is Lovely and you have given my life a special glow
Valette: I call bullshit
Ranch dressing on battered, deep-fried foodstuffs (onion rings, halibut, neighbors' fingers):
Normal and even maybe good?
Or proof the terrorists have already won?
Please internet, don't let the terrorists win.
(Certain groups are not qualified in participating in said group poll. These include, but are not limited to: 1// any of my coworkers who not only nodded but claimed to participate in said activity on a regular basis, 2// the individual who brought this horrible, terrible, unholy activity to my attention, 3// midgets, and 4// anyone who thinks this is normal.)
I took the dog out late the other night, her last call for potty break before morning (is it really that weird that I have trained her to do her business at three regularly-scheduled times, and that she does it very quickly?), and I noticed something very peculiar.
The sun had set.
Now, I know that the sun does this: it rises and it sets pretty regularly.
Only, while it does continue to do this once a day every day, in the summer I just don't get to see it unless I am pulling a silly all-nighter with silly brothers and silly friends.
And the other night I wasn't out at silly o'clock; it was only 11.30 and dusk was completely upon me. The next morning I could see my breath when I took the dog out.
When did this start happening? The darkness of the setting sun? The cold morning air (I pretend to not hear rumors of frost in the hills)?
I fear my garden will be covered in frost before any of my peas or broccoli or carrots are ready to eat.
I don't think autumn should start until September. I stubbornly refuse to believe that August = Autumn, no matter how many people keep saying it.
I won't admit that I am slightly pleased to pull out my few articles of clothing only appropriate for autumn.
Hey! I wanted to apologize for not grabbing your ass this weekend.
Now, see, I was going to ask if you just grabbed my ass, but you totally ruined the joke.
You're welcome. I also wondered if you got my message Thursday afternoon, the one where I got this huge feeling of dread and despair in the pit of my stomach that something must be or soon will be going terribly wrong with someone I loved?
Oh yeah, I did. But it wasn't anything important, right? Nothing like major life changes?
Well, no, but you could have, I don't know, called your sister to let her know that you weren't dead or anything. You know. Dread and despair feelings and all.
I was in great distress over the lack of ass-grabbing.
That must have been it. Other than the great lack of ass-grabbing, how was your weekend?
Considering I was surrounded by fat, hairy men, pretty damn good.
I got my car back from the shop this weekend with a shiny new transmission that actually shifts into all five gears and, yes, even stays in gear when I tell it to.
Which is all I ever wanted in a transmission anyway, besides the ability to go back in time. Which would be just awesome.
The shop's completion of
sucking my blood dry along with my bank account installing the new transmission couldn't have come at a more opportune time.
My legs are so sore from riding all weekend (I seriously rode more this past weekend than I have in the last month or more) on top of cycling to and from work all last week.
And even though I appreciate the paper floor mats and plastic covers so many shops are putting on seats these days, could mechanics maybe wear gloves or something before coating my steering wheel in grease?
Dear Mechanic: I already signed over enough of my soul, but do you have to eat all of my Altoids as well? Surely you can use a tiny portion of my soul and get your own damn tin.
Oh my God I just realized that my father turns 60 in, like, under two weeks and I'm supposed to have a whole bunch of stuff ready for the big party, things like a letter or scrapbook page and, I don't know, a gift, or something?
So, yea. Dear Internet:
What would you get for a near-senior citizen father who likes politics, might possibly run for mayor (Mayor! Homer, if you elect my father as mayor, you totally deserve what you get and will get NO SYMPATHY from me), and beats eagles with his cane?
What would you write to a father you don't really like to spend time with but whom, admittedly, you act too much like?
Something that reminds him how old he really is and how funny he really is not would be great. Thanks.
The date is September... 18.
He finally proposed, did he?
Um, did he pick out the date by himself?
No, they both did. She knows he is going to propose, she probably even knows how and when he will do it.
So why not just propose if everyone already knows about it? I mean, we're having a bridal shower thing this weekend for her.
Because he doesn't have the ring yet.
A ring is not strictly required for a proposal.
While they are waiting for the rings they are making plans. He's even ordered the capes.
Yeah, you know, capes.
For the, uh, proposal?
Or the engagement. Or the wedding. Or maybe both.
Hi, I'm Valette
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