I love the feeling when a paint job is over. No, not as in when you blow your nose and Dover Hills Beige comes out. Or when you scrub for two days straight and you STILL have white paint in your hair. But that feeling of accomplishment. I think that’s why I like to paint—because I have to finish the job and you have a new room in a short amount of time.

So no mishaps this time. Other than a few touch-ups for later and dipping a chair into the paint bucket (I thought it needed an accent color?). And I did slam my ladder into one too many things. Oh, and head planting into a wet wall and my hair STILL being covered in Valspar No. 98701. But other than that, it all went so smoothly. When I took off the tape, the entire wall didn’t come off. And I wasn’t enraged when I was done. Or sobbing. So good days. Time well spent.

So some friends of mine have this softball team, and in their search for a name they came up with the Fighting Chihuahuas, after the mascot in In Between. I think it’s one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me. But what’s not nice? Um…having to step in and PLAY during a game! For real.

Okay, so I’m at a game and wearing my Fighting Chihuahua t-shirt. Then the ump notices one of the Chihuahuas has left. The game will be forfeited (or the world would end or something) if they didn’t come up with another player. So about ten pair of eyeballs find me in the stands…sitting there. Peacefully. With my team t-shirt on. So after one team member assures me that I won’t actually have to play, I head to the dugout to pretend to be a member of this athletic brood.

And then…the news.
“Okay, you’re up to bat!”
Here’s how impressed with that idea I was.

You know, some people are born with all sorts of athletic ability. Others were born with very little. I’m neither—I have none. NONE! And people with no athletic ability are LOATHE to do athletic things in front of others. When I was in the sixth grade I played softball. But I was the girl singing out in the outfield, picking weeds, who had only signed up to go to White Water water park at the end of the season. (And then I didn’t even get to go to White Water because I got Silly Puddy stuck in my ear.) (Don’t ask.)

Everyone said, “Just stand there. The pitcher’s been walking people all night. Your odds of walking are great.” Okay, how hard can that be? And I do look mighty fine in my Chihuahua t-shirt…

So the pitcher, who hadn’t been doing so hot, throws me this perfect pitch. I see it coming and think, “Oh, crap. I’m gonna have to swing, aren’t I?”

Look, I’m swinging so lightning fast, the camera couldn’t keep up. Too quick! Out of focus! Kodak doesn’t make an option for this kind of speed!

And stop calling, Barry Bonds. No, I don’t give lessons.
Actually it was a whimpy swing and I got out at first, but they assure me they got a run out of it. I didn’t see that part, so they could be lying for all I know.

But the t-shirts are great, are they not? They make people happy. See, these two don’t even know each other, but look how happy they are.

So I’m going to be gone for a bit. If you’re reading this blog because you’re really bored, then sign up on the far left for email updates so you’ll know when I’m back. I will have a full report on all things European. And then as soon as I get back, it’s time to go back to school. I’m really excited about that. How excited?

The pre-travel eating has begun.

When I’m on vacation or especially in an airport, it’s like I think calories don’t count. Though I hate flying, I LOVE airport food and all the choices you have. And when my layover is mere minutes, I get STRESSED that I can’t stop and eat. Last year I had a millisecond to get to my connecting flight, and this of course, intersected with the time most people would’ve been eating lunch. I didn’t get to eat for eleven hours straight! It was TORTURE!! Well, okay, I was loaded load with my vast array of plane snacks, but it’s not the same. At lunchtime you want real food, not Tropical Starbursts. So in order to prepare for all this eating, I’m practicing. Just had a salad, a Diet Dr. Pepper, and a Twix. I know for a fact that two diet products cancel out a single bad food. For dinner I will have a Lean Cuisine, Crystal Lite, and some Chunky Monkey.

I have decided to read Harry Potter No. 201. Okay, I guess it’s seven; I haven’t really been keeping up in the last few years. I wasn’t going to read it, but not too many people are talking about the ending and who gets killed off, so…sigh…I have to read it. I have two students who refuse to tell me who dies, even though I have threatened to go back and retroactively change their grades. They’re not talking. And THEN one of them has the AUDACITY to say something like, “Um, I don’t know how it ends, but I’m going to find out. By READING it. You might try it.” Sometimes students put on this front of being good human beings the entire semester you have them. But now their true colors have shown through. Duly noted, students. Duly noted.

So just for that, since I know one of them has yet to read it, I’m going to give away some Harry Potter spoilers. Read on…if you dare.

1. The true identity of Voldemort is revealed. It’s Lindsay Lohan. I did not see that coming.

2. Hermione leaves mid-way through the book (that would be at page 2,109,193, 000) to join a convent.

3. The seventh book is done entirely in couplets. And yes, it is hard to find something that rhymes with “I blew something up again today” or “This broom really chafes.”

4. Harry is recruited by David Beckham to train him in Quidditch. And by the way, Quidditch roughly translates into “sport that would require a lot of wires if this book were a musical.” The end of the book will make you tear up as Harry saves the day and convinces muggle Posh Spice to eat a Big Mac.

5. Turns out the cloak of invisibility was just a big joke all along, as Ashton Kutcher reveals to a sobbing Harry on an episode of Punk’d in chapter thirty-one. That will teach Harry to peek in on the girls’ dorm.

6. Donald Trump buys Hogwarts and enforces mandatory comb-overs for everyone.

That’s all I know so far. But don’t worry. While these spoilers are oh-so-revealing, they only cover a small percentage of the book. There are still millions of pages in The Deathly Hallows that I didn’t address. Like the chapters where Harry enlists the help of 50 Cent and goes all gangsta. Those were powerful scenes.

Okay, back to painting and eating and making lists of things I know I’m going to forget for this trip.

Dear close friends and family,
I regret to tell you that at this time…I will begin painting.
Yes, I know. When the paint rollers come out, we all suffer. But this time will be different! It will! What could go wrong?

I’m painting a basic cream color. No tri color stripes. No uber cool green. No Tuscan effect that looks like an Orange Crush exploded on my walls.

I must rid my bedroom of the green. I’m sick of waking up every morning wondering if I’m in the den of some sadistic leprechaun. They say red makes you angry? Nope. Green does. I consider going postal daily, but I don’t have the energy.

So now we are going to go with a nice cream color with green (It is cool. It is!) and brown accents. And somehow, some way, even though I’m taking a mysterious paint can to get a match and I’m not sure it’s the right color, this WILL work out.

RIP to the green bedroom. Leo DiCaprio and Al Gore may be all about green, but I’m not.

So I want to apologize in advance for the snarkiness that will ensue. I get a little moody when I paint. But then again, this time it’s going to go perfect, so we shouldn’t worry about crabbiness. And my simple paint jobs tend to take months instead of days. But hey, not this time, right? Oh, and I do usually break something when trying to move the furniture back by myself. But I KNOW that’s not going to happen today. (Note to my brother: Consider yourself “on call.”)

So I ask for your prayers and well wishes as I begin my new painting endeavor. And I hope to have this project wrapped up by this time next year. It’s so doable, and I believe in myself.

And to my friends who have whispered recently that I have a painting addiction, I HEARD YOU!!! You wound me with your disrespect for my…art. But I will take my hurt feelings and channel them into something of beauty.
Unless the painter’s tape doesn’t cooperate again…
Or I have another ladder accident.

For lack of anything else to blog about because I’ve been home all week for the first time with nothing to do (thus…the paint job was born.), I shall share some family pictures. Please ooohh and ahhh accordingly.

My sweet nephew on his seventh birthday. He’s seven? Wow, his parents must be really old.

And my niece, who has inherited my curly hair, my love for food, and my bad table manners. But seriously, why use a fork when it only slows you down?

Another picture of my niece. Wish I had inherited her charm. THIS face would make someone pull over and fix a flat.

And finally, my cat, Grady, who has many psychological issues.

“Anybody can put a lampshade on their head. But a shoe box? I don’t think so. Hey, have I told you about this dork who painted her bedroom green…?”

Since I finished The Big Picture, I went out and got a massage. As I was reclining there, I thought, why don’t I do this more often? Why just reward myself for finishing a book, which only happens twice a year? I have other major accomplishments I need to celebrate. Like I ate vegetables yesterday. Massage! Or I went a day this summer without my friends Ben and Jerry. Massage! Or I how about the fact that I got the trash out on time? One hour massage please.

Saw Spamalot in Tulsa. It was awesome. Laughed a lot. Men in tights always crack me up though. On our way, we had a flat. I of course, offered my help. “Please, gentleman, could I change the tire? Oh, please?” But the men said, “Even though we have no doubt you could do this with your eyes closed and one hand tied behind your back, we would like to do it ourselves. We are afraid your tire-changing competency would put us to shame.” So I let them.

“Guys, can I help?”
“No, we don’t want your hair to frizz.”

“Okay, what other helpful thing shall we ladies do? I know! Road trip pics!”

“I think I’ll call some old boyfriends.”
“Cool. I’ll call and make a pedicure appointment. Changing a tire is fun!”

Okay, I have no idea how to change a tire. My method involves one step: you call someone. Last year I had a blowout and pulled into a construction site. It was crawling with workers. I just knew one of them would have mercy on me and help me out. Besides the flat, my phone was having issues and so I was stressed and ticked at the same time. Finally one comes up to me and knocks on my window. I roll it down. Hallelujah! My help has arrived in the form of a kindly Samaritan in steel toed shoes and overalls.
“Um, ma’am, you’re blocking our way. Can you move?”
I blinked.
“Oh…okay. See my tire blew out and my phone isn’t working.” (Insert really pitiful face here.)
“Yeah, thanks for moving it.”
And away he went. And then it started raining, drowning the parking lot and my faith in chivalry forever. Clearly I should’ve shown some leg or something. Okay, actually that would’ve gotten us nowhere either. Luckily my phone cooperated enough to make a call for some genuine help. No leg required.

On a side note: Go see Die Hard III. Worth the wait. I hear it will be a while for Die Hard IV though. But Bruce Willis in a walker should provide a powerful level of excitement.

The Apocalypse has begun.
Tori Spelling is now an ordained minister.

Thanks to everyone for their help on my character’s name. I especially appreciated the past student who suggested his own name. And the former friend who listed an old grade school boyfriend (I still can’t talk about that one). And of course, there was Aloysius—which I have to look up every time I reference it to make sure I spelled it right (and I haven’t). So the boy wonder in The Big Picture is still Tate. One syllable Tate. I think if I named him Aloysius or Clovis he would be serial killer Aloysius or mad bomber Clovis. Nobody survives names like those without psychological damage.

Speaking of psychological damage, word is Nicole Richie is pregnant. (Please see above note on Apocalypse.) In an interview, her dad Lionel Richie (Say you! Say me! Say I’m a grandpa. That’s the way it should be!***) says he doesn’t know if Nicole’s in the family way or not and sent out a message for his daughter to call him. If daddy was my bankroll, I’d totally call him and fill him in. The Simple Life will not go on forever, as Paris has seen the light and decided she’s not so simple. And your DJ boyfriend—well, he spins records. For a living. Mama’s baby’s daddy is Sir Mix-A-Lot. Yeah, I’d be calling Lionel. Maybe say, “Hello…? Is it me you’re looking for?”***

*** (If you were born after 1980, that’s a song reference. Insert laugh here.)

Off to see Monty Python’s Spamalot! Very excited about this. I’ve been listening to the CD, and I applaud anyone who can find a quality rhyme for “take a pee.” It takes just the right word combination. Should be a good time. We are headed to Tulsa, OK. Coincidentally, this is the setting for my next series. Are bawdy plays about men in tights tax write offs?

A good weekend to all.