Hello Atlanta

You guys! Now I get to say that I have an appearance. I have an appearance sponsored by the Saint Mary's Alumnae Association in Roswell, GA, on Saturday, January 27, at Coffee Buy the Book. The reading starts at 3 PM. The horror starts at 3:01.

And, you guys! I totally get to do that famous author thing where I fly in and fly back out on the same day. Like, "I have an appearance in Atlanta, but I'll only be gone for the day."

also hot at: mb@blondechampagne.com

"The Whole Bible In Our Pocket"

If the comments section on this post turns into an Iraq war slap-fest, I swear I am turning this blog around and nobody will get any ice cream, but please do consider donating to "Ranger Rosaries." A Rosary-making guild in Annapolis which sends beads to the troops is experiencing a serious shortage. An Army chaplain in Baghdad who is quite a devotee of the Ranger Rosary reports that his unit is one of just two that has never been attacked.

Hail Mary at: mb@blondechampagne.com

Roofs

Today’s post was to be dedicated to pondering what this year’s incarnation of My Horrible Birthday Karma ™ was going to be. The Return of the Spew? Boils? Would I trot to my car on the morning of the 15^th and find a pile of ash?

Mais non! This year’s winner is: Homelessness!

A year ago, when I signed my current lease, I warned the agents that I might need a 14-month contract on my next one, as I would likely leave The Swamp in May 2007.

“No problem!” said the nice lady.

Eight months ago, when I received my class schedule and gave notice to the University of Airplanes, I reminded the staff of our agreement about the extended lease.

“It will be no trouble at all,” said the nice lady.

One month ago, when the deadline for my renewal approached, I appeared in the leasing office, pen and unsigned lease in hand, requesting a contract with the new dates.

“Oh, you don’t even need to worry about the deadline,” said the nice lady. “We’ll draw up a new one right after the holidays.”

Today I received a phone call from the leasing office.

“You need to be out on March 30,” said the nice lady.

Josh The Pilot called from Virginia to scream. Nobody kicks out his fiancee! That's his job, after I've wailed for seventeen hours straight about the font on the response cards!

"When did she say anything to us about a lease extension?" said the nice lady.

As it happens, the complex’s sister property received heavy tornado damage, and nobody has anywhere to put anybody. So I, and all my crap, shall suffer exile, for from where they send me there is no returning, and the leasing office will never know if I have found forgetfulness in another's arms.

At least, unlike the tornado victims, I have crap, and a place to frown at it until March, not to mention slightly more warning that the roof over my head is about to vanish. But Josh The Pilot and I can only afford to move said crap once, and we expected that to happen after he moved out of his tiny room in The House of Meat and into our big girl and big boy married-people place in May. We are now transporting my crap from The Swamp on President’s Day weekend, and letting it sit on the side of a wide-shouldered road in Leesburg with a DO NOT STEAL. YOU DON’T WANT A FRAMED AUTOGRAPHED PICTURE OF THE CAPTAIN AND TENILLE ANYWAY sign.

So I must now find a furnished apartment for six to eight weeks, and when you need that, people either laugh at you very hard or calmly attempt to charge you eight hundred thousand dollars a week.

All this and thirty, too. Hot.

paid in full at: mb@blondechampagne.com

MB Master C

Because the Sugar Bowl wasn't shame enough, I've been invited to emcee the student readings at the University of Notre Dame's 2007 Literary Festival, followed by about ten minutes of MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE. It's 8 PM at LaFortune Student Center on January 31. Oh, you should so be there.

Also enjoy this pictoral reason of why I miss Cocoa Beach.

my past mostly rocks at: mb@blondechampagne.com

"PRESENTS!"

In the aftermath of the All-Spew Special, I became the Island of Hurl, with my nephews permitted nowhere near me. Once or twice my sister carried Will The Baby Nephew to my doorway, where he waved to his admiring one-person throng, Pope-like. I was left to lift the massive heft of two pillows and inch my way down the hall to the top of the stairs, where I lay on my stomach so that I could at least hear the kids playing. This is not at all creepy, especially when you take into account the fact that every now and then I attempted to flick fuzz down the stairs, calling weakly, "See? Aunt Beth loves you! Come play!"

Because Will, he even sounds cute. He is one adorable noise-emitting child. I've read about babies gurgling and cooing, but Will is the first one I've ever met who actually does it. He'll just be lying there, and suddenly smile and go "Awwwwwuh!" and it's so cute every woman between the ages of eighteen and forty within a ten-mile radius spontaneously ovulates.

Jim The Small Child Nephew, for his part, is of an age when he tends to act as a conception deterrent. "HathathatHAAAAAAAT," he shrieks before leaving anyplace at anytime, lest he appear in public without a complete ensemble. But he was inspiring at Christmas, because he's starting to grasp the glory of presents-- any present. He doesn't care if it's for him or not; it's a present, and it's going to make somebody happy, and this is the best thing ever.

On Christmas Day, he didn't even want to open his. He just stacked them.

"Presents!" He didn't care about what was inside, preferring the anticipation, the careful wrapping, the boxes for what they could be.

He'll be getting gift cards in about ten years. Still easy to stack.

Not as easy to crawl down a hallway for.

Oooooooooooooh

Did everyone enjoy the Brady Quinn "Flushing My Draft Pick Down the Toilet" Bowl? Excellent. By the middle of the forth quarter he was throwing passes that came with their own sound effects. You could actually hear the ball go "whoopwhoopwhoopwhoop", Stooge-style, as it wobbled cheerfully down the field. Well done, Notre Dame. Our band, however, was most impressive, which is the most important thing. They played "Volcano" at halftime! And then formed one! Featuring the Irish Guard, now with Dry Ice Action!

As I have not only no love, but negative love, for Ohio State, may I offer my heartiest congratulations to the University of Florida for producing the following image:

Aw. Man. When the dude with the chest O is bereft, we've little place to go as a society.

41-14 at: mb@blondechampange.com