Newscoma Has Moved
Monday, November 27, 2006
  "This is your ode to Christmas!?!" "Well, my eyes are bleeding a little bit, but it suits you." Homer commented as she looked at the new template on my blog. "It is easier to read better than that black one you had up." "It made Knox Jon's eyes bleed too and gave him a headache," I replied. "He left it in the comments. And Tennessee Jed wasn't crazy about it either. I think Atomic Tumor liked it though." "Knox Jon and Tennessee Jed? Atomic Tumor?" my sister raised her eyebrows at me. "What's with the names?" "It's a blogging thing. They are all from East Tennessee" I replied, staring with anxiety at the small grim reaper at the left hand of the newly redesigned page. "I'm newscoma." "Jesus, you wrote about our toilet." my sister said. "Good God, you're deranged sometimes. Has it ever occured to you that you are 41 years old?" And there in lied the look she gives me which frightens me a bit. It's the look that could send us into an ever-spiraling black hole of mayhem. My sister has never suffered fools well, and I started to cower. "Put on Happy Bunny," Asa Corn screeched unexpectedly behind my shoulder, making my dog Duff fall of the couch where she resides most of the time. As the oldest of the two nieces, she always feels entitled to give her opinion. She is 10, and as I read yesterday, 10 is the new 15. I realized with a feeling that I can only describe as terror that I live this everyday at the commune. "Happy Bunny is better than that stupid thing down there. What is that?" "It's the grim reaper," I sighed. "What's that?" Asa turned back towards her Sims game which was on the desktop a couple of feet away. I realized she had been caught by something bright and shiny and had completely forgotten the question. "Death," I muttered. She didn't hear me. "I like it, but it's kinda hard to read," My sister said. "I do like it though, I think. Why can't you do something cheerful like Busy Mom? Or that funny woman that writes for the Nashville Scene who has the plastic people. Or Sista Smiff. I like Sista Smiff. Her blog is more of a happy blog." "I'm happy," I said defensively. "No you're not," she said in the way that was reminiscent of my mother. This tone can only mean one thing. It signifies that the conversation is coming to an end. "You write about Bigfoot and how you don't like George Bush. If I get arrested or wiretapped because of you, I'm going to kill you." "Sorry," I said, deflated. "It does suit you though, you weird freak," Homer stood up. "And quit writing about the toilet. That's just weird. This is your ode to Christmas? Good Lord." She walked out of the room towards the kitchen for more coffee because we Sharp sisters are all about some morning coffee and I'm assuming the caffiene calms her. She turned back just long enough to smile at me thinking most likely I wouldn't see it, but I did. I stared back at the blog on my laptop, wondering if I should just put Beta Blogger in and forego the bells and whistles. 
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