Christmas 2007....Canine Edition

Please to humor me as I get lost down memory lane. Thanks.
(yes, as a child I thought that was an actual geographical feature...a lane with pictures of old stuff--you know, like on street signs?...it made sense to me at the time....shush)
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Okay....my house,
Christmas Day-
Twelve Humans
NINE DOGS!
Only two of the dogs are actual inhabitants of the house. Their names are Maggie and Bailey, collectively known as MailBag. 'Cause, you know, sometimes you just have to yell a name without getting all bogged down with which name goes with which entity. The Old Dog is Maggie, an eleven year old flatulent Dalmatian. She will also answer to Best Dog Ever.
Bailey is the puppy, a mix of one quarter each beagle, chihuahua, Boston terrier and demon. Everyone thinks she's a pit bull. Whatever. We also have three incoming rat terriers in addition to four mixed breeds from various adoption/rescue scenarios with temperaments that range from sweet to skittish to Bad. The Bad Dog is named Maddie. It's not her fault she's bad. She was abused as a puppy before being rescued. This does not make her even one tiny bit less scary.


So. Here is what we know for sure-

• Bailey does not get along with two of the rat terriers.






• The Bad Dog gets along with one and a half humans and no canines.






• Maggie is too old to give a rat's or any other kind of ass and will just lie around and occasionally bark or fart.

Organizing these dogs takes more effort than the seating plan at a shotgun wedding. When it's time for the Bad Dog to go outside, the proclamation is made,

"Maddie is coming up!"

Suddenly the humans put down their beers and spring into action-each has a dog to grab and corral until Maddie gets outside. The grandma who is NOT a dog person (God love her) barricades herself in the bathroom until she hears the all clear.

When Maddie is once again safely ensconced in the basement (yes, it has furniture and carpet-shut up) WITH a baby gate blocking the stairs just in case, Dog forbid, someone should forget and OPEN THE DOOR!!!!, the dogs are released into a swirling vortex of canine glee that could only be enhanced by the addition of raw meat.

Of course, every time Maddie comes up there is a different mix of dogs available to react to her since the puppy and the rat terriers can't seem to share air space without getting snappish, so they have to take turns in the box.

The one constant is Maggie...sitting on her little bed....reigning from on high (ummmm, well, low) with an air of studied indifference. Tooting.

Oh yeah, the humans? I guess they got along just fine. No one noticed.

The End

So there I was, serenely having a snack, and suddenly all hell broke loose. Among the cacophonous sounds of my friends screaming I suddenly realized I was being chased. Before I knew it I was being half-dragged and half-carried by my ankles, restrained by all my appendages. It was terrifying. It all happened so quickly there was no time to think, no time to formulate a plan.

Some say that when you die your life flashes before your eyes. Others speak of a tunnel with a light at the end. It turns out that I am an out of body kind of girl. Frankly, from the atrocities I witnessed upon my body, the tunnel sounds really really good. But you know, it turns out we don't get to choose. Out of body it was. I watched as I was stripped, disemboweled and enclosed in a bag. Into refrigeration I went with the rest of my friends in a giant vile morgue. Eventually we were separated, which didn't matter at all, really. It's not like there's any camaraderie among the dead. If any of them were out of body, they weren't visible to me. They probably got the tunnel. Lucky bitches.

The atrocities that followed our separation were truly unspeakable. My corpse was pummelled and mangled beyond belief. I can't even recount the heinous acts performed upon my former self. If it had been possible not to watch, I would have stopped. Alas though, it was not. But eventually it all became clear. As I floated over the unrecognizable pile of bones and flesh and viewed the happy consumers of, well....me, I realized my purpose. And it made me feel content for the first time. Suddenly I felt warm and happy and there was a light and a tunnel and all that stuff they tell you about when you die. And I went.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Maybe at that OTHER discount store.....

One day a few years ago, on my regularly scheduled trip to Target, I made my regularly scheduled trip to the bathroom in said Target. I don't know about you but there are certain places that just make me have to go to the bathroom. My basement, my garage and quite often, Target. But anyway.

Upon entering, I noticed three girls huddled around the sink. As a mom, my first instinct was to demand to know what they were up to, but I reminded myself that none of these girls are on my mothering list, so...no. As I entered a stall, I did register their general look--mid-teens, a Marilyn Manson t-shirt, jeans cut a little too tight and a lot too low, wacky hair colors with three inches of roots and a whole bunch of visible ratty bra straps.

Sadly, I did kind of judge them by their appearance, then harshly reminded myself that I have known many spectacular girls who presented themselves in a not so spectacular fashion at that age. So, mental hand-slapping on my part.

At the sink I could hear the rustling of paper and some random comments:
"Here, use this part."
"Yeah, it's right here."
"Don't worry, there's more than one."

Then the closing of a stall door and:
"I can't pee."
"Well, don't waste it. Let's go get you something to drink."
"No, she can't drink a lot. It won't work."
"She can drink a little. It'll be okay."

As I washed my hands, the girls packed their paraphernalia into purses and moved towards the door. The last one smiled at me as she held the door open. I thanked her and wondered how many teen aged girls find out they're pregnant in the bathroom of a Target store.

Real men....

Real men wear pants....or shorts. Maybe sweats. Sometimes kilts, depending on where they live.

Real men hold the door open for the person behind them. When they are behind someone holding a door for them, they say "Thank you."

Real men watch sports like football and baseball and hockey on TV...if they like those sports. They might also watch sitcoms, softball, cheerleading, movies or musicals. Sometimes they just watch what the rest of the household wants to see. Or they can read a book or do the crossword. Whatever.

Real men wear pink. Sometimes a real man doesn't like pink, so he wears something else, depending on his current needs and wants. These include but are not limited to the man's comfort level with the color in question, its level of attractiveness on him, its current state of cleanliness and its ability to hide stains. It could also be at the top of the pile. For some guys, dressing is not rocket surgery.

Real men eat quiche. Unless they are on a diet, or don't like quiche, or are lactose intolerant, or are allergic to eggs, or have no quiche available. Then they eat something else.



Real men cry. Especially when someone they love dies or when they're really worried or frightened or when they have something stuck under their contact or when they have a broken limb.



Real men fight for what they believe in. A real man can do this without ever throwing a punch.



Real men vacuum. They do dishes. Sometimes while their spouse is mowing the lawn.



Real men raise kids who grow up to be real men and women.

Go Team Go!

It's mid-October and we are well into college football season. I am not a big time sports fan by any means but to me, college football is a phenomenon unto itself. It's such a cliche but the total experience is just so darn fun, I can't help but love it. Of course it doesn't hurt that mine is a Big Ten team. I don't know what I mean by that because every fan loves watching their team, tailgating before their team's game, cheering for their team. Who ever says, "Yeah I love MY team but there are so many others that are so much better. Other conferences are much better as well. We're really number 47 at best among schools of our size and frankly our conference is maybe the 14th best"? No, it's WE'RE NUMBER ONE! and that's okay. You gotta love what you love.


Really when I think about it, the idea of 70,000+ people crowding into a stadium to watch a bunch of kids (who are the same age as my kids) play a sport is a little absurd. The guys who sit near us who know SO much more than the coaches would probably pummel anyone who spoke about their kid the way they scream about the kids on the field. But that's all part of it. I get that.


The beauty of it all is that there are so many things that occur in every stadium, sometimes in every section of every stadium. Like the guy who wears the same thing, down to the face paint, every single game. That guy has probably worn the same underwear to every game since 1985.

There's the shrill-voiced woman who knows every word to every school song ever and wants everyone to know it.
There's the guy who wants them to "Run it again!" Every play. Every single play.
There is the couple who brings stinky sandwiches and eats their way through the game.
There's the guy who doesn't think the section is properly fired up and instructs us en masse how to be better fans.
There's the cute chick who knows NOTHING about football and thinks that right now is the time to learn.
The gorilla in a referee shirt.
The blue or green dudes.
The college guys (and girls) with their chests painted in an encouraging manner.
The rich alumni who are too rich to stand up for anything but the national anthem.
The person who should have stopped drinking one and a half beers ago, and...
The unfortunate person sitting in front of them.
And then there are the 48 people (in a row of 40) who have to pee and/or visit the concession stand within minutes of kickoff.
Did I miss anyone? I'm sure I did...sorry! But we love you too and the game just wouldn't be the same without you. Even if you are annoying.
RUN IT AGAIN!
So, yeah, football season is a good time. Hanging out with friends and family and maybe running into old college pals. Good times. So when events unfold as they did at last weekend's game, good times become spectacular. Check this out:

This is the second year in a row that we've striped the stadium...it was so cool last year and this year was even better.

Then came the card tricks:

It's even better here
And finally, because it was our only home night game of the year, I guess they had to cram all the awesome they could into one night. Every time we scored:


I know, I know...of all the several people who read this, some of you are not going to be Iowa fans! I get that and it's okay. But if you have any affection in your heart for college football, you have to admit that this stuff is pretty flippin' fantastic and we'll probably be seeing more of it. Just remember who you have to thank for it! Go Hawks!

An Open Letter to the Whistler on My Floor

Please stop whistling.

You wander up and down our hall whistling non-stop the entire time, and you know what? You’re not great. While I can definitely make out certain melodies every now and then, I can assure you, this does nothing to help your case, as knowing the song you’re attempting to recreate just makes it all the more cringe-worthy when you fail.

That being said, I’ve still only recognized two of your songs, and those were “Pirates of the Caribbean,” and “The Stars and Stripes Forever.” You even included the piccolo solo, and while I do appreciate that as a piccolo player myself, it was still unwelcome. It was unwelcome mostly because the Hawkeye Marching Band had just finished playing that song in a three-week show, meaning I’ve been playing that exact solo for three weeks straight. At this point, I don’t think it will really ever be acceptable again.

“Pirates” is where I start to think this is a personal thing. You know why? Because you whistled that the day after we performed that show in HMB, so I know now there has to be some connection, be it mere coincidence, aliens, or maybe you’re just in band too, but I know something’s up. How else would you know just the right song to whistle to get on my biggest nerve? I don’t have a song that’s annoying me this week? No problem! You just fall back on that safe strategy of whistling whatever random series of sound-notes pop into your head.

But I don’t think you know you’re bad at whistling. I think you think you’re good because of the sheer amount of volume you can achieve. I’ve never heard someone whistle that loudly with any semblance of a melody before, and I would applaud you for that, if you weren’t so incredibly annoying about it.

On top of that, you use the outside hand dryer. Let me just say, those hand dryers are loud. Very. Loud. They’re annoying when you use the ones that aren’t in the hallway, so my question to you is, why use the one single dryer that is? There is a sink and dryer in every bathroom on this floor, why the hell not use one of those? What makes you think it’s a good idea to fire up the thing three feet from my open door while there are quite clearly seven people in my room trying to watch Arrested Development? Because of you we can no longer hear the hilarity, as we’ve been keeping the volume down in an effort to be considerate to our neighbors, it being 10:30pm and all.

But no, you whistle on down to the bathroom, do your thing, and then open the door with your still unwashed hands as you go for the sink, and then the inevitable dryer. By the way, the rest of us touch that doorknob after we’ve washed our hands, and you’re just making the whole process pointless by opting for the outside sink.

The worst part is, I’m not even entirely sure who you are. I thought you were the one I know only as “Hipster,” but then it appeared as though you were “Totally Normal Guy” who lives on the other end of the hall from Hipster. So I don’t even know who to blame for all of this pointless agitation.

Frankly, I’m afraid it might be both of you.

September

It's September and we kinda suck. Going back to school has pretty much turned us into slackers, blog-wise. Really, should I be alarmed that I have more followers on Twitter than on this blog, considering that I don't tweet?

So...all you several people who have been reading, don't ditch us quite yet. We'll be back.

Someday.

Thank you.

How to be...part one. Now with 20% more snark!

Okay...so rules. Here's the thing about rules. There are certain fundamentals that cause a civilization in forward motion to continue moving...well, forward. Our country's near-universal awareness of Kardashians makes me wonder if the forward progress train has actually shifted into reverse, but I'm gonna go with optimism today. So, among these fundamentals are grammar, spelling, manners and rules. Rules are not here to inspire you to make up your own more creative personal rules that are just for you. No. YOU are supposed to follow the ones they give you. And yes, some of them are not "written down" anywhere. These are called UNWRITTEN RULES! Follow them anyway, dahmmit. Our society is on the verge of implosion and if you're among the ones making up your own crap, it's all your fault!

We'll start small....

The flat expanse of concrete or asphalt with the painted line pattern is called a parking lot. You're supposed to put your car there while you're inside taking 24 things through the 20 or fewer line. (Yes, I know in the store it's called the 20 or less line. That doesn't make it correct.) Or when you're just picking up movie tickets for later. Or when you're "really quickly" returning a pair of shoes. When you leave your car in the parking lot where it belongs, other people don't have to play bumper cars with it like they do when it's on the pretty stripey pattern right by the front door. No one cares that you're in a hurry. We're all in a hurry. And no, it won't ever be "just for a minute". You know better than that.

I also do not care that someone just dropped you off and they're waiting in the car that is nonetheless sitting where I'm supposed to be able to walk. Having someone in the car does not make it any less in the way. It does give me someone to give the stink eye to but they know better than to make eye contact. AND I might add....that spot is reserved for the emergency vehicle that might have to come carry YOU away when someone's little darling decides to "help Mommy" by pushing the cart-right into your Achilles tendon. Usually it's mine, but today could be your lucky day!

I understand this desire to avoid the parking lot. We have fewer and fewer parking spots these days. It started with the handicapped spots (is it okay to call them that?) (shrug) Let me be clear--I'm totally on board with these spots. I do wish they would all remove those hangtags when they're driving. But that's not the point. After the reserved spots for the mobility challenged came the special spots for new and expectant parents. Well...maybe I'd dig that one a little more if they had been there when I was an expectant/new parent. There's a spot for security. Fine.

But now, at my grocery store, there are spots reserved for their make and take meal center. You know what I mean--they chop everything up and you go in and assemble a bunch of meals to put in the freezer. It takes like two hours. It seems to me that if you're going to be in the store for two hours it wouldn't immediately kill you to park a little further out. For God's sake, it's not even open half the time! I'm waiting for the day when the entire outer edge of the parking lot is reserved for fat-asses who need the exercise.

And also--in the store, if you should run into your long lost bestie and just HAVE to catch up right there, park your carts accordingly. There is nothing other people hate more than breaking up your tearful reunion in the cereal aisle..."excuse me, could you move it along there, sister?" Don't side by side your carts while you wile away the time comparing your Prada knockoffs. And don't think you have anyone fooled either. Not in this neighborhood, honey.


....to be continued....

PS...Full disclosure, this was written pre-blog and there have been some changes. The sign in the store now actually says "20 items or fewer" and the make and take place is no more. So those two spots are now normal parking spots. I'd like to think that I telepathically had something to do with the sign correction. Alas, I did not.

Bugs and shoes

Today I was in the church parking lot chatting with KDHD while Spouse was inside having a chat with our Pastor. Suddenly a small grasshopper flew at her torso. She started a bit, then nonchalantly brushed the grasshopper away. We are not like those girls...you know- the ones who scream and writhe and freak out at the sight of anything with antennae. BUT the grasshopper flew directly at my face and I naturally swatted at it. Just because I don't fear the bug does not mean I invite it for tea. But the critter dropped straight down and into my cleavage, where it decided to just chill out right there in my dress for a while. So that was fun.


After I evicted my little friend from his new home, KDHD noticed a pair of shoes sitting next to a street light on one of those little island thingies in the parking lot. They were black high heels, kind of big...size nine. Okay, they weren't exactly cross-dresser big, but still big. The height of the heels made them look even bigger. We were bored so I had to try them on. Oh, don't be so grossed out. It had rained the day before. I don't really know what I would have done if they had fit ('cause a 9 is not really that big for me), but they didn't so we took them inside, put them in lost and found, collected the Spouse and came home. Where we made and consumed BLTs. With fresh tomatoes from the garden.

Theatre RULES!

I'm eating a popsicle and thinking about what I want to write about the theatre. I can't really type with a popsicle in one hand.

*KDHD- You can't really type at all.
*Mom- True.

So anyway, I love the theatre...and not in a snotty way, like I don't say theatah, or anything. Nor do I say theeayter. So I'm just a middle of the road kind of girl who likes plays and musicals. I've been living in the St. Louis area for quite a while now and I have to say, there are some fantastic things here. Seriously, the theatre scene here is huge and awesome. The reason I know this is because I have a job and every Monday during lunch my companions are telling each other about the play/musical they saw over the weekend. I on the other hand, tend not to leave my house once I get home for the weekend because, a) on Friday I'm an exhausted mess and would fall asleep before the curtain opened, b) on Saturdays it's too much effort to catch up on household crap AND shower and look presentable, and c) Sunday is church/nap day. But not at the same time. Pretty much.

SO, we have the Fabulous Fox Theatre. It. Is. Gorgeous. Check it out...here.... It has this massive pipe organ and a really magnificent chandelier that defies the common conception of a chandelier. When Phantom of the Opera played there, they probably worried that the real chandelier was going to upstage the fake one in the play. I would have, anyway. The very first show I saw at the Fox was The Rugrats Live! (or something like that...and yes, we took the kids). Singing, dancing babies with giant heads set against the Fox's ornate decor was a veritable visual oxymoron. Luckily, subsequent shows have been more in keeping with the nature of the place.....that is, fabulous.


We have another theatre called The Muny. I'm quite sure it has a longer name than that, but it pretty much goes by The Muny. It's in Forest Park, which is the Big Park in St. Louis. The Muny is an outdoor venue, so it only runs in the summer. It was built in this big depression in the park, so it's like this natural amphitheater, which is pretty cool. The Muny has always had a section of free seats...you just come early, get in line, picnic, play frisbee...whatever. I've never done this but KDHD has. I love The Muny, but it has a few issues, none of which are its fault.

Problem number one.....it is in St. Louis. This city has a lot of things going for it, but summer here is just plain effing hot. Hot and humid. And I like the heat. So when I say it's hot, well, you know. So. Problem number two....I don't know what the deal is with outdoor theatre, but people seem to think it's a big honkin' sing along. Plus, they tend to put on a lot of classic shows, which means half the people in the audience were in that very show in high school. I'm sitting there, enjoying West Side Story and suddenly the girl next to me is belting out I Feel Pretty!

HEY...did you buy a ticket to this show?

You did?

ME TOO!

Do you have a program?

IS YOUR NAME IN IT?

NO?

Shut up!!

So as you can see, I do manage to catch an occasional show and I have to say there is something that happens here that is pretty flippin' annoying. Part of me hopes this doesn't occur where you live, and part of me does, because then I would feel better about my town. I refer here to what is known as the St. Louis Standing Ovation. At the end of the show, before the bows even begin, much of the crowd is already on their feet. The first time I witnessed this phenomenon, I began to stand up with them, thinking, "Well, the show was good, but Rugrats? Really? Am I missing something here?" It turns out I was missing something as I realized that these people were not applauding, nor were they showing any kind of appreciation for the performers whatsoever. THEY WERE LEAVING! They were getting the hell out of Dodge so they could beat the traffic! I was horrified! And I see it at every show...no matter whether it's a Broadway touring company or local theatre. How rude.

So....the rules (see what I did there? Look at the title....now look here again...heh, heh, heh.)

1) Come to St. Louis and go to a show at the Fox. Enjoy it and keep your ass in or (in the event of a real standing ovation) slightly above your seat until after the bows.*

2) Come to St. Louis and go to a show at The Muny. Follow the above rule, but also KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT! Bring something with which to fan yourself. It won't help, but at least you can feel like you tried.*

3) Come to St. Louis and attend a performance at one of our million other venues (none of which I meant to slight by not mentioning them but there are sooooo many, plus I'm pretty sure nobody affiliated with them reads this blog so who cares anyway?)

*BTW...went to the Muny last night for the first time in a few years. In the program there is the usual list of *ahem* suggestions for the audience, i.e. turn off your cell phone, no recording allowed, etc. The final two "suggestions" (and I'm paraphrasing) were, don't sing along and keep your ass in the theatre until the bows are over. YESSSSS!

So there you go. I don't really have a good way to end this.

Are all kids this stupid, or was it just me?

I was not the...

• sharpest cheddar on the board



• brightest Crayola in the box



• sharpest knife in the block



• brightest bulb in the chandelier



• sharpest tool in the shed
  


• ...insert your own intelligence analogy here
  

as a child.

Who knows whether I hold any of these crowns as an adult, even though the statistics suggest a certain competence in the brain department. But anyway, as I remember it I was not what one would call brilliant when I was little. Or maybe it's perfectly normal to be uber-literal and naive.

I remember my Grandma being in quite a tizzy over the toaster when I was preschool aged. This would have been in the late sixties and we were in rural Iowa, so I have no idea how long she had been using electrical appliances regularly. I doubt if it had been her whole life, 'cause there was definitely some discomfort there. Even I could sense that. She used to go around unplugging EVERYTHING before we left the house so it wouldn't burn down. But the toaster.....wow. She used to tell my brother and I, and my cousins, and anyone who was nearby that-
You Don't Stick a Fork in the Toaster!!!

Especially not this toaster.

That could kill a man, sticking a fork in the toaster.

I would nod soberly and I'd try to stay the hell away from the toaster since it upset Grandma so. But in the back of my mind, thoughts would pop up....

Why would anyone go near the toaster with a fork? Surely a fork will do you no good when toast requires things like butter or jam or peanut butter. I'll just stick with a knife, thank you very much.

And what does the toaster have against men anyway? I have changed my mind! I WILL go near the toaster! I will definitely be getting my Dad's toast for him as much as possible since the toaster seems to have it in for him. My brother is in the clear, what with him only being a boy and all, but Dad? Even if he's carrying no flatware at all I shall get him his toast, for I am just a little girl and the toaster is only interested in killing MEN. Grandma said as much, and old people know these things!

As small children are wont to do, I would get very hyped up for the holidays, especially anything involving me getting presents and/or candy. When the radio announcers began saying "Halloween/Christmas/Easter is right around the corner!", I would go into a frenzy. Since we lived on a farm, corners were not in abundance and my mother probably wondered why I was always so eager to go to town. When there was nothing right around the corner, trips to town usually consisted of a boring trip to the grocery store and to the meat locker.

*side note* I don't know how it works now, but when I was little, we got our meat from the locker. I actually don't really know how it worked then. All I know is that we would go into this freezing cold vault to our little carnivore safe deposit box and withdraw what we wanted to eat until the next visit. I guess we bought a cow or pig or something and they kept it there for us. Like Gringott's, but for meat. I LOVED going there in the summer....for about three minutes. Then I was begging to go back outside to the hot.

BUT....the excitement of going to town when there was a holiday JUST AROUND THE CORNER! I ran ahead of my mom and brother and stealthily peeked around every corner we approached, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever holiday lurked there. Those holidays....they were always a little too quick for me. They always ducked into the alley at the last minute and I could never seem to catch them. Once I thought I saw a fairy wing flit out of sight but since fairies have nothing to do with Easter I figured she was just running errands or something. One day I was convinced that THIS TIME I was going to capture summer and keep it forever, but alas! the next day it was still mid-May and I still had to go to school.

Childhood can be very disappointing for a kid who believes her imagination.

Analysis of The Cat Came Back (as presented by the Muppets) by JaMy and KDHD

KDHD-(singing)Benny had a cat
That they wouldn't let him keep.
So he put her up for sale,
At a price he thought was cheap.

JaMy-Why did Benny's parents even let him get a cat if they weren't going to let him keep it?

KDHD-I don't know.

JaMy-That just seems cruel, parenting-wise.

KDHD-He found it, I guess.

JaMy-Then why doesn't the song say that he found it? 'Cause if he found it, why didn't he just give it away? To a good home?

KDHD-Well, maybe that was the price he thought was cheap. Free.

JaMy-You know, if he took money for the cat, it would kind of seem dishonest, what with the cat coming back and all...

KDHD-Yeah, but he didn't KNOW the cat would come back. I mean, it was just sitting on the porch the very next day.

JaMy-You'd think the new owners would have done something special to keep the cat at their house. Extra cream or some catnip or something.

KDHD-Maybe they did. The song doesn't specify what transpired at the new owners' house, except they wanted the cat to help with the mice. So maybe the cat didn't appreciate being sold into servitude. To a dog, no less.

JaMy-...and what's the deal with the fiddle-playing critter in the attic?

KDHD-I think it's a coyote. or a wolf. Regardless, they have a fiddle-playing....thing in the attic and that's just weird.

JaMy-Plus, I can't help but wonder why the cat insists on returning to a home with a banjo-playing dog out front.

KDHD-Considering that all the neighbors appear to be dogs, I think he just feels safer with Benny. In spite of the aforementioned fiddle-playing thing in the attic. Even though Benny will stop at nothing to rid himself of this cat. I think the problem lies in continually giving the cat to a dog. You can't give a cat to a dog. It won't take.

Also...what's the deal with the cat's eye patch?

JaMy-Yeah, none of the other mishaps leave a mark on this cat. Not the cannon. Not the car crash. Not the bomb.


KDHD-That cat is a survivor. She's hard-core. I wonder if the cat already had the eye patch when Benny got her. Maybe the cat is some kind of evil mastermind and that's why Benny's parents wouldn't let him keep her.


JaMy-We never see Benny's parents. I think they, like the rest of the neighborhood, are dogs. I think Benny was adopted and was a horrible, horrible disappointment to his parents when he got older and started cavorting with cats. Especially evil mastermind spy cats who wear creepy eye patches and are determined to undermine the entire dog community with their espionage.

Come to think of it...the song never actually says who "they" are. Benny might not even have parents at all. Maybe he lives with evil relatives, like Harry Potter!

KDHD-Dear Lord, woman.

Food for Thought.....UPDATE!!!

Spouse just ate there with his business partners (their idea, not his). The waiter was surly and argumentative, entrees were $15-$20 and the bread was Wonder.
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I'm not a restaurant reviewer. I'm not even that much of a foodie. If I were, this is what I would have to say about my recent visit to a local restaurant.

We arrived at the restaurant around six and were delighted to be seated immediately. We were given a lovely tour of the available tables before being seated next to the kitchen. With a reasonable amount of maneuvering and sucking in, we were eventually out of range of the swinging door. Yes, door. Singular. Isn't it supposed to be a double? In AND out? It amazed me that we didn't get a head full of pasta as the result of an unfortunate door incident. Oh well.

We were ENTHUSIASTICALLY GREETED by our server, ordered drinks and an appetizer, then entrees. When our entrees arrived, we canceled the appetizer. Our ebullient server apologized profusely and offered cheesecake on the house. We forgave her. After lovely salads, whose plates egregiously overstayed their welcome, our food arrived-in minimalist fashion. I guess we ordered from the ADD menu. It tasted fine-not spectacular- just fine, and had none of the distraction of garnishes or grated asiago. Just a wad of seared tuna and a pasta bowl devoid of even a leaf of greenery. My pasta was so filling I had to send half of it to be boxed, noting with excitement that I had left several shrimp for my lunch the next day. Spouse even commented on my lack of appetite....No Shrimp Left Uneaten is my normal policy, even if they had obviously been frozen. We're landlocked here--what do you expect? Our cheesecake came as promised and I realized that they had reserved all their garnishing skills for this moment. Raspberry coulis was swirled over and under the cheesecake in a delightful pattern. I don't particularly care for raspberry but the effect was exquisite. As I scraped the red goo off my dessert, the server commented that it might still be a little frozen, so if it was she could replace it with chocolate cake.




WHAT?




There's cake?



And you didn't mention it before?



I'm not going to get snippy about a piece of free cheesecake, so we brainfreezed our way through dessert, paid the bill, collected my go-box and left.



The next day I reheated my leftovers and enjoyed a nice lunch until I realized I had reached the bottom of my bowl and hadn't encountered a single shrimp. Not one. Zero. I find this rather mysterious. I cannot even come up with a scenario for this phenomenon. Aliens? Kitchen theft? Spontaneous combustion? None of these make a bit of sense. But waaaaaait a minute...I remember hearing a voice from a nearby table ordering linguine tuttamare AND I remember hearing a server offering a go-box to said table. Could....could it be? Yes, it could. And now my tum tum hurts because I....just...ate...a...STRANGER'S LEFTOVERS! This grosses me out to an unreasonable extent. I don't eat at potlucks if I can help it. I don't consume anything students bring me from cooking class unless I really trust them. And they still have to taste it first. So this is epically disgusting to me. But since I'm not bulimic, there's nothing I can do but look forward to digestion and expulsion.

I hope she enjoyed my shrimp.

One lump or four? or Girl parts, and not in a titillating way, so guys--you might as well just move on.

I have big boobs. I'm not bragging about it. It pretty much sucks, unless you're 25 and want to get served very quickly or you're 35 and need help at Home Depot. The benefits are fleeting. Once you're past 45...whatever few perks you once enjoyed vanish.

It's not that the boobaloobas vanish...they're still there. Today, tomorrow and for the rest of my life I am reminded of this fact by well-meaning(?) leches who think it is their duty to make sure I am aware of it. The presence of huge wads of flesh and fat on my frontside apparently did not make this point clear previously. Also, these helpful men are under the impression that the size of the boob is inversely proportional to the size of the brain, thus I need to be reminded on a regular basis that yes, I do have some mighty large boobs. Thanks guys, for keeping me abreast of this situation. And no, just because you were kind enough to point them out, you do not get to touch them.

...and again no, they will not be coming out of hiding for a Mardi Gras parade or any other event involving drunkenness and debauchery. Even if I am or had ever been that kind of girl, the sheer magnitude of logistics makes this impossible. There would need to be protective eye gear, emergency personnel on standby, waivers to sign for anyone with a cardiac condition. Trust me, it would be a total bust and just not worth the aggravation. Go ogle some nice C-cups and leave me the hell alone, k? I can buy my own damn beads.

For those readers who have been waiting for a titular reference, wait no longer....finally, there is the not insignificant task of corralling these troublemakers. The acquisition of boobular containment devices is a formidable task. There are very few stores where one can purchase such items in the proper dimensions. The store where I have the best luck is staffed by ladies who are veeeeery...helpful. On a recent excursion, I had a selection of items to try on and the helpful lady put my things in a fitting room. I eventually made my way to the fitting room and began the arduous process of finding a stinkin' BRA THAT FITS.



Here is my process for this task:

1. Remove all clothing above the waist.






2. Put on bra.






3. Curse.






4. Remove bra.






5. Adjust straps.






6. Put bra on--again.






7. Put shirt back on.






8. Try to picture self without awkward tag protruding like a broken bone.






9. Sigh.






10. Swear to eat nothing but lettuce and water until able to wear a normal bra size. (Stupid. This has almost nothing to do with weight.)






11. Repeat steps 1-10 until satisfied or lose interest.

At a certain point in my routine, the Veeeeery Helpful Lady inquires as to whether I need any help. She takes my rejects and returns with MORE STUFF for me to try on. Having only recently been dressed, I resist. She looks so forlorn and a little grandmotherly, so I agree. As I approach step 3, VHL decides to JOIN ME in my fitting room!

VHL: How's everything going in here?

Me: Ummmm, I'm good. (You can leave now)

VHL: My daughter is just like you, she has the worst time finding a home for the girls. (giggle)

Me: Mmmhmmmm.... (Get the f*** out)

VHL: The insurance company won't pay for her to have a reduction.

Me: (I. Don't. Care.) Yeah, me too. (NOOoooooo!!!! Do not engage! Do NOT engage!!)

VHL: Can I help you with that?

Me: (DO NOT TOUCH ME YOU PSYCHO!!) No, I got it. (I have been dressing myself for over 40 years now. Please leave)

VHL: That one fits you real nice....

Me: (leave)

VHL: Those straps are just a little long still.

Me: (I am half naked in here with a stranger)

VHL: You know, we have an alterations girl at our other store.

Me: (half naaaaked)

VHL: We had one here but just between you and me, she was a little crazy.

Me: (SHE was a little crazy, you nutjob?) (aaaaand still half naked)

VHL: She only charges three dollars a strap.

Me: (I am not paying a minimum of $50 for a bra that needs alterations) I don't think that'll be necessary.

VHL: Blah

ME: (half naked)

VHL: Blah. BLAH.

Me: (Please kill me. Then leave. So I can be half naked and dead.)

VHL: Blahbiddy blahdy blah.

Me: I think I'm ready to wrap this up. (that means leave)

VHL: (a little disapointed) I'll just put these back then.

Me: (Yah. You do that.) Thank you.

I am such a wuss. Why couldn't I just kick the old lady out? Geez.

But anyway. I WAS pretty rude in another store when the girl showed me this totally cute dress. The reason I know it's totally cute is because the girl said "Omigawd this dress is like soo totally cute ON. And it even has a built-in bra, look!" I took one look and laughed so hard I may have hit her with a teeeeny bit of spit. All I said was "THAT'S optimistic!" She gave a feeble laugh and put the dress back, then kind of wandered off with a puzzled look.

That built-in was not going to help me out. The shelf bra does not help me out. The sports bra does not help me out. You know why? The shelf can go two ways--either ya stuff it all in and run a breathing tube to your nose or just go with the four-boob look. Since I clearly don't know what to do with the two I already have I do NOT need to be doubled up here. Of course with the sports bra one gets the beloved uniboob look. Not only does it look absurd, it is impossible to participate in any sport more rigorous than curling while wearing one if you have boobs of any magnitude. Do any kind of bouncing and you could knock someone out.

Maybe I'll wear one on my next bra shopping trip.

***all puns intended***

Totally Stupid Signs and Other Dumb Things I've Seen

Every once in a while (for instance every time I leave the house), I find myself in a situation where I see something totally stupid. It usually involves things like signs or songs, but it all comes down to stupid people. And I feel the need to document it.

If I'm lucky, I'll have the means immediately, and the mind to actually pull out the thing and use it and capture the moment because I know I'll never remember to do it again later, or to write it down, or even what the thing was in the first place.

Generally the 'means' would be my phone.

Which is why I usually only get pictures of signs and stuff. But sometimes I overhear people saying stupid things...like "The general rule of thumb..." *ahem* overkill? I think yes. And just so you know, since I am a person as well... sometimes it's me. I might be judgy, but I am equal opportunity judgy.

On the broken door of a gas station somewhere:


Gee, and here I thought it was wide open. However, I see no mention of it being broken, and this seems a bit like a challenge to me. If the intention was to get people to not open the door, they could have just said, "This door is broken" or, "Use other door." Unless this was some really stupid psychology test or something. Regardless, I really wanted to open that door just to prove myself better than the sign.

A sign at the St. Louis Zoo for some reptile that I can't remember:


I remember now! It's a false gharial. I took this two or three years ago, and it's still like this as of last week. This is a top-notch zoo, and people see this everyday. I can't have been the only one to notice, right?

At my High School for the election:


This can only be useful for a few people who have other people to run in and request for them. Otherwise, they're already inside. Just vote there.

A local gas station:

This is just a classic nit picky thing, but it's still something that shouldn't happen. Same with 'PIN number,' and 'ACT/SAT test.' You don't need all those words, people.

Inside a Target, on the 'Entrance' door:

Possibly the only fault I've ever found in a Target.

I don't think they'll ever finish this parking lot/road thing:


This seems kind of like a challenge too...

More typos:


And common sense:


Okay, two faults for Target. But really, I think this one's more on the customers than the store. They're the ones who made this necessary.




*Mom* Remember when they tore down the McDonald's (sadly they built a "new and improved" McDonald's) and they didn't take down the "This McDonald's restaurant is currently closed" right away? We were so pissed that we didn't manage to get a photo of that sign on a lot full of rubble.

And then there's this one. The thing is, some supposedly educated businessperson hired another allegedly educated businessperson to make a sign for them. Somehow they managed to come up with a sign that almost has correct punctuation. Then one of them got paid and the other one posted this piece of crap outside their place of business.........

.....and people go to them and trust them with their money! Please note....this sign has hung there for quite some time. See how the letters and numbers are peeling off? I kind of want to get a ladder and flip the r and the apostrophe myself. But it's near the police station.

I remember when the yearbooks at school came out and they hung signs all over the place exclaiming "Yearbook's are here!" and your brother carried a Sharpie with him and crossed out the extraneous apostrophe every time he encountered one. And when his graduation announcement came and had the same problem and I e-mailed the teacher(s) responsible and all they said was "It's not OUR fault!" so I then had to e-mail the principal who issued a recall and took the hell care of the problem but it pissed off a lot of the parents because they didn't see a problem with sending an announcement lauding their child's academic achievement with a flippin' TYPO in it. The funny part? 445 kids in that class and one person brought up the mistake in the announcement.

So we do get exasperated by stupidity, because people are stupid. And what are we? We are people.

Things we want to know....

If it's August in St. Louis, why are the tomatoes in the grocery from Holland? If it's May in St. Louis, why are they from Canada?

If you are a tattoo artist, why would you advertise your business with a hastily spray-painted plywood sign? Because nothing says "Trust me to inject a foreign substance into your skin in an artistic fashion!" more than a hastily spray-painted plywood sign.

Does this inspire confidence? I think not. And don't get me started on the extraneous apostrophe........



Why do Boy, Girl and Spouse insist on playing unending rounds of Super Smash Bros Brawl (or whatever), when all it does is make them all bitchy?

*Girl side note* Because no matter how it may seem, we do enjoy it. It's like watching sports or doing the Sudoku. You know it's going to piss you off sometimes, but you still like doing it.

*Mom* I hate Sudoku. Especially the Saturday ones. And Friday. And sometimes even Thursday. But I totally pwn the rest of the week.

I watched a sixth grader google Google. I don't know what I want to know about this.

If you're going to spend extra money on vanity plates, why would you choose one that simply tells the world what you're driving? When I'm following a Mustang, I do not need the license plate to inform me that I am indeed following a Mustang. I can actually tell this by the word Mustang prominently displayed on the rear end of the car. (Not to mention the distinctive styling) Only slightly less annoying is the plate that tells you to whom the car belongs. My Kia, for example. Ummm....thanks. I thought maybe you stole that Kia. I appreciate you clearing that up for me. HOWEVER, it is acceptable to use vanity plates in this manner if your vehicle is vintage and you work the year of the car into the plate. I can also live with it if you have a nickname for your car (the common ones like 'stang or pony are okay....why am I struggling with thinking up examples that do not apply to Mustangs? I don't know. Maybe because Mustangs are cool.) My favorite is the silver SUV I see around town... HI O AG. Cute.

Why is vanilla Coke only available in the summer, while citrus Cokes are only available in the winter?

Today's newspaper had an article that foretold large budgets cuts for higher education, primarily from financial aid. Right next to this article was another telling how the state wants to make school districts more accountable by adding EVEN MORE standardized tests AND by tracking how many students graduate from college in a certain number of years. So, to sum up....state has less money....give less to colleges.....make schools spend more on tests....less instructional time....state spends more on tracking kids.....who can't afford college.....blame schools! I want to know if these departments even know the other exists!?!

Why is my dog so dumb?

A lot of people I know amuse themselves by discussing whether it is possible to whelmed as opposed to over or underwhelmed. We want to know if it's possible to be......

Vincible!

Corrigible!

Luctant! (the first time you resist? After that you're reluctant.)

Hearsing! (after that you are rehearsing. Thanks, Bugs Bunny.)

Calcitrant!

sigh...these are getting to be a bit much....I should just post.

A Note From KDHD

So I haven't been very good at posting lately...

I'm gonna go ahead and say it's because I haven't been on ADHD medication for three and a half weeks now, which is the longest I've gone without since third grade.

I've had to quit taking them because my heart's been freaking out lately, averaging at 120 bpm while resting. Since I took Adderall, my doctor was pretty confident it was involved somehow, so he forbade me from taking it ever again.

This is a problem.

See, I like taking my meds. They let me do things I can't normally focus long enough to do, like exercise, not eat so damn much, only sleep for seven to eight hours, sit through an entire episode of something other than Game of Thrones, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood, or Arrested Development, remember to call my doctor about getting new meds or about my heart test results, or you know, write a reasonable blog post.

I need to call my doctor, but the problem with that is, I'm afraid of the phone. Not in a crazy person kind of way, but I really really really really really really really really really hate calling people on the phone, especially businesses.

I always feel like an idiot, and I'm completely incapable of regular human speech once there's actually a person on the line. I feel like I owe whoever I'm calling an apology after the call is over for my inability to function when a phone is in my hand.

I wish I could just text the doctor's office.

So usually, I procrastinate until I forget, and then it all works out. Unfortunately, that's not going to work this time around, seeing as it's about my heart and head, and both are pretty important.

Anyway, I know my last post was an apology ramble too, and I am actually working on a real post, so all I can say is, I'm sorry for this post. Better ones to come.

I Don't Even

I don't know what to write. I'm making it look like I'm blogging, but I'm really not. Not at all.

There is no point to what I'm doing. I'm probably not going to even post this. I'm sitting here with my family and a family friend, listening to them reminisce about college years, and weddings, and all that jazz.

It's all very fascinating.

I feel bad, because I haven't been doing anything lately, but I still can't come up with anything to blog about. All I can come up with is a blog post about how I can't write a blog post.

This is becoming a bit of a problem.

But I know I will get over this. Especially once school starts again in like...a month or three. I dunno when fall semester starts, and I don't feel like looking it up but I've been out for a month, so that's bound to mean something.

*Mom- I really want to add to this but I'm at a loss.

Glad you chimed in there, Mom.

There's a cupcake container on the table with four little cupcakes left, and it was full when the night started. We've turned into cupcake-eating monsters as of late. If there's ever a noticeable lack of cupcake in the house, some magical vortex seems to open up immediately, depositing a new batch of delicious, sugary pastries into our house. That, or my mom goes to the store and buys them.

I'm beginning to regret not wearing pants again.

This time it's a combination of bugs and cold, rather than just bugs, but this time, I'm not getting up to get them. I'll stick with my shorts, thanks.

Anyway, I said absolutely nothing in this post, but I felt the need to actually post something, so here it is. Sorry about this. Ignore it, really. I'll have something substantial soon.

Debbie, I Imagine?

I dearly remember my childhood friends Debbie, Donna and Sewing Machine. I do not recall the circumstances that caused Sewing Machine to be encumbered with such a name, but being a sweet and accepting child, I rolled with it. I had no problem with the fact the Sewing Machine's name was not to be shortened or nicknamed in any way. She was Sewing Machine and that was okay. I loved playing with my little friends. We used to go to my grandparents' farm and we had a blast. They had a swingset there and a real live outhouse (why was THAT exciting? Shrug.) and (I know it doesn't really sound like a toy) this huge, I don't know, gas tank, I guess. Here,

So, we used to play on this thing all the time. If Debbie, Donna and Sewing Machine weren't with me, my brother would play too, sometimes. We used to have contests to see who could jump onto the tank without using hands. We would come up with these routines like it was the Olympics or something and the gas tank was an apparatus. To be clear, my brother DID NOT participate in the Olympic thing. That was me, Debbie, Donna and Sewing Machine. I seriously thought if the Olympic officials could see our routines, they would immediately include Gas Tank Gymnastics in the games and I would be the very first gold medalist. Even as I flipped and twirled on that honkin' gas tank, I never worried that it was dangerous. No one blew up, so we had that going for us.

*Girl* Which was nice.

Once in a while, one of us (usually me) would lose our grip and fall on our head. It wasn't far, though. There were no lasting effects.

My grandparents had this big barn with a big haymow on both sides, way high. In between was a rope. I don't know what the rope was for. It could not have been put there for grandchildren to try to kill themselves. But that's what we did with it. You could climb up and swing from the haymow and it was AWESOME! And none of us died from it. Yay. I think Debbie, Donna and Sewing Machine were a little scared of the rope. They never came into the barn with me. My cousins and I would play in there all day (or until our parents found us....yikes), but not Debbie, Donna or Sewing Machine. Scaredy cats.

I guess it's a little ironic how Sewing Machine died, considering the extreme level of caution she demonstrated at Grandpa and Grandma's. Even though I swang on the barn-rope, there were things I knew better than to go near. My Mom's sewing machine, for instance.

I used to watch her sew and, Oh My Gosh, was that thing scary! Her hands would get so close to the foot thingie and I was terrified that she would get her hand caught and get sewed to death.

So imagine my sorrow when my dear friend Sewing Machine was killed in a Horrible Sewing Machine Accident! I don't know exactly what happened. No one ever told me the gory details, but I tell you, my imagination went into overdrive. I pictured poor Sewing Machine, stitches up and down her limbs, droplets of blood staining the very thread that both killed her and held her together.

Luckily the next day, Sewing Machine was back! She came back to life! What joy! What thrill! No vicious sewing machine could beat my sweet Sewing Machine! YAY!!!! Debbie, Donna, Sewing Machine and I played together for a few years after that horrid incident. Every once in a while, Sewing Machine would die yet another hideous death, but she would always come back the next day, or at least the next week. Some accidents were worse than others. I think Sewing Machine's deaths were far more gruesome if my Mom had recently been mending on her heavy-duty machine rather than making doll clothes on her normal machine. Buuut I can't be sure.

Dog Sitting

Two days ago, I got a dog stuck in my hair.

Maybe some background will help.

Since last Friday, I've been dog-sitting for my next-door neighbor. His dog is a one-year-old chocolate lab named Daisy. Perhaps you can see where this is going.

We're playing right now, and mid-joyous jump on the squeaky ball, she remembered she needed to pee, and did so. Almost on the ball. Sometimes she gets up before she's finished and pees as she walks. Yesterday she peed on her leash.

*Mom * Last week she peed in the street, presumably from the sheer joy of seeing me as she went on her thrice daily walk. Dogs ALWAYS have to pee when they see me. You were probably too young to remember, but when we lived in Iowa we had this neighbor who had a weiner dog named Phoenix and whenever she saw us, she was scared and tucked her tail between her legs, the she peed in terror , then she realized, "I know these people and I just remembered that I LOVE THEM", then she would wag her tail in glee and flick pee all over everyone. Of course this was hilarious to her owners, but to us....not so much.

I think that's a rite of passage among weiner dogs. You're not really a weiner dog until you've tail-pee-flicked someone.

My legs are itchy from bugs, but if I leave to put sweatpants on, Daisy'll wake up the neighborhood. Oh well, moving on.

Because Daisy is a one-year-old lab, we have to lock her in the laundry room when we're not at her house.



I'm bleeding now. I should probably go put on some pants. I'm covered in bug bites, and- THERE IS ONE ON MY EAR. Why does that happen? My ear? Really? Anyway...

She's getting pushy about this whole 'play' thing. Nudging against my computer and squeaking the toy far too often. Every time she touches something with her face, she covers it in a fresh coat of slobber. My computer is no exception.

Where was I going with this? Right. Hair.

So, I feel bad if I leave her locked up for too long, but it gets too hot too quickly for her to hang out outside with us for any length of time, so I'll go over to her house and watch a movie in the basement, keeping an eye on her tearing around the house.

And I'm not being soft. I'll come over to let her out, and she'll have rearranged the enclosure she'd been kept in, covering the drain next to her cage, and extending the cage into the next room, all the while destroying everything she can reach.















It's become an adventure to go over there in the afternoon.

She's already destroyed two rolls of paper towels that my neighbor had left for me in the case of any accidents. This dog managed to destroy a Kong squeaky thing. That's where the ball we're currently playing with came from. Also, it used to be my dog Bailey's toy, but she doesn't care anymore.

Two nights ago, Mom and I were hanging out in Daisy's basement, trying to wear her out before putting her to sleep. I was making weird noises and faces, and just kind of messing with her, and of course she was going insane because of it. In a fun, puppy-like way.

Then I made the mistake of messing with her ears a little.

She veered right when I did this, connecting our heads with way more force than I would've liked. After switching to tackling me, it became apparent that something was wrong. My hair hurt, and Daisy couldn't get off of me. I was laughing too hard to really communicate my distress, but I eventually got my mom to understand that something was wrong and it had something to do with my head.

In the throes of playing with Daisy, my hair had gotten caught in her pincher collar, which of course she doesn't understand. When she realized she couldn't get away from me, the only logical step for her to take was to try harder. Which she did.

It took both of us to get Daisy calm, and my hair free, but we eventually did without ripping it out of my skull.

Also, there's a bee flying around my head, a spider somewhere on my chair, and a mosquito just landed on my finger. I'm so done with Summer nature, and it's only June 9th. dddddddddddddddd. <= That was Daisy. Now I have to clean her slobber off my keyboard.

Normal conversation in our house...UPDATE...Wooo!

Boy-How hungry are you? We're cooking for you tonight-when do you want to eat?

Mom-It's not so much the eating...but I AM planning on doing some drinkin'.

Boy- Well, you can drink any time, so....

Mom-But I want to stay awake until after eight o'clock.

Boy- Huh.

Mom-Maybe I'll nap first.

Boy-You are such an old lady.



At Costco (MY happiest place on earth)--looking at Disney movies (whose $6 rebate expired the day before but whatever, it's Costco and I LOVE it there)

Mom- Well, you could get it if you want to.....you can dance if you want to.

Girl- Yes, and you can leave your friends behind. We've had this discussion before.

Lady near us- (odd look....not quite a glare yet not really humored. Probably trying to decide whether or not to be amused by us....maybe wondering why that sounded familiar...who knows?)

And yes, I'm aware that this particular conversation did not take place in our house. You know what I meant. (eye roll)
*Girl* To be fair, we have had it in our house before as well. Several times.


Mom- It's 9-Oh shit!

Girl- 9 o'shit? I don't think that's a real time, Mom.


Girl- What are you even like drunk? Have I ever seen you drunk?

Mom- I dunno. I got pretty hammered the last time I had this *gestures to wine in front of her*.

Girl- What, you mean like, three days ago?

Mom- I guess...Not really hammered. I don't really get hammered. Just tipsy. Goofy.

Girl- But you're goofy a lot of the time.

Mom- I drink more than you know.

Girl- ...

Mom- That was funny. Add that to the blog.

Girl- Okay. *gets on blog*

Mom- wait...what did we say?

Girl- *facepalm*

Mom- I have Ellie Pooh Paper!




*Ellie Pooh paper is paper made from Sri Lankan elephant poop. It is sterilized and not gross and you should immediately go to their website and buy some. Added bonus--you can write notes to people you don't like and secretly snicker that you are giving them elephant crap WHILE AT THE SAME TIME helping the environment and the people of Sri Lanka!!! AAAAhahahahaha!!!!

Website....not so visible on the card.... www.mrelliepooh.com
Get yours today!!!

Sriracha peas

The second ingredient is sugar.





Questions? Go here.

Absurdly Specific Nerdgasm

I've been told by many people that I'm a bit of a master of quoting. Not necessarily well-known quotes, but the ones I know, man, I know them. And I'll say them without thinking, "hey, maybe this is too obscure for other people who have lives and normal-person brains and whatever," but no. No, I'll come right out with a, "He killed me with a sword. How weird is that?" (Mr. Universe, Serenity) or, "I'm not the monster here, you are!" (Belle, Beauty and the Beast) and the most random of them all, "Stop lying! You killed my father and comrades, you coveted the stupid jewel, you're responsible for everything!" (Sango, InuYasha)

It's amazing how often those three actually come up in conversation with me.

You'd think they wouldn't apply, but damn it, I make them apply. It's annoying, I know. Especially to me, but I just can't stop myself, and it's becoming a bit of a problem now that I'm in college and around all these new people who have even less idea of what I'm talking about.

Usually the quotes resonate with me for some weird reason or another. Like the rhythm, or whatever it is. Regardless, it sticks with me forever, often without my knowledge. It'll just sit there in the back of my mind, waiting for the right moment to emerge. Like, for someone to call me a bitch, then I can bust out my Easy A chops with ease. "You know, you call me bitch a lot..." and so forth.

*Mom* Veronica-Why are you such a megabitch? Heather Duke-Because I can be. (Heathers)

Did you eat a brain tumor for breakfast?

I do the same with other references. I'll have a run of like, three or five things that all remind me of each other, but have absolutely nothing to do with any of the others. Right now it's Tales of Symphonia, Full Metal Alchemist (and Brotherhood), Avatar: the Last Airbender, and Game of Thrones.

If you know these well, you know what I'm talking about, possibly, and it's actually pretty cool to make the connections. It isn't as cool, however, to make them out loud while watching Brotherhood on my computer and sitting in the room of a guy who isn't as far as me in either Brotherhood or Tales, and hasn't read Game of Thrones. I haven't given out anything but hints so far, but I still feel sorta bad.

And stupid. I feel really stupid every time this happens. I always wish I knew someone who had my tastes exactly, as well as my amount of free time (which I really don't have, but I pretend I do, and then pull all-nighters writing short stories and rhetoric papers). So far, a couple of people come close, but there's always one key that they're missing. Usually it's Tales or any of the animes, so I guess I can understand that.

Ooh! I just realized that Harry Potter fits into Fullmetal Alchemist, too! I swear, Brotherhood is like a crossroads for all of my loves in this world.

Oh, and so does InuYasha. This is just getting weird.

And Star Wars. And Lord of the Rings, but mostly only in a musical part in Brotherhood.
I suppose I should stop now, while I have seven things. So many things.

Hey! Having seven things fits in with both FMAs and Harry Potter. Perfect stopping point.

In case you possibly care, here's a flow chart I made to illustrate the various connections in my brain between the shows. No spoilers, just lines.

Is that a flow chart? Probably not, but it's a thing, so roll with it.

And all these connections? Not exclusive to shows and books and movies and video games. No, whenever I go into obsessive-mode, I'll hear a song that I've known for years and I'll realize, "holy crap, this fits _________ so well, it's like it was written by the author for the character!" and then I want to tell someone, but they either wouldn't get it, or just don't care.

If you actually do care though, right now it's All You Wanted by Michelle Branch, and it fits Riza Hawkeye's perspective of Roy Mustang in the manga and in Brotherhood. Or at least, an interpretation of it. Check it out or not. You know, if that's your thing.

Also, I'm a nerd and I do usually keep these things to myself. But, this is a blog and what else are they for?

The ol' hometown(s)

So, I've been a bit lax in posting. I spent most of last week at my parents' house in rural Iowa. My brother was there too--hanging out betwixt living in Idaho* and St. Thomas (moving from Idaho to St. Thomas.....a logical next step, if you ask me. But you didn't.) So, while I wasn't exactly off-grid, I didn't really have time to write anything-but I did have time to photograph stuff! And now I can work on figuring out how to get them from my phone to here. Yay for learning!

I grew up on a farm in Iowa near a very small town. I went to high school in a slightly less small town about ten miles from aforementioned small town. So I kind of have two hometowns.

You have no way of knowing this but I just paused to go in the house and wash sticky off my hands from eating sriracha peas. They have sriracha and garlic on them and they are spicy and delicious and generally awesome but what I want to know is, why the sticky? Maybe I should read the ingredients.

Anyway, I can't say that I learned anything on my trip, you know, gained great insights into life and whatnot but there were things that I had forgotten. And reminders are nice once in a while.

I don't know why I was surprised to see that my hometown (not H.S. hometown) has street signs. Of course there are street signs. There are streets, aren't there? Ergo.....street signs. Duh. The thing is (and I know this from both trick-or-treating AND from marching in parades in this town) there is no way there are more than ten intersections........(this just in...Google Earth confirms that this town has nine intersections....nine. That is all.) Here's one....

and another.....



....still don't believe me? Suck on this!.....




...but really, why wouldn't you believe me? Why would I lie? And may I say right here? that marching in a small town 4th of July parade is BRUTAL, because they don't want to leave anyone out and that damn parade somehow manages to go down EVERY street in the town so by the end of it all, you've marched about three miles in a town that's only five blocks long and it started at noon and that was back when high school marching bands didn't have nice summer uniforms of polo shirts and khaki shorts, noooooo we donned the sweaty stench of wool uniforms and were hallucinating about Shaun Cassidy in our dehydrated delirium and dropping like flies and just wishing for the angel of death to just come and TAKE US ALREADY!

There was usually a free soda at the end, though.


This is a very Irish community. Folks just fly that Irish flag all over the place....like this......




Notice that the Irish flag appears to be flying higher than the Iowa flag. Hmmmm. I don't know if that is a thing or what. But it is sending a very clear message to me. I think it's okay in this area to fly the green, white and orange no matter what the extent of Irish blood coursing through your veins. I, for example, have an Irish maiden name, the result of a long line of Irish men marrying German women. There is almost no Irish in me whatsoever, and I am certain that there are many, many others similarly afflicted. But in that area, if you've any Irish, you're Irish enough. I can't say that I've ever noticed a German flag there...or anywhere really. I see the German sticker on cars. Never on flags. Weird.

A visit to the local cemetery cemented the notion of the area's heritage. Yes, I know it's a very Irish community. Did I not mention that earlier? But, the cemetery, wow.

It needs to be mentioned right here and now that I am one of those weirdos who loves cemeteries, as long as I'm not there to visit someone specific. When my Dad jumped to accompany me, I knew where I got it. More background.....my Dad and some other guys from the church worked their everlovin' asses off fixing up the cemetery a few years ago. It had become a bit of a mess (apparently) but now it's really beautiful. Many of the stones date back to the 1800's and they all tell where the person was born. Counties Kerry, Cork and Clare are the big winners here.























The last names are a who's who of my first communion class....yes the families are mostly still here. Noonan. Curoe. Mahoney. Molony.

Wow.


And the oddest thing....I know the life expectancy was significantly lower in those days, but there were a LOT of people who lived into their 80's. Actually a pattern evolved (maybe it was my imagination) but it looked to me like people died when they were under five, or around 20, 40, 60 or 80. So once you got past, oh, 23...you could relax for about twelve years. Then be careful for say....six years or so, then relax.....etc.


Seriously...it's interesting and so heartbreaking in the old part of a cemetery. So many children....

(reflective and respectful pause)

(deep sigh)


Okay, here's where I went to high school.



I graduated in 1982. In 1992 I went to my ten year reunion. The bartender described it as "100 people talking and nobody listening." Guilty.




In 2008, I skipped my 25th reunion.The reason I didn't go had nothing to do with math. I kind of went to high school with a whole bunch of assholes. But I think a lot of them only seemed like assholes at the time because well, you know, they were just trying to figure stuff out. So it turns out that I was probably an asshole to some people and some others probably thought I was but I was also just trying to figure stuff out. But there doesn't seem to be much point in sorting out who was and was not an asshole....so I didn't go.



(this is a sunset at my parent's house...it was more beautiful than the picture shows....trust me)


Go forward...... Move ahead.**

* For those of you who do not live in the midwest and/or did not pay attention in school ever, Iowa and Idaho are NOT the same place. They are also not Ohio. Thank you.

**Apologies to Devo.