If My Diary Wrote Back to Me

Dear Diary,
I think I might be a magician! Today, I made my contact lens disappear. I was slowwwwly bringing it up to my eye and then poof! It was gone. I wonder if I can take this to Vegas and pull in the big bucks. Naturally, I had to wear my glasses when I took my walk this morning. During the walk, I noticed that the swamp is beginning to turn a full spectrum of rich, earthy hues--burnt umber, raw sienna, terracotta...Nature walked with me today. Sparkle

Dear Sparkle: Check your sweater sleeve, fool. Don't waste my time like this. Of course you wore your glasses. If you hadn't you would have been Mr. Magooin' it around the landscape and ended up as a hood ornament. And, while we're at it, spare me your thoughts about Nature. Burnt umber? Raw sienna? Terracotta? Stop plagiarizing the Crayola box, and "Nature walking with you" is just creepy. Also: Please don't use the words "naturally" and "Nature" so close together. It's sloppy.

P.S. You don't need to sign your diary entries. I know it's you. And, that little heart you make when you do the "e" is just disgraceful.
**********************************
Dear Diary,
I thought I would take a moment to capture my thoughts and feelings, and--

Dear Sparkle: Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, no. Please don't. The last time you "took a moment to capture your thoughts and feelings" you soiled 18 of my pages with ramblings about Nature, fate, and...peanut M&Ms, for crying out loud. Please. Do me a favor. Do us both a favor. Don't "take a moment." And, leave Nature alone. What did it ever do to you?
**********************************
Dear Diary,
Life is funny...

Dear Sparkle: Let me break in here. Yes. Life is very funny. It is "Ha ha" funny, and it is "Ah HA" funny. Don't you think you covered this topic pretty thoroughly in your high school diaries? Look: I don't want to end up like your high school diaries--all broken down and bummed-out--I'd like to stay fresh and crisp-looking. Can you please not write in me anymore? Really. Go outside and get some exercise. Okay. I hate to do this. But, why don't you go bug Nature some more? If I'm lucky, when you get back maybe you'll forget where you put me.

*********************************
Dear Diary,
The World Wide Web is a marvelous invention...

[Diary: FML. She's "reflecting" and making sweeping generalizations again. This one will be bad.]

...it provides such wonderful opportunities to stretch creative muscles...

[Diary: Blecch! Blecch! I hate it when you say stuff like "stretch creative muscles"--it's like fingernails on the blackboard! It's icky! What's next? Are you going to start with the "I'm learning more and growing every day stuff" again?]

...and I'm learning more and growing every day. I think I'll start a blog with pictures of small, plastic dinosaurs and see where that takes me...

[Diary: Freeeeee!! I'm freeee!! Ahhhh...sweet, sweet, restful blank pages.]

The First Rule of Fight Face Is...

Recently, my friend told me that I have a "Fight Face." I thought my friend was joking. I was incorrect.
Me: "So, I'm going to go to the big city!"
Friend: "Do not go to the big city."
Me: "Why?"
Friend: "Because that Fight Face of yours is going to get you in trouble."
Me: "?"
Friend: "People will take one look at that Fight Face of yours and you're going to have to fight 'em."
Me: "Ha. Hey. That's pretty funny."
Friend: "I am not joking. You have a Fight Face. It is scary. And you're going to have to back it up with your fists. People are going to think you're picking a fight with them and they're going to call you out."
Me: "I do NOT have a Fight Face. Are you talking about that one time, long ago, when I drove you home from the concert in your giant tanklike car because you took something, and I was frowning and concentrating really hard to drive us through the crowds of zombie concertgoers and I scared you with my frowny face? I was concentrating. I told you that!"
Friend: "I am NOT talking about that. I am talking about your Fight Face. You better stay home."
Me: "I do NOT have a Fight Face!"
Friend: "You sound angry. I bet you're getting Fight Face right now."
Me: "...I DO NOT HAVE A FIGHT FACE. But, okay, I'll just use my Friendly Face."
Friend: "DO NOT USE YOUR FRIENDLY FACE. Jesus. Do you want people to CRUSH YOU?"
Me: "WHAT FACE AM I SUPPOSED TO HAVE?"
Friend: "Not that Fight Face you have on right now, that's for sure. Not the Friendly Face. Jesus. Wear sunglasses. Just wear sunglasses."
Me: "All the time?"
Friend: "All the time."

Now, my Confused Chimp Face, I'm familiar with that one. That's the face that helps me swiftly navigate through airports because people pity me and lead me places. That's the face that makes young and old alike  call me "Dear." I don't make Confused Chimp face on purpose, it happens organically when I'm worried or sad. I'm pretty sure my Confused Chimp Face is why the super nice girl at Dunkin' Donuts gave me 15 chocolate munchkins for the price of 3, plus a free vanilla chai, last week. Confused Chimp Face is my friend. But, "Fight Face?" The thought of Fight Face is giving me Confused Chimp Face. What if Fight Face pops out during a meeting, and I have no idea, and suddenly one of my co-workers asks if I want to step outside? Sunglasses? All the time?

Dear Express

Yeah, it's me. You know me. You know that I make copious amounts of sweet coin rain down upon you. You know I will buy your sassy little skirts. You know I will buy your vibrant-hued sweaters. You know that any minute now I will buy another "Skater Dress." Somehow you sense this, high up in your Express Castle of Knowledge, even 'though I have not yet placed my order. You know that this is not my first "Skater Dress," Express. You have the Big Data to prove that. And still, after five Skater Dresses, I'm not sure why I'm buying them. Why does one person who does not skate need five Skater Dresses?

Okay: Let's do some hermeneutics on this dress, shall we? Perhaps that will provide some clues. A cross-comparative literary analysis of multiple Express "Skater Dress" descriptions reveals the dress unilaterally promises to be "laidback, frisky, supple, amazingly flattering, charming, easygoing, super-cute." Laidback, frisky, supple, amazingly flattering, charming, easygoing, super-cute. Laidback, frisky, supple, amazingly flattering, charming, easygoing, super-cute. HOLY CRAP, EXPRESS! I think I might want to date this dress instead of wearing it? In fact, I maybe want to marry this dress. I am probably ready to settle down with this "laidback, frisky, supple, amazingly flattering, charming, easygoing, super-cute dress." I, too, will vow to be "laidback, frisky, supple, amazingly flattering, charming, easygoing." We will make a great laidback and supple couple, this dress and I, and our union will be quite affordable ($39.90 MARKED DOWN!).

That's the sitch right there. As you see, Express has an uncanny ability to suck me in with bamboozling adjectives and sheer cunning. Up until today, that is. As of now, I'm boycotting Express. They have gone too far with their EDITOR PANTS and COLUMNIST PANTS.

What the what the what? I'm an editor/writer. Does that mean I need one of each of the above pairs, even 'though they all look the same to me? When I stop editing, do I have to strip off my editor pants, put on my columnist pants, and start writing? And vice versa? And vice versa? What's that, Express? I think I hear you faintly calling "Yesss you need one of each paiiiir" from high up in your Express Castle of Knowledge. Somehow, this is not a surprising answer from you.

Okay, I'm sure the descriptions will help. The Columnist Pant has: "...a head-turning tailored look." In stark contrast, the Editor Pant has a: "flawless fit." What the what the what? First, both are too perfect to mesh with the rest of my wardrobe. These pants set the bar too damn high. Most often, I select pants that do not turn heads and do not fit flawlessly, but that mix and match well with classic coordinates such as Godzilla t-shirts. Second, I henceforth (or henceforth after I purchase my "Skater Dress," actually) refuse to shop at Express until they give me a detailed, five-page brief that explains the difference between "Editor" and "Columnist" pants. I know they can do it. I have faith in their "super-sleek, profesh, sultry, relaxed, user friendly" ability to do so.

A Telephone Chat with My New Friend

 

New Friend: "My dad retired last year, but he decided he wants to keep working part-time. I go, 'Dad: Just enjoy retirement!' But, no. He goes, 'I can't just do nothing!' So, he does stuff like deliver flowers and take on odd jobs. Plus he likes to walk for two hours every day. He says he's making up for lost time in staying fit--all those years that he was working bent down just about double over a desk and just screwing up his back really bad, y'know? He has lost a ton of weight walking--which is why he hates winter, usually, like I told you--he wants to keep walking. Fortunately, it has been unusually mild here this year. He's still walking a lot and, believe it or not, he still has his summer tan! He gets a really great tan. Now, me, I take after mom. She's Irish and she can't tan. She just burns. So, she always looks like the underbelly of a fish. I look like that, too. Like the underbelly of a fish! Both my dad and my mom look really young for their ages."

Me: "You are going to look young forever--you have great genes on both sides."

New Friend: "Yes! I really do have great genes on both sides, except only one side gets tan--like I told you--and I take after the other side...the underbelly of a fish side. Like, my mom and I will burn into red tomatoes if we take one step outside the front door in the summer and my dad, like, turns golden brown like a toaster waffle right away and he just stays like that. Never burns. Never ever ever burns. Ever."

Me: "Man! That's great! Golden brown like a toaster waffle! So.....Has my credit card gone through yet by any chance? 'cause I better get back to work soon."

New Friend: "Oh, yeah! The computer processed it 10 minutes ago. You're all set. Is there anything else I can help you with today? Do you have any questions about your account?"

Me: "Nonononono. I really appreciate your help, and I hope you and your family have a happy new year!"

New Friend: "You are the chattiest customer I've had in awhile! You have a happy new year, too, hon!"

Hark Dread Baby Bells, O My Joyous Shepherds!

Here are a few facts about Christmas carols and me.

(1) I know the words of a few of them. Like, the one that has "Batman smells" in it and the one that goes ding-a-ling, hear them ring.

(2) I will mumble and fake-sing Christmas carols if I do not know the words.
(3) I do not think there has ever been a Christmas-themed professional wrestler, has there? Okay, yes. This is off the topic of Christmas carols. But please apprise me if there has been a Christmas-themed professional wrestler. Hector Grinchinator?

Well, that went quickly. Let's move on. Did you know that there is a Christmas carol for every occasion? Here. Let me demonstrate. These are all real titles of Christmas carols.

1) A Dread Hath Come Upon Me
That's every Monday morning, right? Project deadlines? Tax season? It's the Christmas carol that keeps on giving dread year-round.

2) A Voice from the Desert Comes Awful and Shrill
I have no idea what this one is about, but all I'm thinking of is this:


3) At the Beginning of the Meat
Sure...

4) Where Is That Goodly Fragrance Flowing?
Almost always from the FebrezeTM bottle

5) The Kiges Baner on Felde is Playd
Okay, you can go ahead and call it a "Middle Englishe Carole." I'm calling it a freakin' text message.

6) Lacking Samite and Sable
Sounds like a craigslist ad to me, followed by ...Will trade Mimite and Mink for same.

There should definitely be a Christmas carol random generator, don'tcha think? Here are the top words that you can combine to make your own Christmas carol. I advise adding a question mark, 'cause many carols are basically rhetorical questions.

MAKE YOUR OWN CAROL BY MIXING 'N MATCHING THESE WORDS...HOURS OF FUN FOR THE WHOLE FAMILY!
Holly Hark Bells Baby Dread Jolly Wonder Snow O'er Merrye O Hail Joyous Upon Virgin Sweet Shepherds Santa Christmas Ring Doth Yon My Silvery Holy !

Here's mine: Hark Dread Baby Bells, O My Joyous Shepherds!

Turn Your Dog Into A Small Wolf in 7 Easy Steps!

STEP 1: "Sure! It IS a nice day outside. Let's go outside and frolic."
STEP 2: "So, whaddya feel like doing? Maybe a little needlepoint? Oh, puppy tug. Sure, you'd like to play some puppy tug?"
STEP 3: "Well, you sure do like this, huh?!"
STEP 4: "Well, you sure do like this, huh?"
STEP 5: "Well, you sure do like this, huh?"
STEP 6: "Well, this was fun. But, it's time to head back inside. Uh, hello?"
STEP 7: "Sweet Jiminy Christmas. One Adam 12, see the Cujo...Cujo in progress in backyard.*"
*She's actually really happy in this picture, but it's a bit scary-looking. The white on her chin and on her chest kind of blend together and look like a crazy beard.

My Hippie Classroom

I was in what was called "a hippie classroom" or "an open classroom" for a few years back in the day. No, I wasn't in reform school. No, I wasn't in "special school." I was just in a hippie classroom for a few years. Righteous! Solid! Dance with me, Star Flower! Or, better yet, let's just hide in the corner here and read Tin Tin, Peanuts, and Asterix and Obelix until the tribal drumming stops!

Aw, really. I pretty much liked my hippie classroom; I would have been shy no matter where I was. Sure, I hated the twice daily "sharing circles" (according to my old report cards, which are written in purple ink in very loopy calligraphy and are all about 10 pages long, I tended to read during sharing circles--which was not seen as very social, but which I made up for by volunteering with the elderly). But, we spent some cool time "having groovy math and science experiences." We played Capture the Flag a lot and did Art Adventures. We roamed freely outside like packs of wild dogs. We sang--usually stuff by the Guthrie family (Arlo, Woody, and the little-know techno Guthrie, DJ Luther Luther). And, we were asked to write in our little journals constantly.

After a quick glance at a representative sample of my journals from those days, I can tell you that I used to make my exclamation points with little triangles over the dots. I can also tell you that my teachers were not paid enough to read my journals. They are extremely boring. Even I was bored, I fear, because I began each entry by calling myself something different: Dear Sparkle, Dear Miss Plenty, Dear Sparkle Plenty, Dear Journal Writer, Dear You Know Who, Dear Me. Exactly: Dear Me! Look: It's possible to run out of self-reflective commentary when you're 10, okay?

Here, for the benefit of all, I present a little anti-Santa essay that I wrote back in the day. When I wrote this essay, I didn't believe a word of it--perhaps you will note this in the opening disclaimer and my attempts at sarcasm. I believe that you might also detect a certain Marxist vein in this essay--I link this to my social studies teacher, we'll call him "Dude," who spent a couple of years working in factories. I know far too much about food impurity thanks to "Dude" and, to this day, I avoid certain canned goods.

Let the fun begin! Here, for your shock and awe, is my Oppressive Device Essay.

[On this first page, I am struck by the gigantic paragraph indentations. Whassup, young Sparkle? Also, looks like somebody likes to underline words!]
[You can't wait, can you? You're on the edge of your seat, aren't you? "Speaking of smell, that piney..." Look out, 'though, that sentence will break your heart. It's a fragment.]
[Good ol' Saint Hick? I don't smell sweet and sticky Christmas trees--I smell Mad magazine! Bonus Question: Is it wrong for me to still still be attracted to the term "still still"? I remember liking it back in the day--one "still" was never enough for me--but it's still still so wrong it can't be right. Sigh.]
[Uh, no. I never DID get tired of those "saccharin Christmas specials" and "stupid carols." And, as long as we've got a sharing circle going here, I need to confess something else. If I were to draw a Christmas tree and an elf, they would still still come out looking like the ones above. Sigh.]
Okay. I'm off to have a sharing circle with myself and try to plot my next blog move.

What Crackers Did You Eat When You Were A Kid?

Vermont Common Crackers
What to Know:1) These are the world's plainest crackers. If you have to snack on them, you can pretend you're a sailor and you're marooned on a desert island eating sweet, life-sustaining hardtack. "Thank goodness I have this floury, pasty, bland goodness to keep up my strength!" you cry. This little fantasy helps add flavor to the cracker.
2) Vermont Common Crackers are made in Vermont.
3) I do not believe that there are any other crackers named for states.
4) Vermont Common Crackers are fun to smash with a hammer.
5) I ate these because my grandmother was from Vermont. She called them "cross crackers"; they're also known as Montpelier crackers.
6) She liked to eat the crackers straight from the bag, but she also toasted them in the oven with butter or cheese--never both.
Ritz Crackers
What to Know:1) According to Wikipedia, "Ritz crackers are a type of cracker designed to be eaten on their own, or with a topping." Wikipedia entries are a little obvious sometimes.
2) Ritz crackers were my sister's favorite as a kid, while I favored Saltines. I chose Saltines on my own. However, my sister occasionally assigned me stuff to like. For example, she selected John Lennon and George Harrison as her favorite Beatles and strongly suggested that I choose Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr. Eventually, she assigned my mother to like George and my grandmother to like Ringo. In fact, my grandmother genuinely began to like Ringo Starr and to request that we buy her his music for birthdays and such. The "No-No Song" worried her: "I hope he's all right," she'd say, peering at his most recent photograph through her bifocals.
3) My grandmother sliced marshmallows in half, put the marshmallow half on a Ritz cracker, pressed a walnut half on top of that, and broiled it. We ate these when we played Whist.
4) Whist is a card game.
5) My sister once dared me to eat an earwig on a Ritz cracker. I don't think I did. My memory is dim.
Graham Crackers
What to Know:
1) Sure, s'mores. But, I always think of graham cracker "sandwiches" filled with Skippy chunky peanut butter, next to a small dish of applesauce, and accompanied by a cup of cold milk.
2) While babysitting, I probably saw more graham cracker mud smeared on children's faces than any other food.
3) I believe that graham cracker crusts are the single-most popular foundation for Quick and Easy desserts involving pudding, cool whip, cream cheese, ice cream, jello, or any combination of the above.
4) Would it be revolting to eat cream cheese and olive spread on a graham cracker? Someone once recommended I eat cream cheese and olive spread on a cinnamon/raisin bagel. It didn't suck.
5) Graham Chapman invented the graham cracker.
6) So did Martha Graham.
Melba Toast
What to Know:
1) A box of this could last in the cupboard for five years.
2) It is neither melba nor the kind of toast you want to invite to breakfast.
3) This was the core ingredient of diets back in the day. Some of my cookbooks from the 1950s have sample diets. They go like this: Breakfast: 1/2 cup cereal, 1/2 cup milk, black coffee. Lunch: Two slices melba toast, 1 wedge iceberg lettuce, 1 hard-boiled egg, black coffee. Dinner: 1 lean veal chop, 1 tomato with mineral oil dressing, black coffee.
4) I think that "Melba Toast" is the name of a country western singer, a band, and at least one drag queen.
5) I ate one once when we were out of all the good crackers.
Chicken in a Biskit
What to Know:
1) I think I only ate these once, on a road trip to visit our crud-boy cousins. I'd never seen them before, and they were very exotic to me. I was fascinated by the dark magic of a chicken being inside a box of crackers. I didn't like the taste of the crackers that much--although there was a bit of an addictive kick probably from MSG. I really liked the color of the box. Plus, the chicken looked so shocked about being crammed into a biskit. It wasn't all smiley like most creatures on food packages. Clearly, it was crying out, "Dang! I'm in these biskits!"
2) After the road trip, I often requested that we buy Chicken in a Biskit crackers. Unfortunately, I didn't have a really good answer to the question, "Why? You don't really like those, do you?" I think that instead of eating a Chicken in a Biskit "flavored cracker," I really wanted us to go on a road trip.
3) From my brief Web search, it appears that Chicken in a Biskit is now wildly popular for young people who have "the munchies." I would have thought the chicken would be scary under these circumstances?
4) Is that CAVIAR on one of the crackers on the cover of the box or is it potting soil?
5) Wonder why they never tried Brisket in a Biskit. Seems like a natural to me.

The Incredible Spam Poem

Today, I received yet another spam-mail penis poem. I never thought I'd find myself typing those words, but clearly my imagination has limitations. This is the most finely-crafted piece of spam I've every received.

Prepare Your Magic Love Wand for the Next Battle by Anonymous (date unknown) [WITH MY ANNOTATIONS]

At last you've got a girl that's hot [STRONG START! A HAPPY BEGINNING]
You wanna screw her moistened [OCEAN STATE JOB LOT]
She's so attractive, she's so nice! [BUT NOT TOO NICE HOPEFULLY]
But would your penile size suffice? [SUFFICE! I LOVE IT! SUFFICE!]
Not sure she will wish for more? [STORM CLOUDS GATHER]
You need a thing she would adore! [OTHER THAN YOUR ACTION FIGURES?]
But how to grow it long and thick? [MIRACLE-GRO?]
Your only hope is MegaDik! [HUH? WHO'S HE?!]
You'll get so wanted super-size [AWKWARD. SUGGEST YOU TWEAK.]
And see great pleasure in her eyes! [OR SHE MIGHT NOT HAVE HER CONTACTS IN.]
Your shaft will stuff her [TURKEY] so deep,
Tonight you'll hardly fall asleep! [LIKE CHRISTMAS EVE!]
So try today this magic p'ill [P'ILL? Is that S'POSED TO BE OLDE ENGLISH?]
And change your life at your own will! [NOW THAT'S A HAPPY ENDING.]

*When I receive a good spam-mail lady part poem, I will give it equal time here. That is my pledge.

Survival Scenario Sunday (brought to you by Dinosaur Casserole, the Survive Anything! People)

It's Sunday. You're slumped on the couch in your PajamaJeansTM, drinking coffee and doing vital work. Perhaps it is vital work for the United States government. Perhaps it is vital work that focuses on staring at your toes and deciding which one does not look like a sad hobo. Really, does it matter what you're doing? It's key, life-saving work and you're doing it slumped on your couch as you drink coffee and cram a couple of leftover brownie fragments in your piehole. Brain food for vital job-doing worker people.

You happen to glance up. You freeze like a dik dik being stalked by a lion. Two well-dressed women have exited a late model sedan and are slowwwwwly walking down your driveway toward the doorstep, arms loaded with what you can tell are bibles, bible accessories, bible study sign-up forms on clipboards, and...

YES! Many, many copies of the Jehovah's Witness publication The Watchtower.

SURVIVAL SCENARIO QUIZ: FAST! What do you do? You are crouched down in frozen dik dik mode, the well-dressed ladies are getting closer, closer, closer...What DO you do?

1) You greet them at the door and say in a calm, pleasant, adult manner: "Good morning, ladies! What a beautiful day. I'm sorry, I do not share your religious beliefs. However, I like to keep an open mind and I will be glad to take a look at any materials you would like to leave with me. If you'll excuse me now, I have to go milk a pretend goat." (25 points: This is pretty good. Wait. Are you still wearing your pyjamas? 'cause that's a little weird. 15.5 points if you're still in the jammies. Either way: Solid survival strategy. Classy.)
2) Flee out the back door and down into the woods, making the characteristic "Dik dik! Dik dik!" noise of your kind. (10 points: Dinosaur Casserole rewards cowardice. This is an okay survival choice, but how long can you stay in the woods? At best, this is a survival stop-gap.)
3) Greet them at the door naked, wearing only a big smile. Invite them in for coffee. (0 points: They will probably come in and THEN where will you be...cold, naked, and far from relaxing. Poor survival choice.)
4) Greet them at the door in a long black velveteen robe, arms filled with pagan literature. Invite them to a free pagan study group. (0-75 points: Dinosaur Casserole cannot imagine having the cojones to do this, but if someone did...possibly 75 points.)
5) Run to the bedroom, pull on your jeans, and greet them on the front doorstep in your jammy top and jeans. (.675 points: This is not an effective survival strategy. Yet, you are awarded points because you are doomed to choose #5. Your grandmother regularly welcomed visits from Jehovah's Witnesses because she saw it as a great opportunity to try to convert them to Methodism and always said "Those Jehovah ladies seem so lonely, bless their hearts..." after a visit.)

They're nice. They always are. You're polite. You always are. On tiptoe, after you've exchanged all pleasantries and are ready to grab The Watchtower and head on back to complete your vital couch-based work, you lean towards the door beaming your goodbye. But, they ask you a question.
JWs: "We're asking everybody today, how do you deal with family problems? What is YOUR secret of family success?"
Dik Dik: "Well, I guess my secret of success is that I don't have any family problems."
JWs' faces fall.
Dik Dik: "Well, humor. I guess if I had any family problems I would deal with them...with humor."
JW1: "That's a GREAT answer! It SHOULD be one of the secrets of family success in this publication."
Dik Dik The Editor (well, why isn't it? Weave together Secret 1: The Right Priorities with Secret 7: A Firm Foundation--there are bound to be redundancies in those two--and make Humor the new Secret 7): "Okey-dokey!"
JW2: "Let me show you a scripture that is all about humor."
Dik Dik: "All righty!"

Survival Scenario Sunday Lesson Learned: That scripture was NOT about humor.
Survival Scenario Sunday Discussion Questions:
1) Which of my toes does not look like a sad hobo?
2) If  I owned a goat, what would its Secrets of Family Success be?
3) Have any Jehovah's Witnesses ever been converted by elderly ladies of another faith?

Have a great Sunday, and here at Dinosaur Casserole we want you to go out there and Survive Anything! today.

The Dormeyer Power Chef

This is my great-aunt's Dormeyer Power Chef mixer. Which great-aunt? The tall great-aunt who didn't swear like a sailor like the other great-aunt!
I assumed ownership of the Dormeyer Power Chef mixer; my great-aunt no longer needs it. It works really well and I like the way it looks. The first thing I found out about the Dormeyer Power Chef is that it's kind of fun to read the list of its functions* out loud, really fast, emphasizing the first syllable of each word (it was a quiet day, what can I say):

Juicing
Beating
Beating
Creaming
Beating
Mixing
Whipping
Mixing
Mashing
Adding

The second thing I found out about the Dormeyer Power Chef involved myself. Once again, I realized that I can't leave words alone. I looked at the list and I thought, "Okay, I understand that there are different kinds of beating and mixing, but redundancy is a real problem here. Couldn't they have taken the time to substitute appropriate synonyms or more descriptive terms?"

Yet, quite quickly I had to concede that "...the list has a nice momentum and sense of urgency, despite its obvious repetitiveness--or perhaps even because of it. In a literary sense, a rough form of poetry emerges--a small, fierce word storm fills the room....The ten-word gerund rocket [I made that term up just 'cause I could] creates an epic juggernaut of batter-blending intensity..." (It was a very slow day.) For example, let's use a ten-word gerund rocket to capture a temper tantrum:

Pouting
Stomping
Stomping
Moaning
Stomping
Kicking
Howling
Kicking
Wailing
Flailing

Once I had accepted the list as rough poetry, however, I found that I still had a few quibbles. As I worked on the temper tantrum experiment, I found that it was hard to get the perfect last couple of words to land the gerund rocket neatly and with force. Uneasily, I fell back on rhyming--as shown above. This gerund rocket challenge is also evident in the original list shown above. After building up a certain amount of dramatic tension ("Beating Beating Creaming Mixing Whipping"), the list collapses weakly with "Mashing" and "Adding"--a definite anti-climax. I decided that the Dormeyer people should have tweaked those last two words:

Juicing
Beating
Beating
Creaming
Beating
Mixing
Whipping
Mixing
BOWL SCOOTS OFF TABLE! BEATERS SPRAY BATTER EVERYWHERE! SPRAYING! SPRAYING! BAKER DOWN! BAKER DOWN! CALL 911! CASUALTIES! REPEAT! CASUALTIES!
Cleaning
Wiping

As you can see, I felt I had to resort to petty sensationalism to land the gerund rocket.

The Dormeyer Power Chef: A heckuva machine.
The Gerund Rocket: A heckuva literary challenge.

Fancy Pile of Fire! Dirty Joke with Squirrels! Dinner For You!

I feel about cars like cavemen felt about fire: "It's so handy! It's so powerful! I so don't understand it!" So, here I am...driving around in a big ol' handy, powerful, mysterious pile of fire every day. Time for a picture so you don't get bored!

Notice how small, lost, and frightened the woman looks. Yes, that is me, waiting for the gods that gave me the big pile of fancy fire to get angry and make something bad happen. "What's that noise?" "Don't my tires feel funny?" "What's that smell?" Each year, I promise myself that I will take an auto mechanics course and get all smart and competent and stuff. I have never done this. I'm pretty stupid..I put the idiot in idiot savant, and I'm still searching around for the savant part. Here are very bad things I have done: (1) I took air OUT of my tires rather than putting it in--this was on a day when I was trying to be especially competent. The inner dialogue went, "You're a grown woman! You can DO this." No. I could not. (2) I put ignition wires into a 1967 Dodge the wrong way. This was a maneuver my mechanic assured me was "fool-proof." He did not know me well then. (3) I won't mention my car wash phobia. What's that? Did I just say that? No, no. I have no car wash phobia. To speak of.

Let's add a #4 to the above. Yesterday, I drove around and one of my tires had 6.5 lbs of air in it. That is exactly equal to one tiny, dainty china tea cup full of air in terms of tire pressure. Yep, it felt weird, but I thought I was imagining it. It looked weird, but I thought it was maybe because I was parked on an incline. Pardon me, it's time for me to go slap the back of my head again. Thanks. Let's fast forward through my morning, and then I've got dinner for YOU, yes YOU and you and you (and you). You've been looking peaked, and you don't eat enough. So, hang in there.

(1) I slowly inch my pile of fancy fire to the service station down the street. They don't fix tires. The guy puts air in my tire (see idiocy above) and says that maybe there's a nail in there. I am in a state of what I would call "highly agitated, apologetic perkiness." When I go to shake his hand, he gives me a hug and tells me I've made his day. Huh? I worry about the rest of his day. (2) I go to the tire place.
3) The tire guy tells me that my tire is a rogue tire, a bad tire, a no-goodnik, a troublemaker. The guy doesn't have a tire for me. Can get one that will almost match the others. Puts my spare on.

4) I remember I got the tires at Sears, I go to Sears. I wait and wait and wait. I work, work, work for I have a deadline on a proposal I'm writing. I chat, chat, chat with the elderly guy next to me. "Whatcha workin' on?" he asks. "A proposal to, you know, get money for a family literacy project," I say. Instead of saying "WHA?" like most do, he nods his head wisely and says, "It's a noble cause, but once you're crazy, you're crazy." WHA? Then, he tells me a very dirty joke involving Tarzan, Jane, and squirrels. It ain't that funny, but I laugh gamely. Unfortunately, he can tell it's a pity laugh and looks a little wounded. But, he gave me his card. Do you need a knife? I can hook you up.

Enough about me. For you, because it is Friday and it has been a long week, and you are hungry and a weary, frail shell of your usual, bouncy self, here is dinner. YES, dinner DOES look wicked scary--the cream-coated brain in the middle is off-putting (it's cauliflower...cauliflower with cheese sauce, I assure you). But, it's tasty! And, you have double dessert (feel free to skip right to the ice cream if you like). EAT! ENJOY! And, you have a wonderful weekend!
INDIAN SUMMER SUPPER
SNOWBALLS IN JULY (a la The Stork Club)

Global Find and Replace

When I was just a little 19-year-old tadpole working as a secretary, I made two of the biggest proofreading errors ever. I'd been on the job for just a week, and I was proofreading a professional organization's newsletter at top speed and under the influence of a great deal of caffeine. First, my eye glazed right over the term "pubic school." As you might realize, there are no pubic schools--at least none that I know of--and there are a whole lot of public schools. A sea of "public schools" ("Public schools have the obligation to ensure that all children receive a hot lunch that enables them to concentrate on their schoolwork and..." "...and many public schools fail to adequately meet their students' needs for...") spanned out before me, and as my eyes swam through that sea I managed to miss the one little "pubic school" bobbing along naughtily ("Some pubic schools have extremely effective approaches to initiating...").

Second, I made the novice's error of thinking I understood a document better than I really did. I was proofreading an article about kindergarten children and age-appropriate activities: "Early literacy work, work on fine and gross motor skills, counting fun, and fingerprinting." HA! I laughed aloud. FINGERPRINTING?! What are these, tiny hoods? Tot Felons? Kiddy Cat Burglars? Chuckling, I carefully replaced the term "fingerprinting" with "fingerpainting." That's what I did in kindergarten--I was a bit of a prodigy, really--and that's what they meant to say here.

Curvy, pink, and liberally dusted with sweet-smelling face powder--she always reminded me of a ladylike jelly doughnut--the editor of the newsletter was especially kind. Gently and sorrowfully, she pointed an exquisitely manicured finger at the term "pubic school" as I turned eight shades of red. Then, as the grand finale, she explained to me that "fingerprinting" was the correct term--not "fingerpainting." In addition to the curriculum activities, children were "fingerprinted" as a safety measure. While I like to think that if the article had mentioned McGruff the Crime Dog I would have realized that fingerprinting was the correct term, I think that "Never assume" is the correct takeaway lesson here.

I've carried that lesson along with me into my life as an editor and writer for hire, and it stands me in good stead--particularly in my last big job. A couple of weeks ago, I took on one of those messes that no editor wants to tackle. There was an extremely tight deadline, a mish-mash of requests to "do a high-speed edit, it's okay if you miss things" and "please read for sense and suggest rewrites," nothing was ready on time, I received sections out of sequence, it was 250 pages, there were 10 different authors, and the "Consistency Checklist" had inconsistencies. Come to think of it, this is often the norm for an editor rather than an exception. Anyway, to cap it off, on Friday, my client asked me--pretty casually, except for the moment his voice cracked--"So, what's your availability like for the weekend?" And my quarterly taxes said: "I am available whenever you need me to be available."

I am going to draw a gentle veil over the experience by saying, "There were a lot of boo-boos." To be fair, I'm not sure if any of the boo-boos were as bad as "pubic school," but some came close. Anyway, the kinda fun part was the high-speed "Find and Replace" of approximately 100 inconsistent terms that I did toward the end. For some of the terms, I could not do a global Find and Replace--instantly fixing all of the terms--and I had to find each one, scooting nimbly down through the files.

I've been writing for most of my clients lately, so I haven't done that kind of concentrated Find and Replace binge in a while. In the first 15 minutes, its power just impressed me. After half an hour, I decided that Find and Replace is a very awesome invention--perhaps second only to the internal combustion engine. Around the 45-minute mark, as I frankly grew a little bored with the majesty of Find and Replace, I decided that I wanted to be able to leap off the printed page and do a global Find and Replace on stuff I don't like in my life and in the world.

I think you can probably figure out how the global Find and Replace for the world will work. You can think of some of the obvious "Find" terms I might take care of right away--starvation, war, bullying, torture, terminal cancer, children in danger--and you can figure out good "Replace" terms. I realize that we might not agree on all of the global Find and Replace terms, but you can have your own wish list, okay? Or, if you don't like the concept, you're free to do a mental Find and Replace of this blog post. I suggest you replace it with an article about pubic schools.

I'm thinking it might take me a few years to get my personal Find and Replace list all hammered out. However, here is some of my current thinking:

1. FIND: CANNED SPINACH.
REPLACE WITH: FRESH CORN ON THE COB.

2. FIND: CONTACT LENS POPS OUT OF EYE WHILE DRIVING OR IN MIDDLE OF MEETING.
REPLACE WITH: CONTACT LENS STAYS IN EYE, WELL-LUBRICATED.

3. FIND: POISON IVY IS ON MY BOOBS.
REPLACE WITH: A PRETTY NEW BRA IS ON MY BOOBS.

4: FIND: THE PERSON IN FRONT OF ME IN YOGA CLASS JUST FARTED.
REPLACE WITH: THE PERSON IN FRONT OF ME IN YOGA CLASS DID NOT JUST FART.

5. FIND: HAWKS LIKE TO EAT SMALL ANIMALS.
REPLACE WITH: HAWKS LIKE TO EAT PEANUT BUTTER AND JELLY SANDWICHES, CRUSTS OFF.

6. FIND: I OPENED MY SWISS-ARMY KNIFE WITH MY TEETH IN LONDON, WITH PREDICTABLY BAD RESULTS.
REPLACE WITH: I OPENED MY SWISS-ARMY KNIFE WITH MY HANDS IN LONDON.

7. FIND: THE WILD TURKEY OUTSIDE MY WINDOW WAKES ME UP WITH ITS INFERNAL AND INCESSANT GOBBLE-GOBBLE-GOBBLE NOISE.
REPLACE: THE WILD TURKEY OUTSIDE MY WINDOW WANTS TO BRING ME BREAKFAST.

8. FIND:
REPLACE:

10. FIND:
REPLACE:

11. FIND:
REPLACE:

12. FIND:
REPLACE:

Is This Squirrel Wearing A Collar?

One of my top work avoidance strategies is gazing moonily out the window.* Due to my low IQ, I don't need much action. I sense my distant clients pacing the floor and smoking as they await the arrival of their newborn documents. Yet, I goggle out at the backyard, slack-jawed and glassy-eyed, fascinated by a few moving leaves, a bumblebee, etc. It is one of the may reasons I feel a kinship with Homer Simpson.

One day, a strikingly chubby squirrel wandered into the perimeter of my vacant stare. His bright yellow collar (?!) made him stand out from the rest of the demonic horde of pot-bellied, furry Viking squirrels who pillage, vandalize, and sack the 'hood.

I like theories. So, first I thought, "Maybe it's that little yellow plastic thingy that goes around a plastic milk jug. But, how is it stuck there?" Then, I thought, "I bet he is a pet squirrel of one of the roofing guys. That's it. He's a pet racing squirrel, and the roofer whistles to him when it's time to go home." There's a big leap between the two theories, but somehow the second one seemed plausible, probably because when I was a tot I read too many children's books about wild animals as pets.

None of my friends believed me. So, I lay in wait for the squirrel to get photographic evidence." As you might imagine, this also turned into a work avoidance strategy, and the little effer eluded me each and every time. He treated me like contemptible paparazzi, in fact. He streaked by the window too fast (confirming my theory that he was a pet racing squirrel), hid his collar, or I got a great photo of a squirrel with no collar.

Then, I got this picture. And I'm still asking myself: Is this squirrel wearing a collar? And what the hell is he doing conferring with the other squirrel on the back of the tree? A mystery for our times...Excuse me. There's something I must look at outside.

Ms. Blandings is Downcast

I am searching for a compact, affordable house with some land. I am doomed. These are things that I have heard in my travels, and that I would not like to hear anymore, please.

1) "The economy is slow, but it will pick right back up when the uranium mining starts!"

2) "There is no well as such."

3) "You're okay with bugs, right? They are not small bugs. There are a few families of them."

4) "We had a professional-grade composting toilet, but we didn't like it so we put in our 'indoor outhouse.'"

5) "The septic system is in excellent working order, we're just not sure where it is."

6) "I mentioned the 4.5 foot wide underground pipeline that runs through the property and has that easement, right? Yeah, it worried me a little, too, but so far so good!"

7) "The dwelling is not exactly habitable, but might well be made so."

8) "When the wind shifts, some find the aroma to be strong. We like it."

9) "It's an old building, so just keep an eye on those cracks in the wall."

10) "The plumbing is more or less 'roughed in.'"

I find this honesty to be refreshing, and yet dispiriting. Don't mind me. I'll just sit here quietly soothing myself by gazing at Cary's mesmirizing cleftiness.

Coming Attractions: Odd squirrels, shocked dinosaurs, mascot smackdowns, and strawberry/rhubarb/currant pie.

Postcards and Pep, Chambermaids, and Penpals

POSTCARDS AND PEP
I love old postcards--they're cool to look at, many of them feel good because their paper is linenlike, and some are quite witty. For example, the card above has quite a high degree of sass, even as it obsesses a little about "pep." What happened to "pep," do you know? Did it go away after people stopped putting cocaine in soft drinks? And, what happened to "gumption"? Did everyone lose their gumption in the Great Depression? Did "conniption fits" get cured even without a telethon for them? Did "being persnickety" turn into plain old garden variety bitchiness at some point? Mysteries of our time.

CHAMBERMAIDS
1) When you are a chambermaid, at 6:00 a.m. you amble along in a grumbling posse with your fellow chambermaids and you clean the lobby. You carefully wash every inch of the quadruple glass doors in the lobby. The alpha chambermaid checks your work as the early morning sun streams in, and she points out all of the streaks. You fix the streaks. At 3:00 when you leave, you swing the door open and as you do, the light illuminates a thousand greasy hand prints.
2) When you are a chambermaid, you have a whole floor of rooms to clean, a cleaning cart, a laundry bin on wheels, a smock, a cleaning closet, and a giant ring of keys--in the days before key cards. In the first week you are there, you cannot make any of the keys fit the locks. You panic and think about running away. The "houseboy" who has a much more fun job involving rolling full laundry carts down the stairs for sport, opens the doors for you.
3) When you are a chambermaid, you find out that people dye their hair in the showers of their rooms. It is not fun to clean.
4) When you are a chambermaid, you are very excited when you learn that a stewardess and a pilot checked in late the previous night and are staying in two rooms on your floor. Nine times out of 10, this means that the bed of one room will be messed up and the other room will be perfect and not need to be cleaned. It seems like such a cliche, yet it is true.
5) When you are a chambermaid, people leave you creepy notes in your hopeful little tip envelopes such as, "Sparkle: Where were you? We waited up all night for you, but you never came. We could have partied." Sure, whatever. But, could you leave $5, too?

PENPALS
I used to have real-life write-to-each-other penpals. My best friend who moved away in the first year of high school; Larry, Beverly, and Julie who I met in college classes--we'd send each other strange envelopes packed with clippings and action figures with pictures on the outside; and Mary, the older woman who trained me to be a chambermaid and who despaired at my ineffectual, slip-shod methods. In her late 50s, she had three sons and had become a widow at 19, "My hair turned gray overnight," she'd say, as she once again tried to show me how to make a bed so it didn't look like it had been searched for drugs. Mary was my penpal for a little while. She was a different kind of penpal. A typical note would read, "Sure is lonely here without you. Everything's the same. They're still 'doing it' [reference to an illicit affair between high-ranking staff members]. Love, An Old Body. Finally, our cards petered out. But, I still remember her, and if I breathe deeply I can hook on to the aroma of the three types of caustic chemicals I used to wash the hair dye out of the tub. I leave really big tips whenever I can afford to do so.

Walk on the Wild Side

Lily and I like to take a walk in the cool of the early evening--maybe around 7:00ish. It's not dark outside, but it's quiet and everybody is pretty much tucked away inside their houses. Occasionally you smell onions cooking or see the blue flashes of a television. Once you get farther up the road, past the farm where I rescued the baskets and beyond the multi-million dollar Rustic Acres housing development where I "parked" the bag of poo, the houses grow sparser and the trees grow denser. Suddenly, we're walking through a green, sweet-smelling corridor lined with ferns. Along the way, as we climb a hill, there are the remains of an overgrown, old mini-farm--a small barn, a chicken coop, falling down fencing. The mini-farm's days are long gone, but the boulders they had to build the mini-farm around look exactly as they did hundreds of years ago and as they will still look hundreds of years from now. The road gets as "forest primeval" as a suburban road can get.

Wednesday night, we were out a little later for our walk--around 7:15 maybe, and we were doing our usual thing, snuffling along in the ferns (Lily) and veering sharply away from smushed, shocked-looking chipmunks (me). As we reached the top of the hill just past the mini-farm, I heard some dogs barking. I'm always a bit worried that a huge dog will come bounding out at us. I know how lame that sounds. It just can be tricky when an unleashed dog feels like you're on his turf and your leashed dog is kinda small and inclined to be protective and defensive. So, I said, "Let's call it a night, Lily," and we whirled around and started back down the hill.

When we got halfway down, Lily got really interested in smelling a rock. So, I stopped and stretched and lazily looked back up the hill behind us.

A coyote was standing in the middle of the road, at the top of the hill, sniffing at a squooshed squirrel and looking down at us. It was very scrawny.

In that moment, I didn't think a thought, but my eyes bugged out of my head like a cartoon.

There were no houses around, no cars. Just me, Lily, and the coyote. Lily was all passionate about the rock and she didn't see the coyote. That is very good because if she had seen the coyote she would, as we all know, have become very emotional.

As I noted last September when I took a picture of one in my friend's back yard, I have nothing against coyotes. I  kinda feel like we're encroaching on their territory. I don't assume that they are rabid. The fence in my back yard is too high for them to get over if they get the munchies for mexican food.

Yet, as I hustled Lily down the hill I didn't think about the more positive aspects of coyotes. I just thought, "Damn. I better get us the hell out of here." As I frog-marched Lily along (I think it was good for her--she was shocked because usually she's the one who tries to pull), I ducked down on the fly and picked up a very large, thick stick. And, I began to talk very loudly to Lily about nothing in particular. From time to time, I peeked back over my shoulder and I mentally mapped out the driveways up ahead that I could run down if worst came to worst. I know: All this for one scrawny little coyote. The trouble is that one coyote might mean more coyotes.

What's the rest of the story? We got home just fine. And now, the thought is in the back of my head that if we go back up the road for our walk we might meet up with the coyote and/or coyotes again. I'm not sure how else to prepare. Someone said I was supposed to whistle loudly and aggressively at coyotes, but I have very poor whistle performance under pressure--my lips grow limp, I can't pucker, and I just kinda blow spit bubbles. I guess I can take to carrying a whistle around my neck. I'd feel pretty stupid, but it's a possibility. But, what if the whistle just really pissed the coyote off? What if it whistles back at me insolently, mockingly and then charges at us? I wouldn't blame it--I mean, I wouldn't enjoy being whistled at loudly and aggressively? It would give me gym class flashbacks. Okay: Off to make some full-body armor for Lily and me. We'll move a little more slowly, but it seems like a logical course of action. Clanky, sure...but duly armamented.*

*I just made this word up; I do not think it's real, so proceed with caution if you deploy it in conversation.

Headlines

Headline 1: But, I'd Need A Total Web Site Overhaul
So, I'm chatting with an editor friend online last night, and she tells me the following:
Friend: "Dagmar makes $45/hour for that, but I don't know what she charges for the spanking movies."
Me: "Dagmar edits the kinds of stuff we do? But, what's this other thing? There are actually instructional movies on how to spank your child?"
Friend: "No. They are not instructional movies on how to spank your child."
Me: "Ah."
Friend: "I don't know how much she charges for those services."
Me: "Right. More, I guess."
Friend: "Probably."
Me: "I dunno. Diversification is good, but I'd really need to redo my Web site."
Friend: "Agreed."

Headline #2: Lily Gets Emotional
Lily used to be the reigning Mexican Rat Queen of her tiny village. While she is a very sweet little dog, she has a tough undercurrent and a teardrop tattoo on her face serves as a reminder of her rough days as a street dog. Sometimes, I catch a dreamy look in her eye that tells me she is reliving the days of romping and pouncing and chomping, romping and pouncing and chomping. Of course, to truly connect with her roots she would also need to relive the days of getting beaten and having her hips broken, but I'm pretty sure her memory is merciful and selective because she adores people and she passionately loathes rodents. It is as if Lily is Charles Bronson and a rodent killed her whole family and danced on the prone corpses while forcing Lily to play the harmonica.

Rodents: They make Lily very, very emotional and it has been a very, very emotional day.

"Squeeeee!" wailed the vole that Lily had pinned down with one paw beneath the fence gate. Lord, it was a chubby, pitiful little vole. Covered in flop sweat, spritzing urine about like a lawn sprinkler, it looked a little like John Candy with a silky gray pelt and very poor eyesight. "Squeee!" "Lilllleeeeee!" I hollered, sprinting across the back yard in my bare feet (ouch ouch ouch not toughened up yet ouch). I really did not want to see her kill the vole. "Gnnrrr grnnnnr-roo-roo" Lily moaned, slithering her entire upper body under the fence and trying to secure the vole with an anaconda vice--or perhaps it was a chickenwing camel clutch or a stretch plum? I couldn't tell in the heat of the moment.

I hit the dirt, throwing first a cobra clutch and then a shoulder claw at Lily, accompanied by a series of low, growly "Noooooos," to little avail. "You've seen worse on the Discovery channel," she grunted. "This vole has disrepected you," she pleaded, insinuating even more of her body under the gate. As I tackled her mid-section--which happened to be oozing slinkylike along the dirt--she cast a disgusted glance back at me. The teardrop tattoo on her face glinted in the sun.

To sum up: I saved the vole, and Lily has spent the morning silently rebuking me with her large, brown eyes and looking for weaknesses in the fence to exploit.

Headline: Google Rabbit Holes
I'm a googler, and I'm the first to admit that I am a bit of a "problem googler." First, I'm looking up some research article for work and then, without even realizing it, my fingers are typing in some bizarre combination of search terms. Who knows what it will be? The name of an ex-boyfriend? A supplier of small, colored glass jars--because I have suddenly convinced myself that I need an assortment of small, colored glass jars? An author's name? GWAH! Could be anything. Could be everything. That, of course, is the beauty of the google. Yesterday, for example, I was typing in "digital divide for low-income families" which suddenly turned into "small, colored glass jars" which suddenly turned into "removing scratches from wooden floors" which suddenly turned into "vintage sundresses" which suddenly turned into "The Haphazard Gourmet." You see? Even before I typed in "Haphazard Gourmet" it was all very haphazard. That is the google. Deliciously, seductively haphazard--even when you think you are being very purposeful.

So, here is my Google rabbit hole of yesterday. I typed in the name of this book that I bought at a public library book sale many years ago and reread once each year:
It is a very, very winning book. Written in the early 1960s, the author was kind of the ultimate bon vivant Playboy guy. He had about six wives or something, he loved food and wine of all kinds, and I imagine that he had an impressive hi fi system for the time and possibly one of those love chambers where you push a button, the lights dim, and the leopard-print bed falls out of the wall (y'know, prototype Austin Powers stuff). The book contains a lot of entertaining anecdotes and really good recipes--although his prose demonstrates an alarming penchant for Hormel products or perhaps a Hormel sponsorship of some kind--written in a very breezy voice. Celebrity names fountain about through the book. Here's the beginning of a typical anecdote, "So, as I was rushing onto the plane to Istanbul, Bill Holden pushed past me, his arms loaded with caviar." Jackie Gleason's giant appetites for food and booze are also featured.

So, I typed in "Haphazard Gourmet," and instantly I found out that the author not only had a million wives he had a million children. Three of his daughters--Cupcake, Eddie, and Pleasant--now write a blog. So, I googled around madly checking out their blog, checking them out, and finding out that Pleasant--a belly dancer--was huge in the LA punk world, is a singer, a writer, an actress, and a kind of burlesque tootsie lass, which led me to delve into more google rabbit holes and to ultimately wash up on the shores of Amazon and punk rock blogs.

To sum up: Type the words "digital divide for low-income families" into the google and you will end up at the doorstep of a burlesque tootsie. Guaranteed.

I Been Thinkin' (and that's always dangerous)

1) I was drinking this stuff called "Vitamin Water" today. I'm pretty sure it's nicely packaged and hyped Kool-Aid, but let's draw a gentle veil over that part. It's supposed to have "Dragonfruit" in it. HUH. Immediately, I was suspicious. Ain't no such thing. Ever had a "dragonfruit jelly" and peanut butter sandwich? How about dragonfruit pie? Dragonfruit leather? Yes, well. I was wrong. There is such a thing as dragonfruit (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pitaya). It's unclear whether it also breathes fire, kills knights, and flies through the sky. Perhaps I should add that to the wikipedia article in case it might be true.

2) I have decided that elderly people are never deaf. They fake deafness because they are old, they get bored with conversations easily and want to change the topic quickly, and they are damnably sick and tired of listening to other people. They've spent 80 years listening, and now it's their frickin' turn to talk. So, you get:

You: "Lovely day, isn't it?"
Nice Elderly Person: "My elbow hurts."
You: "Oh, sorry to hear about that. What happened to it?"
Nice Elderly Person: "John McCain? Now that you bring him up, I want to tell you that he reminds me of my Uncle Timmy. Uncle Timmy was a forest ranger and he blazed some mighty trails across our national parks."
You: "WOW! That's really interesting, what parks did he work in?"
Nice Elderly Person: "I have a chillblain."
You: (In soft little voice): "He worked in Chillblain National Park?"
Nice Elderly Person: "What the heck are you talking about? There's no Chillblain National Park!"

See what I mean? I tell you this as a warning. Do NOT mutter around elderly people who are "deaf."

3) I been readin'. I been readin' a whole lot of stuff for work. In fact, I used a whole ream of paper printing stuff out in a day. This might be a record for me. Then, I was too tired to go out and buy more paper and started looking disconsolately about for something else I could use. Finding: There is really nothing that can substitute for paper. Even if it is "paper-ish," such as toilet paper or paper towels. Nothin' doin'. Anyway, to be edu-ma-cat-tion-al, here are some excerpts and titles of some of the articles in the U.S. Department of Agriculture's journal, "Amber Waves." Enjoy.

a. "Today's hog sector bears little resemblance to the one that existed 15 years ago."
Ed. Note: Why? Did it grow a beard?

b. "Traditional Food Retailers Bite Back with Differentiation Strategies"
Ed. Note: The person who wrote this has been waiting a lifetime to use that line.

c. "Five of the top 10 mango-producing countries are ineligible to export to the United States."
Ed. Note: Forget the mangos, jack, I want me some dragon fruit!

d. "Why Has Japan's Orange Market Declined?"
Ed. Note: I dunno. What did you ask it to do?

e. "Whey, Once a Marginal Byproduct, Comes Into Its Own"
Ed. Note: FINALLY! May each and every Marginal Byproduct be warmed by the sun of popular acclaim.

Bobby Oak is a Cuckoo Clock!

There's this older man who, for the last couple of years has driven by me and warned me of various things. Constantly. He is the Warning Older Man of Doom. Examples:

1) I am walking Lily along the street. I hear a car slow beside me. It is the older man, and he says "You HAVE to be CAREFUL on THIS road." I nod solemnly, smile appreciatively, he drives away, I keep walking. This has happened 12 times.
2) I am walking Lily in the woods near the farm. We meet the older man driving along the road that winds through the farm. He rolls down his window and says "You HAVE to be CAREFUL in THESE woods. I come here to watch the coyotes." I nod solemnly, smile appreciatively, he drives away, I keep walking...rapidly. This has happened twice. When I ask the farmer about the coyotes, he says, "What coyotes?"
3) I am shoveling snow. I hear a car slow beside me. It is the older man, and he says "You HAVE to be CAREFUL shoveling snow. People DIE from that." I nod solemnly, smile appreciatively, he drives away. I keep shoveling snow. This has happened once.

Frankly, he spooks me a little but I've gotten used to our little warning/nodding routine over time.

Anyway, last week, I was walking Lily and my mind was full of this report I was writing. I'd been up since 3:00 a.m. and I was composing stuff in my head as I walked (it wasn't good stuff, I was having a hard time writing the report). I heard a car slow beside me. It was the older man and for the 13th time he said, "You HAVE to be CAREFUL on THIS road," and this time he parked his car in the middle of the road and waited for an answer.

My head was full of the report. I rallied. "Yes!" I cried, "Everybody drives very fast on this road!" And that's about all I had to say. Except he wasn't done. "Everybody except ME," he replied. And, he waited for my answer. Parked in the middle of the road that everybody drives very fast on (except him). Waiting.

Quickly, I struggled for something else to say...something complimentary. "Good for you!" "Thank you for that!" "I sure do appreciate that!" and "Bless your heart!" (for some reason) all flitted through my mind along with the first few lines of the report that I'd been trying to work through.

So, let's recap the convo and see what actually came out of my mouth.

Warning Older Man of Doom: "You HAVE to be CAREFUL on THIS road."
Me: "Yes! Everybody drives very fast on this road!"
Warning Older Man of Doom: "Everybody except ME."
Me: "That's because we love you!"

Yes: Which makes no sense no matter how you dice it. Full-on disconnect between brain and tongue. The older man just nodded knowingly and drove off. I really wish he had stayed parked there in the middle of the road for just a couple more super-dangerous seconds so I could have had a chance to edit my blurt-out. Instead, he peeled off and I was left muttering, "That is to say...I mean, I mean, I mean..."

I was very embarrassed. My tongue gets tied like that every once in awhile when I'm thinking deeply about something else. I tried to think of a couple of silver linings like, "Maybe he's deaf!" and "Maybe he didn't hear me!" and "Oh, good. Now he won't warn me about stuff, he'll warn people about me--the girl with strange syntax who has declared her love for him!"

Once again, my elderly neighbor next door has solved the problem for me, however. I was talking to him this weekend. I found myself blurting out, "Who the heck is that guy in the big white vehicle who I see on the road all the time? He keeps warning me about stuff. What's that all about?"

He looked up at me, nodded slowly, and said: "That's Bobby Oak. Bobby Oak is a cuckoo clock.*"

I peppered him with follow-up questions, "How? How is Bobby Oak a cuckoo clock! C'mon! Tell me!" But, all he would do is say that Bobby Oak is a cuckoo clock.

So, all is cool. Bobby Oak is a cuckoo clock. This cancels out the embarrassment of my blurt-out moment. And, for the record, my neighbor categorizes people in the following way: a son of a bitch (male), a sketch (male), a hot shit (male), a hot ticket (female). "Cuckoo clock" was a new one and it's not good. You don't want to be called a cuckoo clock by my elderly neighbor. He is not a demonstrative man, but he made a slightly disapproving squinchy face when he said it. Not good.