A quickie post today, because I don't want y'all to get distracted from writing your Wordsmiths stories.
You ARE writing one, right?
I have vested interest in your participation, because, after all, I am one of the owners of Wordsmiths and NEED you to show some love or I might start thinking y'all are a bunch of scardey cats who think you're not good enough and act all shy when in fact you're wildly talented and insightful and could blow the doors off of any contemporary novel if you'd just dust off the mental workings, grease up the typing fingers, and WRITE SOMETHING ALREADY!
Ahem.
Anyhow, here's what I have to offer today by way of a non-diversion from that most important task:
For the past 2 years I've participated in Weetabix's holiday card exchange. It's kinda cool to do, because cards come flooding in from people you don't know from all corners of the globe, and for a little while you get to feel connected in some little way to random people. You send cards to them, they send to you, and the world is sparkly and pretty. Yay for pretty!
As a card exchange alumnus this year, I got the added extra bonus goodie of musical swag from Weetabix herself, which is a little like having Brad Pitt ask for your permission to kiss you - it's an unexpected (yet oh so welcome) brush with fame that can cause tingling.
The swag this year is a CD with 19 holiday songs recorded therupon. Classics like "Christmas is going to the dogs" by The Eels, and "Great Big Sled" by The Killers. Kelly Clarkson makes an appearance, and by God can that woman sing - who knew? Celine Dion does something or another with a choir of French-speakers that is pretty awesome, and I don't like Celine all that much so there's some pretty high praise for THAT particular tune.
Song after song; some wry, some insightful, some doleful (because what's Christmas without some Dashboard Confessional?), but the one that blew me away completely was "Better Days" by the Goo Goo Dolls.
I know. I should have heard this song before. I know I'm old. Don't hate. I'm catching up, through the auspices of the very cool gal from Green Bay.
"Better Days" goes straight to the top of my favorite holiday songs list, which I just started in order to put this song at the top of it. Even with a slightly formulaic melody line, the message got to me. Give it a listen, see what you think.
All of which begs the question - Now that we're past the BIG DAY OF CHRISTIANITY, why not tell me what your favorite obscure Christmas/Yuletide/Holiday song is? Maybe together, we can create our OWN holiday soundtrack.
(BTW - I fully expect SOMEONE to nominate Adam Sandler's Hanukkah song....)
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Begin, and End
Below is my attempt to finish a story that I started for a Wordsmiths Challenge that I created.
Being the creator of the challenge, one would think that I would have had an easy time of finishing the tale I began. One would be wrong in this thought....
Why someone didn't tell me I would not be able to rattle this one off as a gimme, I don't know. Ideas flowed like wine at Baptist wedding, which is to say, they did not flow at all. Once again, when pressed to write, I was stuck. Nothing seemed to fit, nothing seemed to be quite right, until I just gave in to the wee small voices in my head that so often turn my sunny disposition into partly cloudy output.
Forthwith, then, my completion of the Wordsmiths January Pan-Holiday Extravaganzapallooza Challenge.
=====================
The text prior to the picture is what was provided as a start. We, the writers, were to offer up another 500 words (or less!) to finish this ambiguous beginning. My offering is below the picture.
A loud rapping at the door awoke me from a deep dreamy sleep. It was early, too early to be awake, and certainly too early to be out in the streets pounding on doors. I thought that there must be some emergency in town and ran to the door to find out whatever news there was from whoever was there. Much to my surprise, there was no-one at the door ready to identify themselves and their message, and yet a package with my name on it had been left at the door. It was a most curious circumstance, and yet I saw no real harm in it, because secret gift giving was the hallmark of the holiday season. I myself had delivered many a gift in that manner over the years. The package was heavier than it should have been from its size, and once I had it indoors I eagerly opened it to find out what it was and who had sent it. Alas, there was no identification of the giver, and more's the pity because what was inside was a most remarkable carved wood box, worked with figures of animals and dragons all over, in a magnificent shade of red. Whoever sent it to me must have been a prankster, though, because I could see no way into the box, no clasp or lock announced itself, no hinge or platen presented itself as a means to the inside. I was locked out, and most frustrated by this unfortunate turn of events.
Being the creator of the challenge, one would think that I would have had an easy time of finishing the tale I began. One would be wrong in this thought....
Why someone didn't tell me I would not be able to rattle this one off as a gimme, I don't know. Ideas flowed like wine at Baptist wedding, which is to say, they did not flow at all. Once again, when pressed to write, I was stuck. Nothing seemed to fit, nothing seemed to be quite right, until I just gave in to the wee small voices in my head that so often turn my sunny disposition into partly cloudy output.
Forthwith, then, my completion of the Wordsmiths January Pan-Holiday Extravaganzapallooza Challenge.
=====================
The text prior to the picture is what was provided as a start. We, the writers, were to offer up another 500 words (or less!) to finish this ambiguous beginning. My offering is below the picture.
A loud rapping at the door awoke me from a deep dreamy sleep. It was early, too early to be awake, and certainly too early to be out in the streets pounding on doors. I thought that there must be some emergency in town and ran to the door to find out whatever news there was from whoever was there. Much to my surprise, there was no-one at the door ready to identify themselves and their message, and yet a package with my name on it had been left at the door. It was a most curious circumstance, and yet I saw no real harm in it, because secret gift giving was the hallmark of the holiday season. I myself had delivered many a gift in that manner over the years. The package was heavier than it should have been from its size, and once I had it indoors I eagerly opened it to find out what it was and who had sent it. Alas, there was no identification of the giver, and more's the pity because what was inside was a most remarkable carved wood box, worked with figures of animals and dragons all over, in a magnificent shade of red. Whoever sent it to me must have been a prankster, though, because I could see no way into the box, no clasp or lock announced itself, no hinge or platen presented itself as a means to the inside. I was locked out, and most frustrated by this unfortunate turn of events.
Through the rising morning I tried every clever attempt my confused brain could muster to try to gain entry into the mysterious box, but to no avail. My patience wore thin by the time dhuhr was called, and so it was after prayers that I found myself at the doorway of Selnot, the mage.
Selnot was known in our quarter for insight and trickery as well as wisdom in the ways of nature and the mind of men. He was the only one I knew of who might have seen this type of nefarious puzzle before, and so I braved the thugs and filth of that narrow alley to gain what wisdom I could as to the gift's workings.
His rooms smelled of cinnamon and cloves; the air was heavy and cloudy with the smoke of the hookah and incense. A proper mage's den, and Selnot did not disappoint in his appearance, with long robes worked in stars and suns and moons, a long silver beard tipped in red, his charcoal gray eyes smouldering with hungry anticipation at the sight of the box in my shaking hands.
"Ah, you are home at last," Selnot wheezed.
What he meant by this I was soon to find out, and would never forget. Selnot offered me a cushion and the pipe, which I took at his insistence as necessary. One puff of smoke and my anxiety softened, I felt glazed over with limp anticipation. Selnot, seeing the change in my state, began a low moaning song and started stroking the box as though it were a lover. My head grew hot, the box seemed to glow and hum, Selnot's song flooded my thoughts with swirling images of fire and water dancing entwined.
Suddenly, Selnot's intoxicating incantations ceased. A vicious chill swept up my spine; I felt a surge of energy burst forth from my forehead. The shock was tremendous. I recoiled as the box flew open with a blast of intense light and a tremendous shrieking yowl. A spear of heat pierced me between the eyes and knocked me nearly senseless. I couldn't move, save to open my eyes.
How I wish I had not opened them at all, for Selnot was surrounded by a roaring vortex of fire that whipped his robes and beard. The sight was horrific and mezmerizing, yet I could not look away. Selnot shouted praise to a god I did not know in a great and terrible voice. He seemed to scintillate, then shrank to an intense spot of light that disappeared into the box with the fiery maelstrom.
The box slammed shut, there was silence, and I lost all grip on reality.
When at last I came to my senses, the call to 'Isha had just faded, yet I felt no need to kneel. I stood, and the heavy robes of Selnot swirled about my feet and wrists as ancient secrets began to fill my head.
Thus the gift was given, and thus it was received.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Imagine the piney smell
Ah, the tree before the carnage of Christmas morning......so peaceful.
By 10 a.m. it was all over but the cooking.
Good times.
As a wee holiday gift to you, I hereunder offer up my recipe for broccoli casserole - so good even kids will eat it. Think of quiche without the crust, becaus who needs THAT kind of complication in their lives? Nobody, that's who.
=====================
Tiff's broccoli casserole
2 cups broccoli florets (frozen is fine)
1 cup skim milk
3 large eggs
2/3 cup shredded cheese (whatever kind tickles your ticklish bits - monterey jack and cheddar work well if you've got sensitive kid palates coming to dinner. Otherwise, a nice nutty swiss or other more robust cheese would be great)
1/4 tsp nutmeg
1/2 tsp salt
1/4 tsp pepper
dash cinammon
- Cook the broccoli until tender, drain
- Mash or use a mixer to pulverize the broccoli (yay! pulverize!)
- Add remaining ingredients and mix thoroughly. Mixture should be the consistency of pudding. If too thin, add another egg or more cheese. (yay! more cheese!)
- Pour into a greased 2 qt casserole and bake covered in a 350 degree (F) oven until center is firm, about an hour.
This can also be microwaved, but the casserole won't stay as high as if baked slowly in a regular oven.
==========================
Gotta go - I'll be back tomorrow with more goodies!!
By 10 a.m. it was all over but the cooking.
Good times.
As a wee holiday gift to you, I hereunder offer up my recipe for broccoli casserole - so good even kids will eat it. Think of quiche without the crust, becaus who needs THAT kind of complication in their lives? Nobody, that's who.
=====================
Tiff's broccoli casserole
2 cups broccoli florets (frozen is fine)
1 cup skim milk
3 large eggs
2/3 cup shredded cheese (whatever kind tickles your ticklish bits - monterey jack and cheddar work well if you've got sensitive kid palates coming to dinner. Otherwise, a nice nutty swiss or other more robust cheese would be great)
1/4 tsp nutmeg
1/2 tsp salt
1/4 tsp pepper
dash cinammon
- Cook the broccoli until tender, drain
- Mash or use a mixer to pulverize the broccoli (yay! pulverize!)
- Add remaining ingredients and mix thoroughly. Mixture should be the consistency of pudding. If too thin, add another egg or more cheese. (yay! more cheese!)
- Pour into a greased 2 qt casserole and bake covered in a 350 degree (F) oven until center is firm, about an hour.
This can also be microwaved, but the casserole won't stay as high as if baked slowly in a regular oven.
==========================
Gotta go - I'll be back tomorrow with more goodies!!
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Geeky greetings of the season!
Stolen directly from "Molecular Shirts."
Have a wonderful time celebrating in whichever way you choose, with whomever you choose, whenever you choose. Beast wishes for peace, joy, and happiness now and for the coming year.
XO,
Tiff
Friday, December 22, 2006
The new Blogger
Blogger, the platform I use to create my scintillating and oh-so-amusing/interesting/through provoking posts, has come out with a new version of their software, and is encouraging (pushing) all us old Blogger users to switch to the new version with promises of shiny new toys and faster publishing times.
However, I am afraid of the new Blogger with its widgets and fancy graphical interface.
I'm afraid that if I switch all my posts and old comments will disappear, and because I don't have any of them backed up to anywhere else, a loss of that magnitude might send me into a spiral of despair - not that the posts are that GOOD, of course, it's just that they represent what was going on at the time I wrote them, or are manifestations of my attempt to write creatively, or are, in some case, pretty funny and I'd hate to lose that evidence of good humor.
My question to you then, is this: if you used the old Blogger, have you switched to the new one? If you have, why? If you haven't, why?
OK, that was more like three questions, I know that,.....however.....please do me a huge favor and answer those that are relevant to your current situation.
I'm relying on YOU to help me through this current crisis.
========================
Related question - do any of you back your entries up to some other medium?
At this blog there are over 330 posts now, all written withing the blogger posting platform. I should back them up, I know I should. But, daggone, going into each one, and copying, and pasting out to somewhere else sounds like a lot of work.
For the record, I've been subject to Tracy Lynn's proselytizing on the subject of windows live editor or something along those lines, and I KNOW I'm being a techno slouch for not switching over to the newest coolest software in the whole entire world that would make my life more interesting and me a far better person than I am right now. I know that.
Yes again, I'm scared.
What is wrong with me? I'm not a Luddite. I'm not a techophobe. I'm not incapable of learning new tricks, in fact, I adore anything that makes my life easier, save for prepackaged food, which isn't all that great and if you know how to cook don't really save you a whole lot of time but DO add whopping amounts of salt and fat into your diet, which nobody but nobody really needs, now do they?
To the point - Why am I resisting?
More to the point, as kind of a tangent and yet still related to the overall theme of this post - why am I the only person left in the United States that doesn't have an iPOD?
=====================
So, to summarize:
Who of you has switched to the new blogger (if indeed you USE blogger software), and how'd that work out for you?
Do you back up your posts to some other medium, and what's an easy way to do this?
Do you use something other than the built-in blogger post editor to write your entires, and why do you like it?
Lastly - tell me why iPODs are so awesome, and what music I totally need to have on one, should I ever get one, which I'm thinking of doing, because now that the classic rock station has gone country and the college radio station is playing more thrash than ever and the jazz station sometimes fills airtime with nearly incomprehensible multirhythmic crapola the only the most discerning of modern music afficianados would appreciate, I'm getting kind of fed up with commercial radio, and often spend my commute times in total silence, and we all know that THAT is unAmerican. (JC - I expect a rant on how bitchin' satellite radio is, and why I should get that instead of an iPOD. Go ahead, do you best, perhaps you will convince me to become a subscriber.)
Your help is much appreciated.
However, I am afraid of the new Blogger with its widgets and fancy graphical interface.
I'm afraid that if I switch all my posts and old comments will disappear, and because I don't have any of them backed up to anywhere else, a loss of that magnitude might send me into a spiral of despair - not that the posts are that GOOD, of course, it's just that they represent what was going on at the time I wrote them, or are manifestations of my attempt to write creatively, or are, in some case, pretty funny and I'd hate to lose that evidence of good humor.
My question to you then, is this: if you used the old Blogger, have you switched to the new one? If you have, why? If you haven't, why?
OK, that was more like three questions, I know that,.....however.....please do me a huge favor and answer those that are relevant to your current situation.
I'm relying on YOU to help me through this current crisis.
========================
Related question - do any of you back your entries up to some other medium?
At this blog there are over 330 posts now, all written withing the blogger posting platform. I should back them up, I know I should. But, daggone, going into each one, and copying, and pasting out to somewhere else sounds like a lot of work.
For the record, I've been subject to Tracy Lynn's proselytizing on the subject of windows live editor or something along those lines, and I KNOW I'm being a techno slouch for not switching over to the newest coolest software in the whole entire world that would make my life more interesting and me a far better person than I am right now. I know that.
Yes again, I'm scared.
What is wrong with me? I'm not a Luddite. I'm not a techophobe. I'm not incapable of learning new tricks, in fact, I adore anything that makes my life easier, save for prepackaged food, which isn't all that great and if you know how to cook don't really save you a whole lot of time but DO add whopping amounts of salt and fat into your diet, which nobody but nobody really needs, now do they?
To the point - Why am I resisting?
More to the point, as kind of a tangent and yet still related to the overall theme of this post - why am I the only person left in the United States that doesn't have an iPOD?
=====================
So, to summarize:
Who of you has switched to the new blogger (if indeed you USE blogger software), and how'd that work out for you?
Do you back up your posts to some other medium, and what's an easy way to do this?
Do you use something other than the built-in blogger post editor to write your entires, and why do you like it?
Lastly - tell me why iPODs are so awesome, and what music I totally need to have on one, should I ever get one, which I'm thinking of doing, because now that the classic rock station has gone country and the college radio station is playing more thrash than ever and the jazz station sometimes fills airtime with nearly incomprehensible multirhythmic crapola the only the most discerning of modern music afficianados would appreciate, I'm getting kind of fed up with commercial radio, and often spend my commute times in total silence, and we all know that THAT is unAmerican. (JC - I expect a rant on how bitchin' satellite radio is, and why I should get that instead of an iPOD. Go ahead, do you best, perhaps you will convince me to become a subscriber.)
Your help is much appreciated.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Rank this
Many of you might not believe me when I say that there are times when I can't think of much to write in this here blog.
I do not let this lack of inspiration stop me. Heaven only knows what portion of the universe might implode if I don't post (at least that's how I like to think of it), for I am not brave like Wordnerd and simply STOP POSTING for a week because it's just one more thing on the "to-do" list that there's no time for. No, I wedge in the posting BEFORE the important things (like work) that demand my attention.
(If word of this gets out at my place of employ, there may be problems. Whatever.)
Sometimes, though, providence steps in and places a nugget of pure bloggability into my grasping hands. Today is such a day. Hoorah! Today's spark of inspiration comes from a brief exchange with Biff Spiffy this morning, in which, somehow, the subject of body odor came up.
Don't ask, if you know what's good for you.
Anyhow, it brought to mind a story from my distant past. Which I will tell you know, once the loud cheering noise that no doubt has arisen at the prospect of another Tiff-ism being shared subsides a bit.
Read it again, that was TOO a real sentence.
Forthwith - the story:
================
When I was in graduate school, lo those many years ago, I worked for a time at a very nice restaurant. We on the wait staff had really cool uniforms, with these long crisp white aprons to wear over our black trousers, and these sharp-looking vests and matching bow ties to wear over our whilte shirts.
Yeah, it was the 80's; what of it?
Anyhow, we of the sartorially elegant wait staff, were obliged to do things like memorize the specials of the day (one fish, one veal, one pasta, one "other") to recite to our guests without the aid of notes, had to be able to suggest wine pairings for the order (and whoever had the most wine sales in a week got extra cash in their paycheck), had to be able to remember a 4-top's worth of orders without writing anything down (including appetizer), and had to be well groomed and respectful of the rhythm of the meal, never interrupting a conversation to use the crumb brush or check on the patron's satisfaction level.
Most of us on the waitstaff were in our early 20's (and single, but those are stories for another time, and what stories they are, my friends) and attractive. Some of us were very attractive, and I'm not braggin' on myself. The owners of the restaurant KNEW what would bring the diners to the yard, yo. For example, there was one guy I called "Thor," for reasons that, if you saw him, would have been instantly apparent; he had long blond hair, shoulders as wide as a doorway, a strong nose and chin, cheekbones that could cut glass, etc etc.....he was a god, no doubt about it. He was also just a busboy, because he wasn't old enough to serve alcohol.
(Ladies, I'll give you a moment to think about that. The room may seem to get a bit warm, which is fine. It will pass once you read a little further into the story.....)
Anyhow, one of the other members of the waitstaff was a guy I'll call "Viggo." Viggo was tall, with waist-length thick black hair that always smelled of Head and Shoulders shampoo. Yummy. He was also tall and slender, with an aquiline nose and piercing dark eyes. In addition, Viggo was an actor and musician, and lived with a bunch of hippies who kept triple peach schnapps in the freezer and a bag of blow under the couch.
(Ask me how I know, for again, there are stories.)
Because he lived with hippies, Viggo had adopted some of the more "natural" practices of the group, like not necessarily always (or ever, for that matter) utilizing an odor-neutralizing product on his underarm area. While "natural" is perfectly fine if you're strutting your hour on stage or laying down a jam in front of a horde of screaming groupies in a dark club, it is not really all THAT fine when you're laying down a "duck en papiillote" in front of a paying customer, for the paying customer does not necessarily want his truffled fowl served with a side of B.O.
Not surprisingly, the customers complained. An intervention was needed. Viggo was called into the office and handed a speedy stick of Mennen and told to use it or find another job.
Viggo did, and all was well in munch-land.
However, the stick of speedy stink relief STAYED at the restaurant; for Viggo was a natural man at all times, save for when he was kitted out in his waitstaff finery shilling Poulle Fusse or Death by Chocolate.
Ask me how I know, and someday I might tell you. Oh, the stories.
I do not let this lack of inspiration stop me. Heaven only knows what portion of the universe might implode if I don't post (at least that's how I like to think of it), for I am not brave like Wordnerd and simply STOP POSTING for a week because it's just one more thing on the "to-do" list that there's no time for. No, I wedge in the posting BEFORE the important things (like work) that demand my attention.
(If word of this gets out at my place of employ, there may be problems. Whatever.)
Sometimes, though, providence steps in and places a nugget of pure bloggability into my grasping hands. Today is such a day. Hoorah! Today's spark of inspiration comes from a brief exchange with Biff Spiffy this morning, in which, somehow, the subject of body odor came up.
Don't ask, if you know what's good for you.
Anyhow, it brought to mind a story from my distant past. Which I will tell you know, once the loud cheering noise that no doubt has arisen at the prospect of another Tiff-ism being shared subsides a bit.
Read it again, that was TOO a real sentence.
Forthwith - the story:
================
When I was in graduate school, lo those many years ago, I worked for a time at a very nice restaurant. We on the wait staff had really cool uniforms, with these long crisp white aprons to wear over our black trousers, and these sharp-looking vests and matching bow ties to wear over our whilte shirts.
Yeah, it was the 80's; what of it?
Anyhow, we of the sartorially elegant wait staff, were obliged to do things like memorize the specials of the day (one fish, one veal, one pasta, one "other") to recite to our guests without the aid of notes, had to be able to suggest wine pairings for the order (and whoever had the most wine sales in a week got extra cash in their paycheck), had to be able to remember a 4-top's worth of orders without writing anything down (including appetizer), and had to be well groomed and respectful of the rhythm of the meal, never interrupting a conversation to use the crumb brush or check on the patron's satisfaction level.
Most of us on the waitstaff were in our early 20's (and single, but those are stories for another time, and what stories they are, my friends) and attractive. Some of us were very attractive, and I'm not braggin' on myself. The owners of the restaurant KNEW what would bring the diners to the yard, yo. For example, there was one guy I called "Thor," for reasons that, if you saw him, would have been instantly apparent; he had long blond hair, shoulders as wide as a doorway, a strong nose and chin, cheekbones that could cut glass, etc etc.....he was a god, no doubt about it. He was also just a busboy, because he wasn't old enough to serve alcohol.
(Ladies, I'll give you a moment to think about that. The room may seem to get a bit warm, which is fine. It will pass once you read a little further into the story.....)
Anyhow, one of the other members of the waitstaff was a guy I'll call "Viggo." Viggo was tall, with waist-length thick black hair that always smelled of Head and Shoulders shampoo. Yummy. He was also tall and slender, with an aquiline nose and piercing dark eyes. In addition, Viggo was an actor and musician, and lived with a bunch of hippies who kept triple peach schnapps in the freezer and a bag of blow under the couch.
(Ask me how I know, for again, there are stories.)
Because he lived with hippies, Viggo had adopted some of the more "natural" practices of the group, like not necessarily always (or ever, for that matter) utilizing an odor-neutralizing product on his underarm area. While "natural" is perfectly fine if you're strutting your hour on stage or laying down a jam in front of a horde of screaming groupies in a dark club, it is not really all THAT fine when you're laying down a "duck en papiillote" in front of a paying customer, for the paying customer does not necessarily want his truffled fowl served with a side of B.O.
Not surprisingly, the customers complained. An intervention was needed. Viggo was called into the office and handed a speedy stick of Mennen and told to use it or find another job.
Viggo did, and all was well in munch-land.
However, the stick of speedy stink relief STAYED at the restaurant; for Viggo was a natural man at all times, save for when he was kitted out in his waitstaff finery shilling Poulle Fusse or Death by Chocolate.
Ask me how I know, and someday I might tell you. Oh, the stories.
Rank this
Many of you might not believe me when I say that there are times when I can't think of much to write in this here blog.
I do not let this lack of inspiration stop me. Heaven only knows what portion of the universe might implode if I don't post (at least that's how I like to think of it), for I am not brave like Wordnerd and simply STOP POSTING for a week because it's just one more thing on the "to-do" list that there's no time for. No, I wedge in the posting BEFORE the important things (like work) that demand my attention.
(If word of this gets out at my place of employ, there may be problems. Whatever.)
Sometimes, though, providence steps in and places a nugget of pure bloggability into my grasping hands. Today is such a day. Hoorah! Today's spark of inspiration comes from a brief exchange with Biff Spiffy this morning, in which, somehow, the subject of body odor came up.
Don't ask, if you know what's good for you.
Anyhow, it brought to mind a story from my distant past. Which I will tell you know, once the loud cheering noise that no doubt has arisen at the prospect of another Tiff-ism being shared subsides a bit.
Read it again, that was TOO a real sentence.
Forthwith - the story:
================
When I was in graduate school, lo those many years ago, I worked for a time at a very nice restaurant. We on the wait staff had really cool uniforms, with these long crisp white aprons to wear over our black trousers, and these sharp-looking vests and matching bow ties to wear over our whilte shirts.
Yeah, it was the 80's; what of it?
Anyhow, we of the sartorially elegant wait staff, were obliged to do things like memorize the specials of the day (one fish, one veal, one pasta, one "other") to recite to our guests without the aid of notes, had to be able to suggest wine pairings for the order (and whoever had the most wine sales in a week got extra cash in their paycheck), had to be able to remember a 4-top's worth of orders without writing anything down (including appetizer), and had to be well groomed and respectful of the rhythm of the meal, never interrupting a conversation to use the crumb brush or check on the patron's satisfaction level.
Most of us on the waitstaff were in our early 20's (and single, but those are stories for another time, and what stories they are, my friends) and attractive. Some of us were very attractive, and I'm not braggin' on myself. The owners of the restaurant KNEW what would bring the diners to the yard, yo. For example, there was one guy I called "Thor," for reasons that, if you saw him, would have been instantly apparent; he had long blond hair, shoulders as wide as a doorway, a strong nose and chin, cheekbones that could cut glass, etc etc.....he was a god, no doubt about it. He was also just a busboy, because he wasn't old enough to serve alcohol.
(Ladies, I'll give you a moment to think about that. The room may seem to get a bit warm, which is fine. It will pass once you read a little further into the story.....)
Anyhow, one of the other members of the waitstaff was a guy I'll call "Viggo." Viggo was tall, with waist-length thick black hair that always smelled of Head and Shoulders shampoo. Yummy. He was also tall and slender, with an aquiline nose and piercing dark eyes. In addition, Viggo was an actor and musician, and lived with a bunch of hippies who kept triple peach schnapps in the freezer and a bag of blow under the couch.
(Ask me how I know, for again, there are stories.)
Because he lived with hippies, Viggo had adopted some of the more "natural" practices of the group, like not necessarily always (or ever, for that matter) utilizing an odor-neutralizing product on his underarm area. While "natural" is perfectly fine if you're strutting your hour on stage or laying down a jam in front of a horde of screaming groupies in a dark club, it is not really all THAT fine when you're laying down a "duck en papiillote" in front of a paying customer, for the paying customer does not necessarily want his truffled fowl served with a side of B.O.
Not surprisingly, the customers complained. An intervention was needed. Viggo was called into the office and handed a speedy stick of Mennen and told to use it or find another job.
Viggo did, and all was well.
However, the stick of speedy stink relief STAYED at the restaurant; for Viggo was a natural man at all times, save for when he was kitted out in his waitstaff finery shilling Poulle Fusse or Death by Chocolate.
Ask me how I know, and someday I might tell you. Oh, the stories.
I do not let this lack of inspiration stop me. Heaven only knows what portion of the universe might implode if I don't post (at least that's how I like to think of it), for I am not brave like Wordnerd and simply STOP POSTING for a week because it's just one more thing on the "to-do" list that there's no time for. No, I wedge in the posting BEFORE the important things (like work) that demand my attention.
(If word of this gets out at my place of employ, there may be problems. Whatever.)
Sometimes, though, providence steps in and places a nugget of pure bloggability into my grasping hands. Today is such a day. Hoorah! Today's spark of inspiration comes from a brief exchange with Biff Spiffy this morning, in which, somehow, the subject of body odor came up.
Don't ask, if you know what's good for you.
Anyhow, it brought to mind a story from my distant past. Which I will tell you know, once the loud cheering noise that no doubt has arisen at the prospect of another Tiff-ism being shared subsides a bit.
Read it again, that was TOO a real sentence.
Forthwith - the story:
================
When I was in graduate school, lo those many years ago, I worked for a time at a very nice restaurant. We on the wait staff had really cool uniforms, with these long crisp white aprons to wear over our black trousers, and these sharp-looking vests and matching bow ties to wear over our whilte shirts.
Yeah, it was the 80's; what of it?
Anyhow, we of the sartorially elegant wait staff, were obliged to do things like memorize the specials of the day (one fish, one veal, one pasta, one "other") to recite to our guests without the aid of notes, had to be able to suggest wine pairings for the order (and whoever had the most wine sales in a week got extra cash in their paycheck), had to be able to remember a 4-top's worth of orders without writing anything down (including appetizer), and had to be well groomed and respectful of the rhythm of the meal, never interrupting a conversation to use the crumb brush or check on the patron's satisfaction level.
Most of us on the waitstaff were in our early 20's (and single, but those are stories for another time, and what stories they are, my friends) and attractive. Some of us were very attractive, and I'm not braggin' on myself. The owners of the restaurant KNEW what would bring the diners to the yard, yo. For example, there was one guy I called "Thor," for reasons that, if you saw him, would have been instantly apparent; he had long blond hair, shoulders as wide as a doorway, a strong nose and chin, cheekbones that could cut glass, etc etc.....he was a god, no doubt about it. He was also just a busboy, because he wasn't old enough to serve alcohol.
(Ladies, I'll give you a moment to think about that. The room may seem to get a bit warm, which is fine. It will pass once you read a little further into the story.....)
Anyhow, one of the other members of the waitstaff was a guy I'll call "Viggo." Viggo was tall, with waist-length thick black hair that always smelled of Head and Shoulders shampoo. Yummy. He was also tall and slender, with an aquiline nose and piercing dark eyes. In addition, Viggo was an actor and musician, and lived with a bunch of hippies who kept triple peach schnapps in the freezer and a bag of blow under the couch.
(Ask me how I know, for again, there are stories.)
Because he lived with hippies, Viggo had adopted some of the more "natural" practices of the group, like not necessarily always (or ever, for that matter) utilizing an odor-neutralizing product on his underarm area. While "natural" is perfectly fine if you're strutting your hour on stage or laying down a jam in front of a horde of screaming groupies in a dark club, it is not really all THAT fine when you're laying down a "duck en papiillote" in front of a paying customer, for the paying customer does not necessarily want his truffled fowl served with a side of B.O.
Not surprisingly, the customers complained. An intervention was needed. Viggo was called into the office and handed a speedy stick of Mennen and told to use it or find another job.
Viggo did, and all was well.
However, the stick of speedy stink relief STAYED at the restaurant; for Viggo was a natural man at all times, save for when he was kitted out in his waitstaff finery shilling Poulle Fusse or Death by Chocolate.
Ask me how I know, and someday I might tell you. Oh, the stories.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Back seat musings
Lord, lord, but this entry ain't what you might think from the title, if you've got a filthy mind. I'm not talking about any possible backseat shenanigans I may have gotten up to in my youth, for we are in the holiday spirit now, which doesn't involve talk of extracurrriculars, if you know what I mean, and I think you do.
No, this "back seat musings" focuses on the things I hear uttered in the back seat of the family sedan on our to-ings and fro-ings around town.
Last night's musing session was particularly good, I thought, and so I shall transcribe it here, as nearly as I can.
=====================
Time: 7:30 p.m., after Thing 1 successfully conquered the beastly bassoon and played his first concert (and I quote: "Mom, I actually PLAYED it, and it sounded good! I bet Mrs Thomas is going be all happy tomorrow and tell us we did reall really good!" after which he proceeded to bounce all over the hallways and walkways, expending much built-up nervous energy)
Place: duh, the back seat of the car, going toward home.
It is dark.
Thing 1: Gosh, I'm tired. I'm as tired as anything.
Thing 2: it's only 7:30! How can you be tired?
Thing 1: I feel all drained from that concert. I can't believe I played. I'm glad it's over.
Mom: You guys did great. I'm really proud of you.
Thing 1: It feels good to hear you say that. I'm proud of me too.
Thing 2: I'm proud of my feet. They stink.
Thing 1: Now, why'd you have to say that? I was feeling really good about myself and you ruined it.
Mom: Thing 2, that was not nice. No more of that.
Thing 2: OK. Sorry, Thing 1.
Thing 1: You know, I like to look up at the sky and ponder the universe. I can't wait until we get back out to the country so I can see the stars and imagine what it's like in other solar systems.
Thing 2: Well, you already KNOW what it's like on Zatoff, 'cause we were born there.
Thing 1: Yeah, but other planets. Other stars. There are millions of them. What are the people like out there?
Thing 2: Some stars are more than 30 times the size of the sun. There are some stars that are half the size of Pluto.
Thing 1: Like red dwarfs.
Thing 2: Yeah.
Thing 1: Some scientists say the Jupiter was almost a star, but it didn't have enough mass to start to burn.
Thing 2: Yeah.
Thing 1: I can see Orion's belt.
Thing 2: Sirius is the dog star. It's named after Sirius Black from Harry Potter.
Thing 1: Yeah.
====================
I can practically SEE the gears turning inside their blessedly nerdly little heads.
====================
Oh - in case you missed it, the Wordsmiths have another challenge posted.
Also, sometime today Neil's Holiday Concert will be posted. And I have to go hide behind a thick curtain of shame lest any of you try to find me here after listening to my feeble musical offering. I am sure, however, that everyone else's holiday-ness will more than make up for my lameness. So go, listen, get all infused with the spirit of the season. I'm sure it will be worth it.
Just keep the mocking on the down low, 'kay?
No, this "back seat musings" focuses on the things I hear uttered in the back seat of the family sedan on our to-ings and fro-ings around town.
Last night's musing session was particularly good, I thought, and so I shall transcribe it here, as nearly as I can.
=====================
Time: 7:30 p.m., after Thing 1 successfully conquered the beastly bassoon and played his first concert (and I quote: "Mom, I actually PLAYED it, and it sounded good! I bet Mrs Thomas is going be all happy tomorrow and tell us we did reall really good!" after which he proceeded to bounce all over the hallways and walkways, expending much built-up nervous energy)
Place: duh, the back seat of the car, going toward home.
It is dark.
Thing 1: Gosh, I'm tired. I'm as tired as anything.
Thing 2: it's only 7:30! How can you be tired?
Thing 1: I feel all drained from that concert. I can't believe I played. I'm glad it's over.
Mom: You guys did great. I'm really proud of you.
Thing 1: It feels good to hear you say that. I'm proud of me too.
Thing 2: I'm proud of my feet. They stink.
Thing 1: Now, why'd you have to say that? I was feeling really good about myself and you ruined it.
Mom: Thing 2, that was not nice. No more of that.
Thing 2: OK. Sorry, Thing 1.
Thing 1: You know, I like to look up at the sky and ponder the universe. I can't wait until we get back out to the country so I can see the stars and imagine what it's like in other solar systems.
Thing 2: Well, you already KNOW what it's like on Zatoff, 'cause we were born there.
Thing 1: Yeah, but other planets. Other stars. There are millions of them. What are the people like out there?
Thing 2: Some stars are more than 30 times the size of the sun. There are some stars that are half the size of Pluto.
Thing 1: Like red dwarfs.
Thing 2: Yeah.
Thing 1: Some scientists say the Jupiter was almost a star, but it didn't have enough mass to start to burn.
Thing 2: Yeah.
Thing 1: I can see Orion's belt.
Thing 2: Sirius is the dog star. It's named after Sirius Black from Harry Potter.
Thing 1: Yeah.
====================
I can practically SEE the gears turning inside their blessedly nerdly little heads.
====================
Oh - in case you missed it, the Wordsmiths have another challenge posted.
Also, sometime today Neil's Holiday Concert will be posted. And I have to go hide behind a thick curtain of shame lest any of you try to find me here after listening to my feeble musical offering. I am sure, however, that everyone else's holiday-ness will more than make up for my lameness. So go, listen, get all infused with the spirit of the season. I'm sure it will be worth it.
Just keep the mocking on the down low, 'kay?
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Sometimes I am amazed
Do you ever read something someone has written for their blog and get to the end of it and sit there for a moment, saying "whoa" over and over in your head? Like, maybe what's on the blog is better and more evocative and more heartfelt and thought-provoking than anything that's published in the "real" media, and you wonder how that can be?
Well, today is one of those days for me. See, Hyperion is running some columns from Christmases past, and today's is a doozy, a real corker, a thing to make you go "hmmm."
Yeah, yeah, it's long. So what? Not every story can be told in fewer than 6 inches (all y'all journalism people will know what I mean by that. The rest of you, get your head out of the gutter.)
If you do go and read, please comment if it moved you in any way. It's the least you can do for something that makes you go "hmmmm."
====================
Over at Tracy Kaply's blog, the "twelve days of blogmas" are going along nicely. Today's guest does marvelous things with writer's block.
===================
I have bit the bullet and sent my song to Neil for this holiday concert. No, I will not post it here. You must go dig among the other, shinier, prettier offerings to find my grubby little ditty.
Heh - I did have SOME fun with it and messed with echo and speed, creating some pretty hilarious versions of what should be a sweet Christmas tune. Oh stop, you KNEW I would do that. Trying to be serious is so draining, I simply needed the pick-me-up of me sounding like a Chipmunk or like a bad Japanese techno artiste.
If I could figure out how to post them here, I would. The chipmunk one cracks my shizz right on UP!
====================
Holiday concert at the middle school tonight.
Poor dear Thing 1 is not in the least excited, because his formerly beloved bassoon is now the hated and universally reviled bassoon. The switch from trombone to the monstrous double-reeded beast has not been a good one, methinks. I have told him he needed to get through this concert and then we'd talk about him switching back to trombone (which, secretly, is where I think he belongs anyhow, but I couldn't just let the lad bounce all over the band sections like a hyperstimulated squirrel monkey, now COULD I?). He is resigned to this horrific fate, and I suspect that around 5:30 this evening he will develop terrible stomach pains and not be able to participate in the general noise and clashing of the middle school holiday musical offering.......oh, the acting will be fabulous, I'm sure, but I'm already prepared to escort him through the crisis and press on.
If the concert wasn't part of his GRADE, I'd likely let him act his fantasy illness out, and put him to bed early.
Being a mom totally rocks. Yeah, totally.
Well, today is one of those days for me. See, Hyperion is running some columns from Christmases past, and today's is a doozy, a real corker, a thing to make you go "hmmm."
Yeah, yeah, it's long. So what? Not every story can be told in fewer than 6 inches (all y'all journalism people will know what I mean by that. The rest of you, get your head out of the gutter.)
If you do go and read, please comment if it moved you in any way. It's the least you can do for something that makes you go "hmmmm."
====================
Over at Tracy Kaply's blog, the "twelve days of blogmas" are going along nicely. Today's guest does marvelous things with writer's block.
===================
I have bit the bullet and sent my song to Neil for this holiday concert. No, I will not post it here. You must go dig among the other, shinier, prettier offerings to find my grubby little ditty.
Heh - I did have SOME fun with it and messed with echo and speed, creating some pretty hilarious versions of what should be a sweet Christmas tune. Oh stop, you KNEW I would do that. Trying to be serious is so draining, I simply needed the pick-me-up of me sounding like a Chipmunk or like a bad Japanese techno artiste.
If I could figure out how to post them here, I would. The chipmunk one cracks my shizz right on UP!
====================
Holiday concert at the middle school tonight.
Poor dear Thing 1 is not in the least excited, because his formerly beloved bassoon is now the hated and universally reviled bassoon. The switch from trombone to the monstrous double-reeded beast has not been a good one, methinks. I have told him he needed to get through this concert and then we'd talk about him switching back to trombone (which, secretly, is where I think he belongs anyhow, but I couldn't just let the lad bounce all over the band sections like a hyperstimulated squirrel monkey, now COULD I?). He is resigned to this horrific fate, and I suspect that around 5:30 this evening he will develop terrible stomach pains and not be able to participate in the general noise and clashing of the middle school holiday musical offering.......oh, the acting will be fabulous, I'm sure, but I'm already prepared to escort him through the crisis and press on.
If the concert wasn't part of his GRADE, I'd likely let him act his fantasy illness out, and put him to bed early.
Being a mom totally rocks. Yeah, totally.
Monday, December 18, 2006
Were you looking for something?
Did you come here looking for something?
A post, maybe?
I gotcher post right HERE. Seriously. I do.
Someplace.
Ah yes, here it is:
===================
What I did over the weekend, by Tiff
3 haircuts completed (I'm the family barber)
4 meals cooked
80 Christmas cards made and addressed
1 dining room cleared out
1 dining table put together, placed, and decorated
1 Christmas tree erected and lighted in the cleaned-out dining room
1 front porch festooned with 1000 lights (no lie, 1000)
2 wreaths put up
1 birthday party attended
2 basson reeds purchased
2 bathrooms scrubbed
3 lectures given to Things 1 and 2
33 Christmas cards hung
"some" bourbon quaffed (I lose count after a while)
And yet - no laundry done, no groceries procured, the floors are a dog-hairy mess, I have no idea what's for dinner, and I still haven't recorded my holiday song for Neil.
Sigh.
===================
In perhaps more interesting news - I checked out a book from the library a couple of weeks ago that I really want to read (must.find.time). It's called "The Discoveries" (by Alan Lightman) and contains the original publications of some of the most ground-breaking scientific work of the 20th century.
Little things, like:
Max Planck's paper "On the theory of the energy distribution law of the normal spectrum."
Einstein's "On the electrodynamics of moving bodies."
Bohr's work "On the constitution of atoms and molecues."
A little something from Messrs Watson and Crick called "Molecular structure of nucleic acids," accompanied (thank goodness) by Franklin and Gosling's "Molecular configuration of sodium thymonucleate."
And on and on and on. Twenty-two chapters of seminal scientific works in their original form, accompanied by commentary regarding the times in which these discoveries were made and their impact on the body of knowledge to date and beyond.
I expect that I won't understand a good deal of what's in the book, particularly where the original papers are concerned (most especially anything having to do with the equations of physics), but I'm hopeful that I'll learn something new with each chapter.
What do I expect to get from all this? Let us just say that I am on a quest to become the MOST BORING COCKTAIL PARTY GUEST EVER!!!!
I'll let you know if I'm successful.
A post, maybe?
I gotcher post right HERE. Seriously. I do.
Someplace.
Ah yes, here it is:
===================
What I did over the weekend, by Tiff
3 haircuts completed (I'm the family barber)
4 meals cooked
80 Christmas cards made and addressed
1 dining room cleared out
1 dining table put together, placed, and decorated
1 Christmas tree erected and lighted in the cleaned-out dining room
1 front porch festooned with 1000 lights (no lie, 1000)
2 wreaths put up
1 birthday party attended
2 basson reeds purchased
2 bathrooms scrubbed
3 lectures given to Things 1 and 2
33 Christmas cards hung
"some" bourbon quaffed (I lose count after a while)
And yet - no laundry done, no groceries procured, the floors are a dog-hairy mess, I have no idea what's for dinner, and I still haven't recorded my holiday song for Neil.
Sigh.
===================
In perhaps more interesting news - I checked out a book from the library a couple of weeks ago that I really want to read (must.find.time). It's called "The Discoveries" (by Alan Lightman) and contains the original publications of some of the most ground-breaking scientific work of the 20th century.
Little things, like:
Max Planck's paper "On the theory of the energy distribution law of the normal spectrum."
Einstein's "On the electrodynamics of moving bodies."
Bohr's work "On the constitution of atoms and molecues."
A little something from Messrs Watson and Crick called "Molecular structure of nucleic acids," accompanied (thank goodness) by Franklin and Gosling's "Molecular configuration of sodium thymonucleate."
And on and on and on. Twenty-two chapters of seminal scientific works in their original form, accompanied by commentary regarding the times in which these discoveries were made and their impact on the body of knowledge to date and beyond.
I expect that I won't understand a good deal of what's in the book, particularly where the original papers are concerned (most especially anything having to do with the equations of physics), but I'm hopeful that I'll learn something new with each chapter.
What do I expect to get from all this? Let us just say that I am on a quest to become the MOST BORING COCKTAIL PARTY GUEST EVER!!!!
I'll let you know if I'm successful.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
A small red box
is the object of interest over at the Wordsmiths page. why don't you take a few minutes and see if you can open it and tell us what's inside?
=====================
There's something about picking out a Christmas tree and grilling outdoors on the same day that simply doesn't seem right. Not that I'm complaining, mind you, but I'm used to cold and snow at Christmas. This, the second holiday season in North Carolina, is even warmer than the first one was.
Picking out the Christmas tree here is strange for me, because there's no such thing as a cut-your-own lot here, unless one wants to drive 4 hours to the mountains. Me, not so much. In Connecticut we'd head out on a cold/snowy Sunday afternoon, saw in hand, to the local Lion's Club lot down by the post office/country store or to Mr James' farm that he sold trees out of, even though most were too big now to sell as Christmas trees, so he'd top one for ya and fell the rest for firewood. Those places would give away the trimmings, out of which I'd make real garland to hang over the porch rails. Down here, they charge for that stuff, IF you can even find it. Up there, there's hot chocolate and homemade doughnuts at the checkout stand, and more often than not somebody's got a fire going in a 55-gallon drum, into which they shove twigs of spruce and pine, making showers of sparks rise in to blue-gray afternoon sky. Down here, there's a guy in a baseball cap who's going to practice bondage on the tree of your choice and may or may not take your check. Up there, a tree is $20, regardless of size. Down here, a tree STARTS at $30 for the ones parked out from of the Food Lion, and go up to $100 for the 8-footers from the commercial lots.
Yeah - while there are some things I LURVE about the South, there will always be things I miss about the North. There is, apparently, no satisfying me.
UPDATE:
Apparently, of one waits long enough to buy a tree, one can get it for 20 bucks at hte food Lion, and it's reasonably fresh. Most excellent.
Also, the boughs from the bottom of said tree will be enough to make plenty o' garland. I am, for once, happy.
=====================
There's something about picking out a Christmas tree and grilling outdoors on the same day that simply doesn't seem right. Not that I'm complaining, mind you, but I'm used to cold and snow at Christmas. This, the second holiday season in North Carolina, is even warmer than the first one was.
Picking out the Christmas tree here is strange for me, because there's no such thing as a cut-your-own lot here, unless one wants to drive 4 hours to the mountains. Me, not so much. In Connecticut we'd head out on a cold/snowy Sunday afternoon, saw in hand, to the local Lion's Club lot down by the post office/country store or to Mr James' farm that he sold trees out of, even though most were too big now to sell as Christmas trees, so he'd top one for ya and fell the rest for firewood. Those places would give away the trimmings, out of which I'd make real garland to hang over the porch rails. Down here, they charge for that stuff, IF you can even find it. Up there, there's hot chocolate and homemade doughnuts at the checkout stand, and more often than not somebody's got a fire going in a 55-gallon drum, into which they shove twigs of spruce and pine, making showers of sparks rise in to blue-gray afternoon sky. Down here, there's a guy in a baseball cap who's going to practice bondage on the tree of your choice and may or may not take your check. Up there, a tree is $20, regardless of size. Down here, a tree STARTS at $30 for the ones parked out from of the Food Lion, and go up to $100 for the 8-footers from the commercial lots.
Yeah - while there are some things I LURVE about the South, there will always be things I miss about the North. There is, apparently, no satisfying me.
UPDATE:
Apparently, of one waits long enough to buy a tree, one can get it for 20 bucks at hte food Lion, and it's reasonably fresh. Most excellent.
Also, the boughs from the bottom of said tree will be enough to make plenty o' garland. I am, for once, happy.
Friday, December 15, 2006
In which I admit to a certain degree of ennui
It's confession time again, because I'm pretty sure y'all love it when I confess stuff. What could possibly be more interesting, after all, than knowing something about ME that's a little shameful (or, maybe a lot shameful, depending on your tolerance for shame. But, I'm thinking, if you're HERE, then your tolerance for shameful things is reasonably high, and so perhaps my upcoming confession won't be so titillating. Whatever. It's all I've got today).
Confession time - I have not done a thing for Christmas.
No cookies. No decorations. No tree. No Christmas CDs. No Christmas/holiday-themed posts (though I came close yesterday with the red and green text...).
I've got a bad case of ennui, y'all, a BAD case.
What can I do to get out of it? I feel all victorian angsty, like a tragic Bronte antiheroine who needs a good meander about the moors (possibly featuring dried-up heather to crush satisfyingly underfoot) to set her mussed brain to rights. Maybe a good walk in the heathered moors in a fog....or a light drizzle....with a crocheted scarf around my shoulders and long full skirts that get damp around the bottom from the frosty dead heather. Yes, that's it. I need something like this:
============================
I awoke this morning with my head full of distant discomfort, a malaise of the spirit had settled on me in the night and now weighed heavily around my person. There was no distinct reason for the change in atmosphere, for yesterday had been a day like most others at Manor Charlaine, with all the comforts a warm home and full servant staff could afford. My drawing lessons had gone well, the music master had praised my mastery of the minor scales on the pianoforte, the dinner Jeanette prepared was delicious as always, and our entertainments of whist and pantomime had lasted long into the evening.
Perhaps it was the brandy that had clogged my good spirits from bubbling merrily to the surface as they usually did. Certainly I had not needed to take that second snifter, but when the Captain held it to me, glistening in the firelight, his large beseeching brown eyes were too affecting to rebuff. Our fingers had touched as the transfer was made, an impertinence on both our parts, for neither of us wore gloves. It was a delicious sensation; his fingers were dry and warm.
Whatever the cause, the morning's mood was not abrogated in the least by a sumptuous breakfast of kipper and pickled eggs, and Father remarked I looked pale and listless. He made a suggestion that I walk outdoors, that the fresh crisp air of November would bring colour to my cheeks and strength to my leaden limbs.
I could not argue with him on that point, for Father was used to being obeyed and no amount of retort to the contrary of his positions would be tolerated. Thus, after having Delaine comb out my hair and fashion it into a style suitable for walking, I donned my tweed skirt and jacket, buttoned up my boots, and set forth with MacGregor, the Irish wolfhound, to walk.
A fine mist coated my face and hair almost instantly, bathing me in chilly dew. My breath was visible in the moist air, the words I spoke to MacGregor puffed from my lips in clouds of words. Mac trotted along beside me, his own breath smoking through the fog. We made our way to the top of the hill, along the sheep paths and over the gate stiles, until we reached the crest and could see the whole of the manorlands below. The great gray stone house, the red brick bakery and kitchens, the farrier's shop and smithy, the long drive coated with pearly oyster shells, all lay out before us in symmetrical harmony, a perfect place among the moors and stubble fields.
We stood like that for a good while as the mist sunk into our skins. The peace of the moors was perfect, silence surrounded us, we were alone in the world, the dog and I.
I'll never know what possessed me to turn away from home and hearth and walk away across the damp fields of spent heather. I'll never know what perverse part of my nature took me toward the Captain's home. I'll never discern what it was that called me toward him, toward the small cottage at the far end of the valley, toward the neat garden and stone chimney, toward the smokey beamed ceilings I've now had the chance to inspect at leisure. I only know that once he opened his door to me, drawing me in and entreating me to warm myself by his fire, the ennui lifted, and my life would never be the same.
====================
Yep - maybe something like THAT would do nicely.
Confession time - I have not done a thing for Christmas.
No cookies. No decorations. No tree. No Christmas CDs. No Christmas/holiday-themed posts (though I came close yesterday with the red and green text...).
I've got a bad case of ennui, y'all, a BAD case.
What can I do to get out of it? I feel all victorian angsty, like a tragic Bronte antiheroine who needs a good meander about the moors (possibly featuring dried-up heather to crush satisfyingly underfoot) to set her mussed brain to rights. Maybe a good walk in the heathered moors in a fog....or a light drizzle....with a crocheted scarf around my shoulders and long full skirts that get damp around the bottom from the frosty dead heather. Yes, that's it. I need something like this:
============================
I awoke this morning with my head full of distant discomfort, a malaise of the spirit had settled on me in the night and now weighed heavily around my person. There was no distinct reason for the change in atmosphere, for yesterday had been a day like most others at Manor Charlaine, with all the comforts a warm home and full servant staff could afford. My drawing lessons had gone well, the music master had praised my mastery of the minor scales on the pianoforte, the dinner Jeanette prepared was delicious as always, and our entertainments of whist and pantomime had lasted long into the evening.
Perhaps it was the brandy that had clogged my good spirits from bubbling merrily to the surface as they usually did. Certainly I had not needed to take that second snifter, but when the Captain held it to me, glistening in the firelight, his large beseeching brown eyes were too affecting to rebuff. Our fingers had touched as the transfer was made, an impertinence on both our parts, for neither of us wore gloves. It was a delicious sensation; his fingers were dry and warm.
Whatever the cause, the morning's mood was not abrogated in the least by a sumptuous breakfast of kipper and pickled eggs, and Father remarked I looked pale and listless. He made a suggestion that I walk outdoors, that the fresh crisp air of November would bring colour to my cheeks and strength to my leaden limbs.
I could not argue with him on that point, for Father was used to being obeyed and no amount of retort to the contrary of his positions would be tolerated. Thus, after having Delaine comb out my hair and fashion it into a style suitable for walking, I donned my tweed skirt and jacket, buttoned up my boots, and set forth with MacGregor, the Irish wolfhound, to walk.
A fine mist coated my face and hair almost instantly, bathing me in chilly dew. My breath was visible in the moist air, the words I spoke to MacGregor puffed from my lips in clouds of words. Mac trotted along beside me, his own breath smoking through the fog. We made our way to the top of the hill, along the sheep paths and over the gate stiles, until we reached the crest and could see the whole of the manorlands below. The great gray stone house, the red brick bakery and kitchens, the farrier's shop and smithy, the long drive coated with pearly oyster shells, all lay out before us in symmetrical harmony, a perfect place among the moors and stubble fields.
We stood like that for a good while as the mist sunk into our skins. The peace of the moors was perfect, silence surrounded us, we were alone in the world, the dog and I.
I'll never know what possessed me to turn away from home and hearth and walk away across the damp fields of spent heather. I'll never know what perverse part of my nature took me toward the Captain's home. I'll never discern what it was that called me toward him, toward the small cottage at the far end of the valley, toward the neat garden and stone chimney, toward the smokey beamed ceilings I've now had the chance to inspect at leisure. I only know that once he opened his door to me, drawing me in and entreating me to warm myself by his fire, the ennui lifted, and my life would never be the same.
====================
Yep - maybe something like THAT would do nicely.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
A beautiful day in the NAYborhood
Heh - a joke, right there in the title. Well, maybe it's a pun, but still, funny! Laugh with me, internets! Hahaha!
=======================
First: I guest posted at KaplyInc this morning. If you've got the time, please go check out the utter nonsense she allowed me to post, and also check out the other guest posters while you're there. Today is Day 3 of the festivities, so there is already some groovy stuff guest posted. It's pretty neat to read other people's stuff and find new blog crushes. I'm hoping my exposure on KaplyInc will garner me some new blog stalkers. Ah, a girl can dream....
Second: It is in the mid-60's here today. I am loving this. Please don't mention global warming. I do not care about that right now, for in my ostrich-like position of head-in-the-sandedness regarding the environment and the state of Mother Earth this holiday season, I am overjoyed that I do not have to bundle up in layers just to get from my car to the office. Global warming worry can wait until summer, when North Carolina offers up many an opportunity to fry eggs on the dashboard of one's car, even when it's parked in the shade.
Third: If y'all see that any of my blog links are broken, please let me know. Lots of folks are changing over to the new blogger or are (gasp) abandoning Blogger altogether, and sometimes, just sometimes, I don't know about these things until it's too late.
If you're ON the blogroll and have changed sites, please let me know. I want to be up to the minute on all things linky, so as not to frustrate or confuse the veritable throngs of people (if, by "throng," one means "a dozen") who come here looking for high-quality entertainments to enjoy while NOT on company time (cough cough).
Fourth: Pretty soon Neil's holiday concert will be posted. I have to get my song in by the 20th. As some may know, I'm going to sing "The Christmas Song" (otherwise known as "Chestnuts roasting on an open fire..."). At first, I was going to do it straight, refined, respectful of Mel Torme, who wrote the tune when he was 19 years old. Then, realizing that to do it like Mel did would be a terrible disservice to all things Torme, so I decided to snazz it up with a jazzy little beat, hoping that the snazz would distract from my lack of skill.
But then, THEN, I head the Temptations do it (Thanks, Purl!), and all jazzy snazz was obliterated from my thick skull in deference to their swingy hipster beateeo version, and I have now decided to do it like they did, all cool and boppy.
Because what's Christmas without a middle-aged white girl trying to vocally imitate a group of smoove-movin' crooners from the 70's (perhaps even with intercalating "do-wops" to fill the musical gaps)? No Christmas at all, that's what.
Unless, of course, y'all have some OTHER version of the tune you really like, and then I'll see if I can find it and maybe change my mind again. There's time, dear readers, there is time.
=======================
First: I guest posted at KaplyInc this morning. If you've got the time, please go check out the utter nonsense she allowed me to post, and also check out the other guest posters while you're there. Today is Day 3 of the festivities, so there is already some groovy stuff guest posted. It's pretty neat to read other people's stuff and find new blog crushes. I'm hoping my exposure on KaplyInc will garner me some new blog stalkers. Ah, a girl can dream....
Second: It is in the mid-60's here today. I am loving this. Please don't mention global warming. I do not care about that right now, for in my ostrich-like position of head-in-the-sandedness regarding the environment and the state of Mother Earth this holiday season, I am overjoyed that I do not have to bundle up in layers just to get from my car to the office. Global warming worry can wait until summer, when North Carolina offers up many an opportunity to fry eggs on the dashboard of one's car, even when it's parked in the shade.
Third: If y'all see that any of my blog links are broken, please let me know. Lots of folks are changing over to the new blogger or are (gasp) abandoning Blogger altogether, and sometimes, just sometimes, I don't know about these things until it's too late.
If you're ON the blogroll and have changed sites, please let me know. I want to be up to the minute on all things linky, so as not to frustrate or confuse the veritable throngs of people (if, by "throng," one means "a dozen") who come here looking for high-quality entertainments to enjoy while NOT on company time (cough cough).
Fourth: Pretty soon Neil's holiday concert will be posted. I have to get my song in by the 20th. As some may know, I'm going to sing "The Christmas Song" (otherwise known as "Chestnuts roasting on an open fire..."). At first, I was going to do it straight, refined, respectful of Mel Torme, who wrote the tune when he was 19 years old. Then, realizing that to do it like Mel did would be a terrible disservice to all things Torme, so I decided to snazz it up with a jazzy little beat, hoping that the snazz would distract from my lack of skill.
But then, THEN, I head the Temptations do it (Thanks, Purl!), and all jazzy snazz was obliterated from my thick skull in deference to their swingy hipster beateeo version, and I have now decided to do it like they did, all cool and boppy.
Because what's Christmas without a middle-aged white girl trying to vocally imitate a group of smoove-movin' crooners from the 70's (perhaps even with intercalating "do-wops" to fill the musical gaps)? No Christmas at all, that's what.
Unless, of course, y'all have some OTHER version of the tune you really like, and then I'll see if I can find it and maybe change my mind again. There's time, dear readers, there is time.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Let X = x
So, the song reference from yesterday. Very obscure, I know. I think only bloggerwannabe would have gotten it, but because she's been absent from these here parts for a while (something about job and three kids, imagine!) I guess I'll just have to come right out and tell you.
It's Laurie Anderson.
"Let X=x."
What, you didn't know this off the top of your head?
Well, for shame. I guess it's not everyone who listened to avant-garde electrohead music in the 80's when that kind of thing was waaaaay cool and everybody in the music department was clamoring to recite the lyrics of obscure songs (and some not-so-obscure ones).
Laurie Anderson was one of the Music Dept darlings. Kind of over-the-top for the time, very wry. Very NOT regular music.
It's not everyone who can work "thanks for puttin' on the feedbag" into a tune, after all.
For your listening pleasure, I present herein a link to the aforementioned tune, and also to her MySpace page, because, you know, it's kind of weirdcool that she's even GOT a MySpace page and I kind of wish I could be her bestest friend and she could teach me how to play that electric violin that ain't got no strings nohow. Why, it's like the Pinocchio of instruments.
Ahem, that's another obscure song reference.
Anyhow - here's the song link:
Let X=x (from Amazon, so only a little clippie, and you have to scroll down the song list to start 'er up. Listen to all the others. If you're of a certain age I'll bet it takes you on the wayback ride in a heartbeat)
And here's the MySpace page link:
Laurie Anderson at MySpace (turn on the sound, and you can hear "O Superman." AWESOME!!)
==========================
My feets is back on the ground in NC. Ah, the tall tall pines, what a change from NJ.
More tomorrow.
It's Laurie Anderson.
"Let X=x."
What, you didn't know this off the top of your head?
Well, for shame. I guess it's not everyone who listened to avant-garde electrohead music in the 80's when that kind of thing was waaaaay cool and everybody in the music department was clamoring to recite the lyrics of obscure songs (and some not-so-obscure ones).
Laurie Anderson was one of the Music Dept darlings. Kind of over-the-top for the time, very wry. Very NOT regular music.
It's not everyone who can work "thanks for puttin' on the feedbag" into a tune, after all.
For your listening pleasure, I present herein a link to the aforementioned tune, and also to her MySpace page, because, you know, it's kind of weirdcool that she's even GOT a MySpace page and I kind of wish I could be her bestest friend and she could teach me how to play that electric violin that ain't got no strings nohow. Why, it's like the Pinocchio of instruments.
Ahem, that's another obscure song reference.
Anyhow - here's the song link:
Let X=x (from Amazon, so only a little clippie, and you have to scroll down the song list to start 'er up. Listen to all the others. If you're of a certain age I'll bet it takes you on the wayback ride in a heartbeat)
And here's the MySpace page link:
Laurie Anderson at MySpace (turn on the sound, and you can hear "O Superman." AWESOME!!)
==========================
My feets is back on the ground in NC. Ah, the tall tall pines, what a change from NJ.
More tomorrow.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
HiiIIIIiiiiiii
Dudes - I'm in New Jersey. See me up/over/down there? I'm waving at you from the 4th floor of the stunning Short Hills Hilton!
I must say something right now about the Short Hills Hilton, and that something is; I do not belong here.
There is marble on the floor in the bathroom. There are doormen. There is real wood furniture in the room, and a plasma screen teevee. There is a phone in the bathroom.
Makes me nervous, all this posh.
But you know what? I think I'll live. Business travel, you ain't half bad. It's almost worth the 4 hours of sleep a night for many nights trying to get the project done to HAVE to travel to HAVE to stay at the Hilton so I can sink into the nice comfy bed, to take a HOT damn shower and stand there for 30 minutes, to tuck the tiny bottles of awesome body wash and shampoo and lotion into my ragged duffel bag, just so I can take them out at some future date, open them up, and breathe in the scent of luxury.
Almost. Tomorrow, however, real life arrives again, and I'm ready. Hey, at least with real life comes a full night's sleep.
====================
I'm traveling with a couple of people - one a very energetic and corporate project manager, and one a writer, just like me.
Guess which one of us has 2 cell phones, fancy shoes, a fabulous hairstyle, matching luggage, and a real stylish black leather purse?
2 guess, one of the three of us is a man, the other of us just mentioned a ratty duffel bag.
===================
So, as I wait for the room service person to bring me my plebian burger and beer, watch some obscure Christmas special on the teevee (starring Ed Asner!?!?! and OMG - is that Bob Newhart?!?!?! Wait! It's ELF!! ELF!!! Woo-hoo!!!), and get myself geared up for a few more hours of work, I just thought I'd take a little time out to say hey!
So, hey.
(that was a REALLY tiny Laurie Anderson reference. The first person to tell me the name of the song from whence it comes gets a heapin' helpin' of r-e-s-p-e-c-t from me.)
I must say something right now about the Short Hills Hilton, and that something is; I do not belong here.
There is marble on the floor in the bathroom. There are doormen. There is real wood furniture in the room, and a plasma screen teevee. There is a phone in the bathroom.
Makes me nervous, all this posh.
But you know what? I think I'll live. Business travel, you ain't half bad. It's almost worth the 4 hours of sleep a night for many nights trying to get the project done to HAVE to travel to HAVE to stay at the Hilton so I can sink into the nice comfy bed, to take a HOT damn shower and stand there for 30 minutes, to tuck the tiny bottles of awesome body wash and shampoo and lotion into my ragged duffel bag, just so I can take them out at some future date, open them up, and breathe in the scent of luxury.
Almost. Tomorrow, however, real life arrives again, and I'm ready. Hey, at least with real life comes a full night's sleep.
====================
I'm traveling with a couple of people - one a very energetic and corporate project manager, and one a writer, just like me.
Guess which one of us has 2 cell phones, fancy shoes, a fabulous hairstyle, matching luggage, and a real stylish black leather purse?
2 guess, one of the three of us is a man, the other of us just mentioned a ratty duffel bag.
===================
So, as I wait for the room service person to bring me my plebian burger and beer, watch some obscure Christmas special on the teevee (starring Ed Asner!?!?! and OMG - is that Bob Newhart?!?!?! Wait! It's ELF!! ELF!!! Woo-hoo!!!), and get myself geared up for a few more hours of work, I just thought I'd take a little time out to say hey!
So, hey.
(that was a REALLY tiny Laurie Anderson reference. The first person to tell me the name of the song from whence it comes gets a heapin' helpin' of r-e-s-p-e-c-t from me.)
Monday, December 11, 2006
Would y'all do me a favor?
Would it be too much of me to ask y'all to just kill me now and get it over with?
If not that, would someone please buy me the winning lottery ticket so I don't have to dance like a semi-retarded monkey to the beat of everyone ELSE'S drum to make a living? This retarded monkey wants to dance to her own "special" rhythms, and soon.
Why couldn't I have picked a career that would have let ME be in charge? Why did I think it would be a great idea to go into a field that relied on me actually listening to what other people say instead of finding a job in which I am the preacher, the soothsayer, the approver or rejector?
Dance, monkey, dance!
4 hours Saturday (once the comments came in). 9 hours yesterday. 4 hours already today, and it's not even 9 a.m.
Spin around, monkey, now JUMP!
How high?
HIGHER, monkey! Higher!
But I dare say it won't ever be high enough, this time around. The peanut is always just out of reach.
Funny monkey, dance!
================
Unless something awesome and wondrous happens tomorrow and Wednesday, there will be no posts. Tiff is flying away on business (I'm a flying monkey! woot!) and will be hard pressed to wedge in the time for an update, though God knows she (I?) wants to.
================
Oh, there's a new addition to our family.
His name is Luther.
He is a fish.
I did not name him.
He is a Japanese fighting fish (a "beta," for all y'all in the ichthyology know), and is swimming around in his glass vase on the kitchen table as we speak. He is staring at me from amongst the root of the prayer plant that adorns the roof of his little world, making me feel guilty for not feeding him more than the 2 to 4 pellets of food that are recommended by the manufacturer.
But I've got HIS number. I know that if he continues to make that moopey fish face at me, all's I have to do is prop up a mirror next to his glass home, showing him that we have ANOTHER fish that, curiously, looks just LIKE him, and he goes absolutely batshit crazy.
Luther HATES the other fish. The other fish means clear and present danger, and it's all Luther can do to not LEAP out of his vase, gill plates a-flappin' and put the findown on that other interloper.
But, suddenly, the enemy disappears, as if some giant unseen hand came and swept him away. It's a hydrous miracle, by Neptune! Lower the gill plates, Captain, everything's going to be fine - LUTHER'S saved the day, yet again.
Then I bet he forgets about being hungry, and probably just wishes there were some fine fishy beeyotches around to see his victorious ol' purple self swim around like the MAN he is.
Sorry Luther, but that ain't happenin' anytime soon. Heck, with those flappy frilly fins, I'm not sure if it's beeyotches you're looking for anyhow.
====================
It's clear I've been awake far too long. Until next time, y'all take care!
If not that, would someone please buy me the winning lottery ticket so I don't have to dance like a semi-retarded monkey to the beat of everyone ELSE'S drum to make a living? This retarded monkey wants to dance to her own "special" rhythms, and soon.
Why couldn't I have picked a career that would have let ME be in charge? Why did I think it would be a great idea to go into a field that relied on me actually listening to what other people say instead of finding a job in which I am the preacher, the soothsayer, the approver or rejector?
Dance, monkey, dance!
4 hours Saturday (once the comments came in). 9 hours yesterday. 4 hours already today, and it's not even 9 a.m.
Spin around, monkey, now JUMP!
How high?
HIGHER, monkey! Higher!
But I dare say it won't ever be high enough, this time around. The peanut is always just out of reach.
Funny monkey, dance!
================
Unless something awesome and wondrous happens tomorrow and Wednesday, there will be no posts. Tiff is flying away on business (I'm a flying monkey! woot!) and will be hard pressed to wedge in the time for an update, though God knows she (I?) wants to.
================
Oh, there's a new addition to our family.
His name is Luther.
He is a fish.
I did not name him.
He is a Japanese fighting fish (a "beta," for all y'all in the ichthyology know), and is swimming around in his glass vase on the kitchen table as we speak. He is staring at me from amongst the root of the prayer plant that adorns the roof of his little world, making me feel guilty for not feeding him more than the 2 to 4 pellets of food that are recommended by the manufacturer.
But I've got HIS number. I know that if he continues to make that moopey fish face at me, all's I have to do is prop up a mirror next to his glass home, showing him that we have ANOTHER fish that, curiously, looks just LIKE him, and he goes absolutely batshit crazy.
Luther HATES the other fish. The other fish means clear and present danger, and it's all Luther can do to not LEAP out of his vase, gill plates a-flappin' and put the findown on that other interloper.
But, suddenly, the enemy disappears, as if some giant unseen hand came and swept him away. It's a hydrous miracle, by Neptune! Lower the gill plates, Captain, everything's going to be fine - LUTHER'S saved the day, yet again.
Then I bet he forgets about being hungry, and probably just wishes there were some fine fishy beeyotches around to see his victorious ol' purple self swim around like the MAN he is.
Sorry Luther, but that ain't happenin' anytime soon. Heck, with those flappy frilly fins, I'm not sure if it's beeyotches you're looking for anyhow.
====================
It's clear I've been awake far too long. Until next time, y'all take care!
Friday, December 08, 2006
Totally NOT what I was going to write about....
Allrightie then. I have a new cute favicon, so that's yesterday's obsession wiped out.
See it up there in the navbar, and maybe even in your bookmarks list (if you've bookmarked NAY)? Cute, ain't it?
Easy to do too, once I stumbled on the correct answers.....only took about 4 hours of searching to get to that point.
I am about to tell you how I did it, because I'm pretty sure that because 90% of the known blogosphere uses Blogger and we're all sick and darned tired of all having the same navbar icon (for all y'all IE users, you might not see one unless you're using IE7 or have the tab plugin for 6 and lower. Got get Firefox and you'll see what I'm talking about. It's free. Go on, Do it now.).
You DO want your own icon, don't you? Of course you do. Read on then, and I'll tell you how it's done.
See, all you do is create a picture that screams "this is MY site and MY identity" in a sqaure format (not "not hip" square (does anyone use that term anymore) but "equilateral parallelogram with internal right angles on all four apices" kind of square) that's at least 96 pixels per side and less than 100kb in size. Save it in .bmp or .gif format.
This is mine:
With me so far? Use painter or something easy (which is what I did, and I'm pretty much an idiot and STILL could come up with something not totally LAME), and don't use too many colors or too finely detailed a picture, or what you'll ultimately wind up with is something that looks like CRAP once it's squished down to the 16x16 pixel icon size (ask me how I know this....).
Allrightie then. You've got your awesome wee picture in your eager paws and are practically salivating with anticipation over getting the damned thing UP ON YOUR URL "just like Tiff has it."
I understand, this is heady stuff, but you need to take a deep breath and stick with me. Hear me, soldier? Stay with me!
Next step: Go to "my.favatar.com" and create an account. Don't worry, it's free. Yay for free!
Use the "change my favatar" function to import your awesome new picture into your account, and refresh the page to see how unbelievably GREAT it looks on the home page.
OK, now your picture is being "hosted" somewhere. Good for you!
Now, go to the "help" menu at my.favatar.com, click on the "how do I add a favicon to my blog" question, and follow the instructions there. (Basically ,what you're going to do is copy and paste a bit of code into your blogger template that tells web browsers to go to myfavatar to use YOUR icon with your URL instead of the blogger icon.) It's important to remember to change the "favicon" in the code to your new username once you've pasted the code into your template.
Save the template changes, republish the index (or the whole blog iffn ya wanna), and you should see your adorable/awesome/fear-inducing favicon on the navbar!
Please, should you choose to follow these instructions, do tell me if they worked or not.
======================
I just used up a lot of space writing about something that maybe y'all aren't so interested in, but it interests me, so there. This is my blog and I can do what I want.
However, because I want all y'all to be happy, let me offer up something else to the rest of youse who might not want your own favicon (and why on earth NOT, I ask) and need to hear boring stories of my life.
Here's one:
I hate route 401. I hate it on regular nights, because there are vast herds of humanity using it when I JUST WANT TO GO HOME, but last night I hated it with the intense fury of a class 5 hurricane.
Oh yes, that much.
You see, even though I am only ON route 401 for a couple/few miles, it took me 40 MINUTES to traverse that distance last night, because further UP route 401 (may the fleas of a thousand camels infest its ditches) there had been an accident.
All right, you might say, big deal. It's a highway. Route traffic around it.
Ahahahahahahahaha!!! You would be funny to say that, because what you do not know is that immediately AFTER the light at which I need to turn OFF of route 401, traffic goes from 3 lanes in each direction to 1.
That's right. 1 lane north, 1 lane south. There's nowhere to ROUTE traffic even if you WANTED to, the result of which is that a bottleneck of extraordinary proportion is created, with cars and trucks and angry people lining up, waiting to inch forward a car length at a time, becoming giddy if 2 or more car lengths are achieved at any one forward burst, sucking down fumes and listening to loud rap fro that CAR OVER THERE or loud country from that TRUCK OVER THERE and wishing for the powers of levitation while watching the gas gauge slink toward "E" with no quickie mart in sight.
Because I was hatin' on the 401 during my extended tenure there, I of course was exhilarated to get off of it, procure some gasoline, and get onto the road that leads to my house. Ah, such a wonderful feeling to zoom along at 45 MPH.
Zoom along, yo ho, until a looong snake of taillights appear where a long snake of taillights usually ISN'T.
Uh-oh.
Another accident. Right on the corner of one country road and another country road that intersect at a most dangerous acute angle, and approaching traffic doesn't have a stop sign, except maybe that one car should have stopped before it was rammed into by that truck (which should actually have been the one to stop, judging from the direction the wreck was facing) and consequently was smash-pushed into the front yard of the farmhouse on the corner, necessitating the arrival of all the cops and firemen from a dozen EMS units who set up their klieg lights and made us all wait until the injured were extricated and whisked away in 2 ambulances, of which only one turned on the lights and sirens.
When the second one pulled out, silently, from the wreck scene, I found myself praying for whomever was inside, hoping that the silence meant something good.
Yeah, it was a long ride home.
Thank God for bourbon, is all I'm sayin'.
=====================
Y'all have a good weekend. I do believe I'll be working.
Don't you wish you were me right now?
Yeah, me neither.
See it up there in the navbar, and maybe even in your bookmarks list (if you've bookmarked NAY)? Cute, ain't it?
Easy to do too, once I stumbled on the correct answers.....only took about 4 hours of searching to get to that point.
I am about to tell you how I did it, because I'm pretty sure that because 90% of the known blogosphere uses Blogger and we're all sick and darned tired of all having the same navbar icon (for all y'all IE users, you might not see one unless you're using IE7 or have the tab plugin for 6 and lower. Got get Firefox and you'll see what I'm talking about. It's free. Go on, Do it now.).
You DO want your own icon, don't you? Of course you do. Read on then, and I'll tell you how it's done.
See, all you do is create a picture that screams "this is MY site and MY identity" in a sqaure format (not "not hip" square (does anyone use that term anymore) but "equilateral parallelogram with internal right angles on all four apices" kind of square) that's at least 96 pixels per side and less than 100kb in size. Save it in .bmp or .gif format.
This is mine:
With me so far? Use painter or something easy (which is what I did, and I'm pretty much an idiot and STILL could come up with something not totally LAME), and don't use too many colors or too finely detailed a picture, or what you'll ultimately wind up with is something that looks like CRAP once it's squished down to the 16x16 pixel icon size (ask me how I know this....).
Allrightie then. You've got your awesome wee picture in your eager paws and are practically salivating with anticipation over getting the damned thing UP ON YOUR URL "just like Tiff has it."
I understand, this is heady stuff, but you need to take a deep breath and stick with me. Hear me, soldier? Stay with me!
Next step: Go to "my.favatar.com" and create an account. Don't worry, it's free. Yay for free!
Use the "change my favatar" function to import your awesome new picture into your account, and refresh the page to see how unbelievably GREAT it looks on the home page.
OK, now your picture is being "hosted" somewhere. Good for you!
Now, go to the "help" menu at my.favatar.com, click on the "how do I add a favicon to my blog" question, and follow the instructions there. (Basically ,what you're going to do is copy and paste a bit of code into your blogger template that tells web browsers to go to myfavatar to use YOUR icon with your URL instead of the blogger icon.) It's important to remember to change the "favicon" in the code to your new username once you've pasted the code into your template.
Save the template changes, republish the index (or the whole blog iffn ya wanna), and you should see your adorable/awesome/fear-inducing favicon on the navbar!
Please, should you choose to follow these instructions, do tell me if they worked or not.
======================
I just used up a lot of space writing about something that maybe y'all aren't so interested in, but it interests me, so there. This is my blog and I can do what I want.
However, because I want all y'all to be happy, let me offer up something else to the rest of youse who might not want your own favicon (and why on earth NOT, I ask) and need to hear boring stories of my life.
Here's one:
I hate route 401. I hate it on regular nights, because there are vast herds of humanity using it when I JUST WANT TO GO HOME, but last night I hated it with the intense fury of a class 5 hurricane.
Oh yes, that much.
You see, even though I am only ON route 401 for a couple/few miles, it took me 40 MINUTES to traverse that distance last night, because further UP route 401 (may the fleas of a thousand camels infest its ditches) there had been an accident.
All right, you might say, big deal. It's a highway. Route traffic around it.
Ahahahahahahahaha!!! You would be funny to say that, because what you do not know is that immediately AFTER the light at which I need to turn OFF of route 401, traffic goes from 3 lanes in each direction to 1.
That's right. 1 lane north, 1 lane south. There's nowhere to ROUTE traffic even if you WANTED to, the result of which is that a bottleneck of extraordinary proportion is created, with cars and trucks and angry people lining up, waiting to inch forward a car length at a time, becoming giddy if 2 or more car lengths are achieved at any one forward burst, sucking down fumes and listening to loud rap fro that CAR OVER THERE or loud country from that TRUCK OVER THERE and wishing for the powers of levitation while watching the gas gauge slink toward "E" with no quickie mart in sight.
Because I was hatin' on the 401 during my extended tenure there, I of course was exhilarated to get off of it, procure some gasoline, and get onto the road that leads to my house. Ah, such a wonderful feeling to zoom along at 45 MPH.
Zoom along, yo ho, until a looong snake of taillights appear where a long snake of taillights usually ISN'T.
Uh-oh.
Another accident. Right on the corner of one country road and another country road that intersect at a most dangerous acute angle, and approaching traffic doesn't have a stop sign, except maybe that one car should have stopped before it was rammed into by that truck (which should actually have been the one to stop, judging from the direction the wreck was facing) and consequently was smash-pushed into the front yard of the farmhouse on the corner, necessitating the arrival of all the cops and firemen from a dozen EMS units who set up their klieg lights and made us all wait until the injured were extricated and whisked away in 2 ambulances, of which only one turned on the lights and sirens.
When the second one pulled out, silently, from the wreck scene, I found myself praying for whomever was inside, hoping that the silence meant something good.
Yeah, it was a long ride home.
Thank God for bourbon, is all I'm sayin'.
=====================
Y'all have a good weekend. I do believe I'll be working.
Don't you wish you were me right now?
Yeah, me neither.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
It is written in the stars
A little research this morning (actually, a nosing around from the "details" pages of sitemeter) let me know that if one searched Google for:
'"locker room" naked'
the entry here at NAY from yesterday comes up as the #1 result.
It's clear that I belong in the PBAA.
======================
The sunrise this morning was one of those that is so gorgeous it could convince an atheist that God exists.
I don't really care if all the colors, the brassy gold of the cloudbacks where they were lit by the sun, the butter yellow of the sky, the perfect charcoal blue of the cloud fronts, are the result of the fallout from nuclear testing or some volcano eruption halfway around the world, I really don't.
If that's what it takes to stun me into a momentary reverence, then so be it. It's a close as I ever get to church.
The only thing better would have been if there had been those pillars of sunlight bursting out from the cloud tops, a headdress of light, as it were, to finish the finery. I totally love that.
=====================
Sometime in the next little while, I'll have a guest post up at KaplyInc. I'm not entirely certain what Tracy Lynn has in mind to DO with my guest post, so it will be a surprise to me as well to see what finally shows up. I just wrote something, sent it to her, and for all I know she's going to mock it ruthlessly and stomp all over my lame idea like a Panzer on the offense.
I kind of hope this isn't what's going to happen, because the whole guest post thing is supposed to be like a "12 Days of Christmas" thing, but one never knows with Tracy. I just have to cross the old fingers and hope for the best.
Dealing with evil geniuses is always a dicey business.
====================
Also, in a fit of I don't know what, I signed up at Neil's blog to do a Christmas song for his holiday bloggers concert.
Please, someone talk me out of it, because I'm not sure the world is ready to hear me sing "The Christmas Song" without some MAJOR editing and possibly a vocoder or something cool to cover up the horribleness of my middle-aged voice.
If you too are impulsive and regularly engage in ill-considered joining of things that seem fun at the time but in retrospect appear to perhaps be designed to introduce you to a world of embarrassment and shame, then hop on over to Citizen of the Month and sign up too.
I hear ALL the cool kids are doing it. At least I THINK that's what I heard.
====================
And lastly, a plea.
If anyone out there knows how to use favicons in Blogger-not-Beta, would you please let me know? I so TOTALLY want my own little cute URL icon to show up in the nav bar and in bookmarks, but don't know how to make it work and I'm maybe getting a little bit obsessed about this to the point of ignoring other obligation to do R&D work on this topic.
It looks easy to do, if, say, you're a super-genius HTML whiz, but I'll be jiggered if I can figure out what my "root" directory is for blogger, which is where I need to put my cute little favicon in order for it to automatically load.
Help is needed, and y'all are it.
The first one to come up with a usable answer gets a guest post from me. Don't all rush the stage to be first now....
UPDATEUPDATEUPDATE!
I figured it out - if you're using Firefox or other browser that uses tabbed browsing - check out the url logo in the nav bar! Cute, eh?
Actually, the favicon sucks, but hey, at least it's THERE!
Thanks to Rick for lending a hand, and, even though I kinda of found out on my own, he still was there digging around on my behalf. So, he gets a guest post from me if he wants one.
'"locker room" naked'
the entry here at NAY from yesterday comes up as the #1 result.
It's clear that I belong in the PBAA.
======================
The sunrise this morning was one of those that is so gorgeous it could convince an atheist that God exists.
I don't really care if all the colors, the brassy gold of the cloudbacks where they were lit by the sun, the butter yellow of the sky, the perfect charcoal blue of the cloud fronts, are the result of the fallout from nuclear testing or some volcano eruption halfway around the world, I really don't.
If that's what it takes to stun me into a momentary reverence, then so be it. It's a close as I ever get to church.
The only thing better would have been if there had been those pillars of sunlight bursting out from the cloud tops, a headdress of light, as it were, to finish the finery. I totally love that.
=====================
Sometime in the next little while, I'll have a guest post up at KaplyInc. I'm not entirely certain what Tracy Lynn has in mind to DO with my guest post, so it will be a surprise to me as well to see what finally shows up. I just wrote something, sent it to her, and for all I know she's going to mock it ruthlessly and stomp all over my lame idea like a Panzer on the offense.
I kind of hope this isn't what's going to happen, because the whole guest post thing is supposed to be like a "12 Days of Christmas" thing, but one never knows with Tracy. I just have to cross the old fingers and hope for the best.
Dealing with evil geniuses is always a dicey business.
====================
Also, in a fit of I don't know what, I signed up at Neil's blog to do a Christmas song for his holiday bloggers concert.
Please, someone talk me out of it, because I'm not sure the world is ready to hear me sing "The Christmas Song" without some MAJOR editing and possibly a vocoder or something cool to cover up the horribleness of my middle-aged voice.
If you too are impulsive and regularly engage in ill-considered joining of things that seem fun at the time but in retrospect appear to perhaps be designed to introduce you to a world of embarrassment and shame, then hop on over to Citizen of the Month and sign up too.
I hear ALL the cool kids are doing it. At least I THINK that's what I heard.
====================
And lastly, a plea.
If anyone out there knows how to use favicons in Blogger-not-Beta, would you please let me know? I so TOTALLY want my own little cute URL icon to show up in the nav bar and in bookmarks, but don't know how to make it work and I'm maybe getting a little bit obsessed about this to the point of ignoring other obligation to do R&D work on this topic.
It looks easy to do, if, say, you're a super-genius HTML whiz, but I'll be jiggered if I can figure out what my "root" directory is for blogger, which is where I need to put my cute little favicon in order for it to automatically load.
Help is needed, and y'all are it.
The first one to come up with a usable answer gets a guest post from me. Don't all rush the stage to be first now....
UPDATEUPDATEUPDATE!
I figured it out - if you're using Firefox or other browser that uses tabbed browsing - check out the url logo in the nav bar! Cute, eh?
Actually, the favicon sucks, but hey, at least it's THERE!
Thanks to Rick for lending a hand, and, even though I kinda of found out on my own, he still was there digging around on my behalf. So, he gets a guest post from me if he wants one.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
In which I am verklempt
VERY IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT!
The Wordsmiths December Challenge posting should be up anytime now. Go, Read. The stories are pretty damned good, IMHO.
====================
Now to the verklempt.......
Sometimes people come into our lives and instantly change them for the better.
I am happy to announce that this phenomenon has happened to me again very recently, and the phenom's name is Biff Spiffy.
Why has Biff changed my life for the better?
Because he has generously invited me to participate in a new blogger's association. I am seriously thinking of joining.
So, Biff, if I was at home I'd raise a glass our our shared favorite adult beverage and make a toast to your insight and creativity, but as it's only 10 a.m. I will hoist high my styrofoam cup of organic farm-raised coffee with creamer and sweetener and say "WELL DONE!", for you have made me come over all verklempt at your generosity.
======================
Also, because apparently today is the day for hyperlink hijinx, I will also shout out to my new buddy Rennratt, who has engaged with me of late in a pursuit most noble, which was her idea in the first place but on which bandwagon I immediately jumped as as to appear noble and good-hearted as well, because I'm a joiner like that.
Sadly (and yet in kind of a cool way) I cannot say what this pursuit is, for it involves someone who is, as yet, unsuspecting and who comes to NAY from time to time (and no I'm not going to say who it is, you curious little bunnies!), but suffice it to say that during the activities necessary to complete said noble pursuit, Renn and I were perhaps being targeted from immediate removal from a certain big-box retailer for hysterical laughter and vicious mockery of certain low-priced buying opportunities.
It's not everyone who can share in that kind of noble pursuit; I tell you THAT much right now.
========================
Fitness update: 1/2 mile in the pool in 24 minutes. 300 meters at a time without stopping. 1 minute rest after each 300 meters. 23 kicks per length, 15 full strokes per length. I added backstroke today, just to mix it up. Have to work on the flutter kick thang, because I'm pathetic at it.
Something must be working right, because I could actually walk after I got out of the pool. Usually the legs, they're pretty wobbly.
BONUS: Older Chinese swimmer lady was there as well. She does butterfly. I might not like her as much anymore for just that one simple fact. Oh, and she walks around the locker room bare-ass naked after she showers, humming those Chinese folk songs in her deep voice. Because nobody who does that kind of thing is a regular-schmegular kind of person, I now suspect she is the former lover of a major Chinese political figure who escaped from a life of under-the-covers naughty action through the auspices of the United States government, who resettled her in suburban North Carolina after extracting all her secrets under the power of truth serum and thumb screws, and replaced all her memories with the ability to swim a difficult stroke and a lack of modesty.
Side note: she actually has a nice ass for a lady her age.
=======================
Also in the pool this morning: a woman swimming in a shirt.
OK, not a regular shirt, but a shirt nonetheless. A kind of skintight racy-looking thing.
A confession: I want one. The shirt is cool.
See, here's the deal - I am so accessory-free in the pool it's sad. I don't have goggles. I don't have a cool rubber swim cap (OK, I do, I just don't use it). I don't have nose clips or swim fins or hand paddles nor NOTHING, and I'm starting to think that the other hyper-accessorized swimmers might think I'm not good or something because I swim with just me, my bathing suit (which is getting a little old and baggy because the lycra/spandex/whatever has been subject to too much pool water and children playing horsey with Mom in the pool using the straps as reigns, but maybe that's a story for another time), and a kickboard.
I need to rethink the lack of accessories, and then hurry out and shop for a LIFE.
===================
That's it for today - work calls and I must answer. As always, feel free to leave comments, recipes, suggestions, snippets of your life by using the comments feature of this here blog, and I'm pretty sure I'll answer most all of them with a little something I like to call "feedback."
See you all right back here tomorrow, 'kay?
The Wordsmiths December Challenge posting should be up anytime now. Go, Read. The stories are pretty damned good, IMHO.
====================
Now to the verklempt.......
Sometimes people come into our lives and instantly change them for the better.
I am happy to announce that this phenomenon has happened to me again very recently, and the phenom's name is Biff Spiffy.
Why has Biff changed my life for the better?
Because he has generously invited me to participate in a new blogger's association. I am seriously thinking of joining.
So, Biff, if I was at home I'd raise a glass our our shared favorite adult beverage and make a toast to your insight and creativity, but as it's only 10 a.m. I will hoist high my styrofoam cup of organic farm-raised coffee with creamer and sweetener and say "WELL DONE!", for you have made me come over all verklempt at your generosity.
======================
Also, because apparently today is the day for hyperlink hijinx, I will also shout out to my new buddy Rennratt, who has engaged with me of late in a pursuit most noble, which was her idea in the first place but on which bandwagon I immediately jumped as as to appear noble and good-hearted as well, because I'm a joiner like that.
Sadly (and yet in kind of a cool way) I cannot say what this pursuit is, for it involves someone who is, as yet, unsuspecting and who comes to NAY from time to time (and no I'm not going to say who it is, you curious little bunnies!), but suffice it to say that during the activities necessary to complete said noble pursuit, Renn and I were perhaps being targeted from immediate removal from a certain big-box retailer for hysterical laughter and vicious mockery of certain low-priced buying opportunities.
It's not everyone who can share in that kind of noble pursuit; I tell you THAT much right now.
========================
Fitness update: 1/2 mile in the pool in 24 minutes. 300 meters at a time without stopping. 1 minute rest after each 300 meters. 23 kicks per length, 15 full strokes per length. I added backstroke today, just to mix it up. Have to work on the flutter kick thang, because I'm pathetic at it.
Something must be working right, because I could actually walk after I got out of the pool. Usually the legs, they're pretty wobbly.
BONUS: Older Chinese swimmer lady was there as well. She does butterfly. I might not like her as much anymore for just that one simple fact. Oh, and she walks around the locker room bare-ass naked after she showers, humming those Chinese folk songs in her deep voice. Because nobody who does that kind of thing is a regular-schmegular kind of person, I now suspect she is the former lover of a major Chinese political figure who escaped from a life of under-the-covers naughty action through the auspices of the United States government, who resettled her in suburban North Carolina after extracting all her secrets under the power of truth serum and thumb screws, and replaced all her memories with the ability to swim a difficult stroke and a lack of modesty.
Side note: she actually has a nice ass for a lady her age.
=======================
Also in the pool this morning: a woman swimming in a shirt.
OK, not a regular shirt, but a shirt nonetheless. A kind of skintight racy-looking thing.
A confession: I want one. The shirt is cool.
See, here's the deal - I am so accessory-free in the pool it's sad. I don't have goggles. I don't have a cool rubber swim cap (OK, I do, I just don't use it). I don't have nose clips or swim fins or hand paddles nor NOTHING, and I'm starting to think that the other hyper-accessorized swimmers might think I'm not good or something because I swim with just me, my bathing suit (which is getting a little old and baggy because the lycra/spandex/whatever has been subject to too much pool water and children playing horsey with Mom in the pool using the straps as reigns, but maybe that's a story for another time), and a kickboard.
I need to rethink the lack of accessories, and then hurry out and shop for a LIFE.
===================
That's it for today - work calls and I must answer. As always, feel free to leave comments, recipes, suggestions, snippets of your life by using the comments feature of this here blog, and I'm pretty sure I'll answer most all of them with a little something I like to call "feedback."
See you all right back here tomorrow, 'kay?
Monday, December 04, 2006
No.Way.In.Heck
I received a very interesting e-mail yesterday, and I am so excited to tell y'all about this groovy new opportunity I have been offered.
The best way to explain what it's all about is to just repeat the e-mail sent to me and THEN talk about what this could mean.
So, here goes!
=======================
Dear blog author:
Plus which, I'm really hoping for an invite to the "Mommy Bloggers Association" first. One must keep the eyes on the prize, after all, because we all know the BIG money's in that camp.
=============================
Would they be proud to have me associated with their association, or would they dissociate me from their association even if I'd already associated with the association?
Would having my blog come up in the results list for those search strings automatically grant me entree into the Perverted Bloggers of America Association? 'Cause if so, I haven't gotten notification from them yet. Not like I would JOIN, mind you (though I might think about it a lot and maybe ask some questions and perhaps sign up for a free trial), but it sounds maybe a little more fun than the CBA.
I'm just sayin', is all.
The best way to explain what it's all about is to just repeat the e-mail sent to me and THEN talk about what this could mean.
So, here goes!
=======================
Dear blog author:
We recently came across your site, noaccentyet.blogspot.com, while searching for fellow christian bloggers.
A small group of us have started a new site called Christian Bloggers. Our prayer and intent is to bring Christians closer together, and make a positive contribution to the Internet community. While many of us have different "theologies", we all share one true saviour.
Would you be interested in joining Christian Bloggers? Please take a few minutes to have a look at what we are trying to do, and if you are interested, there is a sign up page to get the ball rolling. We would greatly appreciate your support in this endeavour.
May God Bless you and your blogging efforts. We look forward to hearing from you.
Craig Cantin
Christian Bloggers
info@christian-bloggers.com
Please note: you will receive this email only once. You can join or visit Christian Bloggers at any time, but we do not believe in spam, and will not intentionally send this invite more than once. If you have any concerns regarding our anti-spam policy, please do not hesitate to contact us.
=====================
Firstly, what is it about MY wee corner of the web that screams out "Christian blogger"? Have I unwittingly aligned myself with that brand of theology? Am I unsuscpectingly shutting out the Jews and Muslims and Pagans and Buddhists and Hindus and all other practitioners of all other religions though some super-secret code that the Christian Bloggers Association has somehow cracked and with which they've claimed me as one of their own?
If so, I'm sorry, all y'all non-Christian readers and bloggers. I didn't mean to. I'm sorry if talking about Christmas or youthful church choir anics sent me clear over the fence into an exclusive camp. I didn't mean for it to. I'm sorry if my invite to the CBA means we can't be friends anymore, even if I don't intend on EVER joining them, even if they ARE nondenominational and therefore potentially harmless because of the mixing of theologies that might perhaps cool the Pentecostal's firey rhetoric while warming up the Prebyterians to room temperature, making a tepid weak stew with the the flavor of flour and the texture of tapioca.
(oh yes, I did just say that.....paging Hell, I'm on my way!)
As Groucho Marx once said, "I don't want to be a part of any club that would have me as a member."
So, CBA, I'm sorry to you too. I cannot join your august-if-maybe-a-little-overenthusiastic club, for that would be exclusionary and unfair, and would be a lie because, unlike your assumption, I'm not altogether certain I share your one true "saviour," the spelling of which makes me think that maybe y'all are from Canada or Bermuda and your "endeavour" smacks of international intrigue and I can't have that.Plus which, I'm really hoping for an invite to the "Mommy Bloggers Association" first. One must keep the eyes on the prize, after all, because we all know the BIG money's in that camp.
=============================
I wonder what would happen to that CBA invite if my new wanna-be friends the Christian bloggers found out that someone searched the following phrases and found MY website?
"Hot wet grandma pussy anal."
Or this one:
"Aunts give enemas."Would they be proud to have me associated with their association, or would they dissociate me from their association even if I'd already associated with the association?
Would having my blog come up in the results list for those search strings automatically grant me entree into the Perverted Bloggers of America Association? 'Cause if so, I haven't gotten notification from them yet. Not like I would JOIN, mind you (though I might think about it a lot and maybe ask some questions and perhaps sign up for a free trial), but it sounds maybe a little more fun than the CBA.
I'm just sayin', is all.
Change in plans, but it's all good
Well, there were supposed to be stories here today. Stories of doom and gloom and mayhem and murder, but things changed.
I'll wait while you collect yourselves from that shocking disappointment.
You over it yet?
Good, because, as always, my head is full of nonsense that needs to be evicted. Y'all are the lucky recipients of that nonsense! Yay for nonsense!
=======================
There's a convenience store near me that has the following on the sign out front:
Propane Refills
Now Hiring
Biscuits in A.M.
So, do the empty tanks hire the sausage gravy in the p.m.?
One wonders.
=======================
I don't think it's possible to kill a philodendron. I have one in my office that went without water for 2 weeks; to the point that it's leaves were floppy and foldable. A little bit of water later and BLAM! It was back to full power.
(In my defense, I didn't purposely NOT water it for two weeks. I was moving offices and didn't get back to where the plant lived for a little. It's not like it was sitting on my desk and I watched it dessicate little by little over a period of time, like some evil science experiment performed by a twisted cruel botanist waiting to record the final death bleat of an ordinary houseplant. Gee, give me some credit here! I was just lazy!)
Anyhow, I don't think it's possible to kill one. I have never seen it happen. Have you?
============================
Which kind of reminds me. What happened to the girl who played Seymour's love interest in the movie version of "Little Shop of Horrors"? The one with the incredible figure and great voice?
Ellen Green. That was her name. Played Audrey. Won a Tony in '77.
Seemed to disappear after that. Too bad, really.
===========================
Note to self: If you're going to spend a good chunk of the evening cocktailing, why not try having a bite to eat and drinking a little WATER too!
Needless to say, this is not the best of Monday mornings. 2 cups of decaf coffee and about 4 trips to the water fountain, and I still don't have to pee.
Oopsie!
==========================
So, now you know I'm a plant-torturing bourbon-swilling desert of a woman who has a thing for Ellen Green's rack and who makes up stories about inanimate objects doing managerial work at a gas-n-go.
Aren't you glad you stopped by today?
Don't you wish I'd posted the doom-and-gloom stories instead?
Yeah, me too.
I'll wait while you collect yourselves from that shocking disappointment.
You over it yet?
Good, because, as always, my head is full of nonsense that needs to be evicted. Y'all are the lucky recipients of that nonsense! Yay for nonsense!
=======================
There's a convenience store near me that has the following on the sign out front:
Propane Refills
Now Hiring
Biscuits in A.M.
So, do the empty tanks hire the sausage gravy in the p.m.?
One wonders.
=======================
I don't think it's possible to kill a philodendron. I have one in my office that went without water for 2 weeks; to the point that it's leaves were floppy and foldable. A little bit of water later and BLAM! It was back to full power.
(In my defense, I didn't purposely NOT water it for two weeks. I was moving offices and didn't get back to where the plant lived for a little. It's not like it was sitting on my desk and I watched it dessicate little by little over a period of time, like some evil science experiment performed by a twisted cruel botanist waiting to record the final death bleat of an ordinary houseplant. Gee, give me some credit here! I was just lazy!)
Anyhow, I don't think it's possible to kill one. I have never seen it happen. Have you?
============================
Which kind of reminds me. What happened to the girl who played Seymour's love interest in the movie version of "Little Shop of Horrors"? The one with the incredible figure and great voice?
Ellen Green. That was her name. Played Audrey. Won a Tony in '77.
Seemed to disappear after that. Too bad, really.
===========================
Note to self: If you're going to spend a good chunk of the evening cocktailing, why not try having a bite to eat and drinking a little WATER too!
Needless to say, this is not the best of Monday mornings. 2 cups of decaf coffee and about 4 trips to the water fountain, and I still don't have to pee.
Oopsie!
==========================
So, now you know I'm a plant-torturing bourbon-swilling desert of a woman who has a thing for Ellen Green's rack and who makes up stories about inanimate objects doing managerial work at a gas-n-go.
Aren't you glad you stopped by today?
Don't you wish I'd posted the doom-and-gloom stories instead?
Yeah, me too.
Friday, December 01, 2006
This one's for the Wordsmiths
So, this month's Wordsmiths challenge was perpetuated by the subtly evil Kingfisher, who, once he posted the challenge disappeared from the interwebs and has apparently gone into hiding. I believe he's afraid of the fallout and whining from the difficulty points that came with this challenge.
What was the challenge?
To write a story, using mostly dialog, between you and your favorite childhood toy, all in under 500 words.
Sure, it SOUNDS easy, but dialog is HARD for most writers, unless they're natural playwrights, which I am not. So, for the second month in a row I struggled. I struggled hard against the little demon in my head that said "write a story about how you used to play with your Barbies by sacrificing them to the cannibal GI Joe's you stole from your brother's room after stripping them down and sticking pin arrows into them to kill them, then beheading them mercilessly before the roasting and feasting took place," but I didn't think that kind of dialog would evoke a real spirit of childhood, which I associate with innocence and summer vacations and sweetness and light.
Had to find another story. Had to find another memory. Had to find something that wouldn't make y'all wonder if some part of me isn't permanently broken.
Thus, we have the following.
============================
Ruby
Let's go Ruby, it's time go! Here, let me get you out of the garage so we can play.
All right!
Did you have a good night? I missed you, and couldn't wait to get off the bus so we could play together. School was boring to day as usual, the stupid teacher put me in the corner because I showed off the stupid art teacher's stupid project behind her back. Gosh, it was so dumb - who cares about making a picture about always using tissues when you sneeze anyhow?
Not me. I don't have a nose, so I can't sneeze.
I mean, geez, the last stupid project was about using your toothbrush the right way, and she was all excited about that stupid thing because we all got REAL toothbrushes to use in the stupid project. Whoop-dee-do, anyhow.
How stupid.
I know. Stupid. I didn't tell Mom I got put in the corner. I don't think she'd want to know I got in trouble for being fresh again. Mom says I've got a big mouth and need to learn to keep it shut.
I like to listen to you. You talk to me. Hey, I have an idea! Let's go to the top of the hill and see how fast we can go by the time we get to the bottom!
That's a great idea, though you KNOW I'm not supposed to go anyplace where I can't see the house.
Well, we'll see it pretty quick again if we go fast.
All right. Let's go before Mom sees me leave........Gosh, I've never seen the Bocker's house this close. They have an iron statue of a dog on their porch. My legs are getting tired. I'm sweaty.
We're here.
Wow. The house looks really tiny from up here.
But you can still see it, right?
Yeah! Cool! I haven't broken any rules!
Let's go. Fast as you can.
Ready....set......go! Oh my gosh, we're going so fast! Past the Drew's, the Johnson's, the Moore's!
Faster!
The wind is making my eyes water! I'm afraid!
Don't be, we're FLYING!
Ruby! Help! I can't make the turn! We're going to crash! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!
Ouch.
Ruby? You OK?
Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.
Oh Ruby, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry! You're all banged up. The statue on your front fender broke off. I'm sorry! Wait right here, I'll go get a band-aid and fix you up.
Ouch.
I'm back. I have three band-aids. I'm putting that silver angel statue back on your front fender. You'll be all right soon, I promise. Don't hate me because I hurt you!
Ah, that feels better. I think I'm going to be OK.
Oh Ruby, let's not do that again. I was afraid you were never going to be the same. I thought I'd killed you.
Nah, I'm OK.
I love you Ruby. Mom says it's time for dinner. I gotta go.
See you tomorrow - I'll be here.
========================
This is a true story. I was 6. I loved that bike. I still remember crying over that broken fender ornament, and my frantic search for the box of band-aids to fix her up so she wouldn't hurt anymore.
Funny thing though, Ruby never really was the same once she learned she couldn't fly.
What was the challenge?
To write a story, using mostly dialog, between you and your favorite childhood toy, all in under 500 words.
Sure, it SOUNDS easy, but dialog is HARD for most writers, unless they're natural playwrights, which I am not. So, for the second month in a row I struggled. I struggled hard against the little demon in my head that said "write a story about how you used to play with your Barbies by sacrificing them to the cannibal GI Joe's you stole from your brother's room after stripping them down and sticking pin arrows into them to kill them, then beheading them mercilessly before the roasting and feasting took place," but I didn't think that kind of dialog would evoke a real spirit of childhood, which I associate with innocence and summer vacations and sweetness and light.
Had to find another story. Had to find another memory. Had to find something that wouldn't make y'all wonder if some part of me isn't permanently broken.
Thus, we have the following.
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Ruby
Let's go Ruby, it's time go! Here, let me get you out of the garage so we can play.
All right!
Did you have a good night? I missed you, and couldn't wait to get off the bus so we could play together. School was boring to day as usual, the stupid teacher put me in the corner because I showed off the stupid art teacher's stupid project behind her back. Gosh, it was so dumb - who cares about making a picture about always using tissues when you sneeze anyhow?
Not me. I don't have a nose, so I can't sneeze.
I mean, geez, the last stupid project was about using your toothbrush the right way, and she was all excited about that stupid thing because we all got REAL toothbrushes to use in the stupid project. Whoop-dee-do, anyhow.
How stupid.
I know. Stupid. I didn't tell Mom I got put in the corner. I don't think she'd want to know I got in trouble for being fresh again. Mom says I've got a big mouth and need to learn to keep it shut.
I like to listen to you. You talk to me. Hey, I have an idea! Let's go to the top of the hill and see how fast we can go by the time we get to the bottom!
That's a great idea, though you KNOW I'm not supposed to go anyplace where I can't see the house.
Well, we'll see it pretty quick again if we go fast.
All right. Let's go before Mom sees me leave........Gosh, I've never seen the Bocker's house this close. They have an iron statue of a dog on their porch. My legs are getting tired. I'm sweaty.
We're here.
Wow. The house looks really tiny from up here.
But you can still see it, right?
Yeah! Cool! I haven't broken any rules!
Let's go. Fast as you can.
Ready....set......go! Oh my gosh, we're going so fast! Past the Drew's, the Johnson's, the Moore's!
Faster!
The wind is making my eyes water! I'm afraid!
Don't be, we're FLYING!
Ruby! Help! I can't make the turn! We're going to crash! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!
Ouch.
Ruby? You OK?
Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.
Oh Ruby, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry! You're all banged up. The statue on your front fender broke off. I'm sorry! Wait right here, I'll go get a band-aid and fix you up.
Ouch.
I'm back. I have three band-aids. I'm putting that silver angel statue back on your front fender. You'll be all right soon, I promise. Don't hate me because I hurt you!
Ah, that feels better. I think I'm going to be OK.
Oh Ruby, let's not do that again. I was afraid you were never going to be the same. I thought I'd killed you.
Nah, I'm OK.
I love you Ruby. Mom says it's time for dinner. I gotta go.
See you tomorrow - I'll be here.
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This is a true story. I was 6. I loved that bike. I still remember crying over that broken fender ornament, and my frantic search for the box of band-aids to fix her up so she wouldn't hurt anymore.
Funny thing though, Ruby never really was the same once she learned she couldn't fly.
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