Three-dimensional Saturday

For the Wordsmiths:

Birth of a Movement

The swift sea breeze on Block Island inaugurated Pablo to a deep-seated longing he never knew he had. Each sniff was a salty reminder of the brine from which all people were created. Each breath inhaled history.

For a boy from a country with shoreline and history aplenty, this was something of a surprise. He’d spent countless hours in years past spinning forth into the lush shallow bays around his home town, watching the sun set over golden water, carrying home fresh-caught fish from the docks, but those were the hot pursuits of a Latin sea, not the brisk snap of New England hard-faced life.

This summer had taken him entirely by surprise. He’d come here thinking he was simply a guest of his wife’s Pilgrim family. Never did he anticipate how the stark shore would strike him cold with nearly erotic urges to create….something. Notions of a languid holiday spent nervously pacing the lanky stretch of pebbly beach on the crest of a Yankee compound were no longer, instead he struck out each morning searching for the heart of that wild aching place.

Driftwood was first. The tangible muscularity of the once-live being honed smooth by roiling surf caught his imagination. Each piece a history, twisting into a sea-wraught new form, ripe for renewed creation. Pablo hauled worthy pieces to a green spit of land high above the beach, piling them in glorious gray splendor under a hot ripe sun. Grasshoppers sunned themselves there, unaware of his plans, which pleased him.

At night the tangle spoke to him in moon-burnished whispers. He would skuffle to it in hope of seeing their dreams, his slippers lifting fireflies from their beds to glow a way forth. Sometimes his wife Eden would accompany him, holding his hand while her cotton nightshift whipped about her ankles, scattering grasshoppers. He would show her a branch of this, a stick of that, and she would run her hands along it, sometime kissing each piece, tasting its salt and sharing it in a kiss. Eden understood, and would leave him to his work in the deep night, her skirt-lace gathering sea-burrs on the dark walk home.

In August, he had done a thing of which he was proud. On a glorious latesummer day family and friends were invited to a picnic at the place of his creation. At lunch the gathered few looked askance at the tower of sticks. In the afternoon they played around its pillars, marveling at the heft of the what the sea could regurgitate. At sunset, the full purpose of Pablo’s coercion with the sea became evident, a vast wooden dromedary rose up dangling a perfect backlit box, a stark charcoal juxtaposition against breast-soft clouds. Exclamations of surprise and delight mixed with chirps from piping plovers. A success was in the making.

Someone asked what he called it. With a nod to his silent beast of burden, and a wink to his wife, said “Cubism.”

Bwuahahahahaa!!

Anybody tired of yesterday's dancing bird video yet?

Me neither. Which is a good thing, because I'm fresh out of time here and have nothing new or truly interesting to post, so that leaves plenty of time for y'all to go and watch Polly Busta Move again.

The 2 hours to review a manuscript, the 3 hours reviewing a study report, the 2 hours spent prepping for (and holding) a meeting this morning, and the 45 minutes going over my goals and responsibilities this afternoon with my boss means that Tiff is officially out of time to do anything really fun.

I miss the internet. Being productive is for the birds. SEE WHAT I DID THERE???

Wordsmiths post this weekend. Come on back and see what the voices have told me to write.

And have a wonderful weekend.

Nothing for Thursday, I'm afraid. Kindly move along

It's a gorgeous day. The sun is slanting through the living room windows; the kids next door at the Montessori school are, once again, screaming their fool heads off in preschoolish abandon; the dog is idly scratching off another pound of hair onto the carpet; and the microwave is gently beeping, reminding me that the ground beef I'm about to make into lovely meatballs, then simmer in a homemade tomato sauce for dinner, is done thawing.

Ah, another day working from home. Life is good. Good, but rather boring.

So, instead of me blathering on about some item of infinitesimal interest, or the fact that I think it would be cool to boink myself (a la yesterday's post), I shall instead direct you to spend the few minutes that you'd normally waste reading idle drivel, marvelling at this bird's sweet dance moves. (stick around for the whole thing - he just gets better, and better, and better!)

Thanks my dear friend Puff, for sending me a link to 2 minutes and some-odd seconds of pure JOY. I feel like dancin' myself now.

Y'all have a great day.

Bender Gender

This question came across in an e-mail yesterday:

“If you could change place with anyone for a day, who would it be?”

My answer? Biff.

Biff, you say? BIFF? When you could be Angelina Jolie, or (possibly better yet) Brad Pitt, or Barack O, or Pope Benny? Why Biff, might you ask?

Plenty of reasons, some of which are below:

1) He’s a boy, and he has all the boy parts, which would be boatloads of fun to play with. See, I’ve had very VERY vivid dreams about being a boy before (just the sleeping kinds of dreams, not the ‘oh wouldn’t it be wonderful if I WAS a boy’ type dreams), it seems like having a penis would be a LOT of entertainment value for something comes free with the gender. You can pee out of it, rub it to make it bigger, and when you orgasm – BAM! – stuff comes flying out! In the dreams I’ve had, I've doen the peeing and the rubbing, and even once or twice gotten very close to ‘making it’ with a female.

(Yes, I know it’s odd as hell. I’m sure none of YOU have had those kinds of dreams before. I’m sure you’re always the right gender, with the proper number of arm parts, and have never traveled in a world of drowned people who live by metabolizing copper sulphate. I’M SURE.

Those dreams are rather a disappointment when I wake up, because IWASTHISCLOSE to having actual penis sex with a girl, which I imagine must feel very good indeed. Which is reason #2:)

2) It would be freaky-ass cool to make love to me, as him. I’ve flown solo gobs and gobs of times, naturally (yes kids, it’s natural. No need for shame. Tell us all about it!), but it’s fairly inarguable that being able to actually sex your own self using new and wonderful body parts that normally belong to the person with whom you are crazy mad in LURVE would be quite the experience!

I’d be glad to pause a moment for that point to sink in. There you are, about to bed the person to whom you have very strong feelings indeed, but you’re not in YOUR body, you’re in THEIRS. Men, you now have the boobs and the body-image issues and the really lovely soft bits and the desire to please your partner to a soul-crashing climax; and ladies, you now are the proud owner of The Penis, testosterone, and an obligation to make your lady love (formerly YOU) feel like a woman before blowing your stash.

Would you do anything differently than you do now? My God, I hope the answer is yes. Shed those gender roles, forget that you normally are the body you’re about to take to new heights of carnal pleasure, and get.it.on! Would that not be incrediburgable sex? I argue that it would be.

On to reason 3 then, which I think is more important than 1 or 2:

3) Biff is a spectacular human being, with amazing amounts of energy and a mind that holds astounding amounts of information. I would love to feel that kind of energy, and I really love to be the owner of the kind of brain that not only remembers stuff, but recalls where the stuff was learned, how to apply it to current situations, and when to share it. My mind, by comparison, is generally all like “oh, I think I read that someplace in a magazine, or was it online, oh nevermind, it was about this guy who did a thing with some kind of energy, and it might have something to do with this conversation…” You get the idea. My brain is a fuzzy gmish of half-remembered quasi-items, as opposed to the neatly organized tool drawer of facts that occupies his hemispheres.

Which brings me to reason 4.

4) HE GETS TO PLAY WITH TOOLS ALL DAY LONG. His job is sawing things and nailing things and drawing plans and MAKING stuff that people want and need and will make their lives better. He gets to drive all over, exploring. He meets new people all the time. He is out in the air and the life of the world, improving stuff. My job, on the other hand, involves staring at a computer, putting words in the order people want them, and making sure we follow all the right rules at the right time.

I think you’ll agree, his job sounds hell of a lot more fun, doesn’t it?

Just for a day, yes, I think I’d like to be my husband. Forget being the president (or his wife, hubba hubba), forget being a celebrity or race car driver or some random rich bastard with more money than sense. Nope – if I had my druthers, I’d trade with the most awesome Biff.

And probably not leave the house all damned day. It’s that wiener thing, ya know.

Who would YOU trade with, and why?

Piles of clothing on the kitchen table.

The dog is, apparently, on a regular schedule. This involves mad twirling and begging to play from 6 to 8 a.m., after which is a period of intense disinterest in all things physical or fun which lasts until about 5 p.m., at which time she begins the process of ‘getting under the people’s feet’ and ‘obnoxious whining to go out and play.’

Methinks she’s trained herself to our workly schedule.

How do I know this? Easy – I’m working at home today, and after about 2 hours of her being wherever it was that my feet were supposed to be, and emitting high-pitched whines that probably could peel paint from the walls if only moderately amplified, she just QUIT at 9, which was when I was ready to take her out back and play.

Three tosses of the squeaky bone and she was content to lay in the sun, surveying the backyard like the queen I’m sure she thinks she is. Fine then, Skeeter, just LAY there and fail to amuse me with your bone-chasing antics! I shall go inside and annoy the cats!

Which is, of course, exactly what she wants me to do.

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Saturday afternoon was gorgeous, so we decided it might be a good idea to go to Shelley Lake and feed the ducks, geese, and dump chickens, then take a bit of a walk on the lovely 2+-mile paved walking path around the lake.

It was a grand scheme, until one of us (me) had to pee. OK, usually not a big deal; there are bathrooms at both the Arts Center and at the boathouse. One slight issue though – neither the arts center nor the boathouse potties were open. Because of COURSE it makes sense to close them at 2:45 on Saturday afternoon , when there are approximately 800 people using the park, some of whom are having picnics with young children and grannies and persons of the female persuasion who do not have that handy thing for a picnic dangling between their walking legs. Of COURSE let’s make it so there’s no place for THEM to pee, should the need arise! Makes. Total. Sense.

Bastards.

There was no way I was going to make it through 2+ miles of walking without wetting my netherbits, no way at all. So, the walk, which was really the big draw for going all the way down to Shelley Lake, was a no-go. Ah well, the geeses were certainly very happy we came, because they got stale pancakes (not a big hit), old blueberry bagels (a bigger hit with them than with the inhabitants of the Tiny House), some bread ends (a crowd pleaser) and about 10 pounds of ‘duck and goose food' that Biff picked up at the hardware store (the certain favorite of all!).

While feeding the geeses, a little red-headed girl, her baby brother, and their Dad came up behind me. I had the prized bag o' duck chow, and as a consequence the animals were a-swarming around trying to get a bite of hulled corn and whatnot. Well, that little girl just HAD to get in on the action, and who can resist a redhead? Nobody, that’s who, which is why several handsful of goose food found their way into her wee paws and straight into the gullets of the gooses. Then she did me one better, and started feeding the geese right out of her hand…something which I have not yet worked up the stones to do.

Mock me if you will, but I’ve seen those America’s Funniest Home Videos of people getting owned by an angry goose. My hands? Stay well out of the way of their nippy lil’ beaks, is what I’m saying.

Not so for the pint-sized fowl feeder. Oh noes. She laid her hand out flat, and the geese waddled up and started feeding. I was not the only one amazed; her Dad chuffed out a smoker’s chuckle, wheezily declaring “hey, can I get a handful of that stuff? If SHE’S going to do that I have to at least TRY” and of course I said yes, being as how I like to encourage people to stretch themselves to do new things. Yep – I’m all enably like that. And so, through the judicious distribution of bird food, a father and daughter grew closer that day. Touching, no?

It was shortly after that that we discovered the bathroom issue and as a result had to truncate our afternoon in the North Carolina Springtime sun. Really, Raleigh, could you not at least have a port-a-john around so that we, the forecasters of pleasant afternoons spent rambling through an urban greenscape, can make good on those plans with their out-of-town guests? WOULD IT KILL YOU to do that? WOULD IT?

I do not think it would, and so purposefully petition you so to do.

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One final thing: our dentist sent us a $25 gift card to Target as a wedding gift. HOW AWESOME IS THAT????

Plenty awesome, is the answer. Plenty DAMN awesome. It almost forgives all that gum-pokey crap they do every 6 months. Almost. Fifty bucks might have done it.

With that, I bid you a good afternoon. Y'all be good, Tiff be out.

Having a thing or two to say

Hey y'all!

Below is a list of things I did not do this weekend:

• 1) Watch the Oscars
• 2) Invent a cure for stupidity
• 3) Get a pedicure
• 4) Save the whales
• 5) Write the Great Eurasian Novel
• 6) Have a meal with a Nobel Prize Winner
• 7) Share stimulating conversation with an Artic Pony trainer
• 8) Behave in a manner unfitting a young lady of the evening
• 9) Scream at an endangered species
• 10) Lie awake at midnight pondering the real meaning of the blastoderm's involution during embryogenesis
• 11) Eat with chopsticks
• 12) Bathe in honey under a moonlit sky while listening to a jug band play Brahms
• 13) Finish a crossword puzzle in under 5 minutes
• 14) Heave a Molotov cocktail
• 15) Sigh in exasperation
• 16) Wish on a star
• 17) Touch my nose to my knees
• 18) Become an international sensation
• 19) Attempt to climb up the side of a water tower using nothing but my teeth and a pair of rubber dog-grooming gloves
• 20) Host a confabultion of chittering inset-people from a distant planet over cocktails and 'skry-drell,' their snack food of choice which is made from the dried meat of harp seal pups that has been rolled in petroleum jelly and lightly seared in pulverized toenail clippings.

They were on the LIST, of course, but I did not get to them. Why, you might ask? Because Farrago was in town, and when he's in town you STOP WHAT YOU ARE DOING and do fun things instead, even IF the insect-people from Zelnort are banging at the door with seal-jerky in hand.

They can wait. Farrago cannot. And so we visited and talked and listened to Cheap Trick and fed ducks and jumped cars (the battery, not actually JUMPING them, for heaven's sake), and cooked and talked and...well you get the idea. There was talking involved. Also eating. Possibly some drinking as well. OK, for SURE some drinking. At which point the talking might have become a little difficult to follow, I'm not entirely certain.

Farrago man, thanks for switching-out the plans. It was good to see you again, and good to change up the routine doings of a regular weekend to spend some time with a traveller from a distant land.

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Somehow it has turned cold again here. This confuses the daffodils, who are up and blooming their fool heads off, except for in our front yard, which is shady until afternoon, making the flowers out front a little lazier than the early-birds in the open yards of our neighbors. Lazy or not, they are UP, and announcing the end of WINTER! But no. it is cold.

Cold air and daffodils do not really mix. Therefore, it is time for Spring, please. To whom should I go to place THAT request?

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Let me say right here that I'm not a huge fan of the litttle styrofoam 'bread' wafters they give out in church for communion. One word: ew.

I am THISCLOSE to volunteering to organize a committee of bread-bakers and slicers who will lovingly craft homemade treats for our church snack. Because really, if you're going to symbolically eat Jesus, you'd at least think it ought to be something you'd look forward to!

Ahem.

You KNOW what I mean, you dirty-minded heathens.

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With that, I leave you. Work calls my name with the sybillant sounds of certain destruction should I not go attend to it assiduously.

You folks have a wonderful afternoon, won't you?

probably too late for a post, but here goes nuthin'

My guts are making noises like a 60's Jacques Costeau special. There's stuff creaking and bubbling and gurgling around in there that's unbelievably disgusting sounding.

Makes me glad I'm at home today. If I was at work I'm sure the neighbors would hear, and possibly get sea-sick or otherwise nauseated, thinking they were on a sailing vessel that has some very noisy lines a-rubbing and a platoon of bell-helmeted divers blowing rafts of bubbles at irregular intervals up from the sulfuric depths of the sea floor.

But no, it's simply my colon.


I'm almost afraid to be around when whatever it is in there tries to make its escape. Yes, I know how foolish that sounds, but YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. Admit it - sometimes farts are enjoyable, and sometimes they are hot blasts of hate from a gut that obviously is occupied digesting all the hurts of youth and disappointments of old age, distilling them down into the most noxious of methane-based anal outpourings as a means of divesting the psyche of old wounds...

This next round of whatever makes its way out my personal butt? Is going to be awful, I can just tell. I'm guessing that my bowels are taking handsful of elementary school awkwardness, mixing them up with some good old fashioned high-school self-loathing, sprinkling with a dash of awful names people have called me, and are brewing up that noxious stew for a dinnertime offering of the utmost offputting reek.

Perhaps now's the time for me to run some errands. With the car windows wide open. IN FEBRUARY. Let's just hope I don't get stopped by a cop who thinks I'm drunk (open windows in cold weather being a sure sign), only to be greeted by my sad state of affairs which will of course have been enhanced by the stress of being stopped by Johnny Law for no good reason, perhaps kicking off a fear of being sent to the pokey where large angry women will be waiting to shiv me between the shoulder blades and carve the tattoos out of my skin, tanning it to make a nice little clutch purse in which they'll carry the money they took off me in the holding cell.

Could happen.

Probably won't, thought, because what those girls and that cop don't know is that this gas I have? Will KNOCK THEIR ASSES OUT and I shall gain my freedom on the strength of their potency! Ha HA, copper! Ha HA, angry cellmates! You cannot fight MY powah! Oh no!

Hey - one has to work with the gifts one has been given. Extra-stinky farts in copious amounts? Might just be one of MINE.

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As you can tell, I really have nothing to write about. So today you get farts.

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Oh! that begs a question - do you have any memorable fart stories? I, to nobody's surprise, do. For example, there was that one time after Thanksgiving dinner when I tooted for over a minute whilst supposedly 'going to bed' in my cousin's room (all 5 cousins in one room, having a farting contest. After Thanksgiving dinner! It was, as you can imagine, simply awesome!).

Or the time I passed wind on a boyfriend (THE HORROR!!) when he ran up behind me and caught me in a sudden bear hug. Girl cannot protect herself assiduously enough against shit like that, you know?

Or the time I almost fainted from the PAIN of having to hold in a particularly HUGE bubble of gas because I was presenting at a meeting. It was one of those that I'm sure if you were looking at my stomach you'd have thought an alien was about to pop out, so violent were the shiftings and reshiftings of gas. Sweat, literally, broke out on my forehead, and I got all dizzy-like from the effort of trying to contain myself. Absolute misery, is what I'm saying. What was worse though, was that when I COULD go relieve myself, the gas had worked its way back UP and spent the afternoon distending my transverse colon, an experience worse than childbirth in the intensity of the pain. Nothing you can do about it, either, except sit there and pray to God you don't pass out from the pain, which would cause you to hit your head on the desk, which would knock you facedown on floor, where, with your butt now pointing upward, you begin degassing in an audible and ghastly smellable fashion. Nobody's going to want to help revive Stinky Girl, and the shame of having to walk into work the next day KNOWING that you'd broken wind in front of people you work with but barely know? It's enough to make a girl take the afternoon off to go home and fart in the comfort of her own home.

Which, as I recall, is what I did.

Do tell me that I'm not the only one with memorable fart tales, won't you? And have a lovely day.

It's enough to make a grown woman cry

All rightie - I cannot let this pass....

It seems that SOME people who comment at this site think it's funny to insinuate that I might be carrying around a lil' embryonic passenger as a result of the recent Tiny House nuptuals and presumed hot monkey sex that is now occurring.

I do not find this thought terribly amusing. OK - the hot monkey sex part is amusing (wheee!), but the other part? Not so much..

Me being a mommy again, while it might make fan-fucking-tastic blog fodder, is a really daunting thought. Let me set everyone straight on why - if I were 10 years younger I'd still be an 'older mom.' Such older moms have all kinds of scary tests to take and hoops to jump through should they 'fall pregnant.' Older moms (and I'd be geriatric in the scope of mommydom) are at super-dee-duper (that's a medical term) high risk for having children with significant 'issues.' I am a weak woman; having a child with 'issues' would test my feeble strength, and cause my already melancholy bent to take a swift U-turn straight into hopelessness, I'm sure. This would not be a good thing, I think you all can agree.

Therefore, I am WELL beyond the age at which it's really smart to get one's self in the family way. You will, no doubt, be therefore relieved to know that 'protection' is being used against the unlikely possibility of being the recipient of a little bundle o' joy.

(Might I just say right now that IUDs rock the house? I love mine. Too bad it's reaching the end of its lifespan and will have to be yanked this year. If only the Ute had NOT sputtered, I'd be safely in 'no need for protection' territory in 4 months, but NOOOO, there's still life in the old girl yet and so now alternatives will have to be explored, dadgummit!)

All this 'oh hells NO' talk is not to say that if 1) there were a chance to get preggers with a lil' Spiffy that would be guaranteed to be fine n' dandy when it came out, 2) I was able to physically withstand said gestational period without blowing a vein, 3) we had the stamina, patience, and mental health to raise yet another child, 4) we could sell the Tiny House and find something with another bedroom and bathroom, 5) daycare bills would be somewhere in the line of ZERO DOLLARS, and finally 6) at some near future point I could afford the plastic surgery that will make me appear to be less shockingly ancient than I will once the kid is a few years old and I'm in my FIFTIES, that I wouldn't do it in a heartbeat.

Because have you SEEN the man I married? He's freaking adorable!!!! Also smart and kind and capable and cuddly and hawt, but the adorable is huge with this one. HUGE! It's enough to make my nearly comatose ovaries perk up and say 'estrogen', I tell you!!

One other enormous factor in the eschewment of reproduction, and it is big and important: We already have our own children. There are already people walking around ensuring that our genes will be around for at least another generation. They are great! Job DONE!

OK - confession time - We did talk about having another one, and both of us are admittedly slightly enchanted with the NOTION of combining genetic material and producing an offspring. However, it's simply not the World's Very Best Idea Ever for the aforementioned reasons, and also it's time to start living the Life After Children, which I hear is lovely and full of things like golf and vacations and Time To Read The Paper.

Plus which? I do NOT want to be the 65-year-old mother at her child's HIGH SCHOOL GRADUATION! A little selfish, you think? Bite me, say I. We, my unborn third child and I, will not be a freak show for everyone else's stares and finger-pointing. Sure, it's fine for geezer MEN to have young kids (how virile!), but for geezer moms? Not so much. The phrase that pays in that case is 'how odd,' which is NOT the same thing as 'way to go man! You're not shootin' blanks and you have a fertile woman to ejaculate into! Woohoo!'

So no, LL and ETW. No to babies. No no no. No amount of adorable husbandness and 'wouldn't it be neat' can make me jump that particular shark.

Plus which? I'd have to quit drinking. I'm pretty sure we all realize that no good can come of THAT brand of nonsense.

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With that, I leave you to ponder all the TMI to which you've just been exposed. I'm off to grab another Diet Dr. Pepper and get back to work.

Have a wonderful day.

That's one fine mouthful of GRR you got there, Miss

How is it that it’s possible to wake up 20 minutes earlier than usual, to wake your KIDS up 20 minutes earlier than usual, and STILL be skidding into the school parking lot disgorgement area with mere seconds to spare?

Not only that, but one kid’s tae kwon do uniform, which he SAID he had ready last night, was in reality in the WASHING MACHINE (it’s apparent that we need to work on what ‘ready’ means), and the other kid’s lunch was still on the kitchen table after he lovingly packed it up and promptly forgot to take it with him. Good thing HE had cash on hand, for I was not in a position to save his middle-school bacon this morning.

No, this morning was not how I’d envisioned it when I woke up 20 minutes earlier than usual. Then again, hardly anything ever IS how I envision it. Accepting that bit of revelation has been rather freeing. Not much to do but shrug and hope for a better plan tomorrow morning.

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Plus which? It rained this morning. The direct result of which was that people stopped remembering how to drive like an AMERICAN. My God, it was like trying to navigate through Rome (which I’ve heard is very very bad for driving), what with the sudden weaving in and out of lanes, the abrupt application of brakes, the general chaos that results from fair-weather drivers being hypnotized by the pulse of windshield wiper blades.

People (I wanted to shout), it’s just rain. It’s not like we’re completely unfamiliar with the concept. As a matter of fact, it’s been wetter around these parts lately than it’s been in the almost 4 years I’ve lived here. You’d think that a degree of recent experience with the rain might have established some comfort level in the local driving population, but it’s like instead of it being WATER falling, people drive like thumbtacks are dropping from the sky. Swervsy-swerve, stomp on brakes, here comes a RAINDROP! Lose your mind!

Just…..gah.

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In other Grumbly McGrouchypants news, I would like to make this statement public:

I HATE YOU, UTERUS.

Months and months have passed since I last thought about having ‘supplies’ for Aunt Flo’s visits, months have gone by with nary a hot flash or swimmy head, months have passed since I thought about maybe NOT wearing the tan pants today. They have been good months, happy months, free and easy months.

And yet, from all appearances, those months are over. Somehow, for some reason or another, the stupid effing hormones that I THOUGHT had finally dried up to a trickle have somehow been turned ON again. What the knuckle-cracking HELL!

Hello bloat – I didn’t miss you. And Hi achy back, you bitch. And hey, pimples! Who let YOU back in? It shoudl come as no surprise that I am more than a tiddle grouchy about this turn of events, and so will pray HARD that the first signs and symptoms are mere abberations of reality, that in fact I am NOT going to get a-menstruating again, that really this thing was the very last hurrah from my princess parts to me, a small hand-wave over the horizon, if you will.

Won’t you pray for me too?

Much appreciated, and have a wonderful day.

(PS - the rain has stopped. Things are looking up!)

Some functionality has returned

Good news everybody! Blogger (or possibly the internet capabilities here at work) has decided to allow me to write posts in 'compose' mode again! Once again it's possible to add pictures, make bulleted lists, and format text without having to know how to do more than push a button. Oh, happy day!

Not that I WILL do these things, of course, because now that I can I don't want to, but I thought you should know that all seems to be more-right with the world than it had been previously. Celebrate the moment with me in a hushed 'woot woot,' won't you?

Following on to yesterday's post, I spent the commute this morning in silence, almost. About 30 minutes in, I thought 'heck, it's the bottom of the hour, I should catch the news at least' and so punched the 'on' button. Mistake. The first words I heard were in regard to a story about torture. It took about 10 more words for me to shut the damned thing off and resume my silent ride.

OK, silent expect for the loops of song snippets that crowded onto each other. Peter Gabriel's voice was the loudest for a time (oh whatever may come, and whatever may go, that river flows.....thaaaat river flows), but Fool's Garden came up from behind and bashed Peter over the head with THIS song.

Did you watch the video? Can you hear that song in your head? DO YOU UNDERSTAND MY PROBLEM NOW????

I'm liking this 'quiet' thing, except that my inner DJ is, I fear, just getting going.

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There's progress on the Shrinking Piggies front. I lost 2 pounds this week (even though Biff's lil' charts says I didn't...the beetard)! Better food choices, smaller portions, and flat out REFUSING most treats might actually be working!

Next on the plan is to get moving more-n-more. To that end, I pointedly left my lunch in the car this morning, which is parked approximately 320 steps from my cubicle (yes, I counted). If I make that trip 4 times today, I'll have gone......um.......1280 steps.

That's about 1/9th the total recommended daily allowance of steps. Lord have mercy.

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Well, it's another gorgeous day here in NC. I'm off to make the most of it, as I told myself I would on the quiet-ish commute this morning. Y'all have yourselves a wonderful day.

Catching a break

Y'all? Just got a little gift from me, and I bet you don't even know it.

You're welcome for me not posting the post I just wrote about stupid jackhammering work...AGAIN. There are far more interesting things to do with your blogreading time than absorb MY irritation at shit that doesn't matter, not in the least, even to ME, that's how small the shit is. So, bye-bye, self-indulgent whiny stinky pooply post that isn't any more! C U L8TR, MNTL MSTRB8TR!

Righteo. Onward then.

Been undergoing an exercise recently in which efforts are made to dial down the noise. Turn off the radio. Turn off the teevee. Dampen the visual stimulation, the aural pollution. Throw out the dross and detritus of nonessentials. Much like a good closet-cleaning, evicting the 'noise' is intended to simply and focus life. So, last week I started with this clearing-out. My goodness, the difference. With no radio on, the drive to and from work is ever so much more.....long. There's time to think. It's unusual, the thinking. There's time to meditate on issues, to have conversations with my better self (or with any of the other voices that live in my head), to plan. Time to pray, sing, make up stories, notice stuff. Time that's not spent listening to news about things over which I have no control and that do not need to be monitored on a daily basis.

Time - Can't be bought for love or money, but can be experienced more fully when it's just a little more quiet. Much like how last year I vowed that 2008 would be the Year of Doing Only One Thing at a Time, perhaps 2009 will be the Year of Listening to Quiet. Sounds weird, right? I challenge you to just TRY it. Turn off the teevee, the radio, the iPod (or equivalent listening device). Turn off the thoughts and bumper-car processing of random noise, and take a moment to simply 'be.' Much like getting used to a house's no-sounds when the power goes out, turning off the noise so you can hear yourself think is a process of rediscovering what's already there.

It's a challenge. Let me know if you're picking up the (quietly) thrown gauntlet.

And have a lovely day.

It's 951!

Closing in on 1000 posts here at Ye Olde NAY(e), can you frigging BELIEVE it? My goodness that's a lot of words. One would have thought that by now I'd have run out of things to say, but no. There's always something to say.

Like, how I went to the bank this morning to check to see if I had enough money to pay the mortgage (due ABSOLUTELY by the 15th), and the answer was a big ol' fat YES, because the autopay thingie kicked in last night! Yay for autopay thingies! Also, there's a few more bucks in my savings account that I thought there were (me being not so good with knowing how much I have at ALL TIMES) which means that I can mail a check to my mom for a downpayment on the lake house for this summer (hi Mom!) which will make her happy because she fronted that payment to the rental agency last week (or perhaps 2 ago). Can't have her thinking I'm a total and complete slacker.

Also, like how last night after I MADE Thing 2 skim the correct chapter of his science textbook (because indeed the instructions in his agenda were to 'skim,' which I think is interesting), he declared "you know what? your eyes and eyebrows and ears and mouth all orbit your nose," which made me snort Jim Beam, which wasn't as nice a feeling as you might think but hey, a laugh's a laugh.

In addition to which, we've been watching a LOT of Harold Llyod films recently at the Tiny House, and my goodness what fun THAT is. Silent movies are great entertainment, who knew? That dude could do some amazing things with his skinny lil' ol' body, and the comedic timing and almost-understandable silent talking (there's no NOT recognizing when someone mouths 'oh no!')and perilous situations are simply wonderful. Netflix, babies - they've got what it takes for some good old family bonding time.

And this one is for Tracy Lynn - you'll be happy to know that Thing 1 is now an avowed Terry Pratchett fan, and he's spreading the lurve to his friends. This makes me happy, for us geekly folk do like to know that the next generation will carry their freak flag onward.

Lastly (woohoo, it's almost OVER!) - Tonight at the TH there will be homemade pizza, more Harold Lloyd no doubt, and then the weekend will be full of fun things like CLEANING and possibly MAKING OUT A WILL, and perhaps even the most stellar occupation ever - CREATING A BUDGET!

You envy me, admit it. I gots me da glamour.

Post-lastly; I hope y'all have a fantastic weekend. Hugs to all!

Ripped from the headlines!

Just saw this on my Google Newsfeedermabob - "Stimulus aid may have your name on it"

Well then? Really? It's possible I'm going to get a STIMULUS AID from my government?

As if being screwed on my taxes every year wasn't enough, now they're possibly going to send me an aid to stimulate me. Perhaps, who knows, it might be so that I enjoy my yearly wallet-reaming all that much more.

Make my stimulus aid a buttplug, please. Might as well get to stretchin' it now.

===========================

Went to the dentist this morning, and along with the jaw massage I got because my stupid mouth doesn't open very far and thus it gets really freaking TIRED when I have to keep it cranked open for the hygienists and plumbers and God-knows-who-all to do their twisted shit all up in there, I got some bad news.

I have to get my first filling ever in my life. This makes Tiff an unhappy camper.

Thus far, my teeth have been pristine, unsullied by cavity or filling. A streak of 46+ years, all gone down the tubes now. It's very sad. I had been inordinately proud of my record, and thought that perhaps I could live al ong life without ever having to get drilled n' filled, but alas, this is not to be.

You see, a molar cracked a few years ago, and all along it's been 'monitored' for possible signs of deterioration. Never mind that approximately 1/4 of the tooth is missing, and that jagged shards of toothly material scrape the back of my tongue on a semi-regular basis (read: every day), no, THAT was not enough for me to agree to have some work done.

Silly me.

Now, the tooth, like so much of the rest of me, is 'going soft.' Possible decay - the horrors! I cannot have decay IN MY MOUTH, and so have agreed to let them numb me up, scrape me out, and fill me up, buttercup.

Maybe they'll patch up the 3 other small tooth chips while they're in there. A little spackle, a little sanding, and I'll be ready to grind a while NEW set of teeth.

========================

Why would I grind my teeth? Our furnace is about to shit the bed. The monstrous 10-year-old unit has a rusty heat exchanger and is BELCHING FLAMES out the sides on startup. Probably not a good thing.

It's 1000 bucks for this particular kind heat exchanger, if they can FIND ONE. Apparently the one distributor in the state has packed up and moved on. It's more than a thou for a new unit, of course.

Sigh. Come on, stimulus aid. If I'm bending over, might as well be for a GOOD reason.

So, I'm confused

There is danger in listening to NPR. Why, just this morning (in between the long-ass pledge breaks they take) there was a story on the elections in Israel that made my head spin. It appears to me that Israel's government is a loose association of many many groups/parties/gangs that are invited by the party in power to join them in a coalition government. Some parties are not invited, some choose to opt out of accepting and invitation - these folks are called the 'opposition' and spend their time stweing in a corner someplace about how THEY could have been in the popular group if they wanted to, but think it's stupid and so 'herd mentality' that they're HAPPIER not being invited! What's even more curious about this form of government, aside from the fact that it simply reeks of high-school popularity contests, is that the President picks the party that will have the best chance of forming a new coalition, even if that party is not the one that got the most votes/seats in the parliament! So now, the leader of one party that now has 27 seats (of a total of 128) is likely to be asked to form a new government while the leader of the party that apparently got 28 seats will possibly not even be INVITED to be part of the government.

Begs the question: HOW THE HELL DOES ANYTHING EVER GET DONE??????

How do you know who is your ally and who is not? How can one have any real appreciation for good ol' party politics when there are so many enemies? The ideological bile-spewing must get a tad dilute what with there being so many folks at which one might aim.

(You're thinking of it, aren't you? You're picturing a ticked-off wonk spouting vile liquids, a la Linda Blair, all around the Knesset, the spray force diminishing little by little until at last there's nothing but a dribble of greenish fluid dripping off his chin, an impotent clammy spill of spittle. Yeah, I'm not thinking Arby's either.)

Makes me kind of glad we don't have a system like that. The possibilities for new political parties are as abundant as the amber waves of grain! The left would splinter, the right would fragment, new groups would arise from the bits and piecs of the old bastions of power, grabbing bits and pieces of whatever flotsam is available. The Hippie Party! Labor! The Green Party! The Birthday Party! Right to Death! Death to Rigth! Hamunahamuna! Where would the MADNESS END?

Noplace good, I'm thinking. Except if you're a bumper sticker maker. Then your work would be well and truly cut out for you, wouldn't it?

With that, I'll ask you: what political party would you start or join, if we radically changed the way American politics works?

Once you've answered, please turn in your papers face down on my desk, and have a wonderful day.

Help me, I think I'm fallin'

Please respond by 13 Feb.

Please return comments to me by 09 Feb.

Due date is 12 Feb.

Please send to publishing by 11 Feb.

Return comments to your functional area head by 10 Feb.

And so it goes. Deadlines, timelines, due dates galore, and in the middle of the mini-maelstrom is Tiff, struggling to keep too many things straight. In addition to the regular-schmegular ol' workly chaos, I also have to formulate answers to yearly performance evaluation questions so that my boss can put together a promotion package on my behalf.

OK, a possible promotion good news, but not a guaranteee that I WILL be promoted. I hold out hope that inspiration will strike and I’ll be able to come up with ways I’ve been a good company steward and how I’m all innovate-y and the times I took the lead on a project and added value and consequently didn’t throw the baby out with the bus whilst going pear-shaped.

If you have any really hot-shot corporate lingo that might look good on these answers, feel free to send them my way. I have the addle on me and as such am not able to activate Corporate Tiff at full strength.

-----------------------------------------------------

Last night on the ride home (in the dark, for it was 6:30-ish), there was a vast orange glow in the eastern sky. Clouds were lit up, arcing across the horizon, the center of the incandescence was a brilliance that seemed like it must have been coming from large house fire.

But no, it was the moon. Gigantic, hanging low over the land, illuminating the atmosphere with the colors of embers, a red-gold sweep of lunar light. If I hadn’t been driving, I would have been struck stone still by the awesomeness of the sight.

I called Biff, all excited, and told him to go look at the moon, go LOOKATIT, and being a good man he did, but could not see it.

Not see it? It was lighting up a great chunk of the sky! It was boiling the clouds, throwing bronze shadows, it was HUGE and grand and majestic! How could he NOT see it?

He could not, because our house is in a little bottomland, and my privileged view came only at the tops of the hills as I commuted along Route 98. The little bit of elevation took my view just barely over the top, so to speak, from where I could take part in a once-in-a-lifetime occasion.

For a moment I thought that perhaps the moon had come loose from its path and was careening toward us, and that the onrush of destruction was preceded by this wonderful view. To be struck dead by fierce beauty, what a thought. Fortunately, the moon stayed put in tis habitual path; it rose, decreased in apparent size and candlepower, and by the time I got home it was a mere full moon rising. Still beautiful, of course, but not the astounding, mildly frightening apparition of a mere 20 minutes earlier.

I was sorry Biff missed the show, and sorrier still that I had no means to capture the moment for him, and also for you, dear readers, because it struck me almost speechless. Even now, 16 hours later, my mind boggles at just how magnificent this little corner of our universe really is.

Just thought you ought to know. Have a wonderful day y'all.

Where YOU at?

This QotD stolen from The West Virginia Surf Report, which generated 320 responses (which is a lot, and probably well beyond the total weekly readership of this lil' blog, but hey, it was fun for a moment so why not try it here?) to this one simple question:

Where do you live?

And further, how would you describe it in ONE word?

Tell us about it in the comments, and have a lovely day.

What the ever-ripping heck is happening here?

Is ANYONE else out there who uses Blogger and is currently unable to post pictures and links or FORMAT their posts or click on the lil' 'post options' button and have something actually happen?

Is it just me? Has someone unseen evil admin at work effed up my permissions or changed my version of IE (hate!) so that I can't get the bells and whistles anymore?

It's highly irritating. I rely on those super-easy shortcuts, you know? One or two clicks and a picture of a guy with what looks like a tampon on his head would magically appear for your amusement. No, really - a gigantic tampon.

Clarification - a giant USED tampon.

(It's "fashion" - therefore it doesn't need to make sense, and it's on Yahoo News Pictures and it's highly awesome, but you'll have to take my word for it because...I can't paste it in here.)

I WANT MY BELLS AND WHISTLES, daggone it.

For how else besides making use of said noisemakers am I to not ONLY post the tampon-head photo but also, and perhaps more importantly, tell you that Buzzardbilly is having a most awesome poetry contest while at the same time linking you to the entry? Why, if push comes to shove I'm going to be forced to actually LEARN how to put in those 'a-href' thingies (yet AGAIN), taking time away from my ongoing efforts to conquer Freecell without resigning game after game...

Sigh. OK. I'll go figure it out. Wait here.
.
.
.
.
.

Fine. I found it. Here Only took me 15 minutes to make it work. 15 minutes of lost Freecell time. A tragedy!

Using my newfound (again) knowledge, let me now make a HANDMADE LINK to BB's contest of awesome, which happens to be titled the "You Are A Dick" poetry contest.

In that post you'll see that BB has noted that last year I had a sister contest to hers, and has offered to have me run THIS years sister contest, which I am VERY happy to do and will cleverly call "You Are Bitch" and subsequently invite people to participate in a poetical spleen-venting at whomever you chose that fit the bitch bill.

I shall start it off, in the spirit of Valentime's Day (I think I did it again!), which is of course the spirit of gluttony, greed, gynecentrism, and overbearing pressure on the males of the specices to come up with something grand for women who, by and large, do hardly anything in return which I think is a total ripoff to the guys. Forthwith, my poem, in honor of all those ladies out there who think they're owed something:

Step Off

You won't be gloatin'
Next Saturday
You ain't so smokin'
As you say
Don't be expectin'
Any goods from him
You're
such a
bitch

He got the message
You're passin' around
He's recently learned
You're common ground
You braggin' all over
The very small town
You
got him
Whipped


Don't be waitin'
For candy and bling
Don't be thinkin'
You deserve a thing
Don't be looking
Anymore for him
He's
Smarter
Now

Oh it was me
Who told him so
It was me
Who let him know
It was me
You cover's blown
You
A skank
Ho

Makes me happy
To take you down
You think all men
Are just some clowns
Waiting to buy you
perfume and gowns
No
such
thing

He's better than that
and I told him so
He's too good good for you
You cheap ho
He'll keep his pride
And his hard earned dough
Ha
Ha
Ha.

There you have it - my little poem to all the greedy money-grubbing self-centered shallow ladies out there who think that just because they have a vaginny they're entitled to be showered with gifts and expensive toys and tokens of their lovers' affection without having to give anything in return. Guys, a word - there are vaginas aplenty out there, some are the property of very nice women. If you have yourself a lover who is constantly on and on about shit that simply DOES NOT MATTER, or complains about how you don't 'take care of her' or who doesn't have a nice word to say about other people, or who won't give you an inch of space to be yourself, or demands you buy her stuff before she'll grudge you a conjugal session that's probably full of demands about how you should 'do it' while NOT touching her hair - get rid of her. She is so not worth it. I've seen more men running around after Little Miss Pretty, hoping to get a piece of some fine female's strange, only to find out that once she's given up the goods she expects far more from them than they could ever hope to be able to give. Those kind of life-sucking narcissists are SO VERY NOT WORTH IT.

(Ladies - do not even PRETEND you've not done the same thing with a lover or two. We've all been there, but it just so happens that this contest is about bitches, not dicks. Go to BB's to write about guys you've known who are dicks.)

So, Um. Yes. I'm maybe venting a little. Feel free to do thet same on your blog, and if you post a poem to the bitches in YOUR life, do tell me about it and I'll send you a little graphic (currently under construction) to display on your site that proudly proclaims you were part of the great Bitch Dissathon of '09.

And have a wonderful weekend.

What light through yonder window barks.

Something's gone terribly wrong here. It seems that I've lost my will to rip on famous dead people, once a little side-hobby of mine when I was feeling a little down in the dumps.

See, this morning I read a quote by Edith Wharton (as a footnote to my Word a Day e-mail, I wouldn't be seeking that crap out, believe you me) that was at once incomprehensible and annoying. It was perfect starter material for a truly good self-esteem-boosting tear-down of her supposed writing skills. I copied that quote, pasted it into a Word document so as to have it ready to rip to shreds, started working up a grand fire of indignant wit, and

realized I simply don't have it in me. It's Edith Wharton, for heaven's sake. She was a great writer of her day, but she's been dead for over 70 years! Probably her next of kin are dead too, and their kids are tottering around in an old folk's home someplace quoting from 'Ethan Fromme' in an uncanny imitation of Franklin Roosevelt. It would be fruitless to try to tear apart what is probably not Edith's best work (most likely written during a period of time when she was having to take a 'rest cure' for her 'nervous ailments' and so in all likelihood not done during a particularly bright spot in her life, must like asking Courtney Love to sing the lead in 'Iolanthe' while in the midst of one of her marathon stays at rehab), because 1) it's just stupid and 2) I'd come off as some kind of dodderpot, carefully constructing a comeback to something that is so trivial it's not even as important as this season's new black.

Not that I COULDN'T, mind you, just that I won't. There comes a time in everyone's life when they realize that spending great amounts of time crafting a work of sublime repartee in response to something some long-dead high-society divorcee wrote a century ago is perhaps a smidge too twee an exercise to undergo when there are far more compelling issues to rail on about.

Like this season's new black. Please, don't tell me it's orange.

--------------------------------------

This sudden turn of events leaves me with a hole in my arsenal of 'things to be on my high horse about,' which is bothersome. Of course I didn't KNOW it would be a hole until I decided to ignore the thing I thought could be the source for a blast of self-righteous snarkitude and possible intellingent brain-wankery, but that's of little import now. What I need is a topic, a bit of mind-meat to gnaw on, to chew on, to stew on, to baste and simmer and sautee.

What are YOU bitching about today that I might borrow a cup of to stuff into the hole left in my quiver of complaints?

The full 50, because why would I make you wait for sparkling content like this?

OK - found this little box of gems over at Middle Girl's place (and sorry but Blogger won't let me link anything right now, NOR will it let me format text, the bastard), and felt called to respond to the questions rather than doing something rancorous like finishing up the hugegumbo project I have going on at work that's been looming over my conscience lo these past many weeks with the fetid hot breath of a thing that could very well kill off my career if I don't do it properly:


1. When you looked at yourself in the mirror today, what was the first thing you thought? How much I wish ‘bed head’ could be an acceptable look for work.
2. How much cash do you have on you? None. No pocket Tuesday!.
3. What’s a word that rhymes with Door? More. Or. Ore. Drawer. None of which are speelt like ‘door.’ English is a funny language.
4. Favorite planet? Oh, I don't know. How about EARTH?
5. Who is the 4th person on your missed call list on your cell phone? Without looking, I’d bet Prez Obama. Hey – let a girl dream.
6. What is your favorite ring tone on your phone? Something ‘cha cha.’
7. What shirt are you wearing? A blue hippie thing from Deva.
8. Do you label yourself? I hate labels. They’re scratchy.
9. Name the brand of shoes you’re currently wearing? “High Lights.” Some way off brand from Payless, no doubt.
10. Bright or dark room? Bright. Lots of sunlight please, which is why I knocked a wall out of my cubikcull.
11. What do you think about the person who took this survey before you? I think she’s pretty cool, and if we lived in the same area I’d totally be having her over for cocktails.
12. What does your watch look like? Invisible.
13. What were you doing at midnight last night? Creeping around my house taking inventory of how many pieces of cat food were in the tub and rubbing my hips with apple butter.

No wait – that was a dream. So, I guess I was sleeping.

14. What did your last text message received on your cell say? Love u
15. Where is your nearest 7-11? Has to be somplace in Raleigh – 10 or so miles from the Tiny House. Not so much with the 7-11’s down here, but we have many Sheetz.
16. What is a word that you say a lot? Love
17. Who told you he/she loved you last? Biff
18. Last furry thing you touched? Me. (Side note to self: remember to shave FEET if you're going to wear these same shoes again soon. The light glinting off the quarter-inch-long hairs is not a look for the corporate board room.)
19. How many drugs have you done in the last three days? A multivitamin for ladies of a certain age, and enough bourbon to thwart any sane plans for losing weight.
20. How many rolls of file do you need developed? OK – this question makes no sense at all. “Rolls of file?” "need developed"?
21. Favorite age you have been so far? Now is good insofar as self-esteem and confidence go, but body-wise I’d say take me back to 23 please, and STAT.
22. Your worst enemy? Laziness
23. What is your current desktop picture? A plaid I made on some computer-generated tartan program.
24. What was the last thing you said to someone? Bye
25. If you had to choose between a million bucks or to be able to fly what would it be? I’d take the money at this point. Paying off all my debts and investing for the future with the rest would life a huge weight off my shoulders and make me FEEL like I was flying.
26. Do you like someone? No, I hate everyone. I’m a card-wielding curmudgeon, now get off my lawn you stinking kids!
27. What is the last song you listened to? That annoyingly catchy church song that will NOT leave my head, even though I only know about two lines total.
28. What time of day were you born? 2:20 p.m.
29. Favorite number? I hold no predjudice against any number.
30. Where did you live in 1987? Harrisonburg, Virginia. Poultry Capital of the World at one time.
31. Are you jealous of anyone? No. Some time ago I gave it up as a waste of time and too obvious a sign of my own insecurities.
32. Is anyone jealous of you? Now how on earth would I know that?
33. Where were you when 9/11 happened? At work. What a dreadful time.
34. What do you do when vending machines steal your money? Walk away.
35. Do you consider yourself kind? I guess so, but my inner 4-year-old would just LOVE to be able to be bossy and bitchy much more often than I am.
36. If you had to get a tattoo, where would it be? How about on my right ankle, or maybe at the base of my neck? Because that’s where mine are. If I were to get another one (and that day is coming), it would be on my left ankle. For symmetry, you know.
37. If you could be fluent in any other language, what would it be? French. You could probably say 'bite me' in French and it'd sound lovely.
38. Would you move for the person you loved? I have done, many times. Why, just last night I shifted over on the couch to make more room for him!
39. Are you touchy feely? No, except with the inhabitants of the Tiny House.
40. What is your life motto? "I'll do it tomorrow."
41. Name three things you have on you at all times? Skin, hair, mascara.
42. What is your favorite town/city? Maybe Boston.
43. What was the last thing you paid for with cash? Bourbon.
44. When was the last time you wrote a letter to someone on paper and mailed it? Last week – wedding thank-notes at last!
45. Can you change the oil on a car? Nope.
46. Your first love: what is the last thing you heard about him/her? That he’s on Facebook.
47. How far back do you know about your ancestry? By memory, two generations. On paper, probably 4 or 5.
48. The last time you dressed fancy, what did you wear and why did you dress fancy? I wore a dress with a tan underlayer and a black lace overlayer with matching lace shrug, black pumps, and glittery earrings. I dressed up for my wedding. THought that would be approrpiate.
49. Does anything on your body hurtnow? My left calf. I know. Weird.
50. Have you been burned by love? Heartburn or rug burn? OK - Yes to both.

There. That's done. I'm off to find something else with which to continue procrastinating. Y'all have a lovely day!

Oh right

Just the day I want to do a simple little picture post that y'all can caption, and all I get on the Blogger interface page is a white screen that 15 years ago would have been the very latest thing in world-wide webbery, but today looks laughably preschoolish.

Predictably, this primitive page prohibitis picture posting, posing potential problems with pissery.

So, you'll just have to figure out something else to do with the time you carved out to write up a hilarious caption about a guy with half a beard.

===============================

The topic of the time people spend on the internet per day came up in dinner conversation that other night. One person in our party was concerned that someone else spends 4-5 hours a day on WWW-dom, to which I had to admit that I could (and do) easily spend that much time on the internet per day.

I'm not even talking about useful time either, like that time spent reading blogs and Facebook and looking up recipes and the name of that kid you had a crush on in 6th grade (hi Phillip Grifano!) - I'm talking about strictly wasting TIME. One session of YouTube fishing takes at least that long if you're going to find anything useful, doesn't it? The perfect 'Talking cat' video just doesn't find itself, you know!

But, perhaps I am wrong in my assumption that everyone else spends about that much time. Is 4 hours too much, particularly if you're not obliged to be at a job 8+ hours a day?

Well, IS IT?