Thursday, November 30, 2006

Puns--The Lowest Form Of Humor


I have found someone who enjoys painful puns even more than I do. Plus, he's made them up and illustrated them with Lego people. I have a new daily reading requirment: Irregular Webcomic.

Check out this little beauty----number 141:
Here's one about if Shakespeare had lived today--number 286:

Don'tcha love it? Erudite, modern, computer-centric, funny AND well illustrated.

I say--better go check him out!

From The Stacks Challenge--Part Deux

Well, I finished my second book in the From the Stacks Challenge--Broken For You by Stephanie Kallos. I have yet to post a review over at the Book Blog of Evil. My laxness in this matter reflects my laxness in this entire endeavor.

I've started the Kate Chopin. I've read about 7000 pages of Kate Chopin. So, how come I'm not finished? Huh? HUH? If you just look at the page numbers, you'd conclude that this is a novella of less than 120 pages. BUT YOU WOULD BE WRONG. This is a book that exists in an alternate dimensionality, one in which 7000 pages of boredom APPEAR to occupy less than 120 pages. Significantly less. Because I'm on about page 56, and I am bored bored bored.

Which is appropriate, since the characters are all spending a hot summer month on the seaside in Louisiana. The men go into New Orleans during the week, and come out on the weekends. The women and children fill their days looking at the water and then changing for meals. And talking in that horrible 1890s way of being polite and not actually saying anything.

Edith Wharton would have made this a page turner. Edith Wharton is a Good Read. Edith Wharton is a classic because people still love to read her. As far as I am so far, Kate Chopin is a classic because...she did something first. Not necessarily best, though.

So, when in a funk, I turn to children's books. Or "young adult fiction." In this case, I've gien up for the time being and turned to the Bunny's favorite "Enchanted Forest Chronicles." These are like potato chips. They are wry and funny and fresh and speedy and end with the bad guys defeated by the good guys. Plus there are princesses and witches and dragons and bad wizards and a lively twist on some fairy tale classics. I've finished the first two and am a third of the way through the third. If I count this series as one book, I still have to finish the Chopin. If I count each book seperately...

A moral dilemma. I wonder how it will turn out.

More Quiz Results!

What American accent do you have?
Your Result: The Midland

"You have a Midland accent" is just another way of saying "you don't have an accent." You probably are from the Midland (Pennsylvania, southern Ohio, southern Indiana, southern Illinois, and Missouri) but then for all we know you could be from Florida or Charleston or one of those big southern cities like Atlanta or Dallas. You have a good voice for TV and radio.















What American accent do you have?
Take More Quizzes


HA! Just wait until I'm on TV and radio, all you cool kids at the Cool Kids Lunch Table! Then I'll be and A-List Blogger!

Credit Where Credit Is Due

I've posted a NaBloPoMo winner button over there to the right. See it? Nifty, huh?

Of course I didn't do it myself, you silly. I'm not that good.

Did you participate? Did you finish? Do you want one too?

Go see Write Wizely and she'll give you one too!

Some Inconvenient Truths

So, having sampled widely through the NoBloPoMo participant blogs, I was coming to some uncomfortable coclusions. One is that despite having had this blog for 1.75 years, I am still an absolute tyro in this field. Also my kids are significantl older than most featured on their parents' blogs. This leads to the next uncomfortable realization: I myself am older than most of the bloggers that I read. Older enough to be their...older sister.
D-List Blogger
But this, this was the painful reality. The official determiner of your internet influence: Are You An A-List Blogger? I didn't expect to be A-List, of course, but finding out I am D-List just hurts. Sure, I've long suspected that the most views my blog gets are me, checking to see if my posts have published correctly. But there's something dispiriting about being told that I don't get to sit with the cool kids at the lunch table.

So, I'm going to stomp my little last season Prada shoes and pour myself some wine. Wine and whine--a winning blog combination.

Day 30--Across The Finish Line

So this is it--my 30th daily post and the official end of NaBloPoMo. I'm pleased that I managed to complete it, and I even learned some things in the process. Like what? you ask? How about a convenient list?

  1. Writing every day isn't as hard as I thought it would be. Making the commitment to showing up at the keyboard is easier than...oh..daily exercise...keeping the kitchen clean...laundry
  2. It's harder to be funny than I thought it would be. Shut up! I am so funny! Sometimes...
  3. Coming up with something to say everyday forces me to pay better attention to my life. I have learned to notice and remember specific things and then I have them as blog-fodder. I said "Blog-fodder," not "Godfather." Sheesh!
  4. There is so much more for me to learn about blogging: technical things to make this site look like I want it to; ways to make this a better site to read; making buttons and links: all the posiblities of links and HTML; taking advantage of the multi-media aspects of the internet. I have always been about words, but there is so much more out there that would be wonderful to be able to use.
  5. There are a LOT more people out there doing stuff than I would have imagined. Over 2000 NaBloPoMo participants, for example. People doing themed blogs, people with multiple sites, people doing daily comics, posting movies, designing and posting incredibly creative stuff. It's truly amazing and awe-inspiring.
  6. That maybe...just maybe...I could complete a NaNoWriMo.

So, thank you, THANK YOU Fussy! I deeply enjoyed this and would totally do it again. Even without prizes.

Wednesday, November 29, 2006

Less Than The Best Day

So, Mr. Sweetie of off on a business trip to the end of the week. His flight Tuesday morning before noon. And not an entire hour later, I managed to do the most clod-like thing I've done in ages. Hours anyway. Yup. I twisted my ankle.

I was doing some Christmas shopping. And I walked out of a store, and there was a step there. But I didn't see it. And so my foot went down...and down...and down (it was a big step). And this was no delicate little thing, oh no. I twisted the hell out of that ankle. A big, nasty turn that hurt so much that I nearly landed on the ground, curled up in a little ball of pain. Because of course, not only did I turn my ankle, but as a result I also lost my balance, and couldn't get it back, because of the not being able to stand on the foot with the twisted ankle! Go me!

I managed to stumble crazily to the curb, where I grabbed hold of a lightpost. Yes! I know! I thought that was just a cliche too! But it was really quite sturdy, and I stood there, hand on the post, standing on one foot, waiting for that first pain rush to pass.

So, what was the best part? Was it that I did it on the busiest street corner in town? Was it that I did it a lunch hour in sight of four restaurants with full story-high windows? Was it that my car was two blocks away? Was it trying to drive with a swollen and painful ankle?

Sure, that was all bad, but the part that marked me as a total dunce? Was when I got home, got my shoes off and my feet up, and discovered that my socks didn't even match.

Arrrgh! What a clod! See--they are both basically oatmeal colored, with little pictures of dogs running up the sides. While wearing shoes and jeans, they would pass as a pair. But they are clearly NOT an actual pair of socks. Even though I have another pair just like them in my dresser. Gah!

Tuesday, November 28, 2006

Not The Call Of The Wild

This was in the Minneapolis Star Tribune this morning:

Country singer Troy Lee Gentry pleaded guilty Monday in U.S. District Court to a misdemeanor charge of falsely registering a trophy bear as wild when, in fact, it was a captive bear named Cubby, which he shot in 2004 on a game farm near Sandstone, Minn.

You'd think the squashed pork-pie hat and the pic-a-nic basket would have been a clue. Did he just not see the collar and tie?


Monday, November 27, 2006

The V.F.D. Is Everywhere


I have read the entire Series of Unfortunate Events by Lemony Snicket, and enjoyed very much. One of the principal frustrations of the book is the fact that the Baudelaire orphans have money, but it is in the hands of Mulctuary Money Management and is never used for their well-being. There is a vague promise of the money coming to them when "Violet comes of age," which is at least four years after the start of the books.

The entire cycle of books takes only a few months, months that (as Snicket might say) seem much longer than usual, due to the unbearable miseries that occur. The orphans are represented at the bank by a Mr. Poe, who remains ridiculously oblivious to the terrible situations he creates as he moves the orphans from one foster home to the next.

Clearly, a play on poet Edgar Allen Poe, I thought, but I couldn't understand the connection to the bank. Oh well, there probably wasn't one.

So, imagine my surprise and delight when I came upon this in The New Yorker:

[M]uch of [Alice B.] Toklas’s trouble stemmed from [Gertrude] Stein’s decision, “on sound tax counsel,” to place her estate under the jurisdiction of the probate court in Baltimore, and to the court’s appointment of a man named Edgar Allan Poe (the poet’s great-nephew) to administer it. . . .Gertrude had been precise about how her funds were to be spent, but, unaccountably, Poe proved to be an obstructionist and parsimonious in fulfilling her wishes, of which he seemed to disapprove, although it was none of his business[.]

The article details poor Alice's descent into dependency upon the kindness of strangers due to Mr. Poe's refusal to release funds. (!)

I thought I had missed some of the subtleties of these books, and now I am really certain of it.

A Picture's Worth A Thousand Words.


I stumbled across this photo after I wrote this. It's the George Bush and Pacific Rim world leaders pajama party! And you thought I was just making this all up, didn't you?




Photo courtesy of AP via this site.

Sunday, November 26, 2006

This I Did Not Know

Apparently, every last one of Emily Dickinson's poems can be sung to the tune of "The Yellow Rose of Texas." I wouldn't have thought of her being a particularly metrical writer--she who seemed to think that all vowels rhyme with each other.

Let's try it out, shall we?

An awful tempest mashed the air,
The clouds were gaunt and few.
A black, as of a spectre's cloak,
Hid heaven and earth from view.

Okay, that one works. Sure, it's got more verses, but let's not get carried away. How about this one?

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held just but ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.


Oh yeah. That one too. Let's look at an index of first lines, shall we? Hmm. Well, not every every one fits, but an impressive number do. Do you have a favorite Emily Dickinson poem? Does it work with yours?

Next week, we test to see how many of Robert Frost's poems can really be sung to "Hernando's Hideaway." Ole!

Shameless Pandering

Yup, that's me. Shameless, I am. Pandering, I am. In a pathetic bid to win Emily's gourmet dog biscuit NaBloPoMo prize, I'm submitting this dog post.


We brought our first puppy home in the summer of 1988, the year of the drought. Temperatures here in Minnesota were hitting 105, and the grass had all turned brown. We found our dog in a litter of 8 week old puppies, living on a farm west of the Twin Cities.

"Oh, you got the Smart One," the farmer said. "He'll make breakfast for you."

The breeder gave us a terry shirt to put in the box, to take the smell home with us. The whole way home, he sat in the box in the footwell of the passenger side, and we said "Oh my god, how do we raise a dog. Oh thank god it's not a baby."

That summer was hot, even with central air. At night we would put the puppy into a box with a can of beer. He'd lie over the can with the bare skin of his belly on the metal for maximum cooling. Mmmmm...Leinenkugel's.

We had him with us for three days trying to think of a name for him. In the interim, he was "Buddy" and "Buster" and "Boy" and by the end of the three days it was clear that his name would start with a "B." One day, while talking on the phone with my husband, we were running through different B names, and he said "Bentley."

That was it, of course. Bentley, a name that conjures the elegant limosine of the type owned by rich English heiresses with country homes and London pieds-a-terre. Silk stockings and cloche hats and a body in the library. An elegant and enormous car, for a puppy small enough to fit in my hand.

But what about all those other names? Those other B names that weren't Bentley? Beowulf and Baxter and Buster and Buddy and Bernard and Bumper Car? Well, I am nothing if not about pretentiousness. So we named him, officially, "B. Baxter Bentley."

B. Baxter Bentley was always my dog. When he was still a tiny puppy and I was studying for the bar exam, he napped on my study guides. In the summer, he would plaster his furry body against my hips as he spent the night on my side of the bed. And even in his old old age, when I went to stretch out on the couch and read, I'd hear the "boom ba da boom ba da boom" of his feet as he ran across the house to jump up onto my chest as I read.

Bentley was a one woman dog. He was a handful with the vet, and the groomer had to sedate him to trim him up. But he'd let me put drops in his eyes, clip his nails, whatever needed to be done. Even the vet was amazed at how docile Bentley was for me.

He was a good little man in a fuzzy suit who lived to be fifteen years old. Even in his last hours, as he had seizure after seizure, he would calm when I was near. It broke my heart to say goodbye to him, and I cried all the way on the last trip to the vet with him.

This happened two and a half years ago, and I'm still tearing up with missing him. He was a little dog with a really big heart, and I only wish that there is a doggie heaven, where he can run without a leash, and there are no rules against feeding him pizza from the table.

[N.B. These are not actual pictures of Bentley, but they are astonishingly close. He left us before the advent of digital pictures, and these are some that I found on the web.]

Family Dinners Are So Enlightening

Mr. Sweetie: Our pastor just came back from Ecuador. You know what the number one news story there is? The war in Iraq. And the number two and three headlines are about American celebrities and break-ups.

Bunny: I don't want to be a movie star when I grow up and marry another movie star.

Mr. Sweetie: Why?

Bunny: Because people in Ecuador will find out about it!

Of course! That's the reason not to be a movie star! I knew I had one.

(Because I am a Pollyanna and desperately seek the silver lining in every gray cloud--I'm deciding that it's good news that Ecuador is all about celebrity break-ups. It means there's nothing so bad there that would push that kind of crap off the front page.)

So, I'm Not A News Junkie.

Actually, that's understating it. I abhor the news, especially as I get older and grumpier, and begin to wonder just why I'm being told most of the stuff that passes for news. It's a long way from the Jeffersonian ideal of producing an informed electorate to "actual footage of a car in flames after hitting a lamppost."

Much of my news comes through unreliable filters. Doonesbury is not a bad source, especially for something that takes about six weeks of production and so is invariably behind. Sure, I listen to NPR in the car--SINCE I DON'T HAVE AN IPOD--but there's a great deal of opinion and essay involved in hour long discussions about anything.

So, today, my dose of news came via Wait Wait...Don't Tell Me. I love this show. Even not keeping up with news, I manage to answer some of the quiz questions so it makes me feel smart. And, like Jon Stewart, Peter Segal makes fun of the people who most deserve it. So, why don't I listen every week? Why isn't it on my list of bookmarks so I can check in frequently? Excuse me, I have some computer organizing to do....

....hmmm, hmmm hmm...

...Okay I'm back. Anyway, how can you not love this little factoid--a tasty little amuse bouche that I just want to tuck into my cheek pockets and pull out to ruminate at leisure.

They should have known he was up to something when Bush told Camp David guests "I'm going to read." [Pause for disbelieving laughter from the audience] Now thatwas a Hutline political newletter that suggests the Bush's cabinet should have figured out that he was really going to go...where?

The answer, of course, was "to Iraq." The top secret whirlwind trip to Iraq was apparently "disguised" as a trip to the library. And we all know how fond Bush is of reading. After all, when you've got a book you are absolutely dying to get back to, don't you say "Farewell, guests. I'm going to read." It's just a clunker. Nobody who really reads says "I'm going to read."

Imagine the scene. Interior, Camp David cabin. A fire is roaring in the fireplace. Dick Cheney is cleaning his shotgun, and the rest of the Cabinet is as far away as they can get. Condi Rice and Alberto Gonzales are playing liars' poker with Donald Rumsfeld and Michael Chertoff, using Treasury notes provided by Henry Paulson. They are decorated with unflattering pictures of Ben Bernanke. The other Cabinet members are playing "guess who I am" with their real names. Bush is standing by the fire, his hands in his pockets, rocking up and down on his toes.

"Jesus, Dubya, will you quit fidgeting? You're making me nervous," orders Dick Cheney, as Bush sneaks another look at his wristwatch.

"Is that really the right time, Turd Blossom? Do you think my watch has stopped?" Karl Rove looks up from some cryptic notes he's making to glare at the President. He narrows his eyes and says "I'm sure it's fine."

Laughter erupts from the poker table as Condi Rice announces her hand "I've got a pair of twos, a pair of fives, and a stockpile of WMD!" Gonzales asks "Where's this salsa from? New York City?"

Everyone is wearing their "Camp David Tartan" flannel shirts, which they received on arrival. Everyone but the President. He's got a tailored blue suit, freshly pressed white shirt and red tie. His oxfords are polished to a mirror like sheen. Time is passing slowly for the President. He looks at his watch again, then announces to the room,"It sure is good to get away like this, isn't it. To just get away and relax." Up on his toes, and down. Up on his toes, and down.

Chertoff is out of the poker hand. He tried to bluff using bottled water and duct tape, and now he's looking over Condi's shoulder.

Cheney's got a good one. "So, I guy with no arms walks into a bar, and he come up to the bartender, and he says 'Can you help me out? I gotta go...'"

"Speaking of gotta go," Bush interrupts, looking at his watch, "I gotta go. Gotta go...read. I'm going to go read. I'll see you all later, when I get back. Back from reading. Um, yes, it's reading time."

Yeah, I'm guessing they figured out that something was up. But since they've gotten so good at pretending to believe everything else he says, that I'm sure he thought he'd fooled them.

Saturday, November 25, 2006

One Word Meme

I'm loving the NaBloPoMo randomizer! Found this meme, and appropriated it. C'mon! It builds character!

Yourself: Blogreading
Your Partner: Breakfasting
Your hair: Unwashed
Your mother: Betterer
Your father: Spry
Your favourite item: iPod
Your dream last night: Complicated
Your favourite drink: Diet
Your dream car: Hybrid
Your dream home: Tower
The room you are in: Kitchen
Your ex: N/A
Your fear: Pain
Where you want to be in ten years: Here
Who you hung out with last night: Family
What you’re not: OCD
Muffins: Banana
One of your wish list items: iPod
Time: 10:29 a.m.
The last thing you did: Blogged
What you are wearing: Jammies
Your favourite weather: Fall
Your favourite book: Possession
Last thing you ate: Meds
Your life: Blessed
Your mood: Quiet
Your best friend(s): Husband
What are you thinking about right now: Fireplace
Your car: Odyssey
What are you doing at the moment: Blogging
Your summer: School-less
Relationship status: Excellent
What is on your tv: Karaoke
What is the weather like: Warm
When is the last time you laughed: Thismorning


Okay, some of those weren't exactly one word. Some of them weren't real words at all. But hell! Shakespeare invented words all the time, and everyone thinks he's a great writer!

Building Character

So sue me. I like to take personality quizzes. I don't know if they are even close, but they do make me think about some unlikely things--like, what is my favorite heavenly body?

Check out this one:

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You are The Moon


Hope, expectation, Bright promises.


The Moon is a card of magic and mystery - when prominent you know that nothing is as it seems, particularly when it concerns relationships. All logic is thrown out the window.


The Moon is all about visions and illusions, madness, genius and poetry. This is a card that has to do with sleep, and so with both dreams and nightmares. It is a scary card in that it warns that there might be hidden enemies, tricks and falsehoods. But it should also be remembered that this is a card of great creativity, of powerful magic, primal feelings and intuition. You may be going through a time of emotional and mental trial; if you have any past mental problems, you must be vigilant in taking your medication but avoid drugs or alcohol, as abuse of either will cause them irreparable damage. This time however, can also result in great creativity, psychic powers, visions and insight. You can and should trust your intuition.


What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.



I bet if I picked a different favorite heavenly body, I'd get a different result. Try it yourself. It'll build character.

Friday, November 24, 2006

Because We Can All Use Words Of Wisdom

Found this on another NaBloPoMo site:

If a hen and a half can lay an egg and a half in a day and a half, how long will it take a monkey with a wooden leg to kick the seeds out of a dill pickle?

~Tom Robbins, Even Cowgirls Get the Blues



Thanks Jitterbug's Beat!

So, Where's The Rings?


Justin Morneau was named AL MVP. Johann Santana won his second Cy Young Award. Joe Mauer (the catcher!) is the Batting Champ. Last time three different players from teh same team won all three awards? About 1962--or when the T. Rexes battled the Stegasauri for World Domination, I guess.

So...where's the rings?

Pie! on Day Twenty-four


We made the pies again this year. I do pecan--lots of brown sugar, lots of corn syrup, and a half cup of chocolate chips to make it all the more decadent. It's a crowd pleaser. In past years, I left the chocolate out of one of the two pies, I preferred it that way. That was the one the squirrel got, because no one else liked it as well. So I bowed to my audience and made two chocolate.

Mr. Sweetie does a fabulous pumpkin pie. It 's based on a recipe from his grandmother, but he doubles (or more!) all the spices, which makes it less like a vegetable, and more like a curry. He made two as well.

Every year we have a good natured battle over how much sugar to put into the whipping cream. He prefers none. I prefer too much. The front line waivers year after year on that battleground. This year we both forgot to buy the cream, so we went with what was at my brother's house: Cool Whip and vanilla ice cream.

New this year--someones else brought dessert too. In addition to our four pies, there was a cherry, an apple, and a flourless chocolate torte. For 17 people. We figured everyone got at least a quarter of a pie. None of us ate that much.

When we left, six hours later, no one had eaten any of the apple or cherry. About half of the chocolate torte was gone. There were two small slices of chocolate pecan left of the first pie, the second was untouched. The winner was Mr. Sweetie's pumpkin pie: one entirely gone, one piece missing from the second. We left the two pieces of pecan, and pulled out a slice of pumpkin for the nephew who had been asking for pumpkin pie since before we arrived.

In the refrigerator for later--80% of a pumpkin pie, and an entire chocolate pecan. Today the grocery stores are open again, and I'll buy some whipping cream.

(Photo courtesy of Creative Gifts To Go)

Thursday, November 23, 2006

Thanksgiving Day 23

Twenty-three days of daily posts, and I'm just getting more prolix. Here's an attempt to mark the day and be a bit pithier.

I'm Thankful for:

My sister in law who likes to entertain, so I only have to make pie this year.

My daughters, who don't like turkey leftovers.

The backspace key, so I didn't actually post "turdy leftovers."

That there is room in the refrigerator, so I don't have to put leftover pie on the porch, where the squirrels got it one year. (They ate the pecans first, but ate two entire pies, including pumpkin, all the way down to the pie tin. Crust and all.)

That my immediate family is so wonderful--I got lucky in my husband, my daughters and even my dog: they are all smart and funny and kind and generous (except for the dog) and they make my life better than it would be without them.

I'm thankful for all the normal stuff: health, friends, family, yadda yadda. But also iTunes, which lets me listen to all kinds of good stuff and to buy only the songs I like without having to drop $15 on an unproven CD.

For indoor plumbing--which, aren't we all?

For having the entire universe of the internet and my blogging peeps, who help me gain perspective on my own pathetic little irritations, and keep me engaged in the world at large, which is sometimes tricky for an introvert.

Happy Tryptophan Day everybody!