Foolery

Foolery Explains Swine Flu: The WHO Is On The Case

(Original photo stolen from these guys)

Some of you may have heard about a health problem called the Swine Flu. As an official Hick Who Has Actually Seen a Pig And Perhaps Even Touched It, I Don't Recall, I would like to shed some light on the situation.

People, people, people. It's NOT time to panic! Pigs are nothing to be afraid of.

Wait, what's that? It's not a pig problem? But how . . . ? Oh, ahem, okay. 'Scuse me. Back on track here.

Okay, so Swine Flu? Is apparently not about pigs. Forget that.

Swine Flu is an illness you get from eating pork.

Stop it, you're hurting me! Jeeze louise, don't kick me under the table when I'm talking to my -- well whaddya mean pork meat doesn't cause the Swi -- really? It doesn't? Oh. It really is a flu bug? Oh.

Ahem. So . . . right. Not from pork. Heh heh heh . . . ju-u-u-ust testin' ya. Apparently the Swine Flu is really a flu-like illness people get from going to Mexico.

OWWWWWWWWW! Dammit, DON'T KICK ME AGAIN! I swear -- huh? What? But half of Mexico is -- are you sure? But that's the way it sounds on the news . . . all right . . . just . . . BACK OFF, I mean it!

Turns out you DON'T get Swine Flu from going to Mexico, necessarily. But there's one thing everyone agrees on: the World Health Organization (the WHO) is working overtime on the Swine Flu outbreak. It's been pretty tough sledding for The WHO since there are only two of them, but really? How much help would Keith Moon have been, anyway?

(Photo stolen from The Who's official web site)

Right, right? SEE? I know this one! Okay, no more kicking.

In a speech before, um, a bunch of people today, at 5:15, WHO spokesman and pretty cool guitarist Pete Townsend said, "We just want to make sure the kids are alright. There's no substitute for caution. Anyway, anyhow, anywhere, avoid crowded places where germs congregate, like public transportation. Stay off the Magic Bus. Sneeze on your elbow. Stuff like that."

I rock at this citizen journalist stuff. OW!

Everybody Poops -- Some Just Share More Than Others

(Photo stolen from pkumag over here)

Stop me if you've heard this one before.

One old saw about the indigenous people of the Far North -- Eskimo, Innuit, I've lost track of the proper name -- is that they have over 100 words for snow. I have no way of knowing if this is true or not, but I'm certain that even if that old story is wrong by half, the Far North people have 49 more words for snow than I have.

We, however, have cornered the market on ways to say pooping.  And when I say we, I mean Chas, of course. And when I say Chas, I mean Chas and his two daughters, of course. No relation to their mother, who would, of course, be me.

And while I know that the girls have picked up terms from Daddy such as "punched a grumper" and "scatterbombed," and while I'm thankful that their vocabulary has not yet included "carpet bombed," "panatellas," "dry-docked" and "dropped off the kids at the pool," still they take my breath away once in a while with some unexpected colorful poop reference. Such as . . .

Smedley, when asked if she had forgotten to flush, denied it and casually added, "Sparky dropped a deuce just after I used the bathroom."

We're going straight to Hell, aren't we? And by we I mean, of course, Chas.



This toilet is pretty similar to the first toilet Chas and I had as a married couple, except ours was even greener. Chas dubbed it both "The Avo-Coiler" and "The Guac-commode." If you have to ask about the names, you're far too upscale a person to be reading here. I'm so sorry to have burned your retinas.

(Photo stolen from these guys)

Oops, gotta fly -- I've got to go drop the kids off at the pool.

Kidding, kidding!

My Weekend, Both Views

Half full: The girls snuggled into bed with me Saturday morning after Chas had gone to work.
Half empty: There was snarling, at least one crying jag, and plenty of shouting over who had to sleep in the middle. Also, the girls complained about it.

Half full: We went to Family Garden Day at the girls' school.
Half empty: The flier explaining that Family Garden Day was all about manual labor was never given to Mommy, who thought it was an open house viewing of the plantings. A white turtleneck was a bad idea.

Half full: The weather was perfect to be out in the garden.
Half empty: The weather was perfect to be out in MY garden, which currently resembles Sleeping Beauty's protective layer of thorns.

Half full: I had a cup of hot coffee while I weeded the onion planter and visited with a nice father and grandfather I'd just met.
Half empty: I weeded the onion planter on my knees and on my feet and both times I was in a red anthill.



(Photo stolen from Uncle Kick-Kick on Flickr)

Half full: The girls made their own seed cups out of newspaper, and planted flower seeds.
Half empty: What else can I kill on my window sill?

Half full: We had a picnic with Grandma up at Black Butte Lake on Sunday.
Half empty: The wind, which had tried desperately to kill us the week before, was back for another go-round.

Half full: Grandma brought her kite in anticipation of wind.
Half empty: The surest way to stop the wind from blowing is to present a kite.



(Photo stolen from Studio One-One on Flickr)

Half full: I spent the weekend doing ordinary things with people I love terribly, across several generations.
Half empty: There is no half empty.



(Photo stolen from this guy)

A Mighty Wind

(Posted at Reasonably Educated Bumpkins as well)

It got a little windy here last week.

Not exactly, "Dorothy, don't let go of Toto" windy, but rather windy.





The kind of windy for which the local weather guys often use the word breezy.



This chunk of barn roof nearly took out my dad's zebra finch house. The roof was a bit damaged, but no birds were harmed. Of course, two did get out, and then they remembered that they have no idea how to deal with out, and tried to get back in. The last I heard one of the two was living in a mobile, parked just outside the bird house door. He's now zebra trash.


 

Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas at all.

Golf Is Trying to Kill Me

(Photo stolen from this site)

Never mind nearly being thrown from an out-of-control golf cart or hemorrhaging our discretionary income to TopFlight and the Tuscan Ridge Golf Club every month, Golf has been trying to kill me for years.

Once, as I was speeding along the Kaanapali Parkway on my way home to Lahaina (when I lived in Maui, *sigh*), a golf ball came out of NOWHERE to thwack my poor little Corolla on the hood. Had I goosed the gas by a mere fraction the ball would have hit me through the open window, killing me instantly, I'm sure. Or at least making a welt.

A few months later I walked along that same parkway from my ticket booth (where I sold tickets for the company luau and for other tours and activities) down to the luau grounds to deliver the receipts. As I strolled down the sidewalk a car turned into the driveway behind me, and the driver called to me. I turned around and waved, pausing only a second. When I resumed my walk a golf ball hurtled from high in the sky and hit to the right of the sidewalk, about a yard ahead of me. Had I not stopped to wave the ball would have hit me square in the temple, killing me instantly, or at least smarting a whole lot.

This is my only evidence that Golf is trying to kill me, but I think it's compelling. I'm cagey, however, and Golf hasn't gotten me yet. I avoid golf courses, pro shops and Chas on Saturdays.

I think Jai Alai  has it in for me, too.

An Original Fairy Tale, I Swear

Once upon a time there was a happy little kingdom called Blog-ojovich  Bloggywood  Blog O'Sphere  St. Bloggus Onlinus. For the most part the peasants were all happy and productive (with bouts of rants and navel-gazing and the occasional absurd song stylings, but I did say mostly). And while there was no king, there were rather a few queens, but they mostly did their own thing and bothered no one. There was no blog police force; all problems were handled by the St. Bloggus peasants themselves. And it was good.

One day one of the peasants got a tip that another peasant was stealing her work and calling it her own! This was a serious problem in St. Bloggus, as you might imagine. For the peasants were not paid for their work (not bloody much, anyway), but did it for love, art and pride of ownership. Stealing another peasant's work was so uncool.



(Photo stolen from this guy)

So some of the more resourceful peasants dug around until they found out which peasant was copying work (from more than one peasant, I might add), and they found her : Miss Musing. Lots and lots of peasants got into the act and began searching the InterNuts for the name Miss Musing, and Lo, they found it on the page of the goofiest member of the kingdom, the court jester Foolery.



(Photo stolen from this guy)

Foolery had never been a threat before. In fact, few paid much attention to her lunatic ramblings. Yet suddenly, here she was, apparently harboring Internuts criminals, right in their midst! A missive from Good Miss Megan was sent forth to the idiot Foolery . . . . . .





And the whole thing was one big misunderstanding and wasn't the Musing we know and love AT ALL and yada yada yada . . . and I wouldn't have bothered any of you with any of this at all were it not for the fact that my own choice of words (adding Miss to Musing, for no good reason) could have potentially caused my friend Musing of Blogtations and In Three Words to be unfairly branded a plagiarist, which she is NOT. I referred to Musing recently -- TWICE -- as Miss Musing (the screen name of The Plagiarist), and that's where the trouble started. I have been making the rounds today, when I could (it's been a busy weeks already) trying to clear Musing's good name, and it seems no one is confused, for which I am glad. Plagiarism is a crap game and there is no place for it on the Internuts . . .



. . . or in St. Bloggus Onlinus, where good will and productivity again rule the day. And the peasants are again producing, and also making merry and tipping the wine, and margaritas, and boilermakers, and cough syrup, and --

AND WE ALL LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER. THE END.

NOW GO TO SLEEP. RIGHT NOW.

AND DON'T GET UP AGAIN OR YOU'RE GROUNDED.

I MEAN IT.

"And Now, a Word From Your Sensory Organs"

(Photo stolen from these guys)

Hello, I am the Senses Taker.* It's time to check your senses. Check your sensitivity at the door. Sense, not Sensibility.  Y'know? You have five of 'em. Six, if you're a cop, a woman or Haley Joel Osment, who sees dead people, and somehow seeing is counted twice?

Ahem, pardon me.  Back on track now. Get up and open a window or door, if you can.

What do you see?

What do you hear?

What do you smell?

What do you feel?

What do you taste?

Note the time and post it in the comments.

Consider your senses taken. Now why can't the government get it done this easily?

*     *     *     *     *

I don't see a lot, because the moon won't come up for hours. I see a few stars, but the humidity of the evening has blocked all but the gaudiest stars from sight.

I hear frogs and crickets. I heard cats fighting earlier, but that's no surprise.

I smell the pungent, sickly-sweet smell of irrigated fields. I smell orange blossoms from my old yard across the street when the breeze stirs a little.

I feel the last vestiges of cold spring nights. Soon we'll sweat all night long and dream of chilly April evenings.

I taste cheap red wine.

It is now 10:05 p.m.  Your turn.



*I must acknowledge Norton Juster in his book The Phantom Tollbooth for the origin of the name of this character.

An Ad Campaign That'll Never Get Off the Ground

SPARKY, READING MY EYE GLASSES CASE: "Mama, what does this spell -- C-A-L-V-I-N ?"

ME:  "Sound it out."

SPARKY:  "CAVLIN?"

ME:  "Just try the C-A-L part."

SPARKY, HESITATING:  "Cavlin . . . Colon?"



Nothing comes between my colon and Cavlin. Nothing.

You Named That Drama, I Think?

(Photo stolen from xerones on Flickr)

I've been largely AWOL for two days, not that anyone lives or dies by my presence anywhere. I wanted to answer the "Name That Drama" comments as they came in Wednesday -- was it Wednesday? I can't remember -- but work, life, and drama got in the way. So I decided to address all of you in a post.

Mental P Mama scolded me for possibly being a Typhoid Mary and bringing our rabies to the Virginia Blogfest which I'll be attending in July. I assured her that I would be disease-free for the shindig. (She's got a lot of room to talk, what with her cavorting with Lindsey Lohan, and all! wink wink)

Bob Cleveland wondered about about a two-legged cat running and dragging its legs. Well, Bob, I wasn't fibbing, although I did consider it for dramatic effect (my life is nothing if not drama-filled lately). And then Bob suggested

CAT ON THE FRITZ

as a drama title. That a pretty darn good entry and definitely correct. Thanks, Bob!

Chesapeake Bay Woman weighed in on the topic 10 TIMES, by my count, but I lost count of the number of names she came up with. She won't admit it, but she is VERY scholarly, and was exhibiting good brainstorming practices: write down everything in your head, without editing or eliminating, for seven full uninterrupted minutes, then STOP cold turkey and pick one. CBW followed this rule to the letter, except that she mistook MINUTES for HOURS. The woman is a MACHINE! My favorite entry of CBW's was the first one:

PSYCATIC

Awesome.

Elaina was laughing too hard at CBW's submissions to leave one of her own, but she did say hello, which is always welcome, and admirable when one's back is out. Thinking massage therapy and Oxycontin thoughts for you, my dear.

Jason made a stab at it, but he got bogged down on the word "pussy." So many apparently did. We love him anyway and are always glad to see him.

Bob Cleveland popped in again with another good one, and Chesapeake Bay Woman totally emptied her brain on us, making me laugh sixty-eleven more times. I'm pretty sure she didn't leave the house that day.

Cactus Petunia offered this gem:

IF YOU WANT GRATITUDE, GET A DOG!

which was approved by her felines AND is spot on, of course. I am considering that option, especially a cat-eating dog.

Kathi D was saying Hail Marys and Hare Krishnas and prayers of contrition in 16 languages that the current cat fiasco is MY life, not hers. I raise my glass to you, Miss Kathi, and your cats are in the mail.

Marcy at The Glamorous Life Association offered this opinion:

CATEGORICALLY INSANE

which may be letting me off the hook and giving me entirely too much credit at the same time.  Thanks, Marcy! That's actually a huge compliment!

And Musing* had the last word:

CAT-ASTROPHE

which is, of course, both true and clever.

I have some mulling and musing, hemming and hawing, but mostly drooling and snoring, to do. I will update you on all of it SOON. Thanks for playing with me, all ya'll -- and visit a couple (or all) of those links when you can! They are all quality people, quality writers. You guys ROCK.  : )

*I have edited her name to her PROPER screen name, MUSING. I will explain more in a post later today 4/21/09.

It's Another No-Punctuation Wednesday, Mostly, and a Name That Drama Contest

I have this cat problem that I've  alluded to  droned on about  mentioned in passing and it's in an interesting stage so it's PERFECT for a No-Punctuation Wednesday (mostly) and get ready for a barrage of More Than You Ever Needed To Know About The Squalor That Is My Life. I think there's a contest at the end.

Cat had kittens outside on sidewalk in filthy cat bed so Laurie in her infinite stupidity moved cat and kitten and four more future kittens INSIDE to the half bath where they were safe from stray tom cats and other hungry nasty critters AND they were perfectly positioned to keep me awake two nights in a row mewing (the cats, not Laurie) while I battled the flu AND they were not the cute kind of kittens so my growing regret really got a chance to gnaw at me

AND

I have reached the end of this sentence.

B I G   B R E A T H . . .

SO

Cat took a crazy turn Friday night and noticed her own reflection in the floor-length mirror which has been there since God was a Boy and attacked it violently (Cat attacked mirror; God didn't attack anything) and then proceeded to sass back to two of The Legitimate Indoor Cats before ticking me off SO completely that Cat bought herself a ticket to Outsidesville for the night WHICH worried me because KITTENS? I am so over breast-feeding and there are FOUR of them anyway (one died when Cat squashed it but shhhhhhhh because Smedley and Sparky think it was a runt and NO it wasn't a runt, at least not until Cat squashed it) and

NOW

I have reached the end of my next sentence.

E X H A L E . . .

AND

Cat threw up quit a bit Tuesday morning as cats are sometimes wont to do especially cats whose sentimental value to humans is roughly par with the current toilet paper roll AND who are given the kitty food equivalent of Bargain Basement Ramen Noodles for sustenance

SO

I fetched Cat from behind the toilet where she was cowering and panting and looking like she was ready for Round 2 with the mirror and I hauled her panting yacking carcass to the door where I pushed her outside . . .

. . . and she crawled under a bush, dragging her back legs.

Panting? Barfing? Was that foam I saw on her mouth? Oh GAHHHHH she has RABIES and now we all have RABIES and JEEBUS I'm thirsty and I suddenly can't move my arm and oh GAHHHHHH I wish I hadn't thrown her out poor thing in such pain and RABIES

or quite possibly Feline Distemper which (while I don't recommend it for kitties) won't kill ME and MY FAMILY so WHEW! but

NOW WHAT?

(Original photo stolen from michaelhenley on Flickr)

CHAS:  Hello vet?

VET:  That's my name don't wear it out

CHAS:  We have a rabid cat with Feline Distemper and a bad case of the Crazies and --

VET:  Can't possibly until Wednesday afternoon. Take two heroin  aspirin and call me in the --

CHAS:  See you Wednesday

So I got home from work today and
MOMMY MOMMY!
Greenie (that is Cat's name, more or less) came back from the vet
and she doesn't have rabies or distemper
but she has to have medicine
and she started throwing up again
so Daddy let her out
and her back legs stopped working again
and she ran under the house
and I can see her with a flashlight
but she won't come to me at all
and actually I'm kinda glad
because she scratched me RIGHT THERE
and she's still under the house
and Daddy bought us slushies at The Ice Box.
Can I have a chocolate egg?


(Original photo stolen from this site)

Greenie just showed up. She looks like a million bucks. I suspect there is a day spa under the house. I'm going to go under there tomorrow and find out. And it looks like my tendency toward over-punctuation has returned, in all its glory. Lucky you.



I said something about a contest, I think? Please take a stab at naming my little cat drama. There are no rules. I can't think of a prize, but if I think of one it won't be fabulous, so don't get your hopes up.

What should this cat drama be called? As the Cat Turns? Nahhhhh, y'all can do WAY better than that. I'm loosey-goosey and rather tired so let's talk tomorrow, shall we?

Love,

Foolery

I Am NERD, Hear Me Wheeze

I am trying to put my cholesterol level through the roof and think I might possibly succeed, since my refrigerator currently looks rather like an incubator at a psychedelic chicken ranch. Mmmm, hard-boiled eggs.

So I have hardly touched the computer since Friday and have done no writing whatsoever. Here it is, Monday, and I am trying to come up with something interesting.

HA.

I did, however, come up with a topic that holds a great deal of interest for me:

When did you know you were a nerd? Or, more specifically, what is your earliest nerdly memory?

If you don't consider yourself a nerd, please disregard the question and go get me a Home Run Pie, thanks. We'll talk about you while you're out.

If you DO consider yourself a nerd, I'd love to hear about your earliest signs of Nerdism.

Here are mine.

First, it has been well-established that I was a Band Geek, all through high school and even my first year of college. Band Geekery actually began for me in the third or fourth grade, when I began learning the clarinet, the better to be more like Henry Cuesta. If you know who that is, give yourself a million points, fire up your pocket protector and go get me a Home Run Pie, thanks.



(Photo stolen from this site)

My first nerdly memory is of dissecting the bad grammar, poor sentence structure and limited vocabulary of popular songs. Yeah, I know -- I didn't say it was going to be easy reading this post. You may want to go get me a Home Run Pie instead.  The words "ain't got no" in a song put me into a tailspin. Oh, if only my pre-adolescent self could see me now, starting sentences with "and," "but," and "or," or posting a No Punctuation Wednesday piece, or creating fragment sentences with gay abandon.

At about age 9 I committed to memory vast quantities of dated pop music lyrics from my mom's piano songbook. Here, for your listening pleasure, are some lyrics from the song "Alfie," which is very likely on page 2 of the songbook:

What's it all about, Alfie?
Is it just for the moment we live?
What's it all about, when you sort it out, Alfie?
. . . if only fools are kind, Alfie
Then I guess it is wise to be cruel . . .

Okay that's just about enough of THAT. I didn't Google it so those lyrics may be all wrong, but I don't think so. See? Ask me another one. I am self-taught and it has NEVER paid off.

So, tell me your nerd story, here or on your own blog (leave a link). I'll be waiting with my inhaler and my pocket protector. By the way, I have no idea if I even LIKE Home Run Pies.



(Photo stolen from this site)

Membership Has Its Privilege

You know that thing you said you'd never do? I mean, like, EVER?

Well . . . I did it.

MY thing I said I'd never do.  Yeah, I did it today.

I did it for money. Hopefully.

It wasn't that bad.

Don't get me wrong -- I did it once. Although, now I'm a member of THAT club.

Sigh. I'm a member of THAT club, which I never wanted to join.

Whatever.

Can't erase the past.

I did it because I need money.

And, maybe some good will come out of this, you know?

Maybe doing it will bring me some money.

Holy cows, I hope so.

Because I sold out.

Wait -- I don't mean to make it sound like I think the other people who . . . did it . . . that they are sell-outs, because I don't. Think that. I don't think that. That they sold out. I don't.

So.

Moving forward.

Now that I'm the new member of . . . that club.

BlogHer.

*shiver*

I said it. It's going to be fine.

I'm gonna go lie down.

BlogHer.

Yeah.



Just kidding. I'm turning over a new leaf, trying something new, and trying to do this Bloggyworld thing right. Here we go. Watch me fly.

The Mormor Stories: Learning to Drive

The tiny communities of the redwood country in Northern California a century ago had none of the modern conveniences we expect these days, such as a high school within each community. (My stubborn great-grandfather refused to have electricity until sometime after World War II, although that was certainly not the norm.) Roads were sparse, narrow and rough, and horse-drawn wagons far outnumbered automobiles.

But the automobile was on the rise, even in that remote and rugged forest. This is my grandmother (Mormor) Esther's story about how she learned to drive.

Earl Leventon's father was a lumberman who was very anxious for his son to go to high school, so he bought Earl a new Durant car as sort of a bribe to keep the boy in school. By that time I was a sophomore attending the nearest high school, Fortuna, and it was there that Earl also attended school. We both had to live in Fortuna but could go home weekends. Well, Earl could, but I was given enough money to take the train home about every third weekend. Anyway he invited me to ride home in his new car, which I readily accepted. Later on Earl asked me if I'd like to learn to drive the car and you can guess the answer. Finally Earl let me drive most of the way home and back nearly every week.

(Original photo stolen from these guys)

One day Ruby Patmore came to the ranch as my luncheon guest after which Earl came by to take her home and give her another driving lesson. Well, even though very few cars came by our place at that time, Ruby drove out of our lane and ran smack into a car going by. Luckily, not too much damage was suffered by either car and the occupants were not hurt at all.

However, this alerted my father to the fact that I also might be driving, so he asked me point blank if I was. When I admitted that I'd been driving to school for some time Dad forbade me to do that anymore. He pointed out that I was only fifteen, and also that an accident could take every cent he had.

Therefore I didn't drive a car again until the boyfriend (Carl) got a gear shift car. I couldn't manage the miserable Ford transmission in his former car.

Carl and Esther eventually married, parted only by her death 62 years later. There were a few more Ford transmissions in that 62-year marriage, presumably less miserable than the first.

More of my Mormor's stories are found on the sidebar, under the heading "The Mormor Stories."

That's So Funny -- We NEEDED More Cats!

(Photo stolen from Originalpozer on Flickr)

There are five kittens in our half-bathroom, just over 24 hours old. I found myself outside at 12:15 Monday morning, wandering around in the dark wearing a bathrobe and slippers, looking for something. A box, I think.

The poor teenage mother cat Greenie had her kittens in a filthy cat bed on the concrete against our bedroom wall. I knew the tom cats would be circling soon, and at that realization sleep became out of the question.

Sigh.

I finally found a box and put a soft towel in it. Greenie wanted nothing to do with it. "Really, cat?" I asked. "Could anything be a worse choice for birthing baby kittens than this hideous filthy cat bed?"

Sigh.

So I picked up the hideous filthy cat bed, pregnant cat and one screaming blind kitten and all, and carried them into the house to the half-bath, on the other side of the wall. Under the sink they went, and Greenie gave me the most grateful look I have ever seen from an animal. I could hear the crashing of tom cats in the underbrush even then.

As the kittens were born they cried all night because they felt they weren't being fed fast enough. I wouldn't have been surprised if Greenie had smothered them in desperation.

Smedley has named them already. She wanted to name one Sparky in honor of her little sister, but I nixed that idea; I have a hard enough time keeping straight my kids' names from the pets as it is. I remember only Superman and Posse from the list of names, but they were funny. I'll keep you posted.

Bringing you all the news that's pit to frint . . .

Crime Dramas a la Foolery

I found myself mindlessly surfing the TV last night, which I don't do a lot these days. Most of the time I'm much happier mindlessly surfing the internet, but since I still felt pretty lousy I wasn't able to concentrate enough for the computer, so there I sat in front of the TV.  I watched CNN for a while, then found something with Tony Shalhoub. I really like Tony Shalhoub, and the TV info thingy showed a movie name I'd ever heard of.  Good, at least it wasn't "Monk." I've never understood how "Monk" survives. The writing is ham-fisted, the guest actors are over-the-top, and the only thing interesting is . . . Tony Shalhoub.  I like Tony Shalhoub.

Uh-oh, the guide was wrong . . . it WAS "Monk." Sigh. Well, I had nothing better to do, and wasn't sleepy yet, so I watched it to see if my opinions were completely baseless, and . . . nope. Spot on.  Hello, 1988? Are you missing a TV show, maybe one that escaped from "Murder, She Wrote" or "Matlock" or that one with Dick Van Dyke? Because I think I found it, and it has imprisoned Tony Shalhoub. Poor Tony Shalhoub. I like Tony Shalhoub.

Is it just me, or are even the well-written, well-acted crime dramas so formulaic that it becomes funny?  I used to love "Law & Order" until I caught on to the formula.

The show opens with a crime scene. One or two of the detectives are on-scene, and they always say something pithy and oh-so-clever, like "That's the last trick SHE'LL ever turn," or "I guess the postman isn't the ONLY one who rings twice," or "Looks like 'death by Bunga-Bunga' isn't just a punchline." Then you have plenty of time to groan and go for a beer because there's a commercial break.

What happens next isn't terribly important, except that Rogue Cop and/or Rogue Prosecutor will Take A Stand, Dammit, even though everyone thinks he/she is bonkers (which is a legal term). At some point there will be a cops-and-lawyers meeting of the minds in a dingy, poorly-lit room full of the ensemble cast. This is the point at which the director sees his name in lights. "Think Broadway play, people! Don't sit still when you talk -- get up and walk to the other side of the room for no apparent reason when you deliver your line! Motion! Angles! I need more ACTION!" And they do, each cast member delivering a sour, world-weary, condescending line or phrase, his/her thought completed by the next terribly jaded cop or lawyer crossing the stage at a jaunty angle at precisely the right moment.

You might call it scene structuring or something, I don't know. Blocking? Whatever. Seems like hyper-choreography to me -- "JAZZ HANDZZZZZ!"

(Photo stolen from this guy)

While everything doesn't always wrap up neat and tidy, you definitely get at least one moral shoved down your throat. Probably more if everything didn't wrap up all neat and tidy.  To close, another pithy observation from one of the team members: "Guess she'll be sleepin' single in a double bed from now on," or "let's see how prison looks on him."

But what do I know? I'm a computer geek these days.  Doink doink.

How to Decide What to Eat When You'll Probably Barf It Up Later

I have the stomach flu today. Smedley had it last weekend; Sparky had it all week, and Chas couldn't keep anything in his system yesterday. We are a lovely, gross family.

But a very important consideration I hadn't thought of before, since the last time I had the stomach flu was pre-internet and possibly pre-electricity. You know that moment between "I could eat" and "I think I'm gonna barf" -- that moment when you have to decide what to put INTO your tummy that will be the least objectionable as it rockets back OUT?

There is an easy solution.

Eat whatever is rug-colored.



(Original photo stolen from these guys)

Be realistic, too -- decide where you are likely to be sprawled BEFORE you choose your vittles. Our bedroom has a Cream of Wheat-colored carpet, so I'm gonna stay far away from there, because, Cream of Wheat? Ick. Also, our bedroom is decidedly low-tech, with only a radio alarm clock for entertainment, so I'm not bloody likely to be camping out THERE very long.

A quick run-down of various rooms in the house in which I might make camp while I suffer:

• The living room. An obvious choice because of the television, but the carpet color dictates an unappetizing diet of oatmeal, rice cakes and shredded wheat. Pass.
• The dining room. Same carpet as the living room, without benefit of comfy chairs or television. Pass.
• Smedley's room. Smedley's carpet is salad-colored, or perhaps pea soup-colored, if you like. I'm stayin' the hell away from THAT room.  Pass.
• The bedroom just off of the kitchen has a gun-metal blue-grey carpet, and I'm going a little green trying to imagine what foods would match THAT rug . . . PASS.
• Ah, my office. Carpet: dark brown. That says chocolate and Guinness to me! WE HAVE A WINNER. And, as a bonus, my computer and a small TV are conveniently located in the office, so I'll have entertainment. Also, the sofa in the office looks like somebody already threw up on it -- BONUS.

(Photo stolen from these guys)

Now I just need someone to go buy me chocolate and Guinness.  Sigh.



(Photo stolen from these guys)

Like I Can Limit Myself to Three Words

Do you know about In Three Words?

It's a new blog started by my blog buddy Musing,* who runs the blog Blogtations (which is a hotbed of great blog quotes, by the way, in case you've never been over there).  The point of In Three Words is to reduce an idea or experience down to it's barest essence -- three words. Not easy. Go read the About page for instructions and make it a stop, three times a week.

I swear no one paid me for this (as if they would).

*I have edited her name to her PROPER screen name, MUSING. I will explain the change in a post later today 4/21/09.

I Can Haz Threesome?

(Photo stolen from this site)

"I saw the weirdest thing EVER today," Chas told me after the kids had left the kitchen, his voice conspiratorial.

"What?"

"Roosevelt was humping Greenie."

Let's stop here for a minute.  Roosevelt and Greenie are stray cats who live on our patio -- two of many -- and they are about two weeks shy of a year old.  Greenie is a gray female who is grossly pregnant; we didn't get her to the vet in time but she's going to get fixed just as soon as she's done nursing the 150 kittens she's obviously housing.

Roosevelt and Greenie are siblings. Ewwwwwww. That headline might read

Incestuous Feline Maternity Bang


Moving on . . .

"But you'll never guess how they were doing it!" Chas continued. "Missionary style, Greenie on her back on the concrete!"


Incestuous Feline Maternity Missionary Bang


"No way!" I said. I'm cool like that, and articulate in a crisis and all. "No way!"

"Way," said Chas. (I have that effect on him.) "But wait; there's more!" There always is. "Ralph got into the game!"

"No way!" I conjectured, so proud of my college degree.  "No way!" Ralph is a ginger tabby, the same age as the kitty porn stars, the son of their grandmother. Uncle Ralph. "What did Ralph do?" I asked, not actually wanting to know.

"He stood next to Roosevelt during the act and draped his front leg over Roosevelt's shoulder!"

"Like drunken frat boys in party mode!" I offered, pleased to be able to offer something lurid.


Incestuous Feline Maternity Missionary Threesome


Somehow I don't expect I Can Has Cheezburger? to respond. I do expect Maury Povich to call any minute, however.